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Shift

Blog, I haven’t updated in a while, and it’s in large part because I spent the last couple of weeks preparing for the daylight savings shift. To prepare, I set all of my clocks forward by a couple of minutes every day. This way the shift was more gradual for me. So, yesterday, while other people were caught off guard, fatigued for having lost that hour, I was on the ball and ready to go. Tomorrow I will start setting my clocks back gradually. 

Anyway, you may have noticed that this site has been down for nearly a year. It’s sad – but true. There is hope, however, blog. There’s always hope. I’m thinking about adding a section called “Awkward Overheard.” It will be a series of conversations that meet the following two requirements:

-Awkward

-Overheard

So, if you overhear something awkward, please be sure to make note! You might be able to contribute to the section!

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Super! Bowl

After hours of nonstop toil over work, I’ve decided to take a minibreak, blog.

What shall I do during this minibreak, you ask? Well blog, first I will check the weather forecast.

Then, then blog I will reorganize paper on my desk.

After that, I will fill my cup of tea and sip it.

While sipping, I will review my email inbox to see if there are any correspondences I have absentmindedly neglected. When I am done following up on the correspondences I absentmindedly neglected, I will go in search of those correspondences I purposefully neglected.

Then blog, I will review my task list and draw huge check marks next to everything I have accomplished. After doing so, I will make a big production of tearing the task list out of my notepad, crumpling it up as noisily as possible, and throwing it into the trashcan. Then I’ll sigh a smugly satisfied sigh, and say loudly enough for those around me to hear, “Yup! Another greatly productive week! I have yet again outdone myself.”

In other news, blog, this weekend is the Superbowl. The Superbowl is a football game between two teams that have each beaten other teams. The Superbowl is a big deal because each member of the winning team gets a beautiful ring and the opportunity to declare to the country their upcoming plans to go to Disney World. If I were a presidential candidate, I would totally try to get in touch with the Patriot’s Tom Brady and pay him whatever he wanted to yell, “I’m going to vote for _______!” into the cameras. And as long as we’re on the subject of support, I think it’s no secret who imawkward.com will be supporting during the heated and controversial football season: The Patriots! The Patriots’s undefeated record speaks for itself, providing hope and inspiration to New England fans and football lovers everywhere. They’re a consolidating force, during a time where bipartisanship runs deep in the NFL, and Tom Brady brings experience and the promise of change for the better to the table. This decision was especially challenging for me to make, because I look great in red, white, and blue, and both Superbowl teams seem to have these as team colors.

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This Blog is The Real Thing

“The last time I freaked out, I just kept looking down. I st-st-stuttered when you asked me what I’m thinking ’bout. Felt like I couldn’t breathe. You asked what’s wrong with me. My best friend Leslie said, ‘Oh, she’s just being Miley.’ ”

-Miley Cyrus, artist extraordinaire with catchy lyrics that hold a magnifying glass up to my soul. Or just catchy lyrics and synthesizer dexterity. Either way, she’s good.

We are in exciting times, Blog. I watched most of a football game Sunday! It was almost as thrilling as that time I watched a baseball game in its entirety. That was especially impressive, because if there’s one sport I think moves slower than football, it’s baseball. Were you thinking I would say golf, blog? I don’t count golf as a sport. There, I said it – golf is not a sport. This blog is officially controversial. You know what that means? We’re going to be more popular now, Blog. Get ready for increased hits, scathing comments, and incensed readers. “Golf is not a sport” is just the kind of bold statement I needed to make long ago to put this blog out there – really set it apart from all the other media available.

While I’m out there, making statements, I’d like to throw in that coffee is NOT addictive, and right handed people are less attractive than left handed people. There we go. We were all thinking it, I was just brave enough to put it out there. Wikipedia editors, copy and paste this: “imawkward.com/blog is a real pioneer in forthright blogging. Controversial, cunning, and candid, the imawkard blog challenges the everyblog paradigm. A beacon of intellectual progress, the blog is a beautful orchid growing amidst a field of cliche roses.”

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Real Chutzpah

Forgive me blog, for I have sinned. It has been over 24 hours since my last entry.

My New Year’s resolution to lose five pounds has already been re-issued to my Resolution Committee for review. They will take into account my affinity for buffets, Brazilian steakhouses, and greasy foods. Additionally, they will take into account the adversity I face on a daily basis in my struggle against weight gain. I will submit to them the following experience.
Yesterday I was having dinner at Chutzpah, a New York style deli. After dinner, our waiter asked what we would like for dessert. I said, “One piece of your marzipan, please.”

“Well the pieces come really small, they’re sold by the pound,” he informed me.

“Okay that’s perfect. I only want a small piece.” I replied eagerly.

He replied, “One piece is not enough, you’ll want two.”

I replied, smiling angrily, like a crazy person, “No I think one will be good.”

“One is very small,” he held his index finger and thumb close together to explain what small meant. “You’ll want two.”

I could not believe this was happening. I wasn’t up for negotiating!

“Haha, no that size looks perfect, I’ll just have one.” I repeated, laughing, but clearly not amused.

“I’ll put you down for two.” What chutzpah he had!

“No, you’re not my mom. You can’t tell me what I want,” I thought defiantly.

But, “No, I really just want one,” is what I pleaded.

“Ohhhkay,” he said, like my mother does when she thinks I’m making a mistake. I felt so bizarre. The waiter was like a 20 year old male who could have easily been on a football team. He looked nothing like my mother, but he was still trying to overfeed me against my wishes.

And then, to make matters worse, the cake was totally delicious and I _did_ want another piece. However I have some self respect, so when he smugly told me,

“You want another one, don’t you?”

I smugly smiled and responded, through a full mouth, “No, thith waths perfect.” I kept my dignity, blog.

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If the Shirt Fits

I was reviewing Princeton’s graduate admissions page and saw this clever quip on the side:

Melville. A little heterodox in the matter of clean linen. Said Hawthorne.

-David Markron

I laughed and laughed when I read that. “Nothing like a good ‘ol Hawthorne joke to get me through the day,” is what I always say. Hahahahaha! Good one!

Once, I bought a school t-shirt in the Princeton gift shop, thinking I would apply there. The shirt fit me perfectly, so I knew the school would be a perfect fit for me too. In fact, I was right about to craft a beautiful application essay titled, “If the Shirt Fits,” about why I belong at Princeton. However, before going to the effort of actually writing the thing, I decided to check out the site, maybe pick a graduate school subject for which to apply*. That’s when I found the hilarious quotation above!

*Princeton Dean of Admissions, did you like my sentence? I _almost_ ended it with: “pick a subject to apply for,” but then I remembered it is poor grammar to end a sentence with a preposition, so I restructured the end of the sentence. Impeccable grammar is just one of the myriad fortes I offer your school. I am also a stellar typist, see yesterday’s entry.

Additionally, I have fantastic school spirit. For example, I own a Princeton t-shirt. If accepted into your fine learning establishment, I would wear the t-shirt.

I am also the President and CEO of imawkward.com, a progressive, nonprofit company.

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I Type So Fast

Few things impress me more than how fast I type. Blog, I type so fast. I just received an email, read it, and then responded super quickly because 1. I knew the answer 2. I type really fast. My fingers just flew across my keyboard and words, my words, appeared.

Sometimes when I’m typing I think, “Look at me go! I’m typing so fast!”

There are many things I’m a jerk about, blog, and typing is totally one of them. When I see people staring at the keyboard trying to find a letter, I make it a point to gape, rudely.

Just the other day, my boyfriend’s mom was telling me about how good her son is at typing. I nodded as though I was impressed, but really, I was relieved. I can’t be seen dating a slow typist. What would people think? Seriously. It would be humiliating. How would I even go about explaining the slow typing to people? I wouldn’t. Instead, I would insist on typing all of his correspondences _for_ him if we were in public. “What’s that honey? You want to try out this laptop in the store by typing things in to the search engine? Here. Let me type it for you. I insist. Step away from the keyboard.” Then I would crack my knuckles and procede to wow anyone nearby with my keyboard dexterity.

In other news, yesterday my wacky “aunt” called and reminded my dad that robots are going to take over the world in 2028. She backed up this theory by recounting a vivid dream she had one night in 2003.

Obviously, I do not believe she is actually my aunt. At the least she is certainly not related by blood.

Also, I do not believe robots are going to suddenly take over the world in 2028. I do suspect they are going to actively undermine my personal social progress, and they have already begun.

I will share my evidence by recounting a horrible occurrance from just yesterday. I sent a text message. It was a great text message, naturally, because I wrote it.

Here is what I wrote:

Haha! Funny picture 🙂 It’s very festive and really brings out the holiday spirit! I pretty sure he’s going to kill you though. Seriously, I’m talking murder. (JK).

Do you see the (JK) blog? It stands for Just Kidding. That is KEY. It means I can say anything I want, and it will be totally harmless as long as it is concluded with a: “JK.”

And here is the message I got back, from my cell phone provider:

Messages sent to non-VZW customers with graphics/tones/formatting and/or 160+ characters are sent as plain text with only the first 160 characters.

This means they cut out my “JK.” So now, rather than send a funny message, I have sent some sort of bizarre death message.

What could I do to rectify the situation? Send a follow-up text message that said, “He won’t really kill you. I was kidding.” ? No, that would take me too much time, and it would look suspicious. So I let it go. My friend probably thinks he’s going to die now, and that’s my cell phone provider’s (technology’s) fault. When he gets over his fear of being killed and realizes I was – JK – he will hate me, and I will be down one friend.

So as you can see, the robots have already set on their destructive path. I’m not even JK*.

*(JK)
See how that works?

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Happy New Year!

Happy New Year!

It’s a new year, blog, and a new year means a new me. Every year, I re-invent myself. It makes for interesting family reunions, work conversations and relationship conflicts. Last year I swapped genders.* This year, maybe I’ll use blue ink pens instead of black ink pens.** There’s really no telling what kind of whimsical change I’ll embrace next.***

*I didn’t really swap genders.

**Or not. I don’t like blue ink pens. Never have. I find them repulsive.

***Yeah, actually I’m not going to change. I don’t really ever reinvent myself. I’m awesome as is. This entire first paragraph is actually a huge lie. I was low on material. I’m sorry blog. I”ll never do it again.****

****Lie.

Blog! I’ve been staring at spreadsheets all morning. I’ve been highlighting different fields to signify different things, and now I have a colorful spreadsheet, but I have plum forgotten what the colors signify. What makes this an even greater tragedy is that I didn’t even choose aesthetically pleasing colors! The spreadsheet looks hideous. I’m very disappointed with what I’ve done here. How am I supposed to explain this to my boss!?

“Hi boss, here is a spreadsheet in which I have seemingly randomly highlighted some of the boxes. It took me four hours. No labels or anything! Just colors, boss. Just colors – and lots of them! As you can see, I used the whole color palette available in Excel!”

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It's Almost Christmas!

Pssst. Hi blog, what’s up? What’s new with you? How come you never write me? It’s always me talking about my day. You don’t bring much to the table, do you? You’re just a platform.

When I was little, I used to think my stuffed animals were alive and had personalities of their own – they just weren’t allowed to let me know. I know I wasn’t alone. That’s why all kids like stuffed animals – we think they’re alive. Otherwise we’d play with soft hairballs.

“Uh, thinking toys are really alive is creepy,” you say.

“Uh, playing with hairballs is creepy,” I counter.

In other news blog, my trip to the mall yesterday was highly successful. It was quick, I found the things I needed, and I discovered a new store. There was some drama in the new store. I had picked out the article of clothing I wanted to purchase, and the retailer asked me, “Would you like some socks? We have a special – three for ten dollars.”

I began to say, “No thank you, I won’t be duped into…” and then I stopped and raised my eyebrows, “Did you say socks?” As the proud owner of many, many socks, I’ve recently decided that having plain white cotton socks isn’t sufficent. I should have them in different colors and sizes. I’ve noticed that on days where I wear argyle socks or colorful knee socks, I am more smug and confident. So, I’ve begun exploring different types of socks. Socks are tricky however, because it is imperative that they be comfortable.

“Yes, socks” she said, and pointed me towards the socks. So over I went, to the sock section, and picked out three pairs after careful review. I returned to the counter, only to find that my cashier wasn’t there. Instead, by the counter, stood a woman I presume was her manager because she was holding a clipboard authoritatively and was wearing a headset.

I really enjoy it when people in clothing stores wear headsets, because when I am asking for a sweater in a size small, I like that the salesperson can whisper into his earpiece to tell another person, persumably waiting in the back next to all the small sweaters, to bring me a small immediately. This is a marked step up from the past, when I would ask for a size, and the salesperson would start going through the same pile I had just searched through for my size. I’m often tempted to say, “Sir, I’m not asking for your help because I can’t read, I’m asking for your help because the size is not here. You must summon your man in the back.”

Anyway, the manager starts talking into her headset, presumably to my cashier lady, while I’m standing there, looking around, ready to buy. “Have you gone on your break? It’s not your break time.” During all of this, I decide the socks would be itchy, and I put them back. The cashier returned, realizing that in her time away I had changed my mind. The manager smirked, as if to say, “It’s your fault this customer changed her mind about the socks.” I stared at her confused, as if to say, “What is your problem? _You_ could have rung me up. Plus I really didn’t want those socks.”

Quite the drama!

Tomorrow is a corporate holiday event, and I’m quite nervous. I don’t know what to wear, really, and what to say, and what to drink and eat. Surely many of my co-workers will be looking to me to see how to act, so I’m under a lot of pressure providing that kind of unspoken guidance.

In other news, dear blog, my reign as Time’s Person of the Year is over. The crown has been passed on to Vladimir Putin.

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How I Stole Christmas

Twas the 24th of December, and in the living room
Were boxes of presents, wrapped beautifully in maroon.

The tree was lit up, full of tinsel and light
And there were glittering ornaments of silver and white.

Everyone was happy; music played in the air.
The merriest of songs were coming from our tape player.

We began opening gifts; I was quite excited to see
What Santa, or my mom, had bought for me.
I unwrapped the ribbon, with thoughtful care,
And peeled off the wrapping tape, so the paper wouldn’t tear.

I pushed off the paper to find a clothing department store box!
I giggled, I smiled, “Clothing from my mom always rocks!”

See I had been away at school, and didn’t have time to shop
Instead of going to the mall we would make midnight food runs to IHOP.

Plus, I needed new clothes, my old ones looked lame
Compared to those of my peers, who dressed less tame.

So I opened the box, and peered inside,
And gasped in horror, for what did I find?

A baby blue velour track suit, the whole matching set –
There were velour pants, a shirt, a jacket, all things I didn’t want to get.

It was hideous, and tacky, and why would she buy it?
I didn’t want to wear it; I didn’t even want to try it!

Velour track suits are for people who feel heavy; was she saying I got fat?
Maybe I gained a couple pounds, but I was fine with that!

I gaped and stared and thought for a while,
And then decided I should fake a pleased smile,

Because my mom was looking at me with a very happy face.
She was hoping I would love it; she expected an embrace.

“I was worried you wouldn’t like it, because it’s different than other clothes you wear,
But I saw it in the store, and I fell in love with the outfit there!
Then I bought it and brought it home for your brother and dad to see,
‘It’s a great outfit! Great color! She’ll love it!’ They reassured me.”

“I love it indeed,” I smiled at my very dear mother.
And then for a split second gave the evil eye to my dumb brother.
He’s my age, he’s young, he should have been aware
That this velour ensemble was not something I could wear.

I pulled him aside later, and gave him a verbal thrashing,
“What were you thinking!? Why did you approve it? I should give you a lashing!”

“What?! I thought it looked nice!” he said in his defense.

“Are you kidding me?! I thought you had taste! You’re making no sense!
It’s VELOUR and it’s baby blue and come on, the shirt has glitter-
Were you mad at me when you approved it? Did something make you bitter?”

“Well if you don’t like it, tell mom so she can return it to the store.
I’m tired of hearing you whine about it; you’re such a bore.”

I glared angrily at my brother, knowing I would take vengeance –
No more Christmas for him! No more cool new presents!

I waited until the summer, when I was home from school,
And said, “Mom and Dad, I’ve been thinking, you know what’d be cool?
If this year for Christmas, we switched things up a tiny bit,
And were together for a fine meal, and then that was it.
No exchange of gifts, presents, or toys for each other.
For example I would get nothing from you and nothing for my brother.
We would focus on the importance of family and being together.
What do you say? Doesn’t that sound lovely, less stressful, and ultimately better?”

I could tell they liked the idea, but they were concerned
“Will your siblings like the idea? It won’t be spurned?”

“Naw they’ll love it! Big Sis will totally agree
And little brother will totally understand, we’ll make him see
That material things are not the things that really matter
It’s bonding, spending time, and eating delicious cake batter.
The holiday season has turned into a consumer celebration
We’re missing out on the feeling of real Christmas elation.”

My parents were delighted, and pleased with how I am so sweet and caring,
And they thought the no presents idea was hip and daring.

And sure enough the following Christmas we did not see
Any giant boxes of presents under our beautiful tree.

Instead we watched a movie after a fine family dinner,
And then we chatted delightfully over dessert, which was truly a winner.

And that velour suit, I kept it and wore it around the house once in a while
Even though it was odd and definitely not my style.
I specifically wore it around my brother to make it very clear
When approving clothes and gifts for me he should be full of fear,
Because if he makes a velour mistake again I will make him pay.

I’ll find another holiday to destroy for him, I’ll find a way.

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Going to the ball!

My brother has a company holiday party coming up, and he’s super single. What does this mean? This means I have a shot at attending an extravagent holiday party where the alcohol flows as freely as the birds fly, and the food tables continue for as far as the eye, especially my weaker one, can see.

Sadly, I apparently am not guaranteed the position as his plus one. “I don’t want to take my sister,” he replied, when I recommended myself. “I don’t want to be the guy that takes his sister every year. Plus the really attractive guys keep hitting on you. It’s so annoying.” I might  have added in that last part.

“But I’m fun,” I countered. “Who could be more fun than me?!” This is a rhetorical question, because the obvious answer is: no one. No one could be more fun than me.

“You’re not coming.” He ended the conversation.

A couple weeks went by, and he was concerned about who to put down as his registered plus one. I saw an opening: “Oh, put my name down. This way, if you get a date, you can say I was your back up when she sees my name. If your date sees another girl’s name, she’ll assume she was the backup. Then you’re in trouble for the night.”

“Good point,” he nodded. And so, step one was complete – yes, I am officially registered.

Last night, he took some ballroom dancing class offered by his company. He had a pretty good time, and he was excited about the dancing and wanted to show me some of his new dances. I knew what I had to do. I had to ballroom dance better than ever before in my life to prove as a formidable dancing partner who could, say, oh I dunno, maybe help him show off his smooth dancing moves during a big party, like, maybe a company holiday party.

Did I deliver?! Of COURSE I delivered! One and half years of ballroom dancing was not wasted on me! And sure enough, he said, “Okay if you come with me to the party we should practice a routine for the dance floor; it’ll be really cute.” My eyes lit up.

“IF!” he said.

“BEFORE!” I heard.

Wish me luck, blog. I’ve already picked out my dress.

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