Archive | May, 2014

Ask A Question!

28 May

ask-me-questions-picture-313You have questions. I (might, maybe?) have answers!

My Awkward Charm blog has been in existence for a little over a year.  During that time i’ve had people ask questions about awkwardness and/or charm as it relates to dating, work, etc.  I always do my best to answer them, but it occurred to me that it might be more useful (and fun-er) to answer all of your questions at once.

So here is your chance to ask any of your burning questions!  Just think of me as your awkward Dear Abby.

Directions:

Leave your question(s) in the comments or email awkwardcharm@gmail.com

I will answer all the questions I receive in my next post.

My Achy Breaky Foot

18 May

tippy_toes_by_probablythepenguin-d39g6avLast year I tore a ligament in my foot after attempting (and failing) to jump over a set of dog steps.   At the time I had thought that was the dumbest way to injure myself.  Until about a week ago…

One minute I was standing upright.  The next minute I was on the floor clutching my foot and calling for help.  Luckily I hurt myself while at my mom’s house so I had someone to help me.

Mom: “What happened, mi nena?”

Me: “My foot! I think it’s broken. It hurts sooooo bad!”

Mom: “OK, I get you a foot bath”

Me: “What? Why?”

Mom:  {Shrugs nonchalantly as if her daughter weren’t writhing in pain before her very eyes} “The women in my village used to say warm water with salt helps sore feet.”

Me: “This isn’t Spain during the 1910s, MOM!  And I’m pretty sure my foot is BROKEN! I need modern medicine!”

After 15 more minutes of arguing the pros and cons of a foot bath, I had finally convinced my mother to drive me to the emergency room. If I thought I was going to get more sympathy from the medical staff, I was sorely mistaken.

My doctor was one of those young, arrogant types who radiated about as much warmth as the grim reaper.

Dr. Death: {Examines my foot without so much as a glance in my general direction} “Tell me, Ms. Charm, how did you injure your foot?”

Me: “Um, I was… exercising? Yes. Exercising vigorously!”

Dr. Death: {Looks up for the first time and gives me a disconcerting once over.} “Can you explain exactly what you were doing at the time of the injury?” {he asks, skeptically}

Me: “I was just…uh, just my usual routine. You know, pilates and…jiu-jitsu.

Dr. Death:  “You practice the art of jiu-jitsu?”

Me: “Yep. Big time.”

Dr. Death: {Blank stare}

Me: {Sigh} “No.  I…I was standing on my tippy toes trying to reach the Reeses peanut butter cups that my mom keeps hidden in the upper cabinets.  That’s when I felt a sharp pain in my right foot and I could no longer put pressure on it. I thought maybe the overwhelming amount of weight from all the non-exercising I’ve been doing had broken my foot”

Dr. Death: {Coughs audibly.  Clearly this 6’2” piece of walking arrogance doesn’t sympathize with my short girl problems} “Well the x-rays did not show any fractures or breaks.  I believe it’s just a mild sprain, likely a result of a weakened ligament from your injury last year.

Me: “So you’re saying my foot isn’t broken, it’s just defective?” {mentally high-five myself for being able to be witty despite the pain}

Dr. Death: {I feel him inwardly roll his eyes} “Rest for a couple of days.  Keep the foot elevated with a cold compress or soak it in some Epsom salt to decrease inflammation.”

Mom: “I TOLD YOU!”

Me: “Mom!”

Dr. Death: “You can take Advil for the pain.”

Me: “Ok”

Dr. Death: {Imperceptibly smiles} I also suggest purchasing a foot stool for future chocolate cravings” {pulls back curtain and walks away}

Wait… did Dr. Death just make a funny?

I spent the next 72 hours with my achy breaky defective foot elevated, as instructed.  As far as my family and friends are concerned, I was “exercising” when I hurt myself. {wink}

The Gift of Awkwardness

9 May

Given my daily awkwardness (it may be getting worse with age?), I often joke with family and friends that it is my gift to them. This usually elicits a different response from people. For example, my sister rolls her eyes whereas my parents stare at me blankly (probably wondering where they went wrong in raising me?). And men… well, the men just walk away. {cough}

Except there was one day…one glorious day…while at University in which my awkwardness became a gift – literally!

Despite the fact that my dorm mate, Allie, and I lived an hour and a half away from University, her mother sent her weekly care packages. Each carefully selected item came individually wrapped in brown butcher paper. My mom’s care package consisted of her shoving a half-ton of Kraft Easy Mac into my overnight bag. Look, I get it. It sounds practical and delicious. But once you’ve eaten it twice a day every day for the better part of a semester you will never want to eat it again!

We were now nearing the end of our first semester at University and finals were upon us. All the girls in our dorm were stressed out. Not to mention I think our menstrual cycles had synced up. The usual cattiness level had escalated from Ermahgerd to Claw-your-eyes-out. I was terrified!

In a show of support during this difficult time, Allie’s mom sent the biggest care package I had ever seen. As she tore through the box, butcher paper rained down on us. I attempted to ignore her in order to study for my finals, but the allure of the care package was too much.

Must…see…inside…ohmygodshegotpoprocks!

Once the excitement of the care package (and sugar-high from the pop rocks) wore off, we were left with a mess. As usual, I began to kick Allie’s mess to her side of the room while straightening my side for the nth time that evening. That’s when Allie devised a way to get rid of the paper AND get me to do it for her. Of course, I didn’t realize that’s what it was at the time…

A photograph of me wrapped as a gift exists somewhere, but I cannot find it.  However, this is a fair representation.

A photograph of me wrapped as a gift exists somewhere, but I cannot find it. However, this is a fair representation.

She suggested we use the butcher paper to dress me up as a giant present so that we could give the girls a laugh while also giving them a break from studying. Before I could say anything, Allie had already wrapped me up like a mummy, complete with Christmas bows.

Me: “Allie, I can’t see! Cut me some eye holes.”

Allie: “No! Half the fun is guessing who is inside the present. Don’t worry. I’ll guide you down the hall.”

Me: “Ok, but don’t make me run into walls or anything.”

Allie: {giggling}

Me: “Allie!”

Allie: “Oh my gosh, I woooooon’t.”

Me: {Begin bouncing down the hall because Allie bound my legs too tight. Immediately run into a wall} “Allie!!”

Allie: {faint giggling}

Me: {Begin bouncing again; run face-first into a door}

Allie: “Whoops! I didn’t mean to make you do that this time.”

Me: {Angrily mumbling to myself under 12 layers of impermeable butcher paper}

The routine involved Allie knocking on a door, singing a Christmas carol, and I would do a sort of awkward, bouncy dance. Then we would both shout “happy finals” and move on to the next room.

After about the 10th room, the inadequate air hole somewhere behind my right ear was no longer sufficient. I was beginning to black out. Allie grabbed onto the protrusion most closely resembling my left elbow and quick-bounced me back to our room.

In the end, we made an entire hall of hormonal, stressed out young women laugh so hard they nearly wet themselves. Or so I was told. I don’t know. I couldn’t really see anything.

You’re welcome, ladies.