Tag Archives: humour

Beauty is Embarrassing

14 Jan

My friend, Donna, and I had a conversation the other day about the level of abuse and embarrassment women subject themselves to all in the name of beauty.

For those who read my post about Helga the Russian Waxer from Hell, you understand. For those who haven’t, here is an example of each waxing visit Donna and I have ever gone to:

Waxer: “What do you need done? Lip?”

Me: “I – Oh. Um… no. Just my eyebrows today”

Waxer: “And then lip?”

Me: “I think my lip is ok, just eyebrows today.”

Waxer: “Chin?”

Me: “What the – No. Just eyebrows. Thanks.”

Waxer: {shrugs and waxes the eyebrows} ”Wow! Your skin is super red”

Me: {My hairs were plucked out by the root in a single, violent pulling motion.} “That’s normal though, right?” {Recall seeing the 3 women before me also walk out with red eyebrows}

Waxer: “I think it’s just your skin.” {Purells her hands in dramatic fashion}

Once my self-esteem has been thoroughly crushed, I am now shamed into tipping this woman 75% because I feel bad for HER. I can’t imagine the horrors she encountered while having to touch my disgusting (and excessively fuzzy, apparently?) face.

As a result of this conversation, I decided to try threading my eyebrows today instead of waxing. Because, you know, maybe threaders were nicer?threading

The esthetician was a bit rough, but I was otherwise content because she hadn’t insulted me or pointed out rooms for improvement that actually consisted of things I cannot improve upon without undergoing plastic surgery.

That is, until she got to the end…

Instead of brushing the loose hairs off my face with a cotton swab or facial tissue, the esthetician blew on my face. As she did so, I felt her spit on me.

What the– is this real life? Did a grown woman just spit on my face?

I had basically paid someone $20 (plus a 90% shame-tip) to spit on me. I am aware that in some circles, this is something of a fetish, but it’s not really my thing.

I immediately text Donna about this next level abuse, to which she responded, “I have no words, only laughter”. Once she stopped laughing, Donna pointed out that this is the type of thing that doesn’t happen to “normal” people but is just an average day in the life for me.

I may be awkward and covered in spit, but at least my eyebrows look amazing.

So…there.

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New Year’s Resolution

7 Jan

resolutions

I usually don’t make New Years resolutions, because they tend to set me up for failure. I resolve to do something, then when I don’t I become terribly depressed. When I’m depressed I eat all the cookie dough while standing in the fridge.

When I realize what I look like, I feel ashamed, become even more depressed and go back to standing in the fridge to rummage around for the cookie dough that I hid from myself in the crisper.

It’s a vicious cycle.

However, several readers who noticed I hadn’t posted on Awkward Charm since October 2014 brought it to my attention. To you all I say, “Thank you for missing me and giving me the kick in the butt I needed!”

I also would like to say, fear not for I resolve to post more frequently in 2015!

{pause for round of applause}

Of those who wrote in, many asked,

“Why have you abandoned us?”

“Has a genie granted your wish to no longer be awkward?”

“Did you win the lottery and flee to a secluded island to spare us your awkwardness?”

Um…no.

What could be more important than my little Awkwards? Nothing!!

In truth, I didn’t stop being awkward and I most definitely did not win the lottery {sad sigh}, I just got a job that was working me 7 days a week. What little energy and brainpower I had was put toward my work and the purchase of more cookie dough. Don’t judge me…

But now I am back and equipped with more awkward stories for your reading pleasure!

Stay tuned!

– AC

My Awkward First Date

8 Oct

firstdate2My very first, official, first date would not come until I was 17 years old. Since I had a reputation of being…how can I put this… socially awkward, I didn’t get asked out on dates often. Or ever, really.

One day I met a boy from another school at a party who was not aware of my social status and for whatever reason interpreted my awkwardness as wit and asked me out. We were going to meet up at a restaurant that was equidistant to both our houses because I am nothing if not practical.

This was it! My very first, official, first date!

I was so excited, I showed up 30 minutes early. He was 15 minutes late. Which means I stood there next to the hostess stand for 45 minutes looking pathetic, flopped in nervous sweats, and too scared to get a table in case he never showed up and I’d have to explain to the waitress that I was stood up on my very first, official, first date.

To my younger readers, keep in mind that I began dating during a time before everyone owned a cell phone. I technically had one but it was huge and clunky and intended only for emergencies. It had honestly never even occurred to me to use it in this situation.

When First Date finally showed up, I was so relieved that I threw my arms around him and dragged him to the hostess stand with a smug look that said, “See, I told you I was waiting for someone!”

He, on the other hand, did not look quite so smug.

As luck would have it, one of my classmates was our waitress. On the one hand I was relieved because she was this super sweet girl who helped to settle my very first, official, first date jitters. On the other hand, she was gorgeous and I wanted her to go far, far away.

During the date the conversation flowed naturally, although I did notice that his end of the conversation flowed a lot more naturally every time my classmate would come over to check on our meal. Since I had introduced her as a friend of mine, I had convinced myself that he was just being nice to her for my sake.

However, this was just the first of many excuses I would invent to make up for the bad behavior of the men I dated, because it is a well known fact that awkward people do not know how to “read” situations very well – hence our tendency toward being awkward.

First Date continued to be very charming toward my classmate, polite to me, and eventually paid for dinner. What a gentleman, or so I thought.

As First Date walked me back to my car I was getting a little nervous. What should I do? Do I kiss him? Hug him? Throw him in the backseat? He broke the silence by asking if I could give him my classmate’s number.

Wait, what?

When I said “NO!” he had the audacity to ask why not. I wish I could say that I gave an articulate, well-thought out, and rousing retort. Instead I shrugged and mumbled “Um, ‘cause…”.

For whatever reason, he took my awkward, flustered state as an invitation to try and kiss me. I pushed him away and stumbled back so quickly that I slammed into my car.

He looked wounded and sniveled something about really liking me. Yeah… really liking my choice in hot friends, maybe! Thank you, First Date, for setting me up for a life-time of horrifically awkward dates.

Becoming A Woman

10 Sep

As my niece nears the age of puberty, I can’t help but remember my own journey to “becoming a woman”.  As with everything else in my life, it was an experience fraught with awkwardness.

I was 12 years old and vacationing with my parents and grandparents at Disney world – the so-called “happiest place on earth” (not on that day!).  To make matters worse, as if by some great symbolic gesture of my purity, I was dressed in all white.

I don’t know how long I walked around with that giant red spot on my white shorts, but I remember the exact moment I discovered it.  I think my childish-turned-womanly screech was burned into the memory of every other woman in the public restroom that day, as well.

After discreetly informing my dad and grandfather what was happening by shouting “SHE GOT HER FIRST PERIOD!” in the middle of the restaurant, my mom and grandmother escorted me back to the hotel.

toxic_tampons_pads_504x334Once in the hotel bathroom, mom walked in with a tampon in one hand and a pad in the other.  I wasn’t sure what to do with either, but the thick, cushiony pad looked a lot less menacing then the hard plastic thingy which I was informed was meant to be inserted INTO my little lady bits – no thank you!

Still…I was intrigued.  I knew my mom and older sisters used tampons. And now that I was a woman (or so I was told repeatedly by every female relative), I needed to get to the bottom of how this all worked.  So when I got my period again, I asked my eldest sister (who was 26 at the time) to teach me.

Me: {holding tampon} “How does this thing work?”

Sister: {squirms uncomfortably; resigns herself to conversation after I repeatedly shove tampon in her face} “Um… well, let’s look at the diagram on the instructions and I’ll talk you through it. As you see here, you place the tampon into the hole then –“

Me: “Which hole?”

Sister: {blink, blink} “What do you mean?”

Me: “I’ve got a couple down there.”

Sister: “It… not your butt hole! The other one.”

{Sister continues walking me through the process, even mimicking the movements shown on the instructional diagram}

Me: “I’m still confused. Can you show me, like, on yourself?”

Sister: “No. I…no.”

Me: “Then can you watch me do it?”

Sister: “This is one of those things you have to do on your own. I’m sorry.” {runs out of bathroom}

{After several awkward attempts, I think I mastered the tampon. Despite the discomfort, I am proud and want to show off to my big sister.}

Me: “I did it!  See?” {drop pants}

Sister: “I SAID NOT YOUR BUTT HOLE!”

Becoming a woman is hard work!

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}

Valet Confessions

10 Apr

I now find myself living in an area in which valet parking is annoyingly complimentary due to the fact that you cannot park unless you valet. Valet

Even my youngest readers can remember a time when socialites and celebutants, such as Paris Hilton and Britney Spears, couldn’t get out of a vehicle without flashing their “lady” bits to the world.

It is only after being repeatedly subjected to valet parking that I can now understand the struggles of Paris Hilton. {cough} I’m sorry; did that sentence just formulate in my brain and come tumbling out of my mouth? Yes.  Yes it did.

I say “annoyingly complementary”, because I do not drive a luxury vehicle.  I drive a Honda.  Although I adore my reliable little vehicle, I do not enjoy waiting in line behind a Maserati only to see the look of utter disappointment on the face of the valet attendant when I hand him an actual car key instead of some futuristic-looking gadget.

Then there is the matter of exiting the vehicle.  Maybe it’s because I am petite? Or maybe I am just incapable of being sophisticated? But I cannot seem to gracefully exit a vehicle.  And, unfortunately, the valet attendant is always there to witness it.

Always watching.  Always judging.

I recently went to lunch with my luxury vehicle-driving sister who chose yet another valet-friendly restaurant. {Hurray! Let the valet-induced anxiety begin!}

Me: {On the windiest day of the year I wear a dress, because I hate myself.  Pull up behind a luxury vehicle. Feel inadequate. Valet opens my door}  “Uh… sorry.  Yup.  Just, um, just give me a second here.” {Attempt to exit vehicle like a BOSS.  Fail}

Valet: {Looks away; refusing to acknowledge my existence}

Me: {Am now overcome with the need to explain myself to the attendant who could care less} “Sorry about that.  It’s kind of difficult to get out of the car sometimes.  Especially in a dress! Because… you know” {Expecting valet to understand. HE clearly does not. Attempt to recover by continuing to explain myself} “I just don’t want to flash anyone! {Even though I suspect I just did.} That’s kind of my nightmare!”

Valet: {Staring at me with disdain}

Me: “Because… you know.  Britney?  And also, NO ONE needs to see that, if you know what I’m sayin’?”

Valet: {Has no idea what I’m “sayin’”}

Me: “Because I’m not quite “groomed” these days. You know?” {Why the @#$# did I just say that OUT LOUD?}

Valet: {Look of disdain turns to look of disgust}

Me: “Sorry! I have no idea why I just told you that!” {nervous laughter} “How awkward!” {Have now made situation far more awkward by acknowledging it. Throw my car key at him and run into restaurant}

I ran into the restaurant as if the comfort of my sister’s company and a glass of wine could save me.  It’s like a child who fears monsters under the bed covering their face with the blanket and feeling completely safe.  Except that at some point I would need to exit the restaurant and face the same valet attendant who would probably never forget me, my face or my vehicle for as long as he lives.

After several glasses of wine, I exited the restaurant with a look-if-you-dare-you-awful-valet-attendant-man-person-you attitude. And by that I mean that I cowered behind my sister as I handed over my ticket.

The same attendant pulled up with my vehicle and held the door open for me.  He did not look in my direction as I got into the car, nor did I attempt to explain my ridiculously awkward behavior any further.  I just shoved money in his general direction, jumped into the car most ungracefully (probably flashing everyone in the parking lot – again?), and sped off.

In the words of Kathy Bates in Waterboy, valet parking “is da devil”.

Cat Got Your…Shirt?

28 Feb

To say I was a late bloomer is an understatement.  I didn’t really have a way with men, what with the awkwardness and all.  The braces and thick glasses didn’t help much either {ehem}

Moving on…

Those who have read about the incident with the Most Beautiful Man Known to Human Kind would argue that my awkwardness around men continues.  And I wouldn’t dispute that.  But I will say I’ve gotten better.

Sophomore year of college I was living with my friend, Claudia. I’m not saying she was a Femme Fatale, but she had some game, which was more than I could say for myself. 

I had a crush on our next-door neighbors, Ken Doll & Beagle Boy.  I wasn’t picky about which one I dated; either would do! But I couldn’t figure out how to get them to talk to me.

After months of unsuccessful attempts to engage them in conversation, I looked to Claudia for help.  It took 20 minutes of begging and giving the sad puppy eyes, but she caved.  Her plan was to invite them to our friend’s block party up the street.

“Great plan”, I thought.  “Now go invite them! I’ll wait here.”

It turns out the second half of the plan was for ME to invite them. {panic mode initiated}.  Claudia coached me on what to say so that I could come across casual and cool (as was possible for me, anyway). 

Me: {>knock, knock< attempt to run away several times. Claudia grabs my arm to keep me in place.}

surprised womanKen Doll: {Opens door without a shirt on} “Hey guys!”

Me: {Jaw drops to floor.  Claudia hasn’t prepared me for this!}

Claudia: {Smiles. Gives me a not-so-subtle nudge}

Ken Doll: “What’s up?”

Me: {Continue staring open-mouthed; drool dribbles down my face}

Claudia: {Speak. SPEEEEEEEEEAK!}

Me: {Help me. I’m dying here}

Claudia: {Either picks up on my telepathic plea or could no longer stand the awkwardness} “Hey! We were just wondering if you guys wanted to come with us to our friend’s party.  He’s just up the street.  Lots of folks from our division are going.”

Me: {Fervently nod head in the affirmative.}

Ken Doll: Cool! {looks down at my bobble-like head} But, um, I’ve got a test tomorrow so I should probably study.

Me: {Fervently nod head in the negative.}

Claudia: “What about your roommate?”

 Ken Doll: “He’s not home” {see Beagle Boy walk into the kitchen, oblivious to us in doorway}. Have a good night!

As soon as the door slammed shut in my face I regained the ability to speak as if by magic.  “I’m sooooo sorry, Clau! I just… he… NAKED!”

She puts her arm around my shoulders and says, “Well, I couldn’t get you the guy but how about a Dairy Queen milkshake instead?”

Dairy Queen:  Making the awkward feel better since 1940.