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What happens when you combine horribly awkward and kinda amazing?

This.

DogsShittingOnSidewalks.com

Yes. It’s mine. You didn’t think I was going to move to New York and start spending my time going to plays and wandering through parks, did you?

The premise is simple. Dogs shit on sidewalks a lot in New York and I haven’t accepted this as commonplace and not hilarious yet. And until then, I’m photoblogging each instance I witness.

You’re encouraged to enjoy this journey of concrete and excrement with me. Please know, this project is the result of great awkward stealth. I’m quickly adapting to the ways of these miniature beasts. Stop. Go. Stop. Sniff. Sniff. YES!? Go. Damn!

All for you. It’s all for you.

Today, I laughed in a woman’s face. Yesterday, I made a comment that put Jennifer Aniston to shame. Tomorrow, I don’t even know. I may approach the man who tries to hand me a comedy club flyer everyday and question his motives. Because really, if he’s getting paid for the sheer number of flyers he hands out, I could show him to a dumpster and save him two hours of projected annoyance.

But let’s get back to today and my well-directed laughter. Many of you have asked if my new office has an awkward hallway. No, it does not. Our long hallways were generously designed with no fewer than 12 escape options.

What we do have though, is elevators. In case you’ve never been in one, let me explain something; elevators are cesspools of awkward behavior.* Those cameras aren’t for your safety. No, they’re not. Some effing genius has been recording the interactions in elevators since they started running and that guy is just a few edits away from a lifetime of margaritas and oily sand.

He will have his day, but today was mine. Today I sat on the opposing side of a social situation that often makes me wonder if that “muscles needed to smile vs. frown” ratio is situational. You see, somehow, I am one of just a handful of people who doesn’t laugh when someone manages to convince my almost-closed elevator door to reopen. This produces an awkward situation because the offender, who usually finds it hilarious, eagerly seeks to share this sentiment with one of the occupants.

“Just made it!” or “Close call!” he or she will laugh and rejoice.

And besides forced, faux laughter, I’m not sure what to offer.

Gratitude? Encouragement? Raisinets?

We’ll tackle the war another day though, because today the battle was mine. As the door closed, the intruder made her move. Too slow.

“Hah!” I immediately rejoiced.

“Hah! Hah!” I continued rejoicing as we traveled to our meeting one floor away. Oh sure, judge me. I’m sure many of you will. And that is why I leave you with a phrase I often think and sometimes verbalize in such situations, “Leave me alone. I’m a good person.” Take it. Share it. But don’t tell Jesus!

I’ve never been stung by a jellyfish and I don’t get beer goggles.

One of these is no longer true.

Three weeks ago, I was betrayed by seven Blue Moons and a dimly lit bar.

I talked. He talked. A number was put in my phone and a future meet-up was planned.

“Ah, what the hell. I mean, it’s free dinner.” I thought at 9:54 the following morning.

“What did he say his name was…” I wondered at 9:55.

Name and dating philosophy aside, I kept my plans.

As a beer goggle newbie, this was the first time I’ve decided the outcome of a date in less than 3 seconds.

For the remaining 5,400 seconds, I went into a mode I call “this date was a horrible idea and I want to go home, so

I’m not talking unless I’m asked a question.”

Somewhere around second #4,200 we hit a remarkable new low:

“What’s your favorite color?” he asked.

“……. um……. I guess green or blue,” I replied.

“Why?” He followed up.

“Green and blue are the colors that look best on me,” I drained.

“That’s a dumb reason.”

It was during this exchange that a new sentiment was invited: confusion. As I resisted the urge to follow with a statement about the intelligence of the entire conversation and the promise of the date at large, I pressed mute and lingered.

“Is there a ‘smart’ reason for a 25-year-old woman to like one color more than another?” I wondered.

“Maybe I’m just a little out-of-practice. The last time I defended my favorite color, I also adamantly believed my teacher was lying when she said identical twins were two different people,” I continued to wonder.

And at that moment, his mouth stopped moving and I delivered my best ass-out verbal hug, “What’s YOUR favorite color?”

It takes a lot for me to ask to speak to a manager. Like, a lot.

I’ll eat the salad with the dressing not on the side. I’ll pick off the fish eggs. But occasionally, the grievance is too much or my beer count is too high and I must speak up for all of humanity.

I did my retail time as a shoe expert at Sports Authority during undergrad, so I rarely fall into the category of “I’m going to be a smart ass to a retail employee even though my complaint is direct proof that I’m an idiot because it shows that I obviously don’t understand that lower-rung retail employees have no control over corporate issues.” I spit in enough shoes in my day to learn that lesson.*

The category I do fall into is “You’re completely wrong and I would have been able to let it go and just think of you as a moron, but now you’re also being rude so let’s talk to your mother effing manager.”

My most recent “I’d like to speak to your manager” occurrence resulted from a conversation with the front desk at L.A. Fitness.

As I have mentioned before, L.A. Fitness does not follow the natural rules of “breaks,” because if you take a three-month break, they automatically begin charging your card again on the 93^rd day.

Right, so basically I told L.A. Fitness to move its shit out and three months later it showed up with the U-Haul.

Umm, hello L.A. Fitness, I was jogging! For free! We had a great thing going. Then, you had to stroll back in and ruin it. $40 charge here. Tempting yoga class there.

Admittedly, I was a little upset when I noticed this broken boundary, but I decided to call up the locals and see if they could help me out. I didn’t expect too much because, well, I’m aware that many corporations operate on fine print and I was fairly sure that the right to resume billing  following a membership freeze was clearly printed in 0.12 point font somewhere on my contract.

But I called. And after a short dialogue I was promised a return call the following day.

The following day, no call. So with heightened annoyance, I used part of my lunch break to return my own call.

It was during this dialogue that the tone on the receiving end forced me to utter the “I’d like to speak to the manager” ultimatum. And similar to the other five times I have uttered this awful line during a retail dispute,  my world-changing passion for justice was met with the simple checkmate:

“I am the manager.”

*Okay, I didn’t actually spit in shoes, but I did occasionally sleep in the closed-off “Nike Shoe Room” and from time-to-time (everyday) I would pick a new pair of shoes to wear inside the store. Product research. That’s what it’s called. Okay, occasionally I also tested the shoe deodorant. And the Heelies. And the scooters. I WAS A GOOD EMPLOYEE.

P.S. Welcome to all new readers from ProBlogger.net! And if you’re a regular reader, please be sure to check out my recent guest post on ProBlogger.net, “Stick Out Your Finger (not that one!) And Create a Meaningful Blogging Experience.” It’s my biggest writing opportunity so far and I had a lot of fun writing it.

Tonight, as I quickly changed into my flexible, pain-bearing yoga attire, I remembered the crisp, 70 degree winds that battered me during my lunch break.

“It’s jacket weather,” I concluded.

It was in this moment of weather-induced wardrobe alteration that I noticed the abundance of track jackets in my closet.

“There’s just no need for that many track jackets,” I thought.

And as I drove to L.A. Fitness, the unnecessary track jacket variety weighed heavily on my mind.

“Why am I still thinking about the track jackets?” I wondered.

[Musical Interlude: “Sexy Chick” by David Guetta]

And then it hit me.

“Oh shit. I am becoming Mr. Rogers.”

First, the socks.

Now, the jackets. A forced replay of the jacket lineup sent a chill down my spine.

“I don’t even KNOW my neighbors.”

But fear was quickly replaced with a new sentiment: love.

Maybe those lingering thoughts of sporty sweaters were just a belated shot from Cupid. That sly, fat bastard. I was ready to forgive him for the last mishap. I mean, who saw the Clay Aiken thing coming?

Eager to let Mr. Rogers know that I’d like to be more than his neighbor, I rushed home and took necessary first date precautions.

We’re going to be so happy with our Asian baby. What’s that? Stomach cancer? Oh..

Happy New Year. Now let’s not make this awkward. I just need you to purchase 65 t-shirts and we’ll call this even.

Life is tough. And at times, seeing life play out on a board game can be even more difficult.

Insert college story.

The setting: We’re playing “Life,” because this is what you do at tech schools. You drink alcohol and play board games and you like it. Three of us are in classes together. The 4th player (let’s call her Rachele) is currently going down the “I don’t need college because I make more money waiting on tables” route. We’re all between 20-25. Nobody is exactly ready for success judgment day (a.k.a. the 10 year reunion) just yet.

As you are likely aware, the first major decision in the “Life” board game is between taking out loans for college or skipping college to start making that paper. This of course plays a role in which profession you will later land.

Eerily similar to real life, right? Kudos to the game creators.

Personally, I enjoy skipping college and becoming a rock star when I play “Life.” I usually end up living in a tent and driving around six babies. But I play for entertainment, not life advice. So if I am amused, I win.

However, in this particular game, Rachele chooses “no college” as well.

Coincidence? Whatever.

Well, then she starts landing on things that are expensive, picks a bad house. Her damn blue and pink kids are costing all kinds of money. She’s broke.

Suddenly “Life” is two steps ahead of life. The board game decisions are lining up parallel to her real life decisions.

We’re all like, “Hahhaha. Another kid. GEEZ. I suck! But your split level house looks like a piece o’ shit!”

She’s all like, “Oh my god, oh no. No! This is real. Ahh!! F*ck you Warner Bros! This is crap!!!”

And then we’re short two people.

The board game is on indefinite pause until the eerie similarities can be explained away by Rachele’s boyfriend. During the pause, the successful people quietly discuss who should buy the next 12-pack of Natural Light.

“Not it!” I declare while quietly placing my index finger on the side of my nose. “I bought the last one and now my checking account only has $3 in it ‘til my parents send next month’s rent money. I’ll set up the beer pong cups though.”
P.S. Check out my participation in the Interviews with Up and Coming Bloggers over at The Skool of Life today. Had a great conversation about blogging, Hugh MacLeod, Twitter and mcuh more.

Disclaimer: We all know boys and girls digest food differently. Boys are gross whereas girls turn food into flowers. I stayed up late (9:45) to write this post for manpanions and the gross girls who actually make real poo. This is of course a catch-22 because the poo-making makes them not real girls.

Your first weekend trip with a significant other is a test of nerves. And bowel control, because surprisingly, 48 hours is actually more uncomfortable in real life than on TV.

Hangouts prior to the first weekend excursion are planned to allow both parties ample solo time in the toilet area (out of earshot). This planning allows each relationship participant to indulge in the finer things in life, like greasy ethnic foods.

When emergencies arise, immediate embarrassment and a corresponding break-up is avoided by using one of these single-use excuses:

· “I forgot something at my place, be right back.”
· “Man, that was a long line in there.”
· “Sorry we took so long. <Name of person who accompanied you to the bathroom> had to poop, hahahahah.”

While brittle white lies (a.k.a. Michael Jackson lies) like these may work fine for dates around town, they become weak and sometimes overdose  when used during long weekends in the undivided company of your lover.

No worries though. Like usual, I have a solution.

Solution: The Weekend Bathroom Pass

How to Use the World’s First/Best Weekend Bathroom Pass
1. Before embarking on your weekend escape, print six copies
2. Give three copies of the Weekend Bathroom Pass to your manpanion/lady friend
3. When you feel the need to visit the bathroom for an extended period of time, retrieve a Weekend Bathroom Pass
4. Wave Weekend Bathroom Pass at manpanion/lady friend
5. Confirm eye contact
6. Rip Weekend Bathroom Pass in two while maintaining eye contact
7. Run to nearest bathroom

My name is Jenny. I am 24 years old and last weekend I brought sexy back in a $3 High School Musical swim suit.

You’re shocked, I know. Me too.

It only cost me $3 to bring sexy back. It cost Justin Timberlake about 2 years and $5 million.

So how did I become more awesome than Justin Timberlake?

Sit back and let me explain.

I’ll admit, I have never seen any of the High School Musicals 1-70 and barring some unforeseen hostage situation, (or a John Cusack cameo) I doubt I ever will.

But last weekend, faced with a beautiful day, good company, a beach invite and no bathing suit,  I brought sexy back with this little get up.

High School Musical bathing suit, first worn by Jenny, now for sale – starting bid $5,689

This was no small feat, but I’m a gracious winner. So here are six things I learned in my defeat of Justin Timberlake:

1. Wal-Marts in Florida do not carry bathing suits in November. Rather, they alter their wardrobe offering to match the needs of states with more than one season despite the presence of perfect beach days 340 out of 365 days each year in Florida.
2. Should you ask one of Wal-Mart’s finest “Where are the bathing suits?” in November, she/he (maybe both?) will respond, “Right ova derr.. $30.. one pieces fer granmas.. teh heh.. ehh hehh heh..” and you will be sent to a rack that contains waterproof smocks. Terror will ensue as you envision an 80-year-old version of yourself responding to this selection with sparkling eyes and a loose wallet.
3. I am an XL little girl.
4. Being an XL little girl at age 24 is both flattering (bottom) and embarrassing (top).
5. XL little girl bathing suits do not come with boob padding. So when you leave 70 degree water and embrace a cool breeze, you will need to cover your boobs with your hands and quickly warn your friends, “So, I’m kinda cold..”
6. Despite the childish frills on little girl bathing suits, onlookers (a.k.a. friends who want birthday presents) may comment, “It actually fits you (laughter). Doesn’t look that bad.” This may make you think it was wrong to retire that two piece American flag-inspired Speedo from 5th grade. But you will be wrong. There was a reason that pool fashion incident was brought up mercilessly from age 10 to 17.

I went to a bachelorette party this weekend.

And a little bald guy with no bowel control came too.*

Most of the time he giggled and stared.

But at 10:45 a.m. on day 2, he decided to air out the wind pipes.

Luckily, there were three mature, adult women ready to handle the situation.**

Meet Girl #1 and Girl #2**

“Umm.. the baby is crying..” – Girl #1

“Oh.. should we do something or is he supposed to cry it out?” – Me

“I don’t know. He just sounds so upset.” – Girl #2

We walk to door of room and look in. Infant waterworks are visually confirmed.

“Let’s pick him up.” - Girl #2

Baby stops crying. Starts catching up on snot suction.

Being picked up is confusing.

But it doesn’t take our victim long to remember. He ain’t happy. Crying continues.

“How do we make him stop!?!” – Girl #1 & Girl #2

“Maybe if we put this in his mouth?” – Girl #2

Baby rejects pacifier. Apparently this is not why he was screaming.

I apply for the role of “problem solver.”

“Stop doing this [BABY SCREAMING SOUND]!!!”- I say to the baby.

No luck.

Girl #1 abandons situation.

Girl #2 finds a set of these.

Insert two minutes of embarrassing singing on my part and dancing on Girl #2′s part.

“We don’t like to cry.. cha cha cha.. we are happy!! cha cha cha… we don’t like to cry…” – Me [in Mexican voice]

Baby giggles.

Baby’s grandma walks in room.

Dump and run.

*Name has been withheld and disguise has been added. I don’t want to research Internet privacy laws for 3-month-olds.

**Names have been withheld and disguises have been added. Because unlike me, these girls still believe there is more in store for them than a house full of cats.