Dropping your cell phone in a toilet makes you think a lot about your life.

Why did I need to listen to music while peeing until everything became one experience?

How cool is it that cell phone destruction is no longer coupled with parental scorn?

Yes, maturity and aging, they’re funny little things and as for milestones, I think I missed a few.

I’m 14 and I’m fully prepared to select an ideology, but I still prefer sleeping in?

I’m 18 and I’m an adult, but I just learned that soup can be cooked in the microwave?

I’m 21 and now I can drink but wait, what?

Oh, but 25, I got that one. Twenty-five was a magical age thanks to a simple side step of tone.

“I AM TWENTY-FIVE-YEARS-OLD.” Now I’m mature and capable.

“I mean, I’m twenty five years old.” Now I’m aloof and broke.

Sure, one day, I’ll delete the birth year on my Facebook page, but for now it’s ’85.

Sure, a dip back into the college scene now evokes some maternal instinct I didn’t know I possessed and requests for clean beer pong cups, but I still woke up with cheese puff crumbs on my cheek.

Yeah, I pay bills and that’s not too fun, but sometimes those bills involve Sunday morning and unlimited mimosas.

And anyway, I was way overdue for that upgrade.

The subway is like a library.

Except sometimes there are people who look like they want to eat you. And also, it moves.

And maybe a few other things. But still, you keep to yourself unless you’re lost and you don’t talk. You just never fucking talk. That’s the only rule.

Put on your headphones. Open your book. Knit something even though women have been allowed to wear pants for a few years now. It’s up to you and most people are okay with this.

Most people except for the driver of the uptown 2 train on Monday (and sometimes Tuesday) mornings.

He is under the impression that the entire train is filled with 8-year-olds. And also, someone told him all of these 8-year-olds are half deaf.

“Gooooooooooooooooooood morning Manhattan! It’s going to be a great day!”

That’s how we start. Then, at every stop, we’re given step-by-step directions to arbitrary platforms and trains.

“If you’re switching to the 4 train, you’ll go up the stairs, take a left..”

At other stops we’re reminded to take all of our belongings. And at some stops we’re warned that the platform is very narrow and because of this we should not push or shove.

Now, in hindsight, this is quite entertaining. I get to write a silly blog post and use fun metaphors. It’s a win. But when it’s actually happening, it’s like someone just drove a tank through the library and all of the doors are locked, but the tank is shooting cotton candy. Or something similarly absurd that causes all of the 8-year-olds to clutch their iPods and stare at the ground with a frozen smirk of complete confusion.

It’s not painful, it’s just uncomfortable. And since I have no reason to believe it will ever stop, I’ve come up with a way to at bear it and possibly grin.

Because in New York City, being in a good mood doesn’t mean you have to share it with everyone else.

Speed dating is kind of like waiting in line for a roller coaster. It sounds really awesome at first, but then you get closer to the front and you start to wonder if doing flips at 60 miles per hour is really a good use of your time.

Fortunately, there was a bar at the front of the speed dating line, so I began my search for love by downing Brooklyn Lagers at a furious pace.

I planned to pregame down the street, but short on time, I realized that drinking at the speed dating location would allow me to scope out both the competition and the prizes.

My early arrival also gave me plenty of time to ponder important things like the name of the bar, Murphy & Gonzalez. This name is puzzling because it just seems like a forced union. I feel like someone was shot or robbed or something and giving partial ownership to the family bar was the only acceptable condolence. Maybe there was a marriage, but I just don’t feel like either the Murphy’s or the Gonzalez’s are very happy about the situation. You’ve got stew and potatoes sharing a menu with quesadillas. It’s just confusing. But back to speed dating, it only took three Boston Lagers in 15 minutes for the bartender to question my motive.

“You seem like you’re on a mission. What’s going on?”

“I’m speed dating.”

“HAH! Oh man, you wanna shot?”

“No thanks, I’ll puke.”

“Okay, never mind.”

It also only took three Boston Lagers in 15 minutes for me to realize I really needed to pee. On my way back to the bar, an event leader approached me and asked if I’d like a free spot.

“I’m already signed up.”

“Oh, great! Well, next week is “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.” Give me your info and I’ll get you a comp to that one.”

Great, so now I’m a speed dating ringer. * Well, let’s get started.

Last night’s theme was “Not From New York.” In hindsight, this was a bad theme choice. Explaining where I’m from is one of my most taxing convos and this event forced me to do that eight times in a row. As we sat down, the event organizers announced that there was one more guy than girls, so one guy had to sit out each round. In round one, we found out they were liars. I had no one to talk to, so the guy in the timeout spot was sent to me. “Well, why don’t you just go ahead and talk to Jenny this round.”

So I opened each convo with, “Welcome to timeout! You get to talk to me!” and then I said, “Want some starbursts!?” because that was the weird speed dating table food they gave us. And then we talked about how we weren’t from New York, and that got old because I’m from Titusville and no one knows where the hell that is and my “Space Coast” clarification only mildly reduces their confusion and by that point I’ve probably already decided that the next two minutes are a waste of both of our times and like, I just wish I had a map and another beer. So given that attitude, let’s go into each contestant.

1. Esben

Esben’s opener was, “Finally, we meet.” Yes, now I remember, you were the guy giving me the creepy smile across the bar while I was pounding BK Lagers. The conversation then went into how, you know, we’re not from New York. I’m from Florida which offers obvious questions. Which part? Near Disney? And so on. But Esben, he’s from Denmark. All I really have to say about that is, “Denmark! Cool! I’ve never been there. That’s… far away, hee hee.”

Ding, ding! Switch.

2. Jason

Within the first minute, I found out that Jason is a speed dating slut. He does it “all the time.” As I tweeted prior to the event, I think speed dating is nerdy, and as a giant nerd, I need a partner who is both cool and tan to give my kids a chance.

Ding, ding! Switch.

3. Geoff

Geoff was nice, but to be honest, I didn’t like him from the second his parents spelled his name that way. Also, I’ve dated both a “Geoff” and a “Jeff,” so I feel like I’ve covered that name already.

Ding, ding! Switch.

4. Peter

I guess I just don’t understand why someone like Peter would go to an event that is at best, superficial.

Ding, ding! Switch.

5. Malcolm

Malcolm was at least 50 years old. When I spotted his event name tag earlier I thought a funny intro question would be, “So, what college do your kids go to?” but instead we talked about all the places he’s lived since, you know, he’s been on the planet twice as long as I have.

Ding, ding! Switch.

6. Allon

Allon was the only partial candidate, as you’ll see from my notes below. Allon continued talking to the last girl he was set up with and I just found this to be unfair and also a good reason to transform into Debbie Downer and inhale a quesadilla at the bar.

Ding, ding! Switch.

7. Vitaly

Vitaly was from Russia. Again, not really fair. Vitaly made me laugh because he kept talking about vodka and essentially being a huge, blundering stereotype and I just didn’t understand how that was a good tactic.

Ding, ding! Switch.

8. Ashu

Ashu gets points because I immediately got to make a note on my score card that I found to be very funny at the time, “BLESS YOU!” But then he made things awkward. His accent and appearance were a clear giveaway of his heritage, yet he insisted that I guess. “Oh I don’t know.” “No, come on, you can guess.” “Oh, I’m not sure I can!” He finally announced that he was from India and I was shocked. I then announced that I had to pee because I’d been binge drinking and left.

Below you’ll see my score card. This was very entertaining. It’s the first time in quite a few years that I’ve tried to see what someone else is writing while concealing my own paper.

Will I go back next week? I don’t know. Self-deprecating humor about awkward situations is kind of my forte and this blog does need a more frequent posting schedule.

*I haven’t decided if I’m going to become a speed dating ringer yet, but I can definitely predict that I won’t enter that theme with a good opinion. “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.” What effing century are we in? I prefer brunettes, how about that? I can’t even describe all of the negative preconceptions I’d bring with my six beer buzz.

Editor’s note: If you’re one of my lovely RSS/email subscribers, you should click through and check out my new design. I think it screams “professional.”

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.

Technorati Claim Code: BSG6R2A4TP2X

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.