On my way to class this morning, I passed this couple standing around having hand sex.
They were in the middle of the sidewalk, standing about eighteen inches apart and extending their arms towards each other at around the height of their sternums. It would be weird enough if they were holding hands at that angle, but no. They were having hand sex. Finger humping, thumb thrusting, wrist bumping hand sex. And this was no quickie. I mean, they were just standing there, not talking, not otherwise touching, for about a minute.
(This reminded me briefly of footsie. I never intentionally play footsie. But I have really long legs and unfortunately big feet, so it always happens by accident. I'll be sitting at a table with someone - doesn't matter if they're across the table or next to me - and next thing you know: awkwardly intimate foot contact. If you're reading this and I've done it to you... I'm sorry. I promise, no sexual advance was intended. Although, when I realize that I'm touching your foot, I probably act really awkward regardless, so either way... my apologies.)
What you want to do in the privacy of your home or dorm or car (there's a story for another day) is your business. PDA is a little uncomfortable. Awkward PDA is just totally unacceptable. Don't do it.
On a final note, I searched Google for "hand sex" to find a picture to more fully illustrate how weird this couple was. Don't type those words into a search engine, especially if you have - as I did, promise - totally innocent intentions. Don't do it. Ever.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Serenade
The Drag, as aforementioned, is the grittiest, nastiest street within walking distance of campus. I find myself walking it late at night quite often. It's a place that is home to people called "drag rats" - strung out hippies who carry kittens on their shoulders, play guitar in the alleys, mumble some kind of drug-induced beat poetry as they wander, and emit a stench that would make a patient dying of gangrene shudder. They're usually sporting dreadlocks (irregardless of race) and a sign tbat references the apocalypse. Invariably, they either catcall or ask for money. Here's a couple of typical drag-dwellers:
Seriously, this is a huge phenomenon. Google "Drag Rats Austin" and just see what kinds of horror stories pop up.
Now, it's not that I'm a heartless or stingy person. I just don't make a habit of giving money to drag rats, mostly because I'm a broke college student who can't afford to give every single one of them ten bucks. I have some sense of equality for all hobos (at least that's what I tell myself).
Once, I was hurrying down the Drag, late for a meeting, when two hobos called out to me as I passed. They were sitting under the eaves of a resale shop and holding guitars.
"Hey, pretty lady, let me play you a song!"
"Sorry." That's my standard response to all drag rats, whatever the question or statement may be. It could be, "do you have money?" - sorry. "What time is it?" - sorry. "The end of the world is nigh!" - sorry. It's just a great catch-all. If it doesn't logically answer the question, it confuses them enough so that I have time to get away.
But this time, they were persistant, and I had to wait at a crosswalk.
"Come one, one song!"
Irritated, mostly because I was late, I said, without thinking, "I don't like music."
This is a blatant lie. I love music. I'm a music major. But they didn't have to know that.
Oh wait. They did. I was wearing a burnt orange shirt that said TEXAS MUSIC.
There was a long pause, during which, through eye contact, we both acknowledged that I had just said something incredibly stupid. Then one of the hobos said, scathingly, voice literally dripping with venom, "I hope you trip and break your pretty little face, bitch."
I saw those two again, recently, when I was walking with a friend. I yelped and tried to hide on the other side of him as we passed the pair. Either my makeshift bodyguard hid me from view and they either didn't see me, or didn't remember me. Lucky break.
Seriously, this is a huge phenomenon. Google "Drag Rats Austin" and just see what kinds of horror stories pop up.
Now, it's not that I'm a heartless or stingy person. I just don't make a habit of giving money to drag rats, mostly because I'm a broke college student who can't afford to give every single one of them ten bucks. I have some sense of equality for all hobos (at least that's what I tell myself).
Once, I was hurrying down the Drag, late for a meeting, when two hobos called out to me as I passed. They were sitting under the eaves of a resale shop and holding guitars.
"Hey, pretty lady, let me play you a song!"
"Sorry." That's my standard response to all drag rats, whatever the question or statement may be. It could be, "do you have money?" - sorry. "What time is it?" - sorry. "The end of the world is nigh!" - sorry. It's just a great catch-all. If it doesn't logically answer the question, it confuses them enough so that I have time to get away.
But this time, they were persistant, and I had to wait at a crosswalk.
"Come one, one song!"
Irritated, mostly because I was late, I said, without thinking, "I don't like music."
This is a blatant lie. I love music. I'm a music major. But they didn't have to know that.
Oh wait. They did. I was wearing a burnt orange shirt that said TEXAS MUSIC.
There was a long pause, during which, through eye contact, we both acknowledged that I had just said something incredibly stupid. Then one of the hobos said, scathingly, voice literally dripping with venom, "I hope you trip and break your pretty little face, bitch."
I saw those two again, recently, when I was walking with a friend. I yelped and tried to hide on the other side of him as we passed the pair. Either my makeshift bodyguard hid me from view and they either didn't see me, or didn't remember me. Lucky break.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
How Hall and Oates makes my life wonderful and awkward
The Hall and Oates song You Make My Dreams is honestly one of my favorite songs. I told you, I'm the most awkward person ever. Listen to this song, imagine dancing spastically to it... and well, that's me unwinding after a tough day.
Some days, I've been out of bed for about four and half minutes and I already know it's a bad day. So I bust out the Hall and Oates early. About two weeks was one of those days. As if dancing around to Hall and Oates at 10:00 am isn't awkward enough, I of course totally embarrassed myself before breakfast. How? It was kind of a snowball effect of unfortunate events.
1. My room-mate wasn't back from winter break yet, so I had no qualms about starting this geekfest while undressed.
2. I leave my blinds open at night because without the sunshine I could never get out of bed in the morning.
3. I'm really forgetful so of course I neglected to shut my blinds before taking my clothes off.
4. It was a move in day for my dorm so the parking lot behind my window was full of cars and families unloading their kids for the spring semester.
To make a long story very short, I shimmied around wearing nothing but my skin for about two minutes before glancing out the window - still naked - and seeing an entire family standing by their minivan - mouths open, all in a line like ducks and staring up at me.This wasn't one of those only-child familes. It was the college student, her parents, her grandmother and her two little brothers (how they all fit in that van, I have no idea.)
There's really nothing you can do to rectify this kind of situation. So I just waved.
But that's not the end of the awkwardness this song has brought me. I was in the dining hall, filling up my glass at the fountain, humming under my breath, when the guy restocking drinks - who looks like he should be playing for the NFL and not working at a dining hall - turns to me and says in a booming voice filled with the gusto my humming did not have: "Sing it, girl!"
Actually, the more appropriate way to type that would be, "Sangit, guuuurrlll!"
Normally, when I open my mouth, I just make situations even more awkward, so I just laughed nervously and tried to back away slowly. But was Mr. NFL going to take no for an answer? You guessed it.
"Naw, don't be shy! Girl, you got soul!" (I would try to type his voice inflictions, but I would just feel ridiculous. You get the idea.)
Do I have soul? No. I'm a white girl who's studying classical music in college. Soul is nowhere near me. You couldn't give me soul if you locked me in a room and let me only listen to Aretha Franklin for a year. And what had I been humming? Ray Charles? Marvin Gaye? The Temptations? Nope.
"You make-ah-my dreams come true...ooh ooh..."
Some days, I've been out of bed for about four and half minutes and I already know it's a bad day. So I bust out the Hall and Oates early. About two weeks was one of those days. As if dancing around to Hall and Oates at 10:00 am isn't awkward enough, I of course totally embarrassed myself before breakfast. How? It was kind of a snowball effect of unfortunate events.
1. My room-mate wasn't back from winter break yet, so I had no qualms about starting this geekfest while undressed.
2. I leave my blinds open at night because without the sunshine I could never get out of bed in the morning.
3. I'm really forgetful so of course I neglected to shut my blinds before taking my clothes off.
4. It was a move in day for my dorm so the parking lot behind my window was full of cars and families unloading their kids for the spring semester.
To make a long story very short, I shimmied around wearing nothing but my skin for about two minutes before glancing out the window - still naked - and seeing an entire family standing by their minivan - mouths open, all in a line like ducks and staring up at me.This wasn't one of those only-child familes. It was the college student, her parents, her grandmother and her two little brothers (how they all fit in that van, I have no idea.)
There's really nothing you can do to rectify this kind of situation. So I just waved.
But that's not the end of the awkwardness this song has brought me. I was in the dining hall, filling up my glass at the fountain, humming under my breath, when the guy restocking drinks - who looks like he should be playing for the NFL and not working at a dining hall - turns to me and says in a booming voice filled with the gusto my humming did not have: "Sing it, girl!"
Actually, the more appropriate way to type that would be, "Sangit, guuuurrlll!"
Normally, when I open my mouth, I just make situations even more awkward, so I just laughed nervously and tried to back away slowly. But was Mr. NFL going to take no for an answer? You guessed it.
"Naw, don't be shy! Girl, you got soul!" (I would try to type his voice inflictions, but I would just feel ridiculous. You get the idea.)
Do I have soul? No. I'm a white girl who's studying classical music in college. Soul is nowhere near me. You couldn't give me soul if you locked me in a room and let me only listen to Aretha Franklin for a year. And what had I been humming? Ray Charles? Marvin Gaye? The Temptations? Nope.
"You make-ah-my dreams come true...ooh ooh..."
Monday, January 24, 2011
Sausagefest
I was shopping for sausage the other day (I just can't resist making awkward innuendos like that). I was going to a potluck dinner and I had been assigned main-dish duty, so baked rigatoni it was. This particular recipe called for cooked Italian sausage to be added to the mix. To be honest, I could have easily bought raw sausage and cooked it myself before making the pasta dish, but I'm somewhat of a stickler for recipes. So stubbornly, I searched for cooked sausage.
I had passed the butchers counter three times in my vain quest for cooked sausage, each time ignoring the butchers offer to help, before I admitted defeat. Sheepishly, I tip-toed over to the counter, swallowing my pride.
Me: Hi, I can't seem to find cooked Italian sausage.
Butcher: Cooked? Are you sure you don't want that sausage... *cue awkward eyebrow wiggle and lowering of voice registry* raw?
Me(flatly): The recipe calls for cooked.
He was out from behind the counter before I could say "I'll-just-make-fettuccine-Alfredo-thanks" and leading me on a grand quest halfway across the store. Two things about this are awkward. First of all, why are the smoked and pre-cooked meats so far away from the butchers counter? Secondly, he was wearing his butchers apron with a plaid shirt, blue jeans that were cuffed just above the ankle, and Timberland hiking boots. I felt like Paul Bunyan was my tour guide across H.E.B. (Awkward sidenote: that's the name of Texas grocery store. It's the initials of the original owner: Henry Edward Butts.)
We got to the cooked meats section and even though there seemed to be only one option as far as Italian goes, I was ready to take it and run. He loitered for a moment before leaving me with one last strange meat pun: "If you don't see what you want over here, come back to the butcher counter and I can personally help you find some meat." Again with the eyebrows.
I guess I can either shop at Wal-Mart or try to bring a scary looking friend. Or just go vegetarian. Anything to avoid a lumberjack/butcher making vaguely sexual puns when all I want is to do my part at a pot luck.
I had passed the butchers counter three times in my vain quest for cooked sausage, each time ignoring the butchers offer to help, before I admitted defeat. Sheepishly, I tip-toed over to the counter, swallowing my pride.
Me: Hi, I can't seem to find cooked Italian sausage.
Butcher: Cooked? Are you sure you don't want that sausage... *cue awkward eyebrow wiggle and lowering of voice registry* raw?
Me(flatly): The recipe calls for cooked.
He was out from behind the counter before I could say "I'll-just-make-fettuccine-Alfredo-thanks" and leading me on a grand quest halfway across the store. Two things about this are awkward. First of all, why are the smoked and pre-cooked meats so far away from the butchers counter? Secondly, he was wearing his butchers apron with a plaid shirt, blue jeans that were cuffed just above the ankle, and Timberland hiking boots. I felt like Paul Bunyan was my tour guide across H.E.B. (Awkward sidenote: that's the name of Texas grocery store. It's the initials of the original owner: Henry Edward Butts.)
We got to the cooked meats section and even though there seemed to be only one option as far as Italian goes, I was ready to take it and run. He loitered for a moment before leaving me with one last strange meat pun: "If you don't see what you want over here, come back to the butcher counter and I can personally help you find some meat." Again with the eyebrows.
I guess I can either shop at Wal-Mart or try to bring a scary looking friend. Or just go vegetarian. Anything to avoid a lumberjack/butcher making vaguely sexual puns when all I want is to do my part at a pot luck.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The Rat Rescue Society
I was at CVS once last year. First of all, this can be awkward to start off, because I inevitably run into someone I know, but I'm not really friends with, and there's always a long line at CVS. So we have to stand in line together. For about twenty minutes.
But this was an especially awkward visit to CVS. I got to the counter and was innocently paying for my NyQuil, cough drops and Advil (don't ask...) when I noticed that the woman at the register was crying. I was briefly torn between pretending to be legally blind and asking her if she needed help. My compassionate side won out. (Note to readers: don't let this happen to you if you don't want to hear some really awkward story. Resist the temptation to give into your good intentions).
She told me that she'd had to put her pet down three days ago. I made some sympathetic noises, legititmately feeling sorry for her as she professed that her pet had been like her child. She told me he'd been only two years old. This is how the rest of the conversation went:
Unsuspecting Me: That is young for a dog to die, I'm so sorry.
Devastated Pet Mother: Oh... he wasn't a dog.
Unsuspecting Me: A cat?
Devastated Pet Mother: No... he was a rat.
Unsuspecting Me (blinking and completely speechless): ...oh.
She went on to tell me that she'd adopted the rat - I think the word she used was saved - off the of the Drag, which is possibly the grungiest, dirtiest street in Austin, Texas. Her pet was a feral animal that had survived off the garbage on the Drag (which I know from a volunteer event contains bullets, condoms, cigarettes and needles, plus probably a lot more). It had had a seizure about six months ago and was paralyzed for the last part of its life.
That's when I tried to make my quick getaway. Don't get me wrong: if you love rats, okay. If you would pay a veterinarian to treat a rat for a seizure, feed it and clean its waste because it has total paralysis for six months, and then pay again to have it euthanized... okay (well, not quite as okay. You have too much money and not enough human companionship.) But she was becoming hysterical and there was a long line of students holding cartons of orange juice to mix with their moonshine behind me. And she was still holding my credit card. I subtly reached for it, but she didn't let go. A strange little tug of war commenced, until I finally squeaked out, "Well, I really must run, but I'm so sorry for your loss." She heaved a sob and nodded, finally letting go of my card.
Now every time I walk the drag, I keep an eye out for rats that, you know, need saving.
But this was an especially awkward visit to CVS. I got to the counter and was innocently paying for my NyQuil, cough drops and Advil (don't ask...) when I noticed that the woman at the register was crying. I was briefly torn between pretending to be legally blind and asking her if she needed help. My compassionate side won out. (Note to readers: don't let this happen to you if you don't want to hear some really awkward story. Resist the temptation to give into your good intentions).
She told me that she'd had to put her pet down three days ago. I made some sympathetic noises, legititmately feeling sorry for her as she professed that her pet had been like her child. She told me he'd been only two years old. This is how the rest of the conversation went:
Unsuspecting Me: That is young for a dog to die, I'm so sorry.
Devastated Pet Mother: Oh... he wasn't a dog.
Unsuspecting Me: A cat?
Devastated Pet Mother: No... he was a rat.
Unsuspecting Me (blinking and completely speechless): ...oh.
She went on to tell me that she'd adopted the rat - I think the word she used was saved - off the of the Drag, which is possibly the grungiest, dirtiest street in Austin, Texas. Her pet was a feral animal that had survived off the garbage on the Drag (which I know from a volunteer event contains bullets, condoms, cigarettes and needles, plus probably a lot more). It had had a seizure about six months ago and was paralyzed for the last part of its life.
That's when I tried to make my quick getaway. Don't get me wrong: if you love rats, okay. If you would pay a veterinarian to treat a rat for a seizure, feed it and clean its waste because it has total paralysis for six months, and then pay again to have it euthanized... okay (well, not quite as okay. You have too much money and not enough human companionship.) But she was becoming hysterical and there was a long line of students holding cartons of orange juice to mix with their moonshine behind me. And she was still holding my credit card. I subtly reached for it, but she didn't let go. A strange little tug of war commenced, until I finally squeaked out, "Well, I really must run, but I'm so sorry for your loss." She heaved a sob and nodded, finally letting go of my card.
Now every time I walk the drag, I keep an eye out for rats that, you know, need saving.
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