Today I had to take a good ole trip to the allergist. You see, I haven't been able to breath out of my nose for the past two weeks - SEXY - so I decided it was time to see an expert of the nose. I can't be hitting on dudes while mouth breathing, it's just, um, not ok. I would have to "come up for air" while making out. So not cute.
The allergist is an adorable little Jewish Brooklyn man. He won my heart over within five minutes of our consultation; I believe it was right after he told me he did some stand-up comedy. What!? A comedian allergist! Hilarious!
So, I had to get some tests done by the PA before meeting again with my little comedic demon of a doctor. He pricked me with about 50 needles on my forearms. Just to add to the hotness of having allergies, I was now marked as one with allergies. The world is doomed! She who is marked as allergic liiiiivvveess!!! AAaaarrrggh!!
I also had to get an asthma test at the same time. We have to cover every 13 year old's fear during this visit. Next I thought they were going to tell me I had to get braces and that Johnny didn't want to go out with me. Sad.
The following conversation happened:
PA: Ok, so we are going to do an asthma test.
Me: Alright.
PA: Stand here and hold this (hands me a tube). Now, you are going to hold this at your waist and when I tell you, put it in your mouth and blow.
Me: Ok.
PA: Put it in your mouth.
Me: (blows)
PA: Ok, we are going to do this again. This time, I want you to put it further in your mouth past your teeth. When I say, put it in your mouth... blow.
Me: (trying not to laugh) Ok.
PA: Put it in your mouth.
Me: (blows)
It took a lot, a lot, for me not to laugh in his face. He was very forceful telling me to put it in my mouth... over and over again. I was like, dude, chill. At least take me on a date first! For reals.
Meanwhile back with the comedian allergist... Apparently he had gotten a few negative comments on City Search and was really self-conscious about the remarks. So self-conscious that he took it upon himself to explain the reason for one of the negative comments. He then asked me to endorse his listing on Yelp. He said that he was trying to develop his profile there. I took it upon myself to throw a little comedy into the mix.
Me: Oh, so you are trying to de-yelp-op it?
Comedy Doc: (blank stare)
Me: De-yel-op it?
Comedy Doc: (blank stare... blinks)
Me: Get it??? De-yelpop ... de-yelp ... (trails off)
Comedy Doc: Uh, huh. Well, here are some nose sprays...
He obviously knows nothing about comedy.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Twitter Twatter
Today I decided it was time that I get with it and join the latest social networking craze about two years late. I'm SO on top of the times. I just bought a snap bracelet! I hope they are still cool (UPDATE: They are! And I have the wrist bruises to prove it). So, I joined Twitter. So, I left Twitter. All in one day! I've been quite productive. If I do nothing else for the rest of the day, I will feel like I accomplished something! Cocktail time!
My friend, the minx, kept telling me that I needed to join Twitter to get my blog out to the public and to "share the Annie love!" Aww, so sweet! She likes me, she really likes me! The minx, as you can deduce from her code name, is quite one sexy bitch and I just had to listen to her. So, I finally broke down and decided to join this whole status updatey thing that everyone has been telling me about. I mean, what could go wrong! Everything apparently.
I didn't realize that I should probably set up a separate email account and not use my real name, because, you know, I talk about actual people on this blog and that's a big no no in the world of the Internet. I would actually feel bad if someone read something about themselves on here (which actually did happen once, but that is for another entry!).
So, I signed up and at the same time, since I was feeling soooo productive, I set up a fan page on Facebook for the blog and I linked the two. Ah, man. What am I doing? All the while I'm thinking, how I'm really getting shit done today - SO PRODUCTIVE. Meanwhile, this is not a good idea. This is really not a good idea. Twitter prompts you to "follow" people right when you sign up, so of course I select all these wonderful people that I know, but that wasn't the point of me signing up for Twitter. The point was to be anonymous with the blog and let people I don't know read it.
It all just started snowballing. My name was "AwkwardDating," so that I could just write stupid updates about how weird and awkward I am. (Side note: I deleted the Facebook page like 5 min after creating it, but not before invited a ton of people to become a fan. SIGH. I should not be allowed on the Internet.) So, immediately people start following me and sending messages to me. It was complete overload. And a lot of the people sending me messages had never read the blog, but thankfully I didn't actually link to the blog yet. This little fact did not stop me from freaking out for my entire brunch.
I left my apartment a few minutes after changing my social networking life forever only to feel a deep, deep regret. I was meeting up with friends who I haven't seen in a long time, but I could only think about the fact that I now have a Twitter account and people might find out about the blog... people I write about. Gah! What have I done!? The world is doomed! Twitter has outed me as an Internet bitch! GAH!!!!! BOOM EXPLOSION FIREWORKS PEE. All that happened in my head (and pants).
My brain could not stop thinking about the account. "What if they all find my blog?" "Will anyone ever speak to me again?" "Is it really that bad?" "What is vegan bacon?" Then, I left three extremely awkward messages for three of my friends. SUUUUPER awkward. "Hi, um, it's Anne. You are on Twitter. Um, I just set up an account and I'm freaking out. Twitter question. Call me. Ah, yeah. Uuuumm. Ha ha. Yeah, please call. I think I messed up. TWITTER!" But you should know, there were many pauses and dead air during my messages. In one of the messages, I didn't start speaking until 15 seconds after the beep, because I was almost getting hit by a car. Twitter almost killed me. Twitter almost KILLED me. Deal with that one.
Right when I walked through my door, I turned on my computer and deleted my account. All in all, I wasn't a big deal, but I still freaked out. And now, all the world is at peace and I can stop crying. Wait, no I can't. I just can't! I don't have it in me! Tears of joy and allergies!
Moral of the story: I should never attempt to pretend to be productive before 10am on a Sunday before drinking coffee. AND I realized that the Internet scares me. Someone hold me!
My friend, the minx, kept telling me that I needed to join Twitter to get my blog out to the public and to "share the Annie love!" Aww, so sweet! She likes me, she really likes me! The minx, as you can deduce from her code name, is quite one sexy bitch and I just had to listen to her. So, I finally broke down and decided to join this whole status updatey thing that everyone has been telling me about. I mean, what could go wrong! Everything apparently.
I didn't realize that I should probably set up a separate email account and not use my real name, because, you know, I talk about actual people on this blog and that's a big no no in the world of the Internet. I would actually feel bad if someone read something about themselves on here (which actually did happen once, but that is for another entry!).
So, I signed up and at the same time, since I was feeling soooo productive, I set up a fan page on Facebook for the blog and I linked the two. Ah, man. What am I doing? All the while I'm thinking, how I'm really getting shit done today - SO PRODUCTIVE. Meanwhile, this is not a good idea. This is really not a good idea. Twitter prompts you to "follow" people right when you sign up, so of course I select all these wonderful people that I know, but that wasn't the point of me signing up for Twitter. The point was to be anonymous with the blog and let people I don't know read it.
It all just started snowballing. My name was "AwkwardDating," so that I could just write stupid updates about how weird and awkward I am. (Side note: I deleted the Facebook page like 5 min after creating it, but not before invited a ton of people to become a fan. SIGH. I should not be allowed on the Internet.) So, immediately people start following me and sending messages to me. It was complete overload. And a lot of the people sending me messages had never read the blog, but thankfully I didn't actually link to the blog yet. This little fact did not stop me from freaking out for my entire brunch.
I left my apartment a few minutes after changing my social networking life forever only to feel a deep, deep regret. I was meeting up with friends who I haven't seen in a long time, but I could only think about the fact that I now have a Twitter account and people might find out about the blog... people I write about. Gah! What have I done!? The world is doomed! Twitter has outed me as an Internet bitch! GAH!!!!! BOOM EXPLOSION FIREWORKS PEE. All that happened in my head (and pants).
My brain could not stop thinking about the account. "What if they all find my blog?" "Will anyone ever speak to me again?" "Is it really that bad?" "What is vegan bacon?" Then, I left three extremely awkward messages for three of my friends. SUUUUPER awkward. "Hi, um, it's Anne. You are on Twitter. Um, I just set up an account and I'm freaking out. Twitter question. Call me. Ah, yeah. Uuuumm. Ha ha. Yeah, please call. I think I messed up. TWITTER!" But you should know, there were many pauses and dead air during my messages. In one of the messages, I didn't start speaking until 15 seconds after the beep, because I was almost getting hit by a car. Twitter almost killed me. Twitter almost KILLED me. Deal with that one.
Right when I walked through my door, I turned on my computer and deleted my account. All in all, I wasn't a big deal, but I still freaked out. And now, all the world is at peace and I can stop crying. Wait, no I can't. I just can't! I don't have it in me! Tears of joy and allergies!
Moral of the story: I should never attempt to pretend to be productive before 10am on a Sunday before drinking coffee. AND I realized that the Internet scares me. Someone hold me!
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Voulez-vous do me?
Foreign guys love me. I don't know what it is. It may be the language barrier. Hmmmm, it's most likely the language barrier. I am really good at looking cute while not understanding what someone is telling me.
There is this one guy who is a regular at the French restaurant that me and the guru frequent. I think he is gorgeous, but the guru is on the fence. He's got that preppy, French businessman look to him, which I find to be super hot. And it's strange because I normally go for guys who wear jeans and crappy tee-shirts. You know, the "I probably don't have a job" look. Sessy.
So, Frenchy French is putting on the heavy flirt with me one night. Telling me how cute my jeans make me look, which obviously means that he's been checking out my ass. My ass is stellar. Out of this world. Interplanetary. Cosmic! PLANETS! SOLAR SYSTEM!!! Anne's ass.
Frenchy French got my number that night, and at 4am I got a call from him. Score! 4am booty call! It's been awhile since that's happened, so I was actually really excited and quite flattered. I was in bed asleep. I pooped out at midnight that night. Like I've said many times before, I'm awesome and not geriatric.
I haven't seen or heard from Frenchy French since then. I had an inkling to call him the next day, but I fought against it. Instead, I picked up my remote control and vat of ice cream and had a date with myself and "CSI". Heaven!
UPDATE!
My friend emailed me and asked if I fell asleep after the 4am booty call, to which I replied, "I totally woke up, looked at my phone, smiled to myself, then promptly went right back to sleep. I'm such a dork!" It's official, I'm a dork.
There is this one guy who is a regular at the French restaurant that me and the guru frequent. I think he is gorgeous, but the guru is on the fence. He's got that preppy, French businessman look to him, which I find to be super hot. And it's strange because I normally go for guys who wear jeans and crappy tee-shirts. You know, the "I probably don't have a job" look. Sessy.
So, Frenchy French is putting on the heavy flirt with me one night. Telling me how cute my jeans make me look, which obviously means that he's been checking out my ass. My ass is stellar. Out of this world. Interplanetary. Cosmic! PLANETS! SOLAR SYSTEM!!! Anne's ass.
Frenchy French got my number that night, and at 4am I got a call from him. Score! 4am booty call! It's been awhile since that's happened, so I was actually really excited and quite flattered. I was in bed asleep. I pooped out at midnight that night. Like I've said many times before, I'm awesome and not geriatric.
I haven't seen or heard from Frenchy French since then. I had an inkling to call him the next day, but I fought against it. Instead, I picked up my remote control and vat of ice cream and had a date with myself and "CSI". Heaven!
UPDATE!
My friend emailed me and asked if I fell asleep after the 4am booty call, to which I replied, "I totally woke up, looked at my phone, smiled to myself, then promptly went right back to sleep. I'm such a dork!" It's official, I'm a dork.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
I Got You on my Sprain
Sometimes, I really amaze myself. I do awesome things all the time. Awesome things that result in me having a sprained ankle. Last Sunday, I was out in the hood with the guru and our good friend. After a lovely dinner at al di la (seriously, it's amazing - I missed dinner, but caught dessert and wine with them), we decided to take the party out in the slope. Woo! Sunday night! My drinking on school nights is getting a little out of hand, but I can never say no to these two. They are simply adorable, and I'm easily persuaded to do almost anything. Within reason, of course!
After a few bars, we decided to go for one more, our nightcap, because, you know, it was only 2am. Fuck, work is going to suck in the a.m. En route, I thought that it would be so fucking cool if I did some freestyle walking. Google that on the internet if you don't know what it is. It's ridiculous. So, after a sweet jump, I fell and twisted my ankle. Me = idiot. It looked RAD though, or so I was told. I have to keep telling myself that, just so I can justify doing something really stupid with the fact that it looked cool. I just need validation! I just need someone to love me! Why won't you love me!? Tear.
Anyway, the ankle wasn't feeling much better after a couple of days, so I decided that it was time to go see a doctor. My boss gave me the name of her ankle specialist. That's right, a specialist. I told her that I twisted my ankle stepping the wrong way off of a curb, leaving out the fact that I had been drinking and was doing a dumb ass stunt. She told me she did the exact same thing. I imagined her freestyle walking and it made me laugh. When she asked what I was laughing about, I just stared at her, then turned the other way. Awkward.
So, I made my way to the doctor's office, and it's official, waiting rooms are strange. Sick people are normal for a waiting room, so is being a fucking weirdo. This waiting room in particular was filled with weirdos. People not knowing how to fill out their form. People coughing. People all in my space. Listen, lady, my bag is sitting there. OK? You can take any of the 10 other seats open. MmmmKthanks.
The nurse calls me into the patient room off of the waiting room. I never understand this part of being in a doctor's office. I usually have to wait 10 more minutes in that little room, but in this case the doctor comes in right away which is a nice little treat. It's also a nice little treat that he's HOT. H-O-T-T hot. He actually looks surprised at my appearance. I'm normal looking. I deduced that he was surprised that I wasn't a weirdo, like all of the weirdos in the waiting room. Already off to a good start! I asked him to marry me right then and there. The end.
OH snap! Fooled you! I totes didn't do that, but it would have been pretty ballsy (and awweesome).
So, he takes a look at my ankle, and asks me if I've been wrapping it. I told him that I was using my high top Chucks to brace my ankle. I'm inventive and creative with healing techniques! I will surely impress him with my medical knowledge! As I'm showing him my ankle, like, angling it so he can see the bruising, he says, "Oh, can you just turn a little bit?" So I angle more, propping myself completely onto my side while sitting in a chair. I was thinking, "This is such an awkward position, why does he want me to turn like this?" He says, "No, could you just sit normally?" Nice. Real, nice, Anne. "Oh, ha. Of course. So stupid of me!" He is really charming though and jokes around with me a bit about my ankle, so I'm not being too awkward. ...Yet.
He then took me to get an X-ray and as he is putting that heavy X-ray blanket thing on me, he says, "So, I have to ask this... Are you pregnant?" My response: "NO. Ha ha. NO. Definitely not pregnant. Definitely not." Uh oh. Jesus, stop talking! Stop yourself from saying anything more! I can feel myself wanting to joke around and say something really stupid. It's building up and I know I'm going to make an ass out of myself in front of this handsome and charming doctor. He says, "Well, you know, I never ask the guys that! Ha ha." Me: "Yeah, I guess not. I was going say um ha ha did you uh say think I was ff fff fat. Ha ha."
Mmmm. There it is. There you go. The awkward has been revealed like I knew it would. He laughed a small uncomfortable laugh as he silently judged me, then said, "OK, so look to your left and you will see the X-ray."
Yup. I'm back, people!
After a few bars, we decided to go for one more, our nightcap, because, you know, it was only 2am. Fuck, work is going to suck in the a.m. En route, I thought that it would be so fucking cool if I did some freestyle walking. Google that on the internet if you don't know what it is. It's ridiculous. So, after a sweet jump, I fell and twisted my ankle. Me = idiot. It looked RAD though, or so I was told. I have to keep telling myself that, just so I can justify doing something really stupid with the fact that it looked cool. I just need validation! I just need someone to love me! Why won't you love me!? Tear.
Anyway, the ankle wasn't feeling much better after a couple of days, so I decided that it was time to go see a doctor. My boss gave me the name of her ankle specialist. That's right, a specialist. I told her that I twisted my ankle stepping the wrong way off of a curb, leaving out the fact that I had been drinking and was doing a dumb ass stunt. She told me she did the exact same thing. I imagined her freestyle walking and it made me laugh. When she asked what I was laughing about, I just stared at her, then turned the other way. Awkward.
So, I made my way to the doctor's office, and it's official, waiting rooms are strange. Sick people are normal for a waiting room, so is being a fucking weirdo. This waiting room in particular was filled with weirdos. People not knowing how to fill out their form. People coughing. People all in my space. Listen, lady, my bag is sitting there. OK? You can take any of the 10 other seats open. MmmmKthanks.
The nurse calls me into the patient room off of the waiting room. I never understand this part of being in a doctor's office. I usually have to wait 10 more minutes in that little room, but in this case the doctor comes in right away which is a nice little treat. It's also a nice little treat that he's HOT. H-O-T-T hot. He actually looks surprised at my appearance. I'm normal looking. I deduced that he was surprised that I wasn't a weirdo, like all of the weirdos in the waiting room. Already off to a good start! I asked him to marry me right then and there. The end.
OH snap! Fooled you! I totes didn't do that, but it would have been pretty ballsy (and awweesome).
So, he takes a look at my ankle, and asks me if I've been wrapping it. I told him that I was using my high top Chucks to brace my ankle. I'm inventive and creative with healing techniques! I will surely impress him with my medical knowledge! As I'm showing him my ankle, like, angling it so he can see the bruising, he says, "Oh, can you just turn a little bit?" So I angle more, propping myself completely onto my side while sitting in a chair. I was thinking, "This is such an awkward position, why does he want me to turn like this?" He says, "No, could you just sit normally?" Nice. Real, nice, Anne. "Oh, ha. Of course. So stupid of me!" He is really charming though and jokes around with me a bit about my ankle, so I'm not being too awkward. ...Yet.
He then took me to get an X-ray and as he is putting that heavy X-ray blanket thing on me, he says, "So, I have to ask this... Are you pregnant?" My response: "NO. Ha ha. NO. Definitely not pregnant. Definitely not." Uh oh. Jesus, stop talking! Stop yourself from saying anything more! I can feel myself wanting to joke around and say something really stupid. It's building up and I know I'm going to make an ass out of myself in front of this handsome and charming doctor. He says, "Well, you know, I never ask the guys that! Ha ha." Me: "Yeah, I guess not. I was going say um ha ha did you uh say think I was ff fff fat. Ha ha."
Mmmm. There it is. There you go. The awkward has been revealed like I knew it would. He laughed a small uncomfortable laugh as he silently judged me, then said, "OK, so look to your left and you will see the X-ray."
Yup. I'm back, people!
Friday, October 2, 2009
Is That a Mirror in Your Pants
Yesterday, my friend IM'ed me with this: "I can't believe I slept with two guys at once." This was the first thing she said. There was no, "Hey, so crazy story!" or, "Hey there! Listen to this one." She just laid it all out there.
This is what went through my head when she told me the "news:"
"Oh WHAT! Um, uh. Ok. Wow. How does that even work? I would be so confused. Uh, I'm not quite sure how to respond to this. So, does one guy just stand there an wait until the other one is finished? Are there multiple 'goings-on'? I don't want to think about this! Jeez. But, seriously, how does that work!?"
This is how I responded:
"WHAT! Way to get my attention!"
Then I went on to think:
"What would I do if this option was suddenly available to me? Would I do it? How would they ask me? 'Hey, so we want to do you at the same time.' That's probably not how they would ask. It would probably be something like, 'We want to stick it in you at the same time.' No, that's probably not right either, and that's pretty much what I thought initially. I think I would have to turn them down, because of sheer confusion."
Seriously how DOES that work!?
This is what went through my head when she told me the "news:"
"Oh WHAT! Um, uh. Ok. Wow. How does that even work? I would be so confused. Uh, I'm not quite sure how to respond to this. So, does one guy just stand there an wait until the other one is finished? Are there multiple 'goings-on'? I don't want to think about this! Jeez. But, seriously, how does that work!?"
This is how I responded:
"WHAT! Way to get my attention!"
Then I went on to think:
"What would I do if this option was suddenly available to me? Would I do it? How would they ask me? 'Hey, so we want to do you at the same time.' That's probably not how they would ask. It would probably be something like, 'We want to stick it in you at the same time.' No, that's probably not right either, and that's pretty much what I thought initially. I think I would have to turn them down, because of sheer confusion."
Seriously how DOES that work!?
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