Awkward Press

A few days ago, I posted a mysterious email I received from the Cultural Affairs desk about Victoria Howards’ retirement. At first I thought this might have something to do with my application for the U.S. Special Teams (Price Fixing and Water Slides Division), but after talking to my sponsor, P. Howard (head of the U.S. Commission on Sauce-Related Injuries), I discovered that no one named Victoria Howard has ever worked for the Special Teams, and the Cultural Affairs desk is nothing but a telephone in a houseless closet buried in an unmarked grave somewhere on Culpepper Island.

But then, to my surprise, a story arrived courtesy of uber-talented F.o.A. (Friend of Awkward) and Awkward Two author Heather Clitheroe that clears the whole mess up. I particularly like the image of Ms. Howard “oozing herself between bar stools.” And so we begin.

Victoria Howard’s Retirement Card

by Heather Clitheroe

The email arrives in your inbox around nine thirty, give or take, sent from the Cultural Affairs account. Nancy wrote it; she typed it out, clicked send, and went back to work. Hello! Most of you have probably heard that Victoria Howard will be retiring from the city soon. We invite you to sign her “retirement card”. It’s located under the front counter in the main office and will be available through June 3. Thanks! Nancy. Several hours later, Nancy will send out the invitation to a small reception in the office for Victoria Howard, to take place at 2:30 on June 2, two days before Victoria Howard will be gone. (more…)

Sarah and I went to Macy’s over the weekend. Ever since we moved in together, we’ve hated our towels. Even though we have pretty nice towels, our towel of choice is still the ratty old giant blue thing I’ve been using since college. Here’s the problem with towels: the fancier they are, the heavier they get. Heavy towels are the worst. They make you not even want to take a shower.

We went to Macy’s because we had returned a wedding present there a few years ago and we had a bunch of free money to spend. Macy’s has really gone downhill. When I was a kid, I remember it being one notch below Bloomingdales. Now it’s a sad collection of unfashionable, overpriced merchandise that is about on par with TJ Maxx. Although TJ Maxx is way better because it’s at least super cheap.

It doesn’t help that Macy’s is in the saddest mall in the world, the Eagle Rock Plaza. The Eagle Rock Plaza looks like it was made for a movie in which none of the stores were allowed to have real brand names. Some of the highlights include “Anna’s Linens,” “Dress Town,” “Fashion City,” and “MasterCuts.” It is both the saddest mall in the world and the best place I’ve ever been. This weekend they were piping karaoke renditions of popular songs through the mall, coming from some unseen location. I heard two different people sing Band Aid’s “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” which I never realized was such a popular karaoke choice.

We managed to find our towels, or at least a reasonable approximation of what we were looking for, and I got in line. The short, fiftysomethingish woman with meticulously painted nails and giant sunglasses in line in front of me had written a check, and she was searching desperately for her license. I stood behind her patiently for about 5 minutes while she searched through every pocket and crevice she could find. “Do I need a license?” she finally asked. “Yes,” the woman behind the desk said. The woman behind the desk did not appear to be in any particular rush, either.

“I can’t find my license,” the fiftysomethingish woman said.

“Well, I have to put a number into the computer,” said the woman behind the desk. “I need an ID.”

The fiftysomethingish woman continued to look. Sarah whispered across the store, “why is this taking so long?” I shushed her because sometimes she says rude things a little too loudly and I get embarrassed, even though they’re usually things I’m thinking, too. Finally, the woman managed to exhaust every pocket she had.

“I can’t find my license,” she said. “Can I give you anything else?”

“ID, passport,” the woman behind the counter said, “military ID …”

“Oh, I have a military ID,” the fiftysomethingish woman said, immediately pulling a military ID out of her wallet.

I admit, I didn’t see that one coming.

From Matt:

Conversation just now at the library:

Matt: I’m looking for Anne Frank’s Diary.
Librarian: Is that the title of the book?
Matt: It’s actually called “Diary of a Girl.”
Librarian: And who is the author?
Matt: Um, Anne Frank.
Librarian: Is it a children’s book?
Matt: … Are you fucking with me?

This morning I was at Starbucks waiting for my Venti coffee and breakfast sandwich. (This will give you an immediate idea of how desperately sad my morning has been.) As I was leaning against the wall of shame, drifting off into space, a man walked up and began staring at my chest. I had my headphones on, listening to a podcast of On the Media because Bob Garfield and Brooke Gladstone are str8-up hustlaz who got tha inna scoop on media tomfoolery 4 realz.

Yes, this is all true, and I’m not proud. I was in Starbucks ordering a Venti coffee and listening to a freaking RECORDING … not even live radio, but a RECORDING that I had SPECIFICALLY SOUGHT OUT … of an NPR podcast on my, yes, I admit it, my IPHONE. My god. I think I’m the enemy! And yet every time I see the display of Starbucks CDs I scoff and say, “what kind of poser would buy a CD at Starbucks?” Sigh. Yuppie ain’t nothing but a number, though, right?

Anyhoo, at the Starbucks, listening to On the Media, dude walks up and stares intently at my chest. At first I thought he was maybe going to punch me, because that happens a lot, but then I realized that I was wearing this t-shirt:

He said something that I didn’t hear because I was totally rocking out to media analysis. I slipped my headphones off and said, “What’s that?” which is what I always say, because for some reason it’s a much nicer thing to say than just, “What?”

“That’s a cool shirt,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s handy if you need to butcher a cow on the spur of the moment.”

“We’ve all been there,” he said, knowingly. And something in his eyes told me he meant it.

This morning, on the way to the office, a phrase of dialogue suddenly leapt out of the cosmos and planted itself in my brain. This line of dialogue is:

“There are Cheetos all over my inseam.”

That one’s a freebie. Go forth and create greatness.

You’re doing great. We’re really proud of you. That thing you’re doing? It’s great. Everyone here agrees. We don’t want you to ever stop.

You are a team player. It’s not just about you anymore. You have a responsibility to the team. Don’t you get it? You are a role model. The team needs you. There’s nothing stopping you now! You’re on the path to success! Some of us are uncertain about you, but most of us aren’t. Some of us have doubts, but those people are in the minority. Of course they are! You’re doing great! We all agree. Most of us. Some of us. Most of us.

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