Posts Tagged ‘awkward’

Some vids have all the suck

June 14, 2010

That’s not true.  I love this video.  I love this song.  I do, however, have some things to say about it, and nothing makes me happier than creating a numbered list.


1.  Red tennis shoes, or maybe deck shoes, on a grown up, presumably straight man.  Even allowing for the fashion clusterfuck that was the eighties, the mind still boggles.

2.  Someone–a director, a manager, a camera guy–decided that despite the lyrics providing the perfect opportunity for a video with a storyline, four straight minutes of Rod Stewart dancing was the way to go.  We can only assume that person had never seen Rod dance.  The jogging in place at 1:58 is a particularly sexy move.

Rod Nylund

Rod Nylund

3.  The hair–is it a mullet?  The mole, which may have its own mullet, but I can’t tell because the video has such low resolution.  The wardrobe choices that decompensate as the video wears on; at one point the man put on a pastel pantsuit that made him look distinctly like Rose Nylund.  And yet, he marries supermodels on a regular basis.

4.  This song contains one of my favorite romantic lines:
You’re just a dream
And as real as it seems I ain’t that lucky.
This may at least partially explain the supermodel wives.

5.  The paint spatters.  The A-Ha “Take On Me” video effects.  The closeups of his bangs.  This is what videography students base their “Video Effects of the 80s” projects on.

6.  A long time ago, you [read: old people like me] would purchase a computer called a Commodore 64, so named because it came with only 64 KB of memory.  Wrap your brain around that shit:  an entire setup–monitor, keyboard, printers, wires–all for 64 KB of memory.  Needless to say, the computers did very little except read floppy disks which held at most about 1.4 MB.  As a point of reference, it would take about three 5 1/2 inch floppies just to hold the mp3 of the song in the video.  Back in those days, there was a program about a little stick dude named Alfredo who couldn’t win for losing.  No matter what he tried to do, he failed, usually spectacularly and heartbreakingly close to achieving his goal.  One of these little sessions was called “Alfredo’s Lost Cause” and the version I had was set to an 8-bit soundtrack of “Some Guys Have All the Luck”.  And that, my friends, is how to make a short story long.

Bonus track:
For reasons that are still shrouded in mystery to me today, as a teenager me and one of my friends were obsessed with Rod Stewart.  We listened to the albums, we giggled and joked, we even went to see him live (I was on painkillers from a dental procedure and freaked out when a giant soccer ball full of confetti exploded above my head).  At some point during this awkward adolescent phase I penned what I still consider to be a fine limerick about Rod Stewart:

There once was a fellow named Rod
Who had a very very nice bod
His legs made me sigh
But his hair made me cry
Because it was so very odd.
© 14-year-old tiffanized

I read this out loud in class.  On an unrelated note, I lost my virginity at a relatively late age.


The letter that will keep me from becoming President of the USA

December 3, 2009

In the ongoing and not very interesting but for some reason all consuming story of my pee money–which, by the way, is still wrapped tight in paper towels and a Ziploc baggie–I’ve written a letter to the U.S. Treasury to ask what to do with it. Of course, my actual plan is to toss the cash into my next load of laundry, but I want to see what response if any I get from our fine government. I was bewildered to see that there is no e-mail address to send inquiries for damaged money; I didn’t realize that anyone still functioned without electronic communications. Determined as I am, I dusted off Microsoft Word and tapped out this highly professional missive:

November 25, 2009

Chief, Office of Compliance
Bureau of Engraving and Printing
Currency Residue Request
14th & C Streets, S.W.
Room – 321A
Washington, D.C. 20228

RE: Damaged Currency

Dear Sirs and/or Madams:

This is a little embarrassing. Yesterday, I had an accident that resulted in me urinating on a five (5) dollar bill. The accident was of the “money fell in the toilet” variety rather than the “I wet my pants” variety.

My question is, does urinating on paper currency render it “damaged”? Without going into the gory details of its retrieval from the toilet, I did rinse the bill thoroughly and it shows no signs (staining, water damage) of its ordeal. But considering the ick factor here, I would feel better knowing your opinion of how I should proceed with the cash. Money laundering jokes aside, can I throw it in the washing machine? Should I send it to you for replacement?

Until I hear back, I will keep the money quarantined in a zipper sealed sandwich bag.

Thank you for your time,

Tiffany ******

P.S. I tried to find the answer to my question on your website, but could only find this address and a telephone number. If you have time, could you explain why there is no e-mail address for your department? I am admittedly biased toward “modern” technology, but even my grandmother has an e-mail address, though she doesn’t know how to check her inbox, bless her heart.

Now I wait.  I anticipate at least six to eleven weeks, being that this is the United States government I’m waiting on.  I tried to walk the line between “boring letter that gets ignored” and “letter that gets my name put on a government watch list”.  I’m guessing I might even see this again should I try to run for public office in the future, but I’m sure it will pale in comparison to all my naked photos and drunken Tweets floating around out there.

I saw this video about Howie Mandel washing all of his money.  Smart dude.

What kind of psychopath doesn’t like a long walk on a beach?

September 17, 2009

I have a confession to make:  I’m a masochist.  Not even one of the fun ones who likes to have her nipples clamped with Chip Clips or spend time on the correction bench.  I seem to own a special kind of masochism that makes me post my profile on Internet dating sites.

This would be the paragraph where I explain why I need to resort to the lowly world of Internet dating.  I would first assert my status as a non-loser, rattle off my killer schedule that proves it’s impossible for me to meet people in real life, and try to differentiate myself from the masses of drooling losers who pay $30 a month to have a computer set them up with a social reject like some sort of electronic shadchen.  I’m not going to write that paragraph, because you already know I’m a loser, and also because I don’t pay $30 a month; I use a free dating site.  Admitting to online dating is awkward, and there’s just no getting around it.  We’ll just push through and get to the point of this post.

How many times do you think I'll mention nipples in my post?

How many times do you think I'll mention nipples in my post?

So every few months or so, I realize it’s been a while since I got laid asked out on a date, and I go to my trusty free dating site.  I update my profile, check carefully for spelling errors, make sure there are no nipples showing in any of my profile pictures, and cast my line.  Is that the right terminology?  To cast one’s line, like when you go fishing?  If it’s not, what I’m trying to say there is that I am metaphorically throwing my pole over my shoulder, thrusting it forward [God, it really has been a while, hasn’t it?], and hoping my hook goes not into my leg but into the water where it will catch a manfish.  Wow, totally non-creepy.

The next hour or so is wrought with anticipation as I watch the replies roll in.  Some sick Pollyanna voice in my head tells me that one of these unread messages in my inbox could be the man who will change my future into a tandem-bike filled reverie.  As you can imagine, this has not happened in the history of online dating, no matter what the commercials might tell you.  I’m not sure if I would want it to, since any bike that requires my legs to coordinate with another person’s is destined to end up mangled in a ditch, as my legs barely coordinate with each other.  I’m watching the responses rolling in, and this is when reality jumps up and says, “HA!  You stupid bitch!  Do you think if Prince Charming existed he’d spend his nights browsing for single white women between the ages of 25 and 35?”  No, these are the motherfuckers who are looking for me:



My God, where to begin?  With the message subject lined “hi”?  How about the one that says, “hi”?  Ooooh, there’s the guy who says “HI”–I bet he’s a take-charge kind of dude the way he uses ALL CAPS.  In this particular set, I managed to only open two:  “wow” and “for real..”.  Let me just say, it only gets worse when you open them.  The message inside of “wow” turned out to be a run-on sentence.  It wasn’t like a simple mistake, either; he took what should have been four or five sentences, jammed them together, then removed all traces of punctuation.  “for real..” at least used punctuation.  Unfortunately, that punctuation was the disturbing “/////” between every sentence.  For some reason those look like Norman-Bates-kills-blonde-chick-in-shower punctuation marks.  I read between the lines.

His message:   Hi.  ///// Saw ur profile. ////// What u doin this weekend? //////////

What I read:  Hi.  /slash/murder/scream/blood/ Saw ur profile. /want/to/wear/your/skin/ What u doin this weekend? /I’ll/keep/you/in/a/crate/in/the/basement/

Yeah.  Sorry Charlie.

I’m going to give these guys some helpful online dating tips because I am a nice person.  I really am.  I flip over beetles who have gotten stuck on their backs so they won’t die on the sidewalk.  When I see turtles on the road I’ll stop and move them so they won’t get hit by cars.  This is the same reason I give rides to my alcoholic neighbors walking to the convenience store for their evening 12-pack of Coors.

This post is my way of giving back to the community of men who will never have the pleasure of spending an awkward evening at a restaurant with me because their profile/message makes them look like a moron.  We’ve already addressed the subject line; let’s cover some other topics.



Your user name: You do not need to include the word “guy” in your user name; this is a given. If it contains a number in place of a word (e.g., “4” instead of “for”), it has 2 go. <–See how irritating that shit is? Should also not read like a rap nickname, particularly if you are white and not Eminem.

Your tagline:  You are not looking for “the love of a lifetime”, or “someone to snuggle with in the winter”.  You are trying to get into my pants.   One of you mentioned trying to fill a missing void, which came straight from the Department of Redundancy Department, but at least it’s on the right track.

Your profile:  Use a picture that was taken this century.  If your profile says you are 38 but your photo is clearly your “casual pose” from your high school Senior portrait session, I am going to assume you haven’t been attractive to humans since 1995.  Include information about your actual lifestyle.  There is no way all of you prioritize “long walks on the beach” on your lists of interests.  I’ve been to the beach–there were no roving packs of men enjoying long walks on the beach, and according to your profiles, there should have been thousands of you.  Maybe you were all inside having a candlelit dinner in front of a fireplace at the time?  For serious, tell me what you actually enjoy.

My profile:  Read it.  It will give you insight into who I am as a human being, and thus, directions into my pants.  If you are not interested in anything below my picture, you are thrusting your pole in the wrong direction, bud.

Addressing me:  Don’t use the words “darlin'”, “sweetie”, “angel”, “lady” or any combination thereof.  I will know you did not read my profile, because if you had, you would have gathered that I am none of those things.   Men who use these words without irony will not find my feminist theories endearing.

how u doin

how u doin

Your message:  “How u doin” is not a message.  Neither is “u hott”, “hit me up on IM” or “great tits”.  I’m thinking you should have at least three sentences in there, one about what you thought of my profile, one that makes me want to go to your profile, and one inviting me to make the next move.  Don’t forget the punctuation.

I’ll be honest here.  I’m not trying to help these guys out.  I’m trying to help me out.  A week of reading these horrifying messages from men who spend two seconds putting their profile together, and I’m done.  The profile comes down.

This is when I usually I remember that I like being single and having the freedom to surf the internet topless in the living room while eating Kit-Kats for dinner and listening to Mickey Avalon at top volume.  After all, the Internet is rife with sites that sell sex toys whose spelling abilities I could give two shits about.

P.S. Nipple