General Awkwardness

Happy 3-day weekend, lovelies!

I know I don’t usually post on weekends, but I wanted to share something fun with you that you might want to check out this weekend. Have you heard of Influenster? Basically it’s a program that you can sign up with and receive (totally free) products and samples to test and provide feedback for.

A few days ago, I received the Spring Beauty VoxBox, packed with fun stuff for, you guessed it, spring.

I won’t get into everything just yet, but I do want to talk about that pretty pink SOYJOY bar.

I’ve seen SOYJOY before, but never had a chance to try one. Each bar is gluten free and made from real soy and fruit. (AKA, it’s a guilt-free snack.) For the sake of science, I documented my first experience.

Obviously, I’m quite excited to try it.

Taking a bite…


It’s good!

So there you have it, folks. If you’re looking for a healthy treat this weekend, SOYJOY bars won’t disappoint. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some important things to…um…*nomnomnom*

Oh, um…look away!

Have a great weekend!

Can we talk about something that’s sort of difficult to talk about?

I promise it’s not about my period or something. (Although if you want to talk about that, I’m sure I can come up with something.)(Hmm? No? Okay, moving on.)

I want to talk about getting hit on. Or, I guess, more generally, flirting.

First, why is this such a difficult topic to really discuss? Because admitting that you got hit on is often a cloaked way of saying, “OMG, it’s, like, such a burden to be this beautiful.” Which is a humblebrag way of telling the world you think you are beautiful. Which, in our society, is largely frowned upon. Because it means you are self-centered, stuck-up, and generally shallow. BECAUSE WE SHOULDN’T CARE WHAT WE LOOK LIKE EVER OR THINK WE MIGHT LOOK NICE, YOU GUYS.


Obviously, I have feelings. But the point is, that particular pachyderm is in the room for this whole conversation. And lest one want to be deemed self-centered, stuck-up, and generally shallow, the conversation is usually avoided.

But I kind of want to talk about it, so for the rest of this post, I’m instating a parallel universe where it is not a personality flaw to NOT think that you’re ugly. Okay? We’ll call it Floyd Universe. Welcome to my parallel universe. Welcome to Floyd.

Personally, I love a good hit-on story. I really, truly do. I love when someone is really good at hitting on someone else, and I love when they are really bad at it. (I guess I’m neutral about the people who are just so-so.)

Despite my penchant for a good story, though, I want to talk about the side of things I don’t like.

Getting hit on when you’re entirely unavailable and uninterested is such an awkward experience. On one hand, sure, it’s very nice to be noticed in a positive way, and it’s flattering that someone worked up the gumption to actually do something about their attraction to you. Which is probably why it’s so awkward to have to turn someone down. In general, I try to be friendly but business-like about it. I’m flattered, but I’m married. Sorry I’m not sorry.

The situation is only compounded, though, when you’re not even sure if you’re being hit on. Are you being paranoid? (AND GOD FORBID SELF-CENTERED, STUCK-UP AND GENERALLY SHALLOW FOR EVEN THINKING SOMEONE COULD POSSIBLY LIKE YOU AT ALL?) Or are you being, you know, perceptive?

It’s especially difficult when you’re in a serious, committed relationship. Because, here’s the deal folks: I don’t even think flirting with someone besides that person you’re committed to is appropriate. Flirting is advertising. Why would you advertise something that isn’t for sale?

For me, if I can’t quickly shut something like that down, I end up with an eternally icky feeling about the whole exchange. So if I go on thinking a conversation is innocent, only to find out later that the other person thought otherwise, does that mean I’ve accidentally done something bad?

Side note: There’s a really adorable scene in an episode of Gilmore Girls where Sookie (after marrying Jackson) runs into a guy she knew in cooking school. After catching up, he asks her out. She panics and turns him down, but then she is riddled with guilt that she may have accidentally flirted with him to make this happen. THAT IS HOW I FEEL ABOUT IT. And I wish some kind soul had put this clip on YouTube, but I’ve searched and searched and all I can find is this compilation of funny Sookie moments, and at second 3:44, Sookie is just realizing that she flirted and calls herself a whore (it’s actually hilarious to just watch those three seconds):


Obviously this isn’t really as bad as if I were intentionally flirting with other people, but I would rather avoid the icky feeling if possible.

So I guess what I’m asking (because, let’s face it, I know I have attractive readers and just about everyone has been hit on in their lives whether they realized it or not) is how you handle that? Whether you’re in a relationship or not, what is your response to unwelcome advances? Especially if you have no desire to hurt the other person’s feelings?

Actually, especially if you’re not even sure the other person is coming on to you. Because, honestly, there is nothing worse than trying to save someone else hurt feelings, only for them to be like, “Dude, I was just wondering what time it is.” Because then, guess what? YOU’RE SELF-CENTERED, STUCK-UP, AND GENERALLY A SHALLOW IDIOT.


So…what do you do? Just tell yourself that you’re being paranoid and move on? Or pay attention to your instincts (you know, like EVERY other animal on Earth would)?

You are now departing Floyd; population: me.

I was never a girlie-girl growing up. After three older brothers, I’m sure my mom was more than a little disappointed at just how much I preferred soft ball and collecting bugs to dressing up and painting my nails.

Of course, things changed as I got older. I started wearing makeup in the eighth grade. (Though I vividly remember being so uncomfortable asking my mom if I could. I think I was embarrassed? Not embarrassed to be wearing makeup. But embarrassed to be making a fuss about my appearance.

Somewhere along the line, I equated caring about my appearance with being high-maintenance. Isn’t that kind of sad? I mean, shouldn’t you feel like you’re worth making a fuss over?

Obviously, I don’t feel that way as much anymore. I’m a huge proponent of the lunchtime manicure (I haven’t had naked nails in…geez, months?), and you know I love a good blowout. My favorite indulgences (besides my running time) are getting my hair or nails done. I feel like a whole new person after a trip to the salon.

But despite how much I love taking care of myself and how great I feel when I do, I still sometimes feel a tug of guilt about it. I know that these things are not actually important. And I could very well survive without either indulgence. But as long as it is fiscally responsible, why should I beat myself up about doing whatever I can to be my best self?

Am I the only one who ever feels this way? Or should I just knock it off and embrace my life as a pseudo-high-maintenance chick?

Before I even begin this post, I feel obligated to tell you one thing: I am NOT pregnant.

We all clear on that? No babies. My uterus is still quite empty. And I am happy about that fact. Now let’s carry on with our story.

As of Saturday night, my period was about five days late.

Oh wait. Is that not what you thought my next sentence would be? Well, sorry folks. This is a story that starts with a delayed period. My (albeit small) male readership has probably already blushed an moved on. For the rest of you, here are my thoughts at the time:

Holy. Hell.

I mean, it would be just my luck, right? I wait until I get married to have sex. I have sex for less than ONE year, and BOOM. Baby. BABY FOREVER.

Obviously, I have pretty specific feelings about becoming a parent at this point in my life. I love babies, but right now, you know what I really love? Not having one. There are too many things I still want to do — travel to Thailand and Australia and Scotland and a host of other places, figure out for sure where we want to live and what I want to do when I grow up, have a freaking drink at the host of wedding-related events I have on my calendar this year — that I know would be difficult to accomplish with a pregnant belly or an infant. Plus, as I always say, getting married doesn’t change your entire life, but having a baby? It changes your ENTIRE life.

We would have to find a new place to live. At least an apartment with two bedrooms. Which would mean paying more rent. Which would mean even less money. And you know what else is expensive? RAISING A CHILD.

Even the little things, like knowing I wouldn’t be able to have a drink at my best friend’s bachelorette party, suddenly seemed…I don’t know. Unfair?

I know, my reasons probably sound petty and selfish. But I had more noble reasons too.

I mean, I want to have a baby someday. Maybe even two. But I want the joy of it being something we want and plan for. I want the moment of looking at each other and being nothing but thrilled out of our minds. I mean, I want to have at least been taking a few prenatal vitamins or something. You know I’m a control freak — I just want to at least have had some say in this life-changing event.

So anyway. I didn’t mean to get so intense on you there. This is supposed to be the story of how I took my first pregnancy test. Ever.

When you spend your entire life not having sex, one of the benefits is that you never have to worry you might be pregnant. My period could have been a year late, and I wouldn’t have worried. (Well, I might have worried a little, but not that I was spontaneously growing another person in my belly.) We’re very careful, but the fact is, nothing is a sure thing. (And so ends my safe sex PSA.)

All of a sudden, I don’t have the luxury of never being concerned anymore. So when the ol’ monthly gift was a little less than punctual, I googled “early symptoms of pregnancy.” (A few are: feeling tired and peeing a lot. I’m training for a half marathon and I drink a gallon of water a day. Perfect.)

After five days, I found myself entering panic mode. I waited six days before decided to put myself out of my misery.

Joey was surprisingly calm. (We tend to have the dynamic that when one is freaking out, the other one is scarily put together.) In his words, “If you are pregnant, what is freaking out going to solve?”

Well played, sir. Glad to know our potential children will have at least one level-headed parent.

Finally, I forced myself to go to the drug store. I have been present for the purchase of two other pregnancy test in my lifetime, but I swear to God, I never remember them being this awkward.

I was weirdly self-conscious, like I didn’t want anyone else to know that I might be pregnant. As if keeping the possibility a secret might help keep if from being true. I kept fiddling with my wedding ring just in case anyone who figured it out would know that AT LEAST I WAS MARRIED OR SOMETHING. I made a big show of buying mini packs of tissues and a hair brush as if that might help the cashier completely overlook the hot pink box marked “PREGNANCY TEST.”

And let me just tell you, you are never quite so aware of every baby- and/or pregnancy-related thing in the media until you think you might be joining their ranks. As I waited in line at the grocery store, the following two items stared me down:

Subtle, universe. Very subtle.

When I got home, I nervously peed in a cup, which you KNOW I love, dipped the test stick, and sat down to wait for three minutes.

Ever feel like your life is moving too quickly? Give yourself three minutes to find out if you’re pregnant or not. Suddenly time is just crawling.

As I said in the beginning of my post, I’m not pregnant. The test (and back-up test) was negative.

I mean it! Fine, here’s the proof:

Doesn’t get much clearer than that.

The sense of relief I felt is indescribable (unless you’ve been in a similar position, in which I would imagine you get it). I still have to take a deep breath whenever I think back on how I felt mere seconds before that single pink line showed up.

One day, I’m sure I’ll be praying for the opposite result. But today is not that day.

You know how I like to document the cultural differences between life in Long Island/on the East Coast and life elsewhere? Well, I may have mentioned this before on here (Lord knows I talk about it in person enough), but there are a lot of language differences as well.

And I’m not even talking about the accent. (Next time we’re face-to-face, ask me to give you my Erin vs. Aaron schpeel.) I mean the actual language we use to express ourselves.

One popular term you hear on the Island is “jeat?” (Written phonetically…because it’s not a real word and therefore doesn’t have a real spelling.) What this means is: Did you eat? (Shortened to “didja eat?” shortened to “jeat?” Natch.)

Another term you’ll hear here? “Are you on line?”

Now, you may think I just made a grammatical error there. But no, I did not mean “online.” People in Long Island say “on line” instead of “in line.” For example:

Person 1: Are you done shopping?

Person 2: Yeah, I’m going to get on line now.

The first time someone said that to me, I was genuinely confused. You’re going to get on a computer? You’re going to browse the web? BUT WHY?

Once I figured it out, I still didn’t get it. You are not literally standing on top of the line. You are in it. You are a PART of the line.

I could get my new neighbors to understand why I didn’t agree with their terminology, but I couldn’t prove to them that it confused things.


I met up with my friend Sam for lunch today. I arrived at the eating establishment before he did, so I was standing near the line, but not actually in it. To pass the time, I was perusing Facebook on my phone.

Suddenly, a girl walked in, looked at me and said, “Are you on line?”

CONUNDRUM. Because while I was not standing in/on line, I was ONLINE. Therefore, saying “on line” is confusing and inaccurate.

Ergo, I’m right.

Justine: 1
Long Island: Goose egg.

Oh yeah…I’m going to be real popular here.

I’ve lived in a lot of corners of the country. Born in California, a brief stint in Texas, a large chunk of my life in the Midwest, a year in Brooklyn, and now settled in Long Island, I feel like I have experienced a lot of the different cultures you find in America.

One of the most interesting parts of living in different places (at least to me) is seeing the quirks of the people raised there. Especially when it comes to their level of human contact.

I’ll explain.

In the Midwest, people don’t really touch. I mean, sure, you get handshakes and high fives and you hug people you know really well, but for the most part, your standard greeting is sans contact.

So one of the biggest things I had to get used to when I started spending more time in Long Island was not something you might expect: kissing.

No, I’m not saying every new person you meet will expect to engaged in a little tonsel hockey, but you are expected to kiss hello.

(Anyone else remember Jerry’s aversion to the kiss hello?)

I recently had my cousins from Ohio to visit, and it was kind of funny to watch them react to people leaning in for a quick smooch.

My advice was basically to react to cues from the other person. If they lean in, cheek first, they’re probably expecting a kiss hello or goodbye. The only time it’s ever awkward is if you both go for the opposite cheek, and then you end up doing that weird chicken bob trying to figure out which direction to turn your head. I’ve never accidentally kissed someone on the mouth in an attempt at a cheek kiss, but I’m sure it has happened.

Personally, I think it’s kind of a nice custom. It reminds me of high school when I had a French foreign exchange student come to stay with me and the group always did les bises, or kisses when they wanted to say hello or goodbye to their friends. But I can also see how it would be uncomfortable if you’re more of a big-wave-hello kind of person.

What about you? Are people touchy-feely in your area? Or do you keep your distance? Anyone have a good accidental kiss story to share?