Tag Archives: awkward

Estranging Arranging

The financial software industry is a volatile environment. The market shifts overnight; a small,  boutique competitor (previously unworthy of concern) secures significant investment from a venture capitalist, or three separate – but personally connected – individuals quit their employment to develop a rival product. Such news travels quickly, allowing for rapid, reactionary measures. Think of a game of chess in fast-forward and you have it; a constant state of flux in which some colleagues thrive, and others, unfortunately perish.

The sales department are perfectly honed to deal with this pace. The sales floor bustles with a ceaseless hum of friendly voices, dialing out to prospects. Office space serves as a political forum for airing grievances and seeking solutions. Meeting rooms are used only for customer calls and HR issues that – for now – require discretion.  These interactions, whizzing over the heads of nonparticipants, often make for entertaining ear fodder. One such example took place between Veronica and Keira, arranging to meet a partner firm.

Veronica is a no-shit, up front, efficient worker. A fixer – work with her or be shoved aside. On a bad day, she bangs her keyboard and cusses aplenty. On a good day, she engages in banter, elevating inappropriateness to unforeseen limits with a wicked cackle. Keira is her polar opposite, exploiting her feminine wiles to schmooze and charm, employing a pastiche, girly-girl persona. She partakes in office hi jinx, expediently extracting herself, when it veers towards questionable.

“Are you coming to that meeting, Veronica? Did you see that email?” This question was delivered from fifteen feet away.

“Yes, I’ll be at the meeting,” answered Veronica sharpishly, tapping heavily on her keyboard. She didn’t look up from her screen.

“There is no mention of dates in the email. 2pm. What day?”

“So you’re coming? It’s next Tuesday. Great! I’ll see you there.”

“Er, no, Keira … I’ll see YOU next Tuesday.”

“Pardon me? What did you say?” Keira’s tone was loaded with disbelief. “Did she just …?” Keira’s voice trailed off, smothered by chuckles from surrounding colleauges.

Veronica ducked behind her partition, out of Keira’s sight with a distinct look of concern.

“Fuck, I’ve been spending too much time at home with that builder who is working on my conservatory.”

How to Give a Good Nose Job

My favourite gay club night was Spice, when it was held in SPY night club, South William Street. The plush interior of SPY, three rooms of amazing music and the crème de la crème of the gay scene made these nights memorable. The hay day of Spice coincided with the time I broke up with my boyfriend of three years. I spent many a night at Spice, dancing energetically to nostalgic tunes, attempting to convince myself I was happy as a singleton. Denial aside, I did have fun. Spice will forever be my Studio 54.

Later the same year, Boyfriend and I reconciled. We made another go of it on the basis we attempt remedy the issues that caused us to break up. Both of us felt we needed to socialise more as a couple. We injected a healthy dose of “coupley” outings into our relationship. One such outing was a visit to my favourite club night. On this particular evening, we encountered some of Boyfriend’s friends he made during our six months apart. One friend, Mike, was what you might term a ‘celebrity’ gay; a Eurovision song writer with an on-off-even-more-celebrity-gay boyfriend. He was – and always is – groomed and well dressed. He sported an air of self-importance and a tight t-shirt, showing his fine arms and pecs. I should chat with him and make an effort, I thought. He and I stood side by side in the nightclub. Dance music pounded from the massive speakers under the DJ’s decks. Strobes flashed in time with the music. I leaned in to deliver some small talk. I spoke loudly over the music.

“I love Spice. I’ve had more fun here than I have in any other night club.”

“The music makes it. I love it,” he agreed, nodding energetically.

I withdrew from his ear. What could we talk about next? Still thinking, I turned to survey the room, checking out the eye candy. I can only say I intended to talk to him again; I turned my head right, while looking to my left, absorbing the visuals on offer. As my head pivoted, my peripheral vision detected my companion’s head was much closer to me than expected. He was clearly doing the same as I, turning his head towards me, with no knowledge of where I was. It’s hard to describe the exact dynamics, but our heads collided at such a warped angle, just as I was about to speak, that Mike’s nose entered my mouth. It did not just graze or slightly poke my mouth; it went right in, withdrawing a coating of saliva as it exited. I was mortified.

“Eh, I am so sorry.”

He wiped his nose dry. “Don’t worry about it.”

The small talk continued, Meanwhile, I awkwardly remained next to him, praying we would leave his company. My face was red with embarrassment. I just sucked this guy’s nose, was all I could think. I just sucked this guy’s nose!

Weeks later, Boyfriend invited me to attend dinner with his friends one Saturday night. He noted my hesitance to respond.

“You really don’t like them, do you?” His tone was accusatory.

“No, they’re OK,” I said. I looked down at the floor. “I am a little embarrassed about seeing Mike.”

“Why on Earth would you be embarrassed about seeing him? Mike specifically asked me to bring you.”

I told Boyfriend the story of sucking off Mike’s nose. I can’t recall him ever laughing so hard as he did.

I never made the dinner in the end but I did provide a topic for conversation; Boyfriend repeated the Nose Story to the ten or so people in attendance. Apparently, the gathering, including Mike who had no memory of the incident, burst into convulsions at the tale.

Sweet Nothings

Things I’ve said on dates –

“If you throw that snowball at me, I will will force feed you it!”

“With political views like that, you’d never make it in politics. No one would vote for you. In fact, you’d have to be a dictator to enact ridiculous policies like forcing unemployed people to do public service.”

“I showed your picture to my friend. She thought you were very handsome but had big ears.”

“You have a twin sister? Do you look alike?”

“The sauce in this banoffee is delicious. What is it?”

“Zsa Zsa Gabor had her leg amputated. I heard it on some celebrity gossip show … Wait, maybe I made that up.”

“Yeah, there’s nothing worse than coming across desperate. I’m not desperate. Well, eh … No, no, I am not desperate.”

Awkwardness is …

your friend dropping into you unannounced to find you in your finest casuals.

“Did you dress properly?” Friend asks this with a curious look.

“Eh, yes. Why do you ask that?” You reply rather cautiously.

“Are you wearing any underwear?” Friend momentarily glances downwards.

“Ehhhh, no. You put the kettle on. I’ll put some underwear on.”

Awkwardness is …

getting chatted up by a guy who thinks it clever to engage conversation by observing that your plaid shirt is almost identical to a shirt he wore for his confirmation. The situation is made even more awkward by the fact he hurt his foot that morning playing pretentious tennis; you might feel guilty leaving him stranded. The pinnacle of awkwardness occurs when he opens his mouth, you think he is trying to tell you something, lean in towards him and he “lobs the gob”.

In this situation I recommend informing him you feel “uncomfortable”. Do a runner!

Awkwardness is …

stuffing a torsades into your gob, due to extreme hunger, on the way back from the shop, and  sharing a small lift with your neighbour, who also lives on the eighth floor. I bet my pastry, chocolate greeting made her go weak at the knees.

Foot in Mouth Disease

I was at Boyfriend’s family home on New Year’s Day. I sat on the couch nursing a woeful hangover. Boyfriend’s Dad Malachy busied himself, tidying one or two things away. While he moved about the room, I noticed how slim he looked.

“Malachy,” I said. “You’ve lost a lot of weight since I saw you last. Have you tips on how I could shed my Christmas Belly?”

Malachy continued to tidy around him. He plumped a cushion and placed it on the couch. He looked up at me. “Have a stroke,” he replied.

I stammered. “Er, no. I meant I think you’ve lost weight since I saw you a few weeks ago, not since your stroke.”

“I’ve lost no weight,” he replied.

I turned to Boyfriend, who sat next to me on the couch. I cringed. He laughed. I knew to let it drop.