Introduction

They may not mean to make you blush, but they will. In their debut collection of essays, Awkward Moments with Men, Shannon Miller and Megan Byrd create an uninhibited and earnest portrait of what it is to love and lust as young women stammering through perils of the modern world. Startlingly smart and vulnerable, the blonde and the brunette, the Canadian and the American, bear more than their fair share of snark and indignity as they tell stories of everything from going on a blind date in Bali to discovering a beloved relative's treasure trove of ethnic internet pornography.

Belonging in the hapless, hilarious, if not slightly sordid family of wordsmiths, Awkward Moments with Men introduces two strikingly original and endearing voices into the literary landscape. May you laugh, commiserate, and start a fund to help them pay for all therapy they're going to need once their parents read this.

Q&A WITH THE AUTHORS

Would you recommend this book to children?
Of course! Children love books. They also love those pointy, metal tines that forks have and uncovered light-sockets.

Did you both really write this thing, or was it like Pussycat Dolls where one of you did all the work and the other gyrated and lip-synched in the background?
We both really wrote this thing. Of course whenever we weren't tippy-typing away on our Macbooks we spent the vast majority of our leisure time gyrating and lip-synching which naturally, we also did together. After all, you can't spell Pussycat Dolls without us.

Have you been sued yet?
Not yet, but we'd welcome the opportunity to get in touch with our ex-boyfriends.

If this book is turned into an HBO TV series - because, obviously, it should be - who would play you?
We think about this all the time, and we are SO glad you asked. Cate Blanchett would be cast as Megan because she's played both Bob Dylan and Queen Elizabeth. The character of Megan is pretty much a perfect combination of both. The role of Shannon would be played by Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen. Partly, because they have the same color hair as her, but mostly because she likes twins.

On a scale of 1-10, how embarrassed are your future children going to be when they read this?
Probably a hard 8, but they'll get beat up for tons of other reasons too. The awkward gene is hereditary, so this book will probably be the least of their worries.

Last but not least: Why should anyone spend 15 of their very good dollars purchasing this book? Because unlike the bag full of McRibs you planned to spend the money on, Awkward Moments With Men will not contribute to the rise of diabetes.

Editorial Review

No editorial review at this time.

Excerpt

Five

the officer who stamped my passport

I don’t know what to do, so I ask for another bottle of wine. I tell myself this is okay because they’re miniature and my conscience permits multiples of anything smaller than a foosball man. The flight attendant brings me another single serving chardonnay, and I make fists with my toes. I click the map on the TV embedded in the headrest in front of me. The little white plane hovers somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, no land in sight except for a small island or two that appear to be the size of toasted pine nuts. Six hours down. Four to go. Temperature outside: -60 degrees.

The lights are dim. It’s three in the afternoon on the west coast, but we’re all trying to trick our bodies into believing it’s the middle of the night. My neighbor, an elderly Japanese woman, sits quietly, switching back and forth between her crossword puzzle and clicking her overhead light on and off. She speaks no discernible English and is curled up in her complimentary blanket, looking at me suspiciously out of the corner of her eye, as though at any moment I’m going to rouse my strength and run to the cockpit, revealing a minuscule, homemade bomb built

into my shoelace. But I can hardly blame her. A white girl in her mid-twenties has no business being on a flight to Southeast Asia where the unifying characteristics of all passengers on board are consumption of noodles, briefcases, and stunted growth. Weren’t there more reasonable destinations for someone of my height? Like the Florida Keys? Or Omaha?

The worst thing about planes is their ability to sequester you. When you’re 30,000 feet in the air, you can’t pretend like life isn’t happening. You don’t have a hamper of clothes to fold or an armoire that needs dusting. There’s nothing to distract you but the man who walks to the bathroom in his holey socks, contracting herpes through the pores in his feet. So once you’ve leafed through Sky Mall seven times, considered investing in a dog house shaped like Versailles, and then given up on the half filled out Sudoku puzzle, the only thing you’re left with is hours to sit in the same spot while trying not to disturb your neighbor who has commandeered the armrest.

It doesn’t take long for me to begin considering the inevitable. The fact that this plane will land. And not back in Seattle. Or even somewhere relatively familiar. Or, for that matter, English. But in some foreign city where there are more drug lords per capita than day cares. By my third glass of wine, I’m nearly certain that within a mere handful of weeks my kidneys will be found on the black market, sold for a small but reasonable mark up to a clan of men in Bangladesh. Or perhaps I’ll become the victim of the next legendary serial killer, an Asian version of Jack the Ripper who yanks unsuspecting victims’ tonsils out with chopsticks. Or, of course, there is scenario most likely: he simply won’t show up. He will let me fly around the world and then simply not appear, leaving me to fend for myself in a country where the only English word they know is McDonalds. This option, the being stood up option, is the worst. Someone will literally have spent thousands

of dollars to fly me around the world so they can demonstrate how pathetic I am. I want to pass out. Or tackle the sleeping forty-year-old man who’s hogging the emergency exit, swing open the door, and plummet to my death. Am I really this desperate? Couldn’t I have met my potential betrothed somewhere more convenient? Like the supermarket? Or the DMV? Anywhere else, really, than the sex trafficking capitol of the planet?

I take another chug. My plan is to drink so much Chardonnay that I will think this is hilarious rather than what it really is: stupid. I’ve done a number of less than intelligent things in my life but this tops them all. I am flying fourteen hours to go on a blind date.

In Indonesia.

Dear.

Lord.

This never would have happened if I hadn’t moved to Seattle. I didn’t know a lot of people there. In fact, I only knew two. But that didn’t deter me. I’d lived in plenty of places where I knew absolutely no one, and had become extremely skilled in the art of sitting in a corner, looking mysterious and sullen. Moreover, I thought living in the Northwest would do me well. It has lots of trees, granola, and enough coffee to power a rocket ship, I reasoned. What can possibly go wrong with that?

But my friend, let’s call him Morty, disagreed.

“Listen,” Morty said, “I have a friend. He doesn’t exactly live in Seattle right now, but he will soon. He’s been in Japan the past four years, but he’s moving back in a couple months. You two should grab a beer. I’m sure he’ll be glad to have some company, too.”

I raised my eyebrows. This was intriguing, but not too intriguing. After all, the man could have a third nipple. Or an oriental lisp. Or a bumper sticker on the back of his minivan

that says, “My other ride is your mom.” Besides, most people are really bad at setting their friends up. They put needles with balloons and are appalled when it doesn’t work out. This would probably end up no different. He’d order a porter, I’d order an ale, and by sip three we’d be arguing about how many WMD’s Hillary Clinton is hiding in her bra.

Morty took the hint.

“He’s a great guy. He’s getting out of the military . . . It’ll be harmless, promise. I’ll just feel better if you know someone . . . He could be like your big brother.”

“Fine,” I said, reluctantly. “Give me his email, and I’ll say hi. Maybe we can meet up.”

I pretended to be put out. I mean, no one wants to look like what they actually are: desperate. And I didn’t want to say out loud what I actually think every time I come across a new member of the opposite sex who doesn’t have a snaggletooth or a rap sheet: He could be the one.

But, and this can’t be overstated enough, when you’re a woman and you’re past the “supposed to be married” benchmark, every man you see on the street, on the Internet, or in the produce aisle has the potential to make the largest dream of your life come true. Men aren’t just men anymore. They’re all contestants in a game they never signed up to play. Walking around in a plaid shirts or dungarees, they might look like “Steves” or “Roberts,” but underneath all their sale rack clothing, they showcase their true identities: husbands, future spouses, inevitable proposers.

I knew when I got off the phone with Bob that I should let this one go. This new guy, this friend of a friend, was a military man. His job entailed shooting people and living in countries that require the frequent use of accent marks. He probably hated literature and had a tattoo of the Constitution under his left nipple. Men like that don’t want to get married; they want to get

laid before going to another country and getting laid in another language. And then, when they’re bored of getting laid, they shoot something. The only thing he’d likely do with my heart is water board it for two hours before shocking it with 75,000 volts of electricity.

I knew if I was going to write The Officer Who Stamped My Passport and get out of it without bolstering the stock of Kleenex, I was going to have to have the most toddler of expectations. I’d be brief and kind, but not overly kind. I’d assume he wouldn’t respond, but, on the off chance he did, I’d assume he’d have the intelligence of a Chechnyan five year old. Moreover, he would have terrible grammar, a complete lack of charm, and an inability to recall my first name. He’d only be writing me back because he was in a foreign country, utterly bored, and unable to locate any other people he could correspond with about The Biggest Loser.

I took a deep breath and sat down at the computer, armed with my complete lack of hopes. I cracked my knuckles, took a large gulp of Chardonnay, and spent the better part of my Saturday evening parceling together a few sentences.

Our mutual friend, Morty, passed along your email. I’m moving out to Seattle in a few weeks and he mentioned you were doing the same. If you have some spare time when you get in town, we should grab a beer. Would be great to have a friend on the West coast.

I reread the email no less than fifty-three times before pressing send.

It doesn’t matter what you say because he’s not going to say anything back, I reassured myself. This isn’t a big deal. In fact, it’s such a small deal you wouldn’t even find it in the bargain bin at the Dollar Store. I sat down on the couch and put in a movie, then managed to only casually check my inbox every three to six minutes.

When it came, it was the morning. I was standing in the

kitchen, wearing a pair of flannel pants. My hair looked like it had been at a rave with the Muppets, and I was trying not to check my email before the coffee brewed. I was certain there was nothing in there. I was certain he was sleeping with twelve beauty queens from Thailand and that the only thing he was transmitting was STDs. But nevertheless, I settled into my chair, popped open the screen, and logged onto my mail. And despite my doubts, there it was. Right there between The Huffington Post Daily and a Groupon for 25 percent off plastic surgery.

I could not possibly read it fast enough.

I was nervous immediately.

Iraq? Really?

It turns out Morty hadn’t lied. The Officer Who Stamped My Passport really was in the military. He was a Green Beret deployed in Iraq. I didn’t really know what “Green Beret” meant, but since I’d seen Rambo at least once, my imagination was permitted to see him jumping from helicopters onto moving trains, saving small children from exploding bombs and miscellaneous catastrophes.

I sat hunched over my computer, enthralled. I had imagined something much shorter. Words that could easily fold and fit in a fortune cookie. Words that would make me think he was more interested in taking a Lamaze class than any sort of dialogue with a stranger. But he had John Grishamed a response. And in a war zone no less. Within thirty seconds, my imagination had built a small tent outside Baghdad where he penned a note from an armored laptop, while sand swirled about him in miniature funnel clouds.

It had taken him three days to respond, and it had taken me approximately three days and five minutes to forget the age-old adage, “Guard your heart for it is the wellspring of life.” My expectations were no longer the size of toddlers, crawling about

at a very slow pace. They were the size of Macy’s Day Parade balloons, inflated far beyond their intended capacity. It’s simply sinful for Snoopy to be that big. He couldn’t even fit inside the Chrysler Building, much less a dog crate. In the end though, rationality can’t win out. Not with women. Not with me. Because there’s something my gender always wants more than truth: love. And could there possibly be anyone better to love than Rambo?

The Officer Who Stamped My Passport, as it were, was twenty-nine years old and had gone to the University of Alaska. He had been in the military for the past eight years, could speak Chinese, and had some sort of medical credentials that allowed him to wear scrubs and participate in open-heart surgery. He was well travelled and well spoken. I imagined if someone kidnapped me, he could find me with as little as a compass and piece of red twine.

I wanted to write him back immediately. I had so many questions. Ones vital to national security and my heart. Had he ever shot a man? Could he survive solely off leaves and berries? Did he have a six-pack or an eight pack? A picture would suffice. But instead, I snapped my laptop shut. There are rules after all. Rules like you can’t let a guy know the best thing you have to do on a Saturday night is sit at home alone, drinking white wine while scanning Pinterest and refreshing your inbox.

The quickness is always surprising. Even if you suspect it. Even if you can feel it itching up your fingertips to your shoulders. Still, somehow, it catches you off guard. You find yourself in the shower. Or sitting at a restaurant. Or in a parking lot. And then, out of nowhere, something reminds you of him and you smile. You actually get giddy. Even though you’ve wanted this feeling for so long, even though you practically harassed it to come and storm your castle, you didn’t know how real it could be. And how quickly it could get here.

The Officer Who Stamped My Passport and I began writing each other daily. Pithy, long, intimate correspondence. By day three, I knew his middle name, blood type, and his feelings about long underwear. But despite the frequency and length, I wanted more. It felt like every email was traveling by Pony Express, tediously forging through the Grand Canyon and Rocky Mountains to make it to my doorstep by dinnertime. I hadn’t known this man a week. And to be fair, I really didn’t know him still. But somehow he mattered to me immensely. I wanted to know how he was doing. That he was OK. I watched the nightly news and shuttered slightly when they’d report the tolls from Iraq. Was he in that truck? Was he on that base? My mind would hopscotch through a thousand “what ifs” until his next email arrived and I knew he was all right.

After a week of back and forths, he finally asked me for my phone number. I did a victory dance on my bathroom tile.

I would like to say from that point on we were rational. After all, we should have been. Our rather successful parents had raised us well. We knew not to run red lights, rob gas stations, or get into cars with strangers who have candy. But apparently no one ever talked to us about planes.

By then I had known him for two weeks. We talked constantly. Even when we weren’t on the phone, we were sending each other messages via heart palpitations and carrier pigeons. I had never liked someone so much. And even though two weeks is really a rather paltry amount of time—hell, it’s shorter than Ramadan—I knew I didn’t want to wait another two months for him to move to Seattle so we could sit across from each other and have that infamous beer Morty had cornered us into. Apparently, he didn’t either.

We were on the phone one night in our third week of

knowing each other, and a little out of the blue he paused.

“You there?” I said.

And he sighed, “Yeah.”

“Something on your mind?”

“I know this is going to sound crazy, but I leave Iraq in two weeks to head back to Japan and can go on leave . . .” he paused, taking an audible deep breath. I had no idea where he was going with this.

“So . . . I want you to pick anywhere in the world, and I’ll fly you there and meet you.”

The line went quiet. Deathly quiet. You could hear crickets having babies. The whole rainforest was going frolicking mad. My jaw didn’t even have the energy to drop. Could he be serious? Was this real? Didn’t only people like Hugh Grant say this to thin, blonde actresses in B-grade movies?

But instead of saying no, or maybe this isn’t the best idea, I told him the truth.

“I’ve always wanted someone to ask me that.”

And I had.

Next thing I knew, I had a ticket to Bali.

I almost missed my flight. I stood in line for an hour and a half behind a group of tourists who spoke no discernible American, while flocking around a petite woman who hoisted an umbrella in the air. The girls all wore Dolce and Gabbana knock-off sweatpants with “D” printed on their left cheek, “G” on their right, and an ampersand right up their crack. They couldn’t figure out how to use the self check-in machines and were all gawking about like a herd of sheep.

I was being anxious. And judgmental. I mean, what was I doing? Was everyone in Asia like this? Did they all have to walk around in clusters, having directions spouted at them from

anorexic rain gear holders?

I should probably leave, I thought. This is a sign. This traffic jam of small Orientals is a definite indicator that I’m making the worst choice in my life. But instead of leaving, I checked my watch. And I sighed audibly so the United staff would know that I was a) unhappy, or b) constipated.

Part of me expected to get up to the counter, hand over my passport, and have the man with the squinty eyes and polyester shirt look back and just laugh. Laugh for hours. “This ticket is a counterfeit. Did you really expect to get on this flight with a forged confirmation number? SECURITY!” Then large men with muscles the size of Farah Fawcett’s hair would come and put me in prison for at least a week. But instead, a woman with bright red lipstick smiled at me.

“Bali. That will be fun.” She even gave me an exit row, window seat.

I need a brown paper lunch sack. In the movies, when everyone gets nervous and is about to hyperventilate, they have a brown paper bag at their immediate disposal so they can inhale and exhale at loud, frequent intervals. This would come in handy, just in case, I think.

I have stolen a stack of custom cards from the flight attendants and am writing a list of pros and cons.

• Pro: I’ve wanted to expand my friend circle. Even if he has cankles, I still have someone I can add to my Christmas card list.

• Con: No one looks worse than me when they get off an international flight. I’m going to meet the man of my dreams, and I’m going to smell like an airplane urinal.

• Pro: I am going to Bali. For free.

• Con: Wait, is the new-age way of paying for sex? Did I voluntarily become a prostitute? Or indentured servant?

• Pro: I will undoubtedly get a tan.

• Con: Unless he kills me first.

I press the call button. Wine please.

I watch the bags circle around the carousal. Everyone in Asia carries miniature luggage, tic-tac sized hard cases that could fit, on their best days, a toothbrush and a pair of tighty whities. Part of me wants this moment to last forever. If my bags never come out, if I never exit through the gates, I’ll never have to find out if The Officer Who Stamped My Passport was a figment of my imagination. I could keep those weeks of perfect conversation sealed in a Ziploc bag, and I could return to Seattle to date a man who wears flannel and takes his Labrador to the dog park. Everything would be preserved, including my dignity and life. But the carousal churns and, five minutes later, out pops my suitcase, baggage so large it could house all the residents of Taiwan.

I come out of the doors and look around. I don’t think my heart has ever beat this fast. My palms are sweating pools. Small children could wade in them with their floaties.

Part of me expects him to be standing there in the front. I pray he isn’t holding a sign. Or balloons. Or anything that would indicate he could be a participant in the Ringling Brothers Circus. But as I walk out, all I see are a hoard of Asians, people babbling on in an indiscernible language I assume to be Chinese. I pause at the exit, flicking my eyes back and forth. I probably just didn’t see him, I think. But another scan of the crowd reveals that I am

the only American in the whole joint.

I try not to look desperate or anxious and keep walking, but my eyes dart over the crowd at colossally high speeds. It’s the real life Where’s Waldo? and it’s a terrible game to play in a foreign country when you haven’t slept in twenty-four hours and can speak approximately zero words of the native language. I begin to panic and my brain rattles off hysterically.

Maybe he took one look at the large bags under my weary eyes and decided he’d be better off without me? I am alone in the South Pacific. Where will I stay? How will I get there? I picture myself in an Indonesian sewer, eating leftover noodles people have thrown in the garbage. While I don’t exactly relish the thought of being murdered by street urchins in the sex trafficking capitol of the planet and then tossed in the jungle, I hate the idea of being stood up even more.

Just as I’m about to go looking for a cab, or a mule or a rickshaw and depart for the embassy, I see him. He’s leaning against a row of chairs, arms folded across his chest. He looks calm, a gentle smirk pressed across his face, a kind observant look like he’s watching someone wake up in the morning.

I stop, mid luggage pull. He appears to have all limbs, all digits. A handsome face that would serve him well in an REI catalog. Or on Survivor. The lump that has risen in my throat shoots down to my chest and begins throbbing wildly. I let a small smile escape my lips and he smiles back. The woman on the plane was right to be concerned about me; I’m a total goner. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

What can we say? We’ve put this page in here on the ill-advised hopes that not only has more than one person read this book, but that at least two people who live in the same state have read it and are trekking two hours to an Interstate rest stop to discuss the fascinating inner workings of our awkward experiences and thoughts.
We are floored. And honored. And hope someone remembered the wine.
1) We’re all horribly awkward human beings from the very day we are born, each and every darling one of us. Do you think there is a dominantly awkward sex? Why?
2) You have to date one of the awkward men in this book . . . Who’s the lucky guy?
3) Obviously this book is going to be picked up by some star spangled Hollywood studio. Cast a few of your favorite characters, and explain your selections.
4) Do relationships with the opposite sex get more or less awkward over time?
5) What is the worst “meet the parents” story you have in your arsenal?
6) Which story in this book wins gold in the “Most Painfully Uncomfortable Situation” category at the next Olympic games?
7) Eating is almost always awkward, especially when you’re trying to seduce the person across the table. What is the most awkward date food and why?
8) If the Blonde and the Brunette were to brighten the world with another tome in their awkward series, what would you like to read next? Awkward Moments with (fill in the blank).
9) Do you think it’s important to talk about awkward moments or just ignore them and hope they disappear?
10) Don’t pretend you didn’t know this was coming! We’ve all had our fair share of awkward moments . . . Which one of yours takes the cake?

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»	Publisher's Book Info

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