Aha! The Prodigal Blogger returns! I am constantly peppering this blog with random, probably incorrect biblical stories. I need to brush up on my Old Testament. Do they have Vacation Bible School for adults?
Annnyway, I know, I know, it has been an eternity since I’ve bloggled. Ah! Life’s been a little cray, as they say, between work and the big move-in situation. But things seem to be calming down in the office and on the home front we are fully wonen samen, to the max. So far, so good! I’ll fill you in on the whole shebang soon but for now, we’re off to a good start. 2 weeks and we still like each other (a LOT!) and the apartment is slowly getting into livable, organized shape. I am working on being calm, patient and laid back, three adjectives that I would nuh-heverrrr use to describe myself so we’ll see how long THIS lasts.
I put my $$ on four more days.
I’ve ALSO been super busy watching Orange Is The New Black on Netflix. Are y’all watching? If you’re not, just close out this blog, right now, and log into Netflix and get started. This show is THE jam. Darkly funny, compelling, complex and portraying a huge array of talented and unique women, which is rare, rare, RARE in entertainment these days and I just can’t recommend it enough.
Go! I’ll be here when you return, I promise.
Meanwhile, why don’t we take a look at what was keeping it awkward these past few weeks:
This Trail of Kernels:
Here’s as good a place as any to warn you that my photos this week are ho to the riffic. I might be going blind? Potentially! Anyhoodle, earlier this week someone sent a goodie basket to our offices and it was sitting on the filing cabinet directly in my line of vision, so every time I looked up from my desk, thar she was. It was kind of a random assortment of things like rice krispy treats and strawberry jam and peanut brittle and mah fave: kettle corn.
I guess I was way into it, because when I left work that evening, I spotted a Hansel & Gretel style trail of kettle corn running from the filing cabinet and into my office. This photo does not do it justice, mostly because, as always happens when I’m doing weird shit at work, someone came across me crouching on the floor photographing my food mess and I got embarrassed and very hastily snapped a photo and ran towards the elevators.
Normal Normal Normal.
Speaking of embarrassing workplace behavior…
Is one of my favorites (from Target, obvs) and on solid rotation in my wardrobe despite the fact that it is certainly too short for the office (whoops!) and thanks to the flouncy cut, it’s always threatening to blow up in the wind or get tucked into my underwear…a threat it finally made good upon this week.
I was making my necessary pre-commute pit stop to the ladies at the end of the day, doing my thang and ran into a coworker who is a very warm, funny woman but also my superior and also sort of intimidatingly brash and confident and she OH SO NICELY but still someone please kill me, pointed out that the hem of my skirt was indeed stuck in the waistband of my drawers, putting my derriere on full display.
She very rightfully and kindly pointed out that no one saw but her and not to worry a thang but STILL, you guys, still. I tucked my skirt into my underwear! This is the stuff that 7th grade nightmares are made of and I am living it, daily, as a grown-ass lady.
I could have always covered myself up with…
Which I keep on the back of my desk chair and wear every day, our office is over air-conditioned to Antarctic temperatures. I was rocking it the other day and my sweet assistant pointed out that I had it on inside out and we had a good laugh and then instead of fixing it right away I kept it like that so I could take a photo for my blog and then forgot about it and she had to remind me two hours later that my sweater was still on inside out and maybe did I want to fix it?
And it occurred to me that sometimes I bring these things ALL upon myself.
But, of course, I still managed to sneak in a photo shoot between that revelation and changing my sweater because, you know, priorities.
I do it ALLLL for you, friends. All for you!
And finally, much like Vanessa Williams, I’ve gone and saved the best for last.
This Bike Parade:
Allow me to assure you that the story is much, much better than the visual accompaniment. Now, let’s take it back. Way, way back to two weeks ago. A heat wave has descended upon New York City and I am having the busiest week of my professional career, to date. I was up early every morning to meet authors for meetings and interviews and book club luncheons and was running on fumes and ill advised coffees, reigniting my caffeine dependence hard. By Thursday of this week I was burnt out, but knew I just had to make it through that one last day and I’d be over the hump.
I was meeting an author at the Sirius Radio Studios in Midtown Manhattan at 8 AM. The night before I tucked in early, set my alarm and prepared for the early morning. I had it down to a science. I knew that when I woke up I had 45 minutes to do my morning thang, shower, dress, check emails, before heading out the door and I’d still have time to grab coffee and a bagel and catch the subway with plenty of time to meet my author.
So the alarm rings and I fly into auto pilot mode, throwing on a nice summer dress and flat sandals (it’s already 85 degrees at this point) and using the clock like a stopwatch rather than an actual time telling device. I have 32 more minutes…21 more…7 more…then dashed out the door. I was exiting the bagel shop next to the subway with an iced coffee and whole wheat everything, toasted, with veggie cream cheese and a slice of tomato in hand when it hit me like a bus: it was currently 8 AM. The time I was supposed to be meeting my author. I was an hour behind. For all my strict minute-by-minute plan, I’d forgotten to pay attention to the other side of the clock, the hour side. In my exhausted haze the night before, I’d set the clock to the wrong time.
A yelled a word that starts with F and rhymes with Duck and is fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkkkkk, grabbed my phone and frantically called the author telling him I’d had public transit problems and was hopping in a taxi. I failed to mention I was miles away from the studio. He’s a self sufficient dude (and doesn’t seem to like me much anyway) so he could handle it on his own for a while.
I hopped in a passing gypsy cab, which is an offensive name for unmarked, likely unlicensed cars that serve as taxi services mainly in New York’s outer boros. We were moving along smoothly when the drive suddenly turned to me and said “Oh wait, you want to go to Manhattan? I don’t drive to Manhattan.”
I surely uttered the F-Duck word again, as he dropped me off on the side of the road somewhere in Brooklyn. Thankfully we were near a main throroughfare where it’s easier to get yellow cabs, so I quickly hailed one and hopped in. I sat in the back frantically texting my assistant “OMG can you believe this happened?!” and shoving my bagel in my face. Stress makes me hungry. We were fine on traffic until somewhere in the East 20’s at which point we started moving at about a block a minute. I had 30 blocks to go and was already 40 minutes late to meet this dude.
We made it to 50th Street and were heading West when we got stuck at the SAME light on Lexington Avenue for two whole light cycles. Five minutes. Sitting there. I couldn’t take it any more. I threw money at the driver and jumped out on the side of the road. I started sprinting, full on SPRINTING westward, I had to get to 50th and 6th – five long blocks away – and the minutes were ticking by fast. My feet were rubbing raw in my sandals, I was breaking a serious sweat and carrying a huge totebag full of books that had to weigh 79 pounds. But I sprinted on.
Finally! I made it to 6th Avenue! All I had to do was cross over 50th street to enter the studio’s guest entrance, when I was stopped dead in my tracks. They were closing off the street to make way for a parade of handicapped American soldiers riding special olympics bicycles. I understand every word in that previous sentence is offensive on every level but this was the bad place my brain was in as I stood there, among spectators waving flags and cheering for their heroes. Are you DUCKING kidding me, America. Do we really need a parade at 9 AM, holding up traffic?!
So I snapped a quick and terrible photo, ran through the middle of the parade (SORRY AMERICA!), then realized I actually HAD BEEN on the right side of the street before…so I ran back through again.
I finally made it into the studio a full hour after I’d told the author I’d meet him there. Sweat was pouring off my body. I know this is a common turn of phrase and might seem an exaggeration but in this case, it is not. Sweat was literally running down my face and back and legs like a momentous waterfall. My hair was soaked. I had blisters on the bottoms of my toes from my damn sandles and a bruise on my hip from where the book-laden bag hit me with every step.
So basically, I was a mess. But I had arrived! The author seemed to give exactly zero shits about my presence (YOU’RE VERY WELCOME!) causing me to briefly consider that I should have just screwed it all and stayed in bed but what fun would that be, really?
Publicist of the year over here, guys. They should have a parade for ME.
Annnnd that’s what’s been up! How have all of you been? Anything new? Life milestones? Vacations? Clothing mishaps? I’ve missed you!
Happy weekend! xo Liz Ho
PS – I’ve now watched that Vanessa Williams video three times in a row and it gets better with every viewing. What a masterpiece. Sometimes the snow comes down in June. Sometimes the sun goes round the moon,