Holla! It’s Friday! How was everyone’s week? Mine was longggg. I woke up Thursday AM and swore. Like sah-wore, would stake Jon Hamm’s life on it, that it was Friday. NORP. Only Thursday. RIP, Jon, my bad.
Anyone else barely make it through the week? I feel ya, pals. I feel you.
I’m extra glad it finally is Friday, because my Schmoopster and sister Maggie are visiting for the weekend. Yay! Marge came up last night and we went to a concert together to see this band Okkervil River. Heard of ’em? Probably not, they’re pretty cool hipster shit, you know that’s how I roll. Just kidding, that’s how my sister rolls…y’all know the kind of tuneage I jam out to.
The concert was quite fun but also a very palpable reminder of just how old and grouchy I am. Their opening act was some guy called Black Joe Lewis who played very loud rock and roll music with lots of electric guitar solos and all the songs sounded the same (I’m sure they were great! I admit: I have no taste) and all I could think about was how loud it was and how much I wanted to sit down. Okkervil River, the main act, is energetic but still sort of mellow, gentle music. Nearly everyone was being cool and normal and bopping to the tunes except for four kids in the audience who were WAY INTO IT and jumping up and down, literally jumping and flailing their arms and clapping and singing all the lyrics at the top of their lungs. Guess what unfortunate soul had to stand right next to these clowns? ME. You know how dogs can smell fear? I swear that these annoying rowdy types can sense who’s a crotchety no-fun and just get alll up in their business.
Listen, I don’t want to tell you how to enjoy live music but maybe enjoy it quietly and politely from within your own personal space bubble and keep your elbows and sweaty long hair and terrible voice out of my zone.
In other words: get off my lawn!
Anywaaay, that what’s up with me! 29 going on 90. Why don’t we stop complaining about the youths and take a look at what else was keeping it awkward this week:
Getting dressed Sunday afternoon it took me three tries to find a pair of pantalones not covered in food stains.
Maybe time to pack up my poisonous laundry candy & do some wash?
PS – I don’t care if skinny jeans go out of style, I’m wearing them forever and an eternity. I want to be buried in my jeggings.
And while we’re talking fashion…
As I mentioned, Brian and I had a joint birthday party on Saturday cuz we’re cute like that, and apparently the dress code was chambray. It would be so like me to demand that everyone dress like me on my birthday but I swear this was unintentional.
How long am I going to drag out this ‘pay attention to me it is/was my birthday’ shtick? Infinitely.
So let’s keep going!
From my seester. If you can’t read it’s a photo of two old ladies, one examining the other’s cardigan, saying “It’s a little early in the day to wear your ‘do me’ sweater, don’t you think?”
Hilarious, I know! Extra hilarious: I saw this card in CVS a few weeks back and laughed and laughed and purchased it and sent on to Maggie, just as a no reason hello, because, like me, Old Marge understands the sex appeal of a good cardigan.
Turns out that she had just bought the exact same card to give to ME for my birthday. Great minds. The HoBag ladies know the value of a sassy sweater.
My faves. A homemade BLT (on white toast with mayo, only way to do it) from my friend Kamran and poo-pourri from Maureen. Sandwiches and bowl movement accessories…my pals know me so well!
Do you ever have those days where you’re just like pwoooompppp. You just feel like a blob? Like a human version of the mucinex guy?
That was me in this get-up on Monday. My pants were too tight, my shoes rubbed my feet in every possible location – I now have eight blisters and the shoes are in the garbage can – I had food on my sweater, was in the midst of a week-long streak of bad hair days and had to remove that belt I’m holding midday after gorging on too much food at lunch. Granted it was vegan food, but still: apparently an 8 pound burrito is an 8 pound burrito whether it contains animal products or not. Lesson learned!
I felt like such a slobby lump I found it hard to get anything done all day, I just wanted to go home and shower and make myself presentable…or just curl up in a ball and go back to bed.
I know it sounds like I want everyone to chime in and be like “Omg, what! Liz, you are beautiful!” and yes, I know, thank you, I am amazing, but this isn’t a call for compliments. I mostly just wanted to look for a little camaraderie from my internet peepz. Sometimes you feel like a blob, right? Right? Anyone? Bueller?
A Tale of Three Bathrooms by Charles “HoBag” Dickens
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I’ve never actually read A Tale of Two Cities, but tell me, how much of the novel involves making a scene in a public restroom? Oh, none of them? Boring. I’ve got that beat x3.
A charming wine bar in Manhattan’s East Village. Brian and I spent last Friday night wining and dining our way around Lower Manhattan in celebration of his birthday and one of our stops was for a glass of vino on the patio of this adorable joint. At the end of the evening I popped inside to visit the facilities and discovered it was one of those tiny, quaint places with only one unisex bathroom for everyone to share. So after waiting what seemed like an eternity for the lady in front of me to do her thang (women, amirite?!), my turn arrived. Yadda yadda, you know how human biology works, I went to flush and realized that the toilet water seemed precariously high.
“This can’t be right,” I thought to myself. I knew it was dangerous, and yet I couldn’t walk out and face the line of folks waiting to pee after me knowing I hadn’t flushed.
I went for it.
Water began to pour from EVERYWHERE. The bowl, the tank, everywhere. It was like the boiler room in the Titanic, just a solid wall of water flooding towards me.
I yelped, hoisted myself up onto the bathroom trash can, swung to safety, quickly opened the door and slammed it behind me.
I turned to face the waiting masses and stammered “it’s broken! Don’t go in there. It’s flooding. The toilet. It is flooding.” I then scurried over to the bar, grabbed the nearest employee, yelped “Your toilet’s broken!” annnnd ran out the door, never to return. Well, I still had to sit on the patio and finish my drink and wait for the check but hopefully it was dark enough that noone would recognize me as the bathroom flooding bandit.
Needless to say, this was THANK HEAVENS just a number 1 situation. If it had been the other option, well, I would have just sprinted out of the bar and never looked back – not stopping for my coat or purse or maybe even Brian. He’d be sad for a while (I hope) but eventually would just move on and find someone normal and occasionally look back and think of me fondly. But it would be best for him. No one should have to be saddled with someone who flooded a restaurant with poo.
Then a few days later…
I was at a community theater production of Les Mis, because of course I was, held in a high school way out in Bay Ridge, deep into Brooklyn. We stopped into the ladies quickly before the show and the school had these weird janky old bathrooms which flushed by pushing the most impossible button – see above. I don’t know how young people are expected to maneuver these things. I’m an adult in relatively OK physical shape and had to put the weight of my entire body behind me just to flush, but I managed to get it to work.
Intermission rolled around and we needed to make another visit so we waited patiently in the endless line of other desperate audience members. I was next up but the woman in front of me could not, for the life of her, get the toilet to flush.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said “I know how to use these, I’ll take care of it.”
BRAVE. BOLD. No prissy business from Liz Ho.
Obviously and no duh, I got myself into the stall, pushed the button and: no dice. I pushed and pushed and pushed and paused for a photo and pushed and pushed and couldn’t get it to flush. So I just sat, peed, tried once more…and then opened the stall, announced “nope! won’t flush!” ….and ran out the bathroom door.
And then, the following night…
On Monday I met some girlfriends to catch up over drinks and crostini at Gottino, which is one of my very favorite adorable bars in the West Village, if you’re ever in NYC and looking for a charming spot to get your pinot greeg on. They have a lovely back yard (pictured above) and, like the previous wine bar mentioned, have just one bathroom, this time located down a set of steps next to their wine cellar.
I snuck down mid-way through the evening and found the lock on the bathroom door to be rather perplexing. It didn’t actually seem to be holding the door shut, at all. I twisted it and turned it a few times but it didn’t click anywhere.
“I’m sure it’s fine!” I thought to myself.
I’d no sooner dropped trou and taken a seat on the throne when I learned the error of my judgement. It was not, in fact fine, it was completely unlocked, allowing for a man to swing open the door and walk in on me.
He stammered “oh god I’m so sorry!” and backed away, covering his eyes, while I half heartedly covered my biz and sighed: again? How had my life come to this?
Turns out I hadn’t actually shut the door the whole way, so the lock was not catching as it should. Whoopsidoodles.
I finished what I came for and then, once again, found myself sprinting away from a toilet.
7 Days. 3 Public Bathroom Disasters. A new record, even for me.
I’m nervous to see what the future holds!
And there you have it. My week. Tell me ’bout yours! And what’s everyone up to this weekend? I’m taking a 1/2 day today to party with the Margepants – Bernie rolls in early tomorrow and we’re taking a trip to Ikea. Whoop whoop!
Wishing everyone a fantastical weekend and just be sure to double check all bathroom locks and take it from me: if it looks like it might overflow…it probably will.
xoxo Liz Ho