One Awkward Brassiere

I really hate to be the gal who’s all “Monday, amirite?” but sometimes: MONDAY, AMIRITE??? I slept very fitfully last night. I kept having recurring dreams with themes of being disorganized or unprepared: going on a trip with an empty suitcase, trying to bake something and missing half of the ingredients, something involving being a part of a pop girl group, which actually would be awesome but in the context of my dream it was wildly stressful.

I then spent the first 20 minutes or so of my wakeful day blow-drying my brassiere.

Yep.  You read that right. Just blow-dryin’ my bra. Totally part of my everyday routine. I like warm nips.

Gross, just kidding. Actually, in an early morning haze, I knocked a glass of water onto the floor where I’d thrown my bra before bed, either in a fit of passion or laziness, I’ll never tell (it was passion!) (Sorry mom!), effectively soaking it through. I’d spent the night at Brian’s and, of course did not have alternate underthings with me so it was either freeboobing in a white top to the office (aka “YOU’RE FIRED”) or emergency drying session. What a dumb way to start the day. Also, I know it is science or whatever, but isn’t liquid fascinating? Like, what amounts to a small cup of water when it is upright is suddenly an unstoppable ocean the moment you spill it on the floor / your unmentionables.


So, as long as we’re already talking about bras, let’s just keep this going forever. I can so hear my mom thinking SHUT THIS DOWN, she always worries I’ll get fired if anyone at my job finds out how much weird, personal stuff I write on the internet, but this isn’t going to be as scandalous as it sounds. I actually have a bra-related story I’ve been meaning to share!

Every few months or so, some woman’s magazine or website or Tim Gunn or someone will release some list of “Top 10 Things Every Woman Needs In Her Wardrobe!” They are all the same and involve boring stuff like a classic trench coat, white button down and trousers. SNOOZE. I hate these articles, and ones like it. They’re framed as advice, but I feel they really perpetuate the idea of normalcy and standards and “If you’re not doing all of these perfect things you are failing, hard” and I hate that ish. Every woman’s wardrobe should contain10 things that make her feel like a goddess and if none of those things are sensibly tailored jeans, well, bully for her.

That said, I am beginning to trust their logic on one small item: the importance of purchasing   well fitting, well made (read: not cheap) bras. I’m always more of the mindset that you should just buy the cheapest possible option for everything, consequences be damned.



So last January, when I was perusing the lingerie department of my favorite retailer Target, and came across some standard t-shirt bras for $9.99 each (pictured above, DO NOT BUY THESE!!) I scooped up one in nude and one in black and never looked back. These bras were comfortable at first, but soon became the bane of my existence. You see, the straps are attached to the back of the band with little removable hooks that allow you to switch from a standard fit to a cross back and these dumb little motherfuckers slide out of place all the time, leaving me in public with my bra strap literally flapping in the wind.

I have felt my bra snap apart in business meetings, on Bolt Busses, while walking down the street. Once, one of them came undone while on the dance floor at a wedding, I went into the ladies to try to fix it and a stranger came upon me with my dress fully unzipped trying to rehook my bra in the bathroom mirror. She, this random lady I’ve never met before, helped me snap my bra back into place and rezip my dress, which I think is how that Good Samaritan story would be retold if the Bible were updated for modern readers. They always come undone at work when I’m wearing something really intricate, like a sweater over a turtleneck tucked into tights, and the only way I can fix it is to go into my office and shut the door and take off ALL of my clothes except my socks, basically, and rehook the bra. I’m waiting for the day one of the mail guys barges in on me in the buff.

It is out of hand. And yet, I continued to wear these dumb, piece of crap, $10 bras because I have serious problems.

But no more. After ONE FULL YEAR of dealing with this nonsense, with no one to blame but myself, I finally decided it was time to be a grown ass lady and bought some real bras. It’s been one week and my life is better already. Well, my life is pretty much exactly the same, but my chances of flashing the office been reduced drastically and my boobs are a definitely a whole lot happier.

They’re feeling both uplifted and secure. Insert other terrible bra puns here!






One Awkward Interview

Friends! Hello from the land of the late twenties, it’s glorious over here. Last night I went to bed at 8:15. Livin’ the dream!

Seriously, though, the last few weeks have actually been quite a whirlwind of good things. I finally got a smartphone,  perfected the art of brewing loose-leaf tea and a great, great friend gave me a homemade BLT for my birthday. Pro tip for the many people vying to be my best friend: bacon helps. Especially when piled high between two slices of white bread and slathered with mayo. Nom nom!  And on top of all that, there have been some thrilling new developments at my office, which I’ve been working towards for quite some time. As bumper stickers everywhere proclaim: Life is good.

One result of these new shakeups: I get to interview and hire an assistant! Well, I have to share the assistant with my director but whatever, semantics. I am now one assistant closer to being this bitch:
A lifelong goal nearly achieved.

The problem is, when it comes to being the boss, I’m a little less Miranda Priestly and more Michael Scott. (hehe!) I want my colleagues to think I am the greatest person on earth and love me like I’m an extension of their own family.

This makes the interview process especially tedious, as I have to physically restrain myself from turning the interview into the Liz Ho Comedic Story Hour: All Puns, All The Time.

Interviews are awkward even without anyone busting out the joke-time finger guns. “Why do you think you are the right candidate for this job?” “Thoughts on teamwork?”  “Tell me a time you used creative problem solving techniques.” WHAT does that even meeeaaann?! I just spend the whole time wondering what the person thinks about me and trying not to be too weird. It doesn’t help I don’t have a clue what I’m looking for, I’ve never had an assistant before. I just want someone who thinks I’m hilarious and does all my work for me. I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

I did some Google research to find some interview tips, but it’s all just way too corporate mumbo jumbo for my tastes. To make the process smoother and more efficient, I have compiled what I believe to be a pretty foolproof list of questions I think will help me find the perfect assistant:

– How are you at sandwich making?
– Do you clear the time on the communal microwave?
– N’Sync or BSB? (There is CLEARLY a right answer here, but I’ll accept opposition, if accompanied by a spirited debate.)
– Favorite season of The Wire?
– Favorite rendition of The Wire theme song?
– Does my hair look OK today?
– Knock, knock…
– Are you vegan? (anyone answering ‘yes’ to this one is instantly eliminated.)
– Can you try to juggle these highlighters?
– Did you have any American Girl Dolls? Which one?
– How do you feel about Zooey Deschanel?
– Name three things you like about me, just based on the short time we’ve had here.
– Now go get me a bagel.

And then I’ll just send them out the door like this:

PERRRRFECT. Send me your resume if you’re interested! xo


One Awkward Overshare

Milestone! This is my 100th Post. It also might be my most disgusting?

Hey, remember when I had that wart on my foot and everyone was grossed out except that one guy who was all “Baby, I don’t care what’s growing on your foot so long as you cover it with one of your three pairs of boots: the black ones, the brown suede or the snow boots.” Well! After literally years of visiting several doctors and trying nearly every non-surgical remedy on the planet, the wart still wouldn’t go away. So I decided to go under the knife. On Friday morning I went into the podiatrist for what was supposed to be a minor procedure but ended up losing the whole leg, from the knee down. I’ll be getting a wooden leg, just like Paul McCartney’s ex-wife. Coincidentally, I, too will be performing on Dancing with the Stars, hopefully I fare better than she did!

Aww, sorry! That was mean.

Ok, ok, that wooden leg stuff was a mild exaggeration. I still have both legs but one of my feet has like, a scoop cut out of the bottom and I can’t wear cute shoes for like, weeks. Mildly painful but mostly it’s just embarrassing having people ask me why I’m limping and having to tell them I had groady wart surgery. I blame society – some ailments, though totally legit, are considered ick. Warts, rashes, boils, really anything skin related. I’m to pretty to have ANY of those! I’m am so ashamed of my gross podiatry problems and yet I can’t stop telling everyone.


I have a problem. Due to some crazy mix of insecurity and self absorption, I always assume people spend A LOT of time thinking about everything I say and do and the best way to keep people from thinking I am a weirdo is just to overshare every single unwanted detail until they know fo sho that I am a weirdo.

For example.  A recent conversation at a bar between me and a friend:

Friend: “I am just about to start Season 4 of Breaking Bad!”
Me: “Oh! I plan to catch up next weekend.”
Friend: “Neat!”
My Brain: “It is neat! Wait…I wonder what she meant by that? I mean, I definitely always stay in weekends watching TV but what if she thinks it is lame that I have a whole weekend plan just to watch DVD’s! I bet she’s curious why I’m planning it for next weekend instead of this one coming up. It’s already Thursday! Does she think I’m blowing her off? She can tell I’m hiding something from her! Oh god our friendship will never survive this!”
Me: “Because of my wart! I’ll be watching Breaking Bad because of my wart! Well, not because of the wart, really but the wart surgery. You knew I had a wart, right? Did you know? I blogged about it. ANYWAY it is SO gross, it has been on my foot for years and WILL NOT go away, I’ve tried everything but it keeps onnn growin’ so my doctor’s gonna cut it right out! Just slice a hole in my foot. I won’t be able to walk. That’s why I’ll be inside, watching Breaking Bad. You know, since you were curious.”
Friend: “Um…I think I need another drink…” (Slowly backs away, a look of terror in her eyes)

Just shut it down, Liz.

I had this same neurotic conversation times about 9 million at my office, a place where truly no one wants to hear about my medical issues. Friends can live with it, but does our mail guy need to know that the reason I won’t be signing for packages on Friday is because I’m having wart surgery? No. Did I tell him? Of course I did! Did I send my boss an e-mail reading:

“Hi! I need to take off on Friday, March 9  (personal day, not vacation) (just for a doctor’s appt) (nothing scandalous!!)”

and then a few days later follow that up with an in-person announcement about what, exactly, I was having done, lest she think I was actually doing something scandalous even though I made it pretty clear from the third parenthetical aside that it was NOT scandalous? You know it! Every single person in the office who so much as looked at me the week leading up to my surgery got the full story, and then some. I had no other choice!

What was I supposed to do? Just casually say “I’ll be out of the office on Friday, see you next week!” and then leave and everyone would just stop thinking about me and go back to business as usual? Um, yeah right. The world is obsessed with me. They need to know what I am up to!

I could say I was going on vacation. But WHERE would I say I was going? What if someone looked at my twitter and saw that I was not at all on vacation but instead was in my house live-tweeting a Boy Meets World marathon?

I could say I was taking off for a doctor’s appointment. It is true! But what would people think I needed taking off a WHOLE day for one apt? Only two possibilities: brain-cancer MRI or abortion. I don’t want anyone to panic and think I’ve come down with a terminal illness. And who are they to judge me for maybe or maybe not having an abortion?!! My body, my choice! Don’t tell me what to do! But despite my left-wing-bound-for-eternal-damnation-up-with-Womyn opinions on the rights of a lady and her uterus, I don’t really think it is appropriate to have such politically charged conversations in the workplace. (But apparently I think it is A-OK to discuss grotesque medical ailments?)

I could have said I took off for a number of appointments – doctor, dentist, hair cut, acupuncturist – but I just got my hair cut! And that’s just too many crazy details to keep straight. Everyone would obviously remember that I said I was going to the dentist, so then in a few weeks when I leave early to actually go to the dentist I would either have to lie again OR make everyone think that I’m at the dentist like, weekly and ew, Liz must have such disgusting oral hygiene, why’s she all up in that dentist all the time?

And on, and on, and on until the only clear option is to just cut everyone off from any assumptions they may have about my oh-so-important life by blurting out intimate details about the skin virus currently eating through my left foot.

And what will I say today? Now that I am limping? (I’m also wearing giant white sneakers with nude pantyhose – I’m one crimping iron away from a full-on remake of Working Girl over here.) That I sprained my ankle? BUT HOW? Maybe I’ll just say I cut my foot. “On what?” people will ask. “ON A SCALPEL DURING WART SURGERY!!!” I will scream, unable to control myself.

It is exhausting being me.

Oh, and in case you’re curious, I DO have photos of my post-op foot! I’m thinking of starting a tumblr, maybe like Warts Are the Original Hipsters where I’ll photoshop my wart wearing ironic mustaches and plaid and stuff, or Tuesdays With Wartie! Once a week she’ll dispense sage life advice and remind us all what really matters. Or something with cats! Or Ryan Gosling???

Shut it down, Liz. Shut. It. Down.

One Awkward Office Party

Liz Lemon: I’m feeling pretty drunk.
Jack Donaghy: Well, it’s business drunk, it’s like rich drunk. Either way, it’s legal to drive.

 I don’t know if it’s like, nervous adrenaline, or flourescent lighting or the exhausting task of acting “professional,” but any time I drink in like, a corporate setting I get instantly drunk. 1 professional beer = 3 regular life beers. I get overly chatty and loopy but also so terrified to speak, at all, for fear of what I might say. And, meanwhile, everyone around me is feeling the same buzz and my bosses start talking about like, or their kids or their, I don’t know, pregnancy scares or something and I just kind of stand there and absorb it all in a very hazy way. As if I’m under water, floating, like a little piece of coral dressed in business casual attire.

We just had our department holiday party. I won’t go into the details but it was as awkward as is to be expected. There were speeches (kill me!) and a Secret Santa (seriously! do it!) but no one called me Carol so, let’s chalk it up as a win. Alsooo I walked away with the new Kanye West album and now I’m straight up jamming in my office. I am so hood! (I don’t know what that means?!)

One of the very worst parts about ‘business drunk’ is that, often, you’re still expected to do business…while drunk. Like, this party we just had ended at 3:30. What do you expect me to do until 5? Work? No thank you!

Our company also has this annual Halloween Party which is straight up ridiculous. The whole place shuts down at 12 noon the Friday before All Hallows Eve and everyone decorates their department and dresses up and gets shit canned, like, in their offices and it’s just surreal. My department does not participate in this tradition because my department is NO FUN. This year I was like, fuck it, it’s Halloween, y’all, I’m gonna get dronnnk. But unfortunately, I forgot to bring my balls that day, and ended up coming back to my desk at like 4:30, after about 71 cocktails to do work, and drunk dialed one of my bosses. I have basically no recollection of what that conversation covered, I just remember trying so, so, SO hard to sound normal, and then just like, hanging up and going home. I did manage to take notes during the conversation, which look a little something like this:

Employee of the year, I’m sure.

One Awkward Shower Scene

Despite a dedicated passion to being as lazy as humanly possible, the straining buttons on my favorite jeans finally inspired me to join a gym. All the exercise stuff is honestly not as bad as I’d imagined.  Mainly because all cardio machines come equipped with a little private television set, allowing you to shed your rolls while still keeping up with those krazy Kardashians.

But! Do not let the adorable tiny televisions fool you! The gym is a veritable house of horrors. Awkward moments lie around every corner and NO ONE is safe. Perhaps you’ll accidentally hit the pause button on your treadmill, mid-run, and be flung into the handlebars. Or think a guy is checking up on you when, really, he’s gaping at his own rippling six-pack. Or you’ll  spill your entire water bottle onto a pile of yoga mats. Or get the draw string to your gym shorts stuck on the handrail of the stairs as you’re trying to make an exit. Or perhaps you’ll have a personal trainer,  one who barely speaks English. His idea of discussing your fitness goals will involve literally poking at your love handles and upper-boob/armpit fat, grimacing in disgust.  A month later you’ll run into him and he’ll say “oh hey, you look . . .better.”

But all of these atrocities are no match for the harrowing den of bodies known as the locker room.

I’m no prude and don’t have big issues with nudity. Or at least I never thought I did. I mean, last night my roommate found me cooking in my skivvies and simply said: ‘I see no-pants season has arrived.” But I really think there’s a line between lounging on your couch in your boyshorts and prancing around the lavatory with your bush on display. I mean, I understand you need to change into your sports bra. Fine! By all means, casually face your locker, slip from one brassiere into the other, and go on your merry way. You need to towel off post-shower? Who doesn’t?! Quickly and efficiently pat down one half of your body while keeping the other under wraps. It is common courtesy. Please DO NOT blow-dry and straighten your hair while wearing only a hip-length golf shirt and the glory of God’s creation. And, yes, articles of clothing do contain physical mass. But I honestly don’t think a bra and panties is going to tip the scales. Please, please, PLEASE do not weigh yourself in the nude.


The cherry on top of this Hell sundae is sharing a gym with people you know. And I don’t mean your pals or your swim team or your mom. We’re talking co-workers, folks. I’m going to go on record right now and say I would be perfectly fine not ever knowing which people sitting across from me in the conference room go brazilian, which keep it natural, and who has the biggest areolae.  Today I sauntered into the locker room, confident after a relatively embarassment-free workout, only to find the director of another department in my company standing naked as the day she was born, lotioning up her legs. There was bending involved. I now need to quit both my gym AND my job. Excellent.

And there you have it. Despite the alleged health and wellness benefits, the emotional strain of the gymnasium will probably kill us all. We’re better off staying home, watching televisions on couches in the privacy of our own homes. I mean, there’s still a big risk of seeing a stray set of boobs, but at least you know they’re probably just Khloe’s and, at this point, that’s hardly startling.

One Awkward Catholic Come-On

In case anyone is wondering how my online dating is faring, well, it’s just not. Basically, online dating is really time-consuming and, quite frankly, annoying.  You can only muster so much energy to e-mail dudes all like, “oh my gosh, you also are a human who eats food and once went on vacation? What a fascinating coincidence!” I mean, honestly I think I would prefer this whole internet dating scenario much more if the internet did all of the actual dating and flirting and stuff and I just stayed at home watching “Real Housewives” marathons and eating pickle spears until someone bought me a diamond ring.* But until they improve robot technology (so close!), I’m stuck sending inane, awkward e-mails or dying alone, my withered, pitiful, lifeless body embalmed in pickle brine.

But! I may have found a loophole. Sometimes, when you’re not even trying, the internet will just bring a man right to your doorstep…er, keyboard. For example, today I was corresponding professionally with a representative of a Catholic publication (one who might run a feature on, say, The Top 20 Rosaries of the Year) and apparently my ground-breaking communication strategy of being nice was misconstrued as some sort of come-on and the innocuous greeting “I hope you had a nice weekend” was met with the response “Oh yes, Saturday was very good — stories I could tell.  You would’ve enjoyed it ;)”** and then an invitation to continue our correspondence via personal e-mail.

Wait, I’m sorry, what? Last I checked we were arranging an interview about the early days of Christ (of the Son of God Christs) and now we’re talking weekends and winky faces? By only attending mass once per year for the last 8 years did I miss some integral lesson on Catholic mating rituals wherein the phrase “this confirms tomorrow’s phone interview” was actually an invitation to send sassy emoticons and then utilize our personal e-mails for (post-marital, unprotected) cyber sex?

I really should have paid more attention in Sunday school!

**It’s important to read this in a really low, sexy, come-hither sort of voice, while raising both of your eyebrows in unison.

One Awkward Guest Post: Legends of the [Awkward] Fall

You know that old saying, ‘birds of a feather, stick together?’ I always found it a little narrow-minded. I mean, come on, birds, branch out (pun!), get some different friends, spice up your social life. But, in the non-bird world, it is sometimes important to match up with people a little like you. Lucky for me, I’ve been able to find people almost as awkward as me (almost!) to help bear the burden of near contstant embarassment. And lucky for you, some of said friends would like to share their tales. So, without further ado, allow me to introduce the first installmet of a new regular(ish) series of guest-posts. This one comes from my wonderful colleague K who is fantastic at baking, and not so hot at walking. Enjoy!

Legends of the Awkward Fall:

Fellow readers of this blog are already acquainted with a special little area known as “the Spot.”*   Well, as we roll into April here at the office, we come to find that many of our colleagues’ parents were getting busy right around July, because a good 20% of the department has a birthday this month.  Since we’re still on refreshment austerity, it’s no surprise that around 4:45 yesterday, the email came around, requesting that someone – anyone! – bring in a baked good to celebrate.  After several people responded with the excuse “I don’t have an oven,” I decided to buck up and do my part. 

 Fast forward to this morning, when I roll onto the subway with a glass Pyrex dish in tow.  I made raspberry bars, which are delicious to eat, and a big inconvenience to carry.  I spend the eight minutes on the train thinking out how hot it is, how I wish I didn’t wear a white sweater that I’ve now completely sweat through, and how I wish the pregnant woman to my left would get up so that I could sit down. 

 Finally, the doors open at my stop and I bust out of the train.  There are four flights of stairs up to actual ground level, and I over-enthusiastically tear at them ready to conquer.  Since the passengers in front of me are too slow for my indomitable speed, I opt to take the adjacent staircase, clearly meant for people who are going in the opposite direction.  Big mistake.  A large dude heading down is soon blocking my path, and though I try to dodge him stealthily, all Matrix-style, I instead proceed to face plant up the stairs. Awesome.  The fall happens in slow motion, and I brace myself for the worst as I desperately hold onto my tray, and pray it doesn’t shatter everywhere.  By a stroke of luck, it doesn’t, but that doesn’t really help the fact that I’m still flat on my face.  Now everyone around me has to make a decision whether to ignore me or ask me if I’m all right, and since we’re in a stairwell, people don’t really have much of a choice, as I’m blocking the entire path.  As my face begins to flush to the color of my raspberry bars, I’m thinking, “What if my underwear is showing?  Worse, what if my ass crack is showing?  I hope my jeans aren’t ripped like last time, why did these damn birthday people even have to be born, and maybe I should start watching ‘Glee’…everyone seems to be obsessed with it.” 

 So now people all around me are asking if I’m ok, and I make it even more awkward when I sit up to face them, and there’s red jelly all over my face and sweater.  People gasp, and it takes me a second to realize they think I’m gushing blood.  I then of course proceed to lick it away, which is even more creepy.  I’m trying to explain, but no one really cares – they just want to get upstairs already.  So I hurry to my feet as quick as I can, jelly-bloodied and ass-crack exposed, and make my way upstairs, but not without stumbling a little on the next step in an unfortunate aftershock, giving people every reason to think that I knocked back a pitcher of sangria for breakfast because it’s impossible to be this much of a spaz sober.   Finally, I break ground, and take my walk of shame for the five long blocks to the office.  Luckily, just about everyone is going the same way.  Happy Birthday colleagues, and enjoy** your raspberry bars.

 *No, not that spot…get your mind out of the gutter.

** Hope you choke on them.