One Awkward Shavasana (Or: An Attempt at Yoga and Meditation)

Friends! How was everyone’s weekend? Mine was PDG. Pretty Darn Great. Sorry, Monday  mornings lead to some highly unnecessary acronyming. Also: turning nouns into verbs. It’s a thing. Just go with it.

Anyway, have you guys heard of yoga? It’s this centuries old spiritual and physical discipline and also a fitness trend that became popular, oh, twenty years ago. Ever ahead of all the workout crazes (next up: Zumba!), I have recently started yoging and mostly enjoying myself. I have just done beginner stuff so far, so I can’t stand on my head or anything, but I’m excellent at corpse pose, which is where you just lie on the floor like, you guessed it a corpse and have also finally figured out how to do the sun salutation, which is like flowing from one move to the other and also a basic tenet of yoga that I’m pretty sure should take five minutes to master and has taken me seven beginner classes. Basically: I’m amazing.

But! I still like it, even though I’m mostly terrible. I like feeling myself using different muscles and trying new things and challenging myself to stand still when I’d much rather just hop around.

The one thing I just can’t seem to come around to is the meditative stuff. Meditation and breathing and holistic, body-focused, nature inspired, chakra power is a huge part of yoga but it is just not my bag. I KNOW that this part of yoga is probably the most important for anxiety monsters like me and I should stop being cynical and rolling my eyes and just go with it but eeeeeehhhhhhhhh: no. No matter how hard I try to turn my brain to nothing and banish all thoughts (maybe I’m trying too hard), I just can’t seem to do it.

And I have a question: can anyone? I’m serious. I’m sure there are plenty of yogis out there, and I would truly love to hear. When you are meditating/doing shavasana or whatever that is where you lay on the floor and become jello, does your brain ACTUALLY stop thinking and just start om-ing or become a big glowing ball of light or whatever or are you actually laying there, thinking, just like me? Tell me, tell me!

That said, despite my inability to stop  my brain entirely, I have found that at the end of a good yoga class, when we have to lay on the floor and the teacher whispers all quietly about sinking into the mat and relaxing and focusing our minds, my mind still does, wander, always, but I seem to manage to get it down from about 100 miles / hour to, let’s say 15. And my thoughts tend to be on things like homemade juice and fresh tulips and how excited I am to see my mom next weekend instead of work or life or money or what people are thinking about me. So that has to count for something, right? Positivity?

So that got long and contemplative, deal with it, but I HAD to tell you about this hilarious experience I had in yoga class yesterday morning. So we yogied and yogaed and yagood and then laid down like dead bodies to meditate and breathe and relax and I managed to get my brain semi-focused on the task at hand when all of a sudden, beside me, I hear a faint snort. Then another, and another until it builds into a cacophony of snoring. The guy beside me had FALLEN ASLEEP and was sawing logs like a goddamn carpenter, all the while the teacher is softly whispering about emptying our minds and being one with the universe and I could not keep it together. It took every fiber of my being not to burst out laughing. I nearly peed myself right on the mat. My roommate was laying to my other side and we both had sense enough not to even glance at one another, or else we would lose it.

So then, of course, I just laid there thinking  how I had to run home and blog about him. Excellent meditation, Liz. You nailed it.

But, I mean. AH! It was hilarious! What was I supposed to do, tune it out? Focus on my inner core being and the breath of the world’s goodness? There’s only SO FAR I can go with this Yoga scene and if it involves NOT making light of awkward situations around me (in a gentle, loving way, obvi), well, I don’t think it’s worth it.

Next class I’ll bring a big box of breathe right strips to pass out to other yogers, just in case.

You never know!

Ok, upon re-reading this story wasn’t thaaat great and maybe you had to be there. Mostly I just wanted to brag about how I’m into yoga now, so everyone thinks I’m fit and awesome. And also get some backup from the internet. Seriously, yoga professionals, am I doing it right?? Back me up that I’m not the only bad Yogi in the room thinking about apple juice and giggling to myself?!

Anyone? Bueller?

And that’s my story. The end! Wishing everyone a centered and spiritual Monday (yeah, right!) and here, apropos of nothing, is a beautiful picture of a magnolia tree because it is spring and I read somewhere that people are more likely to read your blog if it has photos.



PS! On Wednesday I’ll be announcing the big winner of my amazing joke contest, so be sure to tune in, and if you have yet to put in your guesses, now is your chance!  (Spoiler alert: the prize is nothing.)

xoxo Liz Ho

One Awkward Holi

I was wondering if you might indulge me for a few moments while I share some photos from my weekend. I mean, honestly, you kind of have to indulge me, this is my party and I’ll take weird colorful bathroom selfies if I want to!


The thing is, when blogging, I tend to worry alot about what category of the ol’ blogosphere I fall into, what that I don’t cook or craft or parent or do anything of value in any way, and therefore I’m not sure what sorts of content to share. Just funny stories? Lists? Normal day-to-day stuff with a hilarious tone? Nothing at all – um, lately hat does seem the case, whoopsies! So does a somewhat straightforward weekend recap fall into whatever niche I’ve carved out for myself? Not funny enough? Too standard? AH!

I always think the best blogs are where people write 750 word essays about their identity struggles. Ha, jokes. The best blogs, to me, are where writers share a glimpse into their life, whether that life involve baking, child rearing, outfit putting togethering or just stupid story telling with warmth, humor and a great sense of authenticity. So that’s what I’ll do.

Ol’ Ho Bags, reaching new levels of self involvement and neurosis every damn minute.

But you know what? I just really want to tell everyone about this party I went to, because it was the coolest! As I mentioned on Friday, a high school friend of Brian’s, who is Indian (India Indian, not like, Pocahontas Indian) (first vaguely racist comment in the bag, cha-ching!) invited us to join his family for a party in honor of this holiday called Holi which is a Hindu celebration of spring and color.If you want to know more about the historical and cultural significance of this holiday, you can read this Wikipedia page. If you want to know more about ME and how I celebrated this holiday, and why wouldn’t you, juuuust keep scrolling down.

Brian’s mom dropped us off at his friend Saurabh’s parents’ house, like a couplea middle schoolers, and it turned out we were totally early, which was semi-awkward BUT meant we got the freshest color. We took our shoes off at the door and were greeted by our friend Saurabh’s mother, a woman I had never met, rubbing our cheeks with colored powder. They had pushed back their furniture and covered all of the surfaces with plastic, like they were in the midst of a home renovation and in the back yard set up a tent and big tables covered in catered Indian food and tons of booze. Needless to say, I did not stick to my cleanse and I know you don’t want to know but beer + Indian food were maaaaybe not the best things to be pouring down my gullet. IF you know what I mean.

This powder I’m talking about, I still don’t quite know what it was, it was just a beautifully dyed pigment that came in bags simply labeled “Holi Powder.” We were assured it wasn’t poisonous. It tasted icky, like dirt, but not repulsive. They had out huge trays, like this:


Ignore my socked feet in this professionally staged photograph.

You would just dip your hands and fingers in the powder and rub it all over your pals. Within 5 minutes of arrival, we were looking like this:


Also, you can’t see it, but we were wearing 100 % matching outfits: white t’s and greyish jeans that were the very exact same shade. This marks like the 4th time in about 2 weeks that we’ve left the house in basically identical ensembles because everyone loves a couple that dresses alike.


Other guests started arriving and it became quickly apparent that in addition to being way early, we were also the only non-Indians in attendance and ALSO the only asshats who arrived empty handed. I could die. I asked Saurabh what we should bring his parents and he assured ‘nothing, nothing, just yourself!” and like a fool, I listened, and then stood there, mortified, my pale white skin noticeably reddening as guests poured into the house bearing bottles of wine, wrapped gifts, plates of food and other beautiful hostess gifts. AS THEY SHOULD. This is the second time in under a week I caught myself in this situation. I hope my mom’s not reading this, she’ll be SO ashamed. The weekend prior we had gone to Easter brunch with Brian’s parents and I kept saying I needed to get his mother flowers and Brian kept reassuring me not to worry about it, so I arrived empty handed. His sister’s boyfriend joined us, and he also appeared to arrive giftless, so I thought all was well, but then, a TWIST in the story, as we’re said goodbye after the meal, he dashed to his car and returned with a gigantic fucking PLANT for their mom. Well played, young man, well played.

I could not have this college boy showing me up, so this week I snagged his mom a copy of a book she’d mentioned wanting to read. Point for Liz.

Point quickly lost when I arrived at the Holi party completely empty handed. Let these mistakes be lessons to you all: always bring a hostess gift and never ever listen to boys about gift giving etiquette because they are stupid. Fact.

Another important lesson: never assume that I won’t go off onto one million dumb tangents in the middle of every story because you will be burned.

Where was I?

Oh yes, at the very beginning of the party. How long will this post be?! Let’s fast forward. Blah blah people arrived, food was served, it was delicious, and with each arriving guest, we greeted each other with hellos and swipes of colored powder. For a while, everyone just kind of stood around, catching up, chowing down, like any old family picnic, except they were covered head-to toe in neon powder.


I found this so endlessly hilarious. Just chatting it up. “How’s the family?” “Catching Mad Men this weekend?” “How bout them Mets?” And they have stuff all over their faces! AAAAH. Ok so it’s hard to fully articulate the humor in this here situation but trust me, it was a side splitter.

As the mood got livelier, the colors started flowing faster and faster, with people just smearing all over each other, sneak attacking from behind, pouring piles of powder on others heads or backs or shoving it in each other’s faces. Important Lesson: when face powdering, go in a downward motion, not upward or you WILL shove purple powder up your friend’s nose and nearly kill him. Just FYI.

Here are a few snaps:


Me and my twin after a color fight.


A sneak attack!


Some gentlemen


Playing drinking games


Our host, Saurabh, looking purpley.


Our writer, looking cheesy.

PS recognize my holey red sweater?

Now it is my HOLI red sweater!! Just thought of that. God I’m good.


My guy, looking like an extra from Hook.

Also, you can sort of see it in this photo – the colors looked super vibrant on darker skin, but on Brian’s and my pale, milky skin, it sort of dried into a blackish-grey, that mostly made us look like chimney sweeps. A good look.


An Orange Attack.

20130406_141352A closeup of my crotch because sure, why not.

As you can see, when the color mixed it turned into this sort of poop brown color which is maybe not the cutest. There was this hilarious young girl at the party, maybe 6 years old, and she kept grabbing all of the colors in her hand and mushing them up together to make a “rainbow” which actually looked more like vomit. She’d throw “rainbows” at everyone she met, which was especially and since she was barely waist high, everyone’s midsection was covered in brownish smudges. At one point she grabbed a handful of solid turquoise, reached her arm up and fully went to second base on my left boob, just cupping that color alllll over my ta-ta.

It was both adorable and highly inappropriate.

We played drinking games – I set personal records in both flip cup AND beer pong, a game which I despise for many reasons including the fact that it is gross, boring, shuts down a party because not everyone can play, GROSS, stupid, childish, gross, lame and also: I’m terrible. But not this weekend. I sunk three shots in a row, like a complete pro before bowing out, lest I ruin anything. I need to go back to college, where everyone made fun of me for throwing underhand (float it, Rowengartner) and show them how far I’ve come. I still stand by my flawless opinion that beer pong is the absolute worst, but at least I can now definitively say it is because the game sucks, not me. Because I’m AWESOME.

A stereo system was set up playing traditional Indian music (and several rounds of Gagnam Style, of course!) and everyone danced on the patio, some women in incredibly gorgeous saris, everyone covered in colored powder before the end of the first song. We ate SO much incredible food, at one point I tried to get a fifth helping of paneer and I literally could not fit anything more down my throat: there was no room. Then they brought out a cake, to celebrate Saurabh’s acceptance into grad school, and in the Holi spirit, the cake ended up all  over his already paint streaked face.

20130406_172252That Uncle was the sneakiest. He’d seek out innocent victims when they least expected it and empty bags of Holi color all over their heads. His shirt was white when he arrived.

Juuust kidding.

But mine was and now it is in the garbagio. After the party, Brian’s mom came back and picked us up, and has us wrap in old bath towels before we got in the car. Everyone at the party warned us NOT to wet the powder – water would only make it seep into our skin (“especially your pale skin,” they kept saying), and suggested we use cream or makeup remover. We covered ourselves in cold cream, not before taking one last photo:


And destroyed half a dozen washcloths wiping ourselves down. All of our clothes were covered in powder, even my bra was streaked purple, pink and blue – Brian’s mom offered to wash throw our things in the laundry and I was like “here’s my bra!” and thaaaat was weird – but for the most part, the colors came right out. These colors do run! My white t shirt was unsalvageable, the bra is still semi-colored (it was one of these, so it really couldn’t get worse) and I accidentally put my holey Holi 100% wool sweater in the dryer so that puppy is officially dead, but otherwise everything was fine! Which means my pants and socks. So actually only 20% of my outfit was fine, the rest was destroyed. But it was worth it!

The bottoms of my feet are black with streaks of pink and blue, from walking around in powder covered socks, and I can NOT for the life of me get the pigment out from under my finger nails. It’s the hot manicure look for spring.

And that, my friends, was my very first Holi. It was amazing. I’m already inviting myself back next year, I hope these people are ready. I”ll bring a gift this time!!

What I would suggest to all of you readers, is to find an Indian person and become their friend. If they don’t like you at first, just wear them down relentlessly until they give in, and be sure they invite you to their Holi party. I don’t normally advocate for racially profiling but in this case, I think it is totally OK to seek out people based entirely on their ethnicity just for the parties. And I am a candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize,* so you can trust me.

The end! Thanks for reading this long and rambling post and I hope you learned something about Hinduism and if you did, can you tell me what it is? Because mostly all I took away from this party is that I love pani puri, look good with pink hair and rule at flip cup. AKA: even when experiencing other cultures it really is all about me. Whoops!

Happy Holi & Happy Monday, loves.

xx Liz Ho(li) (Liz Holi!) (!!!!)

* this is a lie. 

Long Live The Queen

So, I don’t know if you do this but whenever I’m driving, or more accurately, whenever I am riding along in a putrid MegaBus, and it’s all smooth sailing and open lanes I am terrified to so much as think much less say outloud “oh! we’re really making good time!” because I just know that the moment the words leave my lips we’ll come around a bend to a five car pile up and be stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic and life will be ruined allll because of me.

Perhaps I sound a tad fatalistic, but I can’t help myself. I come from a long line of neurotics with bad luck & lots of Irish Catholic guilt. All good things will surely end and when they do, it’s all our fault.

Really healthy bunch we are, mentally.

As I mentioned last week, I’ve kind of been on a roll, life-wise, and I am waiting for the other shoe to drop. Zombie bees are taking over Washington State and according to this week’s New Yorker, we’re under siege from a strain of incurable gonorrhea. Not 100% sure what’s going on there, I don’t read-read the New Yorker so much as skim the headlines so I can casually bring it up in conversation later, but you don’t have to actually read the news to know: this planet’s a sinking ship and we’re all doomed!

And yet, despite this depressing fact, good things keep happening! Well, to me anyway. Sorry if your life still sucks but boyyy, I am on fiyah!

As many of you already know, one of my recent posts was selected for Word Press’s prestigious Freshly Pressed last week, which is like being nominated for the Homecoming Court of Blogland, or so I would guess. I most certainly was never on the Homecoming Court in the real world. I’ve been extremely popular for several days now and it. has. been. AWESOME. I know I’m in a bit of a salty mood this evening but please trust that I am being genuine when I say how honored I am by the warm and positive feedback I’ve received from new and old readers alike. I am so glad you’re all here. I hope you’ll stick around and promise I’ll do my best to make it worth your while!

But first, I have to insult you just a teensy bit. You see, something happened to me last week that was even better that being Freshly Pressed. What, you ask, could be even better than spending two days fielding comments from strangers about how funny and great I am?


That’s right. Last week I spotted Her Royal Highness, Goddess of All Things, Homecoming Queen of the Universe Beyoncé Giselle Knowles-Carter live and in the flesh. It was…she is…I…can’t. The English language does not possess the words to appropriate describe the glory that is BK. She is perfection. And then some.

Last Wednesday a few of us went to see my friend Kevin perform at UCB, a comedy theater here in Manhattan (check him out, he’s great!) and after the show, Brian and I were walking across town to catch the subway. We came to a corner at the edge of Madison Square Park that was crowded with people and blocked off with traffic barricades. On our side of the street was a group of rubberneckers and the other side was packed with media holding big cameras and those long microphones that a person less mature than myself might describe as boner shaped, all crowded around a black man in a baseball cap. We both immediately thought Jay-Z but did not want to appear racist, so kept quiet until some other gawker confirmed for us it was, indeed our boy, Young. I started to sweat.

“Do you think she’s here?? Oh GOD what if she’s here?!” I gasped, my breath quickening, my eyes attempting to see over the hordes of reporters. I was about to give up, when the crowds parted and suddenly: there she was.

Radiant. Glowing. Luminous. An angel walks among us and her name is Bay-on-say.

It was barely more than a moment before another mediahound grabbed her attention and once again blocked her from my vision but oh, that moment was enough.

I actually think the only way I survived this celeb spotting and didn’t just hyperventilate to death right there on 26th Street is because it was so quick, such a short, perfect glimpse.  There is a reason we don’t stare directly at the sun for too long, it’s mesmerizing, life-sustaining light will melt our eyeballs to puddles of goo.

And so it is with Beyonce.

So you can see why I’m a little trepidatious about my recent good fortunes. I mean, once you’ve spotted Queen B there’s really nowhere up for your life to go. So I figure there are really only ways this can play out:

My life continues upward: I will meet Jon Hamm and we’ll dine on bottomless bowls of Kraft macaroni and cheese before enjoying some blissful, mutually orgasmic intercourse and then directly afterwards, as we bask in the afterglow of our lovemaking, executives from NBC will call me to announce that they’re creating a sitcom based on my life and I don’t have to do any work or anything, just move to a mansion in the Hollywood Hills which they’ve purchased for me and eat and drink wine and regale them with my stories, so they have something to base their scripts on.

Orrr, I plummet downward: I will be immediately struck down by some sort of gruesome bee-related venereal disease and die.

Or I suppose there is always a door three: My life will go on, day by day, peppered with ups and downs, pleasant highs and stormy lows and the world will turn and the grass will grow and cetera but ugh, how boring does that sound?


So, let’s all just cross our fingers things go the more Jon Hammy, cheesy route. And in the meantime, let’s watch the Queen at WERK:

One (Slightly) Awkward Reunion

Oh god, ouch. You guyyys! I have to tell you about my college reunion! The other weekend I was down in Baltimore celebrating 5 years since graduation and now, approximately 216 hours later (but who’s counting?) (yes, I used a calculator) my hangover seems officially, finally gone. College is over, folks, and as I draw rapidly closer to legal subscription to AARP: The Magazine it has become all too apparent that I can no longer hang. Not that I ever could hang all that much, if we’re being completely honest with ourselves. Maybe some of us were never meant to hang, maybe we were built to stay in, eat oreos and debate the pros & cons of various American Girl Dolls (Samantha = snobby, but gorgeous hair & pinnafores, Molly = spunky & spirited but who wants glasses?) before tucking in for a decent 10 PM bedtime.

The reunion bled into a crazybusy work week – Book Expo America, the largest annual publishing conference in the Western Hemisphere (toootally made that up) was in NYC all last week. I won’t bore you with the details but to give you a sense of what we were dealing with, I’ll quote 2011 presenter and one of my good personal friends Mindy Kaling: “There’s more tote bags here than in Terry Gross’s attic…It actually looks like a high-school reunion where all the jocks died in a plane crash on the way to regionals, and the plane crash killed all the minorities too.”

So yeah, that was exhausting. And just to prove how very little I have changed since leaving college, the only industry #swag I took home from the conference was a stack of flyers from the American Girl Corporation teasing the release of their newest historical doll, Caroline. They have yet to reveal any deets but girl needs to work if she wants to be anywhere close to Felicity or Kirsten (pronounced Keer-sten!) level amazingness.

I need so much help.

Anyway! The reunion! I don’t know how to say this without bragging so I’m just going to come out with it: I am extremely popular. So SO many of my former classmates revealed themselves as fans of my esteemed writing, I am a major internet celebrity. We’re talking like, Charlie Bit My Finger…that kid who questions life after getting gassed by the dentist…One Awkward Year. That’s it. That’s all you need to know about the internet and the world. Done and done.

I am only slightly exaggerating! People really did approach me from all angles –ALL ANGLES! — and confess to reading the blog, despite having limited contact since college and I obviously loved every goddamn second of it. Everyone kept saying “oh! I’m sure this reunion will make for an awkward blog!” (so demanding, my fans are) and it did, kind of, but not in the ways I thought it would. There were some run-ins with old foes, I guess, and some small talk and a lot lot LOT of that thing where you see someone and don’t know if you should like, hug them or air-kiss or high five or whatever so you kind of just like, half wrap your arm around one side of their body and pat them on the upper back while trying not to spill the giant gin & tonic you’re holding in your other hand, but for the most part, the awkwardness came not from catching up with long-lost acquaintances but from trying to suppress just how much I’ve been keeping tabs on said acquaintances in the past five years.

I know a billion words have been written on The Facebook and its role in the socializing of the youth or whatever, I don’t really read much not about celebrities and/or food, and as a member of the social media generation, I have no idea what reunions were like before the interwebz took over our lives. All I know is that I walked into a room of people I hadn’t seen in half a decade and I knew every. single. thing. they’d allll been up to. Everything! I knew who got married, who got fat, who got thin, who came out, and who questionably still wasn’t out but like, come on, dude, really? I knew it ALL!

Every conversation was a struggle for me not to reveal how truly creepy I am. “I like your hair that length!” was totally a cover for:  “I like your hair that length! So glad you got rid of the bangs. Remember how badly the reacted in the humidity when you took that trip to Puerto Rico for your parents’ 30th wedding anniversary? The one you went to right before your sister had her baby! He is so cute, by the way! I love the name Jack too, though it’s getting a little trendy, but at least it’s not Aiden, am I right? How’s your boyfriend? How many tattoos does he have, like 12? Is he enjoying his new job, at the courthouse? How do I know what he does for a living? Oh, because I’m a terrifying stalker, bye!”

It was so hard to play it cool! But I’m so clearly not the only one. So many people admitted to the same behavior. But instead of feeling solidarity with them, I mostly denied my true nature. Sometimes, especially after someone would out themselves as a fan of the blog, I would pretend to have no idea what they were up to so as to appear cool and aloof and above it all which: haha nope! Sorry, just kidding, I know everything and thanks for reading!

I actually only had one particularly awkward moment related to this cultural phenomenon, in the ladies room during the Dinner Dance/Late Night portion of the evening (there was a martini bar involved, god I love you, LoCo) when I asked a mild acquaintance about her little girl and she asked “How did you know I had a daughter?” and I replied “Ummmm, read it on the internet.” And then her friend, possibly even best friend, a girl who perennially wears magenta bandage dresses and has Barbie bangs announced to the entire room (bathroom!) that her friend’s baby was unplanned and reminded us all to take our birth control. Calling out your bestie on her illegitimate child in the middle of the college reunion? Ouch, way harsh, Tai.

But that was it! I Went To My Five Year Reunion And All I Got Was This Lousy Story About Facebook Stalking and Bathroom Conversations. I truly, truly wish that I could have had better stories for you, especially those fellow graduates who revealed themselves as fans…and fellow creeps. Would that I could have fallen on the dance floor (again!) or accidentally made out with a former professor or pooped my dress or just, something, anything at all. Alas, I kept it classy.

I suppose there is always the Ten Year! See you there, friends. I promise to cause a scene!


And now, because I am vain and I read somewhere that people like blogs with pictures, here are some choice photos from the weekend. I’m so demure!

We have to go back, Kate! We have to go back!

One Awkward Surprise Visit

What a beautiful weekend, my friends! I spent the afternoon in the park and got a lil color. My legs are looking GOOD:

Post park I had the apartment to myself and was lounging on the couch sans culottes, airing out these char-grilled gams in front of a particularly epic Law & Order SVU marathon, when my roommate and three of her cousins – two male! – unexpectedly walked through the front door.  I yelped “I’m not wearing any pants!” and scrambled for something to cover my ass, then spent the next five minutes making small talk with a bunch of strangers while wearing nothing but my skivvies and a strategically draped blanket. This sounds like the kind of activity Cosmo Magazine might suggest in an article about spicing up your TV time or  making your home sexually appealing for visitors but I’m going to go ahead and say this was not so much erotic as wildly, excruciatingly uncomfortable.

What can we learn from this latest embarrassment? You must ALWAYS wear at least 17 layers of sunblock every time you leave the house, especially if you’re planning on laying about roasting yourself and, perhaps more importantly, you should have a pair of pants or shorts or company appropriate bottoms within arms reach at all times. I’m not advocating you always wear pants, I mean, let’s be honest, pants are the worst, but you just might want to be prepared for unanticipated drop by visitors. Just do it. Trust me.

Summer 2012 is off to an auspicious start!


One Awkward Conversation

Are you watching Game of Thrones? Of COURSE you are! Everyone is except me and I do NOT feel good about it. I base much of my self worth on my television consumption and lately I can barely look myself in the mirror. New York Magazine recently ran this Best Drama of the Past 25 Years March Madness Bracket thing and it really forced me to confront my failings. I’ve never watched The Sopranos OR Deadwood, I’ve only seen half of Twin Peaks and I’m still a season behind on Breaking Bad. Now here we are, starting the second season of the Next Hot Television Event Game of Thrones and I haven’t seen a damn second. I am pathetic.

Yesterday I decided I had to at lest make an effort to get caught up on this program, so I G-chatted my good friend Kathleen, a big GOT fan, to whine about how left out and sad and uncool I was feeling except TWIST: it wasn’t Kathleen, but a girl named Katelyn who I went to college with and was like, friendly with senior year but have not seen or spoken to I think since graduation, almost 5 years ago.

Here’s The Transcript:

me: Ok

  I know I’m behind

but I really need to get myself involved in game of thrones

  I feel left out

  OH my god


  but I thought you were someone else?

  but hi

  AH this is really awkward HI

Smooooooth operator!

Guess what, though? It turns out that Katelyn is actually living in NYC and…wait for it…OWNS Season One of Game of Thrones! So, was this an awkward social/internet faux-pas on my behalf orrrr was it the Lord Shimself working a miracle through g-chat? I’ll leave it up to you to decide. (And yes, I said Shimself. Until I really know for sure that God is a specific gender, I’ma keep it neutral. I’m not sure if I even believe there is a God, but if there is, I really don’t want to offend Herm.)

This divine intervention was lovely and it was nice to open the lines of communication with this gal again but it gave way to some questions: What now?! How do I end this conversation? I’d like to suggest we meet over drinks, but she might think I’m just saying that because I accidentally g-chatted her and I don’t want her to think it is a pity invite but a real invite but what if she doesn’t actually want to hang out with me but is being nice and tolerating my nonsense even though I’m SO rude as to admit like “whoops, did not mean to talk to YOU today” and then she’ll feel obligated to say yes and then I’M the one getting pity drinks?!

I decided to go for it. I had to keep the invite light and breezy, to counteract the anxieties chronicled above, so I said:

“Ok well I know it’s been a long time but I feel like the world/gmail works in mysterious ways so I’m just going to put it out there: why don’t we get drinks? or coffee in case you are now on the wagon.”

Why did I say that? What if she really WAS on the wagon or like, has had a life marked by difficulties of living with someone who does have actual substance abuse problems and here I come, accidentally g-chatting and trying to steal her DVD’s and reminding her about her lifetime of pain and suffering? Why, Liz, Why??

I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again: it is exhausting being me.

Oh, and lest ye worry about me, it all worked out! We’re getting drinks in a few weeks and they may be pity drinks, but no one has to know that. Also if anyone else would like to lend me their Game of Thrones DVDs or teach me how to use the internet to download videos or pay for me to upgrade my cable so I can get HBO, please do let me know.



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.