Keeping it Breezy

Hello, hello! So recently I found myself in a big, chaotic gathering amid a lot of people who don't know me all that well, namely my brother's wedding weekend, and one of these relative strangers, namely his new mother-in-law, said to my new sister-in-law (stay with me here) that she thinks I'm very, and I quote: "laid back and go-with-the-flow."

Wait, what? Who? This Liz?

It was obviously not something I'd heard much before, so I jokingly brought it up to a few people who do know me better and they all...confirmed it. That yes, I am a person with the capacity to be wildly neurotic and controlling but also a person with the capacity to be, as Monica Gellar might say, breezy

breezy monica hottsauce blog funny humor

We all contain multitudes! Who knew? 

This off-hand conversation has led me on a -Trigger Warning for Oprah Language! - personal growth journey. It's interesting to consider how the ways we see ourselves might differ from the way others see us. Perhaps if I can begin to recognize my multitudes, I won't be as hard on myself in those instances when I am well, not breezy. Perhaps I could begin to appreciate myself for the times I do, actually, go with the flow while letting myself off the hook for the times I don't. It's possible that I'm not the uptight control monster I always envisioned but just a layered individual who can, on occasion, be a little tightly wound. 

Though I was, apparently, really leaning into my breezy side while feting the newlyweds a few weeks back (and yes, I'll go ahead and say what you're all thinking, I am making my brother's wedding weekend all about me...I haven't personally grown that much yet), the ensuing weeks have hurled me in the opposite direction and I've felt myself winding tighter and tighter until like a spring, I'm ready to snap. 

I'm not like, hovering on the edge of a breakdown or anything, don't worry, but I am maybe not being the best me I can be.  Thanks to a spicy mix of high pressure work projects, dumb personal life stuff, and this continued knee injury, which has left me unable to run, thus providing me with an extra thing to stress about while effectively wiping out my #1 coping mechanism, I've been feeling like a hot mess express. I need to chill out...and fast.

I decided to take the proverbial bull by the horns if you will (I have no idea what that phrase even means) this past weekend and treat myself to a massage, hoping it would loosen some shit up, physically and emotionally. I have only had one massage ever in my life, in Cambodia and I would not say it was a stellar experience. I mean, the masseuse was great but I was, as always a total spaz, and spent the entire time stressing about class issues and thinking about boners. You can read that whole saga riiight here. But desperate times call for desperate measures so I boldly made an appointment for Sunday afternoon at the wellness clinic down the street where I have occasionally visited for acupuncture. I mean! I've been so calm and normal during those appointments, just think of how relaxed I'll be laying there fully nude while a stranger massages my armpits.

Yes, armpits.

Mid-massage the masseuse started going in on that area of fat that hangs over strapless dresses no matter how many half-assed push ups you do (ladies know what I'm talkin' about) and advised that I ask Brian to massage me in the same location. What? I can't. I have, god-willing, 50+ years of keeping the mystery alive here, we are NOT in the armpit massage stage of marriage just yet. 

But the pits weren't even the worst of it. APPARENTLY I am even more tightly wound that I thought and here are all of the places I hold tension: back, hips, ankles, glutes, mid-torso, shoulder blades, neck, pits, and especially forearms. What! How are even my forearms stressed? The masseuse did do something wonderful that made my hands feel all loose and wiggly and then asked me how big my office was. "Big enough!" I replied, thinking he was going to advise me on some stretches. Instead he offered me one takeaway: buy a hot towel warmer from the internet and wrap my forearms in warm towels every time I begin to feel stressed.

Again: no.

LOVE your enthusiasm, bud, but I am never going to purchase and install a hot towel warmer in my office I just don't think that's how the real world works. And as routinely demonstrated, I am so deeply neurotic AT ALL TIMES, this just ends with me fully draped in hot towels like I'm Andre Agassi after a rough match at Wimbledon. 

But, all things considered, the massage was actually great and did help to bust some kinks out of my back and I would for sure do it again. And next time, I might even come prepared with cash!

That's right. Superfans of Ye Olde Hott Sauce will surely recall that I left my first acupuncture experience at this clinic in a total panic after seeing a tip envelope, unsure of the protocol on tipping for these sorts of services. Post massage I dressed and languorously made my way to the front desk only to again be instantly snapped out of my relaxed reverie by the sight of those damn tiny envelopes. Acupuncture is a grey area but massage surely falls under the tippage category of physical services. 

I paid for my appointment with my credit card and, nervously looking around the room, sucked up my pride and in a loud whisper asked the very nice young woman behind the desk "can I ask you an important question?"

"Of course!" she replied politely.

"This is so embarrassing but...are you supposed to tip? For a massage, I mean? I've only ever been to acupuncture and..."

She cut me off with a kind but chastising all the same: "for massage, it is customary. And we do only take tips in cash."


Here's how much cash I had on my person: zero dollars and zero cents. 

I gave a frenzied laugh, yelped "OK I'LL BE RIGHT BACK!", and sprinted out into the day in search of some dolla bills. All along my plan for the afternoon had been to go to the massage and then do my grocery shopping at the big, reasonably priced grocery store three blocks from clinic, in the opposite direction from my apartment. As I came out of the massage place in search of some cash, I decided I didn't want to spend $2.50 on bodega ATM fees, so my best option was to walk to the CVS which is directly next to said grocery store and get some cash back. I should have just done my grocery shopping at this time, but decided it would be too weird to go back to the clinic carrying all of my groceries, so instead I purchased one solitary paper towel roll at CVS and took out $40 cash back and hiked the three blocks - uphill, mind you! - back to the massage place. I know you're thinking that is a very generous tip for one massage and you are right but I wanted to be prepared just in case. You see, I'd never actually tipped for my few acupuncture appointments and decided as long as I was already embarrassing myself, I'd just ask the front desk gal what the protocol was on that front and, if needed, leave some kind of retroactive tip to atone for my sins. 

Formal confirmation for the equally confused: massage = tip. Acupuncture = "considered a medical practice" = no tip. The more you know!

Once again I found myself leaving an appointment intended to help me relax even more stressed than when I first begin. 

Exhausted by it all, I decided I did not have the energy to walk all the way back to the cheap grocery store and instead just visited the smaller, v bougie grocery store a block away from my apartment, effectively cancelling out any and all savings I'd accrued by avoiding bodega ATM fees, and then some. 

Shopping alongside me was a rumpled older gentleman - picture the drunk uncle character on SNL Weekend Update and give him a bushier beard - who was muttering a grouchy monologue throughout his shopping, lamenting the high price of groceries these days, the rents, the pesticides.

"You just can't afford to live in this town anymore!" he groused to his lettuce. "The rents will kill you, if the chemicals don't first," under his breath while pawing through a stack of carrots. Then louder: "FIVE DOLLARS FOR PINEAPPLE, are you fucking kidding me??"

I managed to bob and weave around him as I filled my cart with ingredients for the evening's meal, indulging in plenty of fresh produce and herbs, a new bottle of olive oil. I like to buy nice foods and besides, I was having a bad week. Don't I deserve to treat myself?

I thought I'd lost him until I turned into the cheese aisle and found him having cornered a deli worker beside a stack of fancy Parmesan wheels, ranting about The Cost Of Things These Days.

"You can't even live!" I heard him exclaim. "Look at her! That's a month of my salary in her basket!"

The her he was referring to? Me, of course. I glanced over and there he was, pointing an angry finger in my direction, glowering at my basket piled high with shallots and dill. 

Needless to say, between the tip fiasco and this character, any positive relaxing effects of the massage were very swiftly departing.

I checked every item off my list except the keystone ingredient of my dinner recipe: dried chick peas. I was planning to make this falafel recipe which says in no uncertain terms that one should NOT use canned chickpeas. Dried or GTFO. This fancy-ass grocery story had dried kidney beans and dried peas but nary a dried chick pea in sight. 

I was frustrated, to be sure, but not defeated. I live in New York City, after all! I had two more grocery shopping options within a two block radius: the medium-sized, medium-priced Food Train, and the tiny but well-stocked Asian grocery memorably named The Bad Wife. I decided Food Train was my best bean bet, so I loaded my heavy canvas bags (reduce, reuse, recycle!) onto my rapidly re-tightening shoulders and trudged on over. Again: a wide variety of dried beans but NO CHICKPEAS.

A Garbanzo Goldilocks, I huffed out of the store, took a deep breath, and headed for The Bad Wife. This time, things would be just right.

I wove my way through the narrow aisles and there in front of me, my bounty lay: dried chick peas!  They were a fancy organic brand, rather than the basic Goya I'm familiar with, but who doesn't love organic? GMO free, baby! I grabbed the bag, turned it over, and stopped in my tracks. 

"SIX NINETY-NINE," I barked aloud, "for some dried beans?! Are you fucking kidding me??" 

Sweet mother of pearl, there was a new unhinged grocery shopper in town ... and it was me. 

I flung the beans back on the shelf and sprinted for the comfort of my home, locking the doors behind me and throwing myself on the couch with a dramatic sigh.

"Welcome home, babe!" called Brian from the other room. "How was your relaxing day?"

Great, great, SO GREAT.

And here we are. I think I'm in the home stretch on the work stuff but life loves to throw curve balls so if anyone could recommend some tried and true de-stressing activities that do not involve the following, would you please let me know?

Touching people, being touched, an option to leave a tip, needles, the use of one's knees, drugs, interacting with other human beings in any form, or dried chick peas. 

There's a breezy person inside me, yearning to break free! 


Liz Hott


Another Awkward Week: Still Waters Run Deep

OH HI! Does your brain hurt from all the Beyonce/Adele Grammys think pieces you devoured today ...despite not actually watching the Grammys last night?

No?? Um, me either, I worked very hard all day!!

But just in case you do need a bit of a brain break, here is a quick story for your Monday night.

Anyone who spends time with me IRL quickly becomes aware that they are a lucky bitch because I am amazing. 

Ha, just kidding, that's not what I was going to saaay.

Anyone who spends time with me IRL quickly becomes aware that I am obsessed with hydration, to a level bordering on unhinged. I have three glasses of water before I leave the house and usually 8-10 more 16oz bottles by EOD. Every time I pee I check out the scene to monitor the situation and if my urine is not crystal clear by noon I get stressed and slam a few cups of H20 to speed up the process. Once, a year or two ago, I had a UTI, because being a human woman is an EVIL TRAP, and I went to the clinic and peed in the lil cup and the doctor came back and pulled up the test results on the computer and said "I can tell by looking at your results that you are very hydrated," and I blushed and beamed and replied "thank you so much for noticing!" As if she was commenting on my liquid eyeliner application or clean baseboards. 

When I said "bordering on unhinged" I may have meant like, very far beyond unhinged... 

So it should be an obvious no duh by this point that I literally never leave the house without a water bottle. Ever. This means I always have to lug some kind of big bag with me, even if I'm going to like, a club (lol as if) or trendy restaurant (slightly more likely). I would so rather risk a fashion don't than be caught out there dehydrated whilst daintily holding my evening clutch.

A true nightmare scenario.

Why am I telling you all of this TMI about my inner neurosis / urine color? Stay with me. This is alllll helpful background information to have in mind as we *finally* find ourselves at the beginning of my tale.

'Twas a week ago today, around eleven in the AM and I was returning to my office from a doctor's appointment. I was carrying the large leather tote pictured below:

bag of water humor blog I am so bad at naming photos

(Urban Outfitters, under eye circles + empty boxes sold separately).

In said bag, I had packed 3/4 full Nalgene style water bottle branded with my imprint's logo (always be selling!), a hardcover copy of The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson, and my bullet journal + pack of colored markers (just in case I needed to make an urgent to-do list in the waiting room? IDK guys),  along with some assorted nonsense which shall be discussed later. 

I swiped my card through the turnstile, moseyed (obviously sprinted) to a suitable spot on the platform and stood patiently waiting for my train. I was a little thirsty from all the moseying (sprinting), not to mention that I consider any amount of downtime to be a primo opportunity to re-up on the hydraysh, so I reached into my purse and pulled out my water bottle only to discover it was now...empty. 

I plunged my hand back into my purse and like a kid digging a hole to China via the Jersey Shore, I hit water. I must not have screwed on the lit tightly last time I took a public chug! In a panic I began to pull out my important belongings. My wallet...soaked. My book...soaked. My #bujo...miraculously only a tiny bit damp, praise be to you Beyonce, who so should have won Best Album, everyone knows Lemonade was the greatest album of the year / decade, even people who forgot to watch the Grammys! 

And then, my train came.

I had two options. Option one was to pull out all of my stuff, dump the water onto the tracks, cry about my misfortune, and cause a big ol' scene right there in the 23rd Street 1 Train Station. Or I could choose option two, which was to board the train, hold my sopping books in my arms, and ride the four stops back to my office with two inches of water sloshing around my handbag. And then, you know, pull out all my stuff, dump the water into the sink, cry about my misfortune...and cause a big ol' scene right there in the middle of my office.

I chose option two.

Y'all I boarded the train and I carried the water all the way home.

(That  kind of sounds like a gospel song! Carry the water, children. I carry the water, Oh Lord.)

(Pretty sure those are just the lyrics to Wade in the Water but with a lil remix.)

(Enough parenthetical asides, Liz.)

When I got back to the office I carried my water over to the communal kitchen sink, tipped the bag over, and out poured half a liter of water, as though from a lovely pitcher. I assessed the damage. In addition to the above mentioned book and journal, I pulled out 3 half-full travel sized packs of tissues (all obviously ruined), several handfuls of change (unscathed!), one running sock that had been in there since who even knows when (soaked but salvageable), miscellaneous receipts (destroyed),and the real kicker: two very important referral papers handed to me by the doctor I'd visited just before my ill-fated subway purse drowning situation. One of these papers contains notes from my doctor to a physical therapist who I am to see next Monday for the first time. I need to present this piece of paper to the physical therapist so she knows what my issues are. 

My physical issues, that is. No one needs a paper note to see my mental issues, which will be fully apparent when I hand her a crumpled script that is ripped at one corner and bears the texture of an elementary school homemade paper making project gone awry, having once been soaked and then left to dry on the back of my desk chair. I should just call the original doctor and tell them I need a replacement prescription but I don't want them to think I'm irresponsible. For some reason that seems more embarrassing to me than waltzing into the physical therapists office with a ruined piece of garbage.

Where did I say I was on the unhinged scale again? Maybe we should double it.

Anyway, all's well that ends well, I suppose. My most beloved of possessions, the journal, snuck through generally unscathed with just a few bits of runny ink towards the top of some pages, and after a few days to dry out, my copy of The Warmth of Other Suns now looks rather chic. My assistant saw it sitting on my desk all yellowed, sans dustcover (a tragic casualty, RIP dustcover, I hope you had a great life), and exclaimed "wow, what a cool antique book!" I didn't have the heart to tell her it is not, in fact, an antique, but a relatively new book I ruined. She'll find out I'm a hot mess soon enough, but until that day I'll let her - and the world! - think I'm some kind of intellectual savant whose handbag is overflowing with antique literary works, instead of spilled water, wet socks, and garbage.

The joke is definitely on them! 

And by them, I mean me.

Have a grand week, m'dears. Don't forget to hydrate, hydrate, HYDRATE and also always check your water bottle lids. 

Peace, Love, and Clear Pee -

Liz Hott 

Nancy Drew and the Missing Necklace

Any devoted reader of this here blog knows I love a good tale of mystery and suspense. I always have. I can recall being 8 or so on a family trip to Florida. My parents took us to a spring training baseball game and I spent the entire 9 (or is it 900?) innings laying on the bleachers, my face deep in the pages of a Nancy Drew novel. Next came Encyclopedia Brown, The Westing Game and soon I was ransacking the public library for any Mary Higgins Clark book I could get my freakishly long, bony mitts upon. To this day I can't scroll past a "13 Novels to Read if You Loved Gone Girl!" listicle without clicking through and buying at least one of the titles suggested, if not the full baker's dozen.

So it fills me with much glee to find myself in the middle of my very own crime caper! 

It all began this summer when I found a skeleton bured beneath the floorboards.  

Just kidding. That would be legitimately terrifying. And also probably more exciting than my actual mystery but you can't pick your hauntings, they pick YOU. 

It actually all began this summer when I decided to jazz up my wardrobe a bit vis a vis some cute artisan jewelery from the online retailer, specifically from a little shop out of Canada (eh!) called Vintage Acorn. My favorite in the bunch was a necklace with a wooden chevron on a long chain, a versatile piece that compliments everything, be it a professional dress at the office or jorts and a tank top at a music festival, as you can see pictured here in exhibit A: 

exhibit A

Photo shared as evidence that a) I owend and wore the necklace in question and b) after years of doubt, it turns off I can totally pull off a summer hat! 

I had this necklace on heavy rotation, sporting it a few days a week until one morning I went to toss it on and found the hook where it usually hangs was bare. I searched all of the usual spots - every single handbag, my gym bag, the pockets of all of my jeans. Nothing. I overturned the couch cushions, crawled under the kitchen table, pulled the dresser from the wall, turned my hamper upsidedown and vigourously shook it and nada! Well, I found dozens of pens, hundreds of bobby pins and enough loose change to put a down payment on a single family home in the suburbs but not the one thing I was looking for: my necklace. 

I was confounded! Where could it be? Our apartment is not that large, there was nowhere else to look. I swore the last place I'd worn it was to a Mets game (where once again, I watched zero seconds of the actual game, oh, how I've grown since childhood), and worried it must have broken on the commute home, lost forever, fated to become construction material for a new rat motel deep in the depths of the NYC subway system. 

A few days later I was meandering down my street when something caught my eye in a little clothes boutique across the way. Curious, I crossed over. And there I saw it, draped around the neck of a headless mannequin in the window: MY FLIMFLAMMIN' NECKLACE!!!

exhibit b

I couldn't believe my own eyes! It looked 100% exactly like my necklace, right down to the gold chain which I sometimes worried was too shiny, but HOW did it end up in that store? Did they break into our house and only walk away with one $15 artisan small batch Etsy necklace? SEEMS DUBIOUS. And yet...

Suddenly memories rushed back to me, like I was that guy in Memento getting over his amensia or whatever. IDK I've never actually seen that movie. I had completely forgotten that after the baseball game, in a low self-esteem frenzy, I had frantically swept through a few stores, on a hunt to find a new dress for a wedding the following weekend. I was going to be seeing a bunch of folks I hadn't seen in years, and thus decided I needed to fully reinvent myself sartiorially and otherwise by spending a lot of money on a new dress I didn't need. (Spoiler alert it did not work and I just wore a dress I already owned and was my usual wine-soaked, weird self, but also now with a $140 Anthropologie dress that I don't even like burning a hole in my bank account. Someone plz remind me to return that before the month is up!)

And then it all made sense. I must have taken off the necklace while in the dressing room and forgotten to put it back on when leaving. It could even have gotten tangled with one of the dresses I'd tried and been mistaken for merchandise. I'm not accusing this store of stealing, per se, but I'd swear on a dogeared copy of Moonlight Becomes Her that was my necklace.  

I sprinted home armed with cold, hard, grainy iPhone photo evidence that the greatest heist of all time was happening right under my very nose. And I was going to crack the case.

The next day I dressed myself in my cofidence outfit - jorts (natch) and a grey t-shirt (double natch) with the word "unapolagetic" emblazoned across the front in black script. The tee is made my a designer and blogger I admire, Jolie Ankrom, a mantra and a reminder to stop apologizing, to be more fearless. 

I took a deep breath and marched into the store and...immediately apolozied. 

"I'm SO sorry, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I can't find my necklace anywhere and I think it's here, in this store? Like, for sale? Over there? SORRY FOR BOTHERING YOU."

I yammered, I stammered. I finally got to my point. She politely (perhaps too politely, covering up her obvious criminal guilt???) opened the cash register to reveal a drawer full of lost jewelery. Was any of it mine?

NO but also all of it was ugly so of course you would hide it an not try to re-sell it. You think you're a criminal master mind? 


Finally I got her to take me over to the manequin and show me the necklace. It did not have a price tag (!) or anything identifying the designer (!!) but she assured me it was store stock - from a shipment that had arrived "Tuesday or Wednesday, I think?"

TUESDAY OR WEDNESAY! That is some pretttty conveninet timing, considering I'd been in on Sunday. 

Nothing was adding up but, what was I to do? I realized I had one card left to play, to demand to see their invoices, proving they'd actually purchased the necklace. Nancy Drew so would've done it, and probably uncovered some document forging in the process. But I folded.  Maybe if it was my wedding ring or some priceless family heirloom I would have pushed for it, but I decided that a $15 Etsy necklace, cute as it may be, was perhaps not worth launching a full-on slander attack and criminal investigation of a lovely local botique.

I apologized, again, for taking up her time and slunk out of the store, defeated. It was then that I realized my "confidence shirt," the one with the bold UNAPOLOGETIC slogan had been inside outthe whole time. GOOD GRIEF. I mean, what would you do if a deranged woman marched into your store with her clothes on the wrong way and started stuttering about stolen jewelry? I'm lucky she didn't call the cops on ME! 

When I got home, I did a little more searching and convinced myself that my life as a crimefighter was over, I'd just lost my necklace myself, case closed. 

BUT! The next day I couldn't help crossing by on that side of the street, just out of curiosity and when I came to the window, the necklace was gone! They still had the same outfit on display but they'd changed out the necklace. Every single other manequin was dressed exactly the same, accessories and all, the one and only thing amiss was a new necklace, in place of the one I suspected to be mine.

COINCIDENCE? Ok, probably yes. 

ORRRRR, I was right the whole time! They are running a largescale crime ring, re-selling the jewels left behind by flaky neighborhood ladies making frenzied shopping sprees after consuming a few too many gigantic beers at Mets Stadium. It's genius! Right under our noses like that, who would suspect a thing?? 

They were getting away with it but I got too close. They saw me sniffing around and knew the product was hot and they needed to get rid of the evidence, and fast. 

But I'll get the last laugh. If I've learned anything from a lifetime of consuming mysteries it is that no crime can stay buried forever. I can wait. I live right across the street and have no hobbies and plenty of time on my hands and soon enough they'll slip up and oh, the case will be finally closed. 

In the meantime, I'll be keeping my detective skillz polished by hiring out my investigative services. Any takers? If interested, email me anytime, no case is too big, too small,  or too clearly imaginary for me! 

Sincerely Yours,

Liz HottSauce, P.I. 




Pin This; or, Adventures in Acupuncture

(photo stolen from the internet somewhere)

(photo stolen from the internet somewhere)

Oh, hello! Happy Friday. It sure has been a while, hasn't it? What have you been up to? Have you had any exciting/unnerving/deeply awkward new experiences recently?? I sure have and you BET I'm about to tell you allll about it. 

As you may or may not know, depending on what country you hail from (I don't know your life), this past Monday was Labor Day, which which means three day weekend!  I used this extra day off to finally try something I've been meaning to try for years: acupuncture. Every time I mention one of my myriad ailments, which is always, because I love whining and oversharing, someone will suggest acupuncture. Apparently it is just the cure-all for everything: IBS, bum hips, anxiety, sinus shit. You name it, they can poke it outta ya. Brian is a huge fan and encouraged me to give his practice a go, so I picked an ailment (bum hip!) made an appointment and whoop, there it was. 

The clinic is in a brownstone building a few blocks away from me (have I mentioned that I live in a fancy part of Brooklyn and am a very cool person? Just dropping that B-stone hint for ya in case you forgot), so I sauntered on up and kicked things off to a roaring start when I could not find the entrance. I kept walking up and down the steps and shaking the doorknob and looking all around and finally asked a kindly stranger who exited the building if she could tell me what floor the acupuncture clinic was on and she just kind of rolled her eyes and pointed down. Apparently the clinic was in the basement. WHO KNEW! Listen, Park Slope Wellness, you gotta be real clear about this stuff on your Yelp page unless you want a bunch of bum hip randos wandering the neighborhood breaking into apartment buildings. 

When I finally entered the clinic it was EXACTLY what I expected it to be. There was a little cubby by the door where everyone has to take their shoes off before entering and the waiting room was very calm and zen with tinkly waterfall music playing in the background and the receptionist was wearing like 14 layers of knit prairie skirts and offered me herbal tea. They advise you to get there 30 minutes before your first appointment to fill out paperwork. It seemed like overkill at first, but as the second I got the paperwork in my hands, I honestly thought they might be underselling it. This thing was the most intricately, intimately detailed questionnaire I have ever seen in my life, listing every single ailment you or anyone in your extended family may ever have experienced, from regular stuff like heart conditions allll the way to the consistency and color of your menstrual blood.

The color? You mean red? OH MY GOD what other colors could it be??? I do not mean to dismiss the ancient and beautiful science of acupuncture but I feel like if your period is turquoise or something you should probably not be sitting calmly in a zen waiting room, sipping nettle tea and answering questionnaires, but instead be rushing immediately to the nearest emergency room. 

Buttt that's just me. 

After finishing the most epic Buzzfeed quiz of all time ("which one of these lattes most accurately represents the texture of your nasal mucous") I was led back to an exam room where my acupuncturist walked me through what was about to go down. We sat for a long while and went page by page through my questionnaire which was possibly my favorite part of the whole thing, which I think says a lot about me. I just LOVE talking about gross bodily stuff and instead of being like "ew, women don't poop" she literally asked me "how are your stools?" and I was like FINALLY! Someone wants to hear about my stools! And she was so sensitive and nurturing and I got the feeling she wasn't just asking me because it was her job, she really did care about my stools. 


Then I stripped to my skivvies and laid face down on one of those massage tables with the face hole at the top and she covered me with a paper sheet and started putting the little pins all over me. The focus for the appointment was to alleviate my recurring hip/butt pain as well as some shoulder tension that has been lingering since I threw off my entire upper body attempting some burpees at an ill advised boot camp workout class, and she said she'd throw in a few extras "for stress." 


She talked me through the whole thing and it's really fascinating how the body all works together. A pin in the foot to open up the side of the body, somehow related to the gallbladder. Pins in the hands to open up the heart center. Truly incredible! All told I think I had about 20 little needles in me, a few of the pins hurt a bit but nowhere like getting blood drawn or a shot. It mostly just felt a little funny, I was cognizant that something was happening to my body but otherwise barely noticed them. I was trying really hard not to try too hard to relax, which was mostly worked and I managed to achieve a state of semi-calm which is pretty much as good as it gets in my world. She covered me all the way to my neck with the sheet and left me alone in the room. I was warm and cozy and doing a-ok! 

It didn't last long. I knew the appointment I signed up for was something called "Community Acupuncture" which I thought just meant discounts for people who live in the community. Apparently it meant that you were in a room getting 'puncthed with up to two other people. VERY RELAXING. I mean, I should have realized when I got to the room and saw three beds divided by hospital curtains, but I just thought it was for couples massages or something. Throuple massages, even. This is Brooklyn, we're progressive! 

I had just reached peak calm when my poke-woman (get it? Because she poked me with needles? And Pokemon is a cultural reference??) came back into the room with another patient and got her all set up on the bed next to me.

Who dis bitch? This is my pin room!

I tried to just zone out and ignore them, but of course I had to eavesdrop because I am a creep. Sadly everything they said was boring and I learned nothing exciting about anyone's stools. Then five minutes later she brought in another chick! Suddenly it was like, the Phi Beta Kappa sorority house of acupuncture, just ladies everywhere. And then she abandoned us all to lay there and pretend we're not stressed about the whole situation. It was at this moment that two things happen concurrently: my phone buzzed in my purse, leading me to panic about my poor behavior not putting it on silent, thus ruining other folks zen experiences and my nose began to itch, madly. I wanted to scratch it but I couldn't move my arms, because I had pins all up and down my shoulders so I tried gently blowing on it, which did nothing and it was in that moment, laying there there pinned like a dead moth in a frame, puffing breath up my own nostrils, that I came to the sad realization that I maaaaaaay not be an acupuncture person.


Finally after 700 hours later (probably 10 minutes) the acupuncturist came back into the room and unpoked me and I hovered behind my little curtain and quickly dressed, lest I accidentally destroy another patient's holistic experience by accidentally exposing them to my unkempt bikini area, and scurried out of the room. 

I felt like I was back in a safe womb when I returned to the waiting lounge. The receptionist gave me cool water and talked to me in her calming, whispery, hippie-lady voice and I handed over my credit card, which is a social transaction I know all too well how to handle and was really starting to feel like maybe this wasn't so bad after all when I saw it. There, perched in a little box on the edge of the counter, was a stack of those tiny envelopes you see at salons, the ones you fill with cash to tip your stylist.

What fresh hell is this?? Are you supposed to tip your acupuncturist?! I mean, I think of them as medical practitioners and I wouldn't tip my dentist so I feel like no. But also it's Eastern medicine and I guessss I would tip a masseuse (I mean, if I was the kind of chill person who could handle massages) which is another service offered by the practice, so where is the line drawn?  It's all very complex. I didn't have any cash on me so I didn't tip. I just tried to look the receptionist in the eye very kindly and avoid drawing any attention towards the envelopes so maybe no one would notice. If I can't see it, it can't see me! But that put me all back in a tizzy, what if you ARE supposed to tip and now they know I didn't and next time I go back the kind and sensitive lady acupuncturist reveals her inner fury and needles me in the eyeball or something? 

I know you're thinking "next time? It seems like you hated the first time" but like, now I need some acupuncture to get over the stress caused by acupuncture and it's just a whole vicious cycle. There's no stopping now!

Also I just really like talking about my stools in a safe and comfortable environment so, yeah. Maybe I am an acupuncture gal after all. 

And that is what I have been up to. Also a good example of how you can get an old dog some new alternative medical treatments, but she will still be the same neurotic pup.

Or however that old phrase goes.

Happy Friday, buds. Don't try anything new, it's a trap! 

Another Awkward Week [5.5.16]

Hello, it's me. 

I'm in New York where it's rainy and it makes me have to pee. 

And just like that, it's MAY. It's been grey and drizzly here for the entirety of the month to-date and I am not feeling it. This just does not fit the narritive of my very best joke at all. April showers are to bring May flowers which bring PILGRIMS! If the April showers just bring May showers...what do we get? Wet pilgrims, I guess? That's not hilarious!!! 

What is hilarious is that I'm typing this sitting in my office with the door locked and my pants off. 

Allllll the way off.

Why? Why not!

Nooooo, you know why. Despite the torrential downpours and frigid temps, I refuse to dress in warm and appropriate attire because it is MAY goddamn it, and I did not spend a collected $43 on all of this chic finery from the Old Navy Spring '16 collection to just let it rot away in the closet. NO! Today I tossed caution to the wind (the literal wind, this weather can eat me) and wore white jeans (before Memorial Day!!!) and made it all the way until 4:24 PM stain-free and then I ate two mini Reeses Peanut Butter Cups and maybe also squeezed them in between my legs like a thighmaster workout because somehowwww I have not one, not two, not even three but FOUR separate chocolate blobs on my pants and in like, the inner sanctum region.

How, friends, HOW? Honestly there are some questions I just don't think we want the answers to.

At any rate, the stains were too widespread and ferocious for me to Tide Pen whilst they were still on my legs, so I had to get surrrious and also pantsless and whelp, here we are.

I know what you're thinking and it is that today is Cinco de May and we should probably all do some tequila shots. That's a great thought! 

And the other thing you are, of course, thinking is that I probably shouldn't wear white pants, given my track record with eating. That is also a great thought! Butttt, yesterday I wore black pants, theoretically the safest color of the whole rainbow, and dropped half an avocado on myself and had a Grinch-green schmear on my thigh for the rest of the day so really there just is no safe answer. 

Although I may have discovered a outstation to my problems! Well, my food stain problem. The rest of my myriad issues remain! Yay therapy! This past weekend I went to visit my little bestie in Chicago for her FIRST BIRTHDAY (can you even believe it???) and during meal times she was rocking this number:

poncho baby

Yes, that is a MEAL TIME PONCHO. Forget a bib, this baby is rocking a full poncho to protect her cute lil outfits. Not just a bib. A full poncho. I need one!! I mean, I am basically as messy an eater as a one-year-old (though, this particular one-year-old does have very advanced motor skills, she's kind of the smartest ever) so I should take a cue from the toddler set and wear a poncho to the dinner table. It's my only option. 

The only option! 

Much like celebrity deaths or Mighty Ducks movies, all food spills must come in threes and good news, dudes, the avo & choco are actually numbers 2 & 3 for the week, so I'm finally in the clear, phew...until next week, at least.

The first spill of the week occurred on Tuesday morning. I'd spent several hours the previous evening whipping up a sundried tomato, goat cheese & caramelized onion quiche with a gluten-free sweet potato crust and oh-so carefully sliced it into four portions for the week into individual tupperware containers and I gently carted one of the slices into work and heated it up in the microwave and pulled it out of the microwave and plated it on a REAL PLATE because I'm not a heathen, I keep actual dishes in my office, that's how high my commitment to fine dining is, and I had a few little sliced strawberries on the side for a little breakfast dessert and then somehow I flipped the whooooole plate onto the ground and it landed with a splat and I yelled "OH NO!!!" and multiple people came running thinking I was like, injured or dying, but no I was just sad about my breakfast and causing a scene. 

As ya do.

Anyway, I went down to the cafe below our office to buy a replacement breakfast and the barista had accidentally rung in the previous customer's order twice and had two large coffees just burning a hole in the counter and did I want one, with half and half? You bet I did.

So that turned things around just a lil bit!

 Spend a lot of time making a healthy and fancy breakfast and then throw it on the floor and then go buy an overpriced croissant but also get a free coffee. I feel like there's some kind of metaphor for life in there, you know? Like, you can plan for things but they'll probably go totally wrong but then they'll go ok in a totally different way!

Oh yeah. 

I'm like Brene Brown over here with these revelations! 

And how has May treated YOU so far? 

Better than this, I sure do hope!

lucy is so sad but still adorable

Ok - my pants are dry. Time to re-enter polite society.


Liz Ho 

Another Awkward Week or Two or Five [3.18.16]

HELLO!! And oops. I just realized that the last y'all heard from me was a lengthy word-vomit about how badly I  need a therapist and then I went and dropped off the face of the (blogging) earth for a month. You were probably so worried about me!!! You're so sweet to be concerned. 

Ok yes, it is also possible that a) you didn't even notice how long it'd been or b) noticed and didn't miss me at all, which frankly is so rude, but I have now been to four whole therapy sessions so I am a fully actualized, self-confident and emotionally stable adult woman who totally does not even care at ALL about being liked by everyone all the time. Who needs outer validation when I have inner peace?!

JUST KIDDING I STILL NEED SO MUCH VALIDATION!!!!!!! Please love me! I'll do anything!!! 

Ok, maybe I still need a few more sessions to get over that particular personality trait. But otherwise, no I have not been off having a nervous breakdown, I've just been, you know, livin' my life. Watching TV, running, eating cheese, looking at houses I can't afford on Zillow-dot-com, making fancy breakfasts, falling for any and all feminist thinkpiece click bait the internet has to offer, transitioning from whole milk to half-n-half in my coffee and then back to whole milk again, going to be at 9 PM, considering veganism, biting my nails, planning imaginary vacations, webMDing various ailments, reading and publicizing literature, talking about myself. 

The usual!

Oh and also dropping my panties in the office.

Oh yes. You read that right.

Dropping. Panties. Office.

Let me explain! So as I've written once or thrice before, I have a terrible habit of leaving my wallet anywhere other than in my purse, where it belongs, and then finding myself in all sorts of shenanigans as a result. For example, this past week. I'll set the scene: It's 2:05 PM on Monday,  March the 14th. I was already having quite the day, being that it was a Monday and it was pouring rain and I was late to work because I had to stage an instagram of this Pi Day mug (my priorities are great, thanks for asking) and then as I was racing out the door to make up for all the time I lost filtering that shit I stepped in actual shit, of the dog variety. Yup. Some kind neighbor had the thoughtfulness to leave a big 'ol pile of dog doo right on the sidewalk next to our building and it was exxxxxxtra wet and gloopy thanks to the rain storm. Real cool, neighbor. Real cool.

So I went to my 1 PM Pilates class, as I do every Monday, determined to turn the day around with a heady mix of deep breathing and endorphins. And it was working! I pilatesed (not a verb) and rinsed and waltzed back into the office ready to give the day another go. As I entered our lobby, I began to dig into my oversized gym bag to find my tiny wallet, which I would need to enter through the security gates. I drew closer and closer to the gates, becoming frustrated. I swore the wallet was in there, why couldn't I find it?? I paused in my tracks and amped up my digging to level F for "Furious," scrabbling around in that tote like a drunk badger and it turns out that I did not have my wallet in there after all but what I DID have was a pair of underpants and somehow amidst all of that frantic searching I flung said underpants out of my bag and onto the floor of my office lobby.

Was the lobby crowded? Yes.

Could you tell they were def undies and not just like, fabric? YUP.

Was it clear they belonged to me? Crystal.

Were they laying there for at least 30 seconds if not longer? YES.

Does 30 seconds seem like four hours when you're talking about having your UNDERPANTS LAYING ON THE FLOOR OF YOUR OFFICE??? Honestly, it feels even longer. 

Did anyone notice? OH YUS. 

Did I look up to find the security guard staring at me in horror? Obviously.

Did he then kindly let me through the security gate, though I clearly didn't have an ID? No of course not. 

After I realized the scene I was causing I quickly scooped my panties off the ground and shoved them into my bag and tried to play it cool and sauntered up to the guard like I hadn't just been standing right in front of him throwing my undergarments all over the place and asked him to let me in and he blushed HARD and I knew he watched the whole thing go down, but what was he going to do? Point out that he noticed my underpants?? I've seen the company sexual harassment video our company sends out. Don't go there. I politely told him I forgot my wallet and he wouldn't even make eye contact with me, that's how embarrassing this all was and of course he still wouldn't let me, so I had to stand there, shamefaced and sweaty, waiting for someone I knew to come save me. 


You know I have a very high threshold for embarrassment so when I say this, I mean it: I was MORTIFIED.

I mean, all things considered I guess it could have been worse? They were a pretty cute pair, neither overly sexy nor overly frumpy and I'm pretty sure they were clean, at the very least they didn't have like, overt menstrual stains or anything, so like, if I had to pick an ideal pair of underpants to throw on the floor of my very crowded office lobby, this was probably the best pair to pick, but honestly, I really would prefer to pick the option to just not throw my underpants on the floor of my very crowded office lobby. Like, ever.


You would think this would teach me a lesson about being more careful with my wallet, but no, I managed to forget it again two days later when I went to lunch and ended up stranded in the lobby for 20 minutes, calling every co-worker cell number I could think of until someone picked up and came downstairs and got me.

Hot. Mess. Express.

So there ya have it! What I've been up to the last month. And how has YOUR March been?? 

Peace, love & underpants,





Happy New Year and #TBT: The Night of the Round Brush

New Year's Eve! 2016 is upon us, goodness me. I have half a dozen drafts started of introspective looks back at the year that was (and oh! what a year it was!) but I haven't managed to pull any of them into any sort of publishable shape yet. I keep getting distracted doing crossword puzzles, if you must know the truth. But they'll still be there in early January. Already, a treat to look forward to!

Instead, I'm kicking it way back to NYE 2010 and sharing a favorite from the Ol' One Awkward Year archives, The Night of the Round Brush. This remains one of my favorite stories (involving myself) (ok, ok, ALL of my favorite stories involve myself) of all time. And it's been five whole years since this all went down! Which also mean five years since I met Brian! Time flies when you're crazy in love. It feels like so much longer, in the best way. Trigger warning for extreme cheese but I sometimes can't remember what my life felt like before he was in it, I just feel like he's always been my partner. Oh, I love him so! 

Indeed, the as-yet-unwritten epilogue to this tale is that after all of these shenanigans, I walked into a party like I was walking onto a yacht and on that yacht I met the love of my life. And I almost feel like there's a bit of a moral there: Be Yourself.

I know, I know, it's trite and simple but bear with me here. This night I wanted to arrive at the party a sleek, sophisticated goddess, all cool charm and straight hair, aka the polar opposite of who I really am. And instead it all backfired and I burst in probably the truest version of myself: flustered, frizzy, commanding attention with a wild tale of misadventure and there, in that totally authentic state, I snagged myself a man. 

Admittedly I was wearing a pretty slutty outfit, so that might have helped just a pinch.

But there it is, my moral. Don't try to fight nature, just roll with it. In life and in love, just be a slightly slutty version of your true self and good things shall come. 

I promise! 

Happy New Year to you and yours and thanks for hanging out with me this year. See ya in 2016! Well first I'll see ya in 2011, as we #TBT below but then I'll see ya in 2016.

xoxo Liz 

One Awkward Hair-Do

January 04, 2011

New Year, New You! That's what I always say. The dawning of a new era is the best time to reinvent yourself spiritually, emotionally and, of course, physically. To welcome in 2011, I'm going to share some simple tips on achieving a really fun, flattering new hair-do. Now this do is really just for special nights out. Birthdays, weddings, funerals, key parties, etc. I tried it for the first time on New Years Eve and the results were spectacular! And it is SO Easy! All you need is a blow dryer, a big round brush, a slightly smaller round brush, water, two patient assistants and, eventually, a pair of scissors. Oh and also wine and Swedish meatballs, but they're not mandatory. Ready?

1. Make sure you're the last one in your apartment to shower, so the water is freezing cold. If you want, you can take a hot shower, but I think this is really important for sort of setting the tone of the hair-do.

2. Watch a couple of You Tube videos on "How to Blow Out Curly Hair" and "Drying with Volume" and stuff. It doesn't matter if you have straight hair, you should still watch these videos because they are interesting! And informational.

3. Using the larger of the two round brushes, blow dry your hair until it is straight and beautiful. Just as you're about to be finished, get this brush slightly stuck on the bottom left side of your head. Just slightly. Have a mild panic attack, invite your first assistant (for me, sister M) into the bathroom to help/tease you, and then just rip it out.

4. Feel embarrassed. Resume blow-drying.

5. Now your hair is totally dry, but it's not as voluminous as the models on YouTube. This is where the smaller (ideally also older, grosser) of the two brushes comes in. You're gonna want to take a giant section of hair from the top middle of your head, also known as the crown, and roll that entire section around the brush, allll the way down to the scalp. Do not miss a single hair, this is important!

6. Now try to remove the hairbrush. If you can get it out, you're doing this wrong and you need to try again. What you want to happen here is for the brush to be so completely stuck on the top/middle portion of your head/hair that it's just not going anywhere. Ever.

7. Panic. A lot.

8. Keep the panic to yourself - remember you're still super embarrassed about the first brush you got stuck in your hair no more than 10 minutes ago. You're an adult who can't brush her own hair. Just deal with it on your own. No need to involve other parties.

9. Get in the shower and attempt to get the brush out of your hair by smearing conditioner all over your head and face. This will only make the brush stick harder, but at least the shower is now warm, and also a good place to cry.

10. After the shower, spend 10-12 minutes frantically ripping at your head, until you realize that the brush is like really super stuck. This is good! At this point, you want your hair to look a little like this:

beautiful hair hottsauce

You are beautiful! Now you're ready to involve other people in your hair styling. Call in the one of your two assistants who has NOT already seen you with a brush stuck to your head (for me, my roommate K), and put him/her to work on your hair! Remember - your assistants can be anyone! Sister, brother, roommate, friend, neighbor, the pizza man, your cat, even your boyfriend. Although, if you're the kind of adult who gets a hairbrush stuck in their hair you're probably very single but hey, there's someone for everyone! That's another thing I always say.

So this is really quality bonding time. For the next hour - 1.5 hours, you sit on the toilet in your fuzzy robe while your assistant rips at your hair and you try not to cry and she tries to refrain from wondering out loud what she ever did to end up with a roommate like you and you are having SO MUCH FUN:

good times, great oldies

Look at you two! Such a good pair!

11. So step 11 is not mandatory and happens like, concurrent with step 10. This is where the wine/meatballs come in. Remember: you're having FUN. Start snacking! Get assistant two to periodically come into the cold bathroom where you're just hanging, styling, and bring you your favorite nosh. It can be anything you want bourbon/pretzels, beer/marshmallows, tequila/tater tots - it don't matta, just as long as the beverage is alcoholic and the snack is small enough that you can shove a lot of it in your face reallyfast, in an attempt to quell your rapidly increasing anxiety. And by anxiety, I mean the fun kind, like when you're riding a roller coaster, or having a pregnancy scare or trapped in the Sawbasement, not the bad kind.

12. After you've been at this for at least an hour, it's time to reevaluate. Give your former self one last look:

pure beauty

Now hand your assistant those scissors and SNIP!

SNIP SNIP SNIP! This should take at least another 30 minutes, if you really want to do it right. SNIP!

13. Get back in the shower (your 3rd shower of the evening), have another cry, get out of the shower and style your hair just like you normally do every single day.

And you're done! A beautiful, simple, big-night out hairstyle! The most exciting thing is how, after just 2.5 hours, your hair will look exactly the same as it did before, except with little short pieces hidden all around the crown of your head. Like a LITERAL crown. You now have a crown of hair and a guaranteed attention-grabbing story at whatever special event you happen to be attending. TA-DAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!

Here's to a very happy awkward 2011, y'all!

(This still stands! Here's to a very happy awkward 2016!!!!) 


Another Awkward Week [11.20.15]

Ok, hi. How are you? Dudes, I know, it’s been a while. I was on such a roll there for like, three weeks, and then it all kind of crashed down around me (lol the dramz) and now I’m having a hard time getting back in the swing of things. I don’t know! I’m trying! No, I’m not trying even a little, that is a lie. I’m VERY distracted doing adult life things, like looking at rugs on the internet (which do you like better, this one or this one?) (or this one?) (OR THIS ONE HALP IT’S AN ENDLESS BLACK HOLE) and stressing about what to get my in-laws for Christmas and also I have gotten embarrassingly into doing crossword puzzles, so that sexy hobby takes up a fat chunk of my life these days.

Also-also, I’ll admit it, I’ve been feeling a little blah about this whole blogging thing (blah-ging?), like what even is the point? I was feeling very self-defeatist, thinking  this is so dumb and I’m not contributing anything worthwhile to society and wondering why I even to do this in the first place.

I was ready to just shut it all down (again with the dramz) when a friend of mine regaled me with a tale of dropping her Diva Cup on the floor of the public restroom in her workplace, telling me she instantly thought of me as she scrambled to retrieve it without causing too much of a scene and it was JUST what I needed to hear. That is why I do this. To offer other women solidarity and empowerment in the midst of their Diva Cup –related hijinks. And teach men what Diva Cups are. Look it up, bros! And thank your lucky stars for those Y chromosomes…being a human woman is a gory nightmare.

This blog is so worthwhile for society. The world needs me!!

So let’s go right on ahead and take a look at what’s been keeping it awkward lately, mainly exclusively These Boots: 

danger boots

Earlier this year I went on a bit of a rampage in search of the perfect bootie (I already found the perfect BOOTY and it’s attached to a one Mr. Hott) and had my eye on these babies from DSW, perfect knock-offs of the Sam Edelman Petty Boot which I adore. I had a pair of the Edelmans that I got on a super duper discount a few years ago but they were this weird like, tan color and I absolutely destroyed them which was sad because I loved them and they were so comfortable and so I decided I’d get a black pair but I can’t justify spending more than $100 on shoes – or anything – because I’m a cheapy cheapster, even though I know you should pay money for quality products or whatever.

What a long and ultimately very dull sentence!

I thought I’d hit the jackpot with these store brand rip-offs, priced at just $60, minus a 10% off coupon. So I bought them, immediately ignoring any red flags from the website comment section, such as this one:

“The shoes are the most uncomfortable shoe I'vr worn. it hits a little below the ankle and there's a lot of space in between. Therefore, as I walk, the top keeps hitting the bone of ankle area. It hurts as I walked, whether going up or down the stairs, walking straight ahead, it's too painful to wear. Unfortunately i am unable to return this shoe since I've worn them. BUT DO NOT BUY IF YOU DON'T WANT YOUR ANKLE TO SUFFER!"

How's THAT for drama, am I right folks? Most of the other commenters seemed to love them and the 1.8 seconds I had them on in the store they were GREAT so I threw away all the packaging and sprayed them with leather protector and hit the goddamn town. By which I meant “went to work” because I’m a dull grown-up.

I had made it no further than 8 steps from my home when I realized that I, like Gob Bluth, had made a huge mistake. The top portion of the boot was indeed jabbing into my ankle, causing instant blisters. Walking down the subway steps was pure torture and up them on the other side was basically waterboarding of the ankles and I was literally dripping blood.

I usually have a bunch of band-aids in my purse because, you know, I’m me and therefore constantly bleeding from somewhere, but I must have used them all up on other injuries because I could only find one floating around. I bandaged up one of the legs but still had to figure out what to do about the other gaping flesh wound for the remainder of my .7 mile trek to the office. So I concocted the genius idea to just shove a few tissues into my shoe to create a barrier which sort of  worked but sort of not, the tissues just kind of flapped around and made things more uncomfortable and if you think walking into your workplace with a bunch of bloody rags poking out of your shoes would not draw attention well, you would be super-duper wrong.

bloody ankle pain

Good times.

I remained committed to the shoes (why), despite the pain, figuring I’d break them in and they wouldn’t be as painful when rubbing up against tights instead of bare legs and I was totally right on that front! The leather no longer causes me dire pain…so what more could go wrong?!?!


Fast-forward to a few weeks later, another tragic walk from my home to the subway, once again sporting these shoes. Mind you this is a four block walk. A lot can happen in 3 minutes when you are me, I guess. So I have this weird way of walking where I think I step heel first sometimes? Also I’m always moving at about 300 miles / hour because I am maniac on the sidewalk and I often will step kind of jankily on the back of my foot – especially in a wedge or a high-heel – and trip up a little bit. This time I don’t know if the boots were not yet scuffed up enough or I stepped on a leaf or the sidewalk was wet or something. I don’t know what happened except one minute I was walking all like…

strutting leo meme hottsauce

And then the next minute I was FLAT OUT on the sidewalk a little more like this:

flattened chipmunk

But not quite as fluffy and cute.

I was totally fine and somehow managed not to rip my tights (#blessed) but was in total shock and just kind of sat there, mortified, while morning commuters streamed around me. Everyone was really friendly and rushed to assist, like, people on the other side of the street stopped as if to run over and save me which is really so nice and comforting but you know, save your concern for a real emergency, buddies. Nothing to see here!

And yet, I keep trying to make these boots work. They say tragedy and bad luck happens in threes so I’m just awaiting the final installment in this triumvirate of bootie embarrassment. Hopefully soon, I don’t know how much longer I can live with the stress of waiting!

And there here ya go! May these tales provide you with some levity in this scary week  or, at the very least, give you a virtual fist-bump of solidarity as you’re tripping or bleeding or making it rain with feminine hygiene products. It’s all good.

Happy weekend, babes! Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Which means free pass to listen to the new Bieber album cuz that's prettyyyyy much all I'm up to these days. What a JAM. 

Xx Liz Hott

Another Awkward Week [10.9.15]

Hello, friends!! How are you?! I feel like it's been so long! Remember when I used to blog with regularity? Oh, those were the days. Those. Were. The. DAYS!

Now, man, I don't even know. It's like, well into October. Of 2015!! When did that happen?! I mean, yes, I know that technically and scientifcically October 2015 began to happen 9 days ago but, you knowww, emotionally and meta-physically what is going on and where are we? I'm so tired!

So what has everyone been up to? I know that literally no one will will answer that question and yet I ask it every single week. I realize it might seem like I only want to talk about myself - and that's mostly ture - but I DO love a good two-way conversation here and again. I sometimes feel like I'm writing this into an abyss (and possibly I am!) so maybe pop in and say hi?


Ok enough of you. Back to me, yay!!! 

Since the last time I really sat down here, life has been hoppin'. Just a blur of insanity! Work, work , work, work, some play, work, work, religious pilgramage, a little bit more play and a whole lot more work. Fall is always a busy season for the publishing biz but this year is a whole new crazy beast. And no end in sight! Starting tomorrow, when a car picks us up at the ungoldy hour of 4:10 in the A-M, I'm basically travelling for the rest of the month. 

This weekend we're in Cincinnati for a wedding then next weekend in Chicago for Lucy Goosie's christening. (Quick Q: What should two non-religious people gift a baby upon her christening?  Just like, cash? How much!? This is a real inquiry, help!). Then I'm travelling for work essentially through Halloween. First two days with this #1 New York Times bestselling author, back home for 2.5 days and then zipping across the country for a full week with THIS #1 New York Times bestselling author. Bananas! 13 flights in 22 days, hitting 9 states (well 8 states and the District of Columbia, if we're being precise) (how weird is it that DC isn't a state?!), including not one but two visits to Cincinnati. Look out, Ohio. I'm comin' for ya.

 I am already exhausted just thinking about it. But I'm excited, too! The personal stuff is great, obviously, what's better than weddings & babies? Nothing, duh.  And the work stuff is daunting, yes, but honestly SO RAD. The raddest. We almost never go on tours with authors so to get the opportunity to do so is a major honor. 

AND! To publish not one but TWO #1 bestsellers in one year is like, bonks, even for a big imprint but especially for a small imprint like ours. And we did that! And I was on the team for both! That's so cool. I know post a lot of Niki Minaj videos and stuff (this is an actual must-read), but when it comes to my own life I'm actually very bad at being a Boss Bitch. But if Niki can have the ovaries to kick a journalist out of her home in the middle of an interview, I can uterus up and toot my own horn very softly here on this blog that like 4 people read. So I'll say it: I've been working really hard this year and really goodthis year and I'm proud of myself. 


The downside, of course, to all this jet-setting Boss Bitch lifestyle is that I have very little time to fit in the fun stuff like hanging with  mah frandz and watching Scream Queens and, of course, blogging. But, no matter how busy I get I still always, always manage to find time to publicly embarrass myself...and document it all. 

For YOU world. I do this for you. 

So, without further ado, let's take a look at how this Boss Bitch was keeping it awkward lo these past many weeks.

This Cheese:

cheese tower disaster

Wanna take a hot guess who knocked over the parmesean tower at her local upscale food market? 

Questo ragazzo! 

I then started to pick them up but a very nice store employee came rushing over and said "no no! I've got this!" but I felt so bad and weird having him clean up my mess even though I guess it is his job so I just stood there and watched as he picked up each individual tub o' cheese and delicately placed them back on the shelf and said "thank you" every single time.

Just hovered there, watching, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

Dude could not get that cheese tower assembled fast enough. He basically sprinted away from me. 

So weird.

This Shirt:

you only hurt the ones you love

Is there some kind of country song about how you only hurt the ones you love the most? If not I'm going to write it and it's going to be about this top. It is my very favorite and also my very most stained.

Every single time I wear it, I end up with a stain. See also this day. And this day. And trust me on the dozens of other days unphotographed. 

It always happens right after laundry day too. I love the shirt so much, as soon as it dries I very, very carefully iron it and put together an ensemble and skip out the door feeling very cute and I always think "this time! This time I'll last all day without spilling on myself!" 

And I am always, always wrong. Sometimes I even spill twice!

Like this particular day, for instance. The stain you see above is an actual mystery. It looks like coffee but I have no recollection of the actual spillage and didn't notice the stain until I was out on my lunch break, at which point I sprinted into the ladies' room to snap a selfie...much to the delight of my friend Abi, whose elbow you can see in the frame there. 

That evening I stopped at the aforementioned local upscale food market to grab a few items for dinner (different day than destruction of cheese tower day!). They have this really great antipasta bar with olives and stuff and they always put out free samples. I am WAY into these little cippolini onion guys, which Brian finds disgusting because they're basiclally just raw onions in vinegar but MMMM, I can not get enough! 

So on this day, as all days, I made a beeline for the samples and speared a giant onion with a toothpick and brought it to my mouth and dropped it RIGHT down the front of me. So now not only did I have a weird coffee stain right over my crotch, I also had onion juice all over the rest of me. 

Needless to say I was the most attractive shopper in the store that evening. Really bringing the goods. 

And now, because I don't have a washing machine, my beloved favorite shirt sits, covered in oxyclean pre-laundry gloop, until the next time I can drag my sorry rear to the laundromat.  Good lord, I would do anything for my own washing machine!!

(Except, of course, the one thing that would actually make that happen: move to the suburbs. Gross!)

These Boots:


Actually I shouldn't neg on the 'burbs so hard, because this past weekend I was hating on the city  life something fierce. Like 97.64 % of the time I love this life and all that comes with it, but sometimes, man it sucks here. Last weekend it was drizzly and freezing and I had a head cold and I needed to run a bunch of errands and all I wanted to do was hop in a car and go to the mall. The mall! Just park and leave my coat in the car and wander around popping into all the stores my little heart would desire. Instead I bundled up and stood out in the cold and waited for the damn bus and went to the makeshift hell hole of a mall nearest my home which has about three decent stores...four if you count the garbage Target I can't seem to quit. 

I made some returns to Old Gravy, had good shoe luck at DSW, scored some basics at Uniqlo and then my good spirts were crushed by Target. There were lines out the door and broken cash registers and my nose wouldn't stop running and somehow it was at once freezing and stuffy inside and oh, I just wanted to go home! I hauled my belongings to the bus stop, where I had a 10 minute wait in the rain until the next bus. I decided I'd pop into a nearby bodega to get some ramen to eat upon my return home. 

This hot, spicy, sinus clearing bowl of soup was my guiding light. Of course this particular store had no ramen. Then! As I dejectedly walked back out onto the sidewalk, my paper shopping bag ripped, spilling discounted designer boots and bags of sensible white T's all over the damp, dirty sidewalk. 

Thank goodness I have this blog, guys, because the absurdity of me standing there, snapping photographs of my spilled shopping bags while people stared at me, wondering WHAT the hell I was doing, had me crying with laughter instead of frustration which is kind of a miracle.

Oh and I totally took a taxi home. Best $8 I ever spent! 

This NSFW Image:


Well, not really but, well, you'll see. 

Recently I was emailing with a professoinal contact about checking in with another person on something. I MEANT to say "I'll send him another nudge," with a d...but instead I typed (and sent!) "I'll send him another nude."

Another nude!!

And now you know the secret to scoring a #1 New York Times Bestseller. Bribe 'em with titties. 

And that, my fair friends, is the best of the best and the worst of the worst! I promise I'm not as groucy as I sound... I just need sleep! (And maybe access to a better Target.) Now to bed I go! I just realized that if our car comes at 4, that means I have to get up at like...3 something and woof that is not a fun number to see. 

Good night to you! Or good day, if you're reading this in the morning. Good anytime, I'm just so glad you're here! Have I mentioned how very much I appreciate you reading this? Because I do, do, DO. 


Liz Hott 



Another Awkward Week [9.18.15]

GUYZZZZ. Do you believe in Mercury in Retrograde? Slash know what the even means? From my extremely basic understanding, it has something to do with planets aligning in such a way as to ruin your life for a few weeks. 


I don't really get / care about astrology. Like, I'll read my horoscope every now and again but I mainly ignore everything  they say and consider it mumbo jumbo unless it's like "Virgos are the best!" and then I'm all on board. So I'm not exactly one to buy into planetary shenanigans, but this whole Mercury in Retrograde thing is like, very hot right now. I feel like everyone I know is blaming the planets for their bad days and normally I scoff and scoff and scoff at them (behind their backs, I'm mean) but GUYS I am having THE WORST DAY and I visited this website: and apparently the answer is YES. Mercury is retrograding, whatever that means, and it is fucking with us all

So. Today. 

I awoke before the sun in a work induced panic, as is my wont these days, and decided I may as well make the most of my early start, so I got up and had some coffee and started this blog and put on a cute outfit and was all ready to walk out the door super duper early to get into my desk and get shit DONE, yo, and I decided I'd take the trash out on my way downstairs and THENNNNNNNNNN it turned out that not only was the trash super duuuuper smelly but also the bag had ripped and I managed to get smelly garbage juice all over our kitchen floor AND my aforementioned cute outfit.

Excellent! There is really nothing like a hot garbage bath to really kick off your day, you know? 

But then! On my walk to the subway (after I changed ensembles and cleaned both the kitchen floor and the inside of the garbage can...all before 8 AM) I saw a dad driving his teenage daughter to school, windows down, blasting Rush and singing along "living in the limelighttt, the universal dreammm," clearly delighted embarrassing his daughter in the passenger seat beside him and then I saw a really adorable little toddler boy (my favorite kind of boy!) (STILL CREEPY!) riding a scooter with a helmet that looked like a watermelon and a look of great concentration on his face and he almost killed me with cuteness and I decided these were good omens that the day would actually be OK in the end.

But then I got to the subway juuust as the train was pulling away without me, which I would say is another bad omen.

So THEN! I got to work and wasted a whole bunch of time writing and posting a blog entry about eating dinner at the same restaurant as the Mayor of New York which I would ultimately end up deleting a few hours late because a) it was kind of dumb and b) my day just kept going downhill.

Around 11 AM I got a text from my next door neighbor who is also our landlord's son and kind of the like, on-site landlord. He has keys to the apartments and helps get stuff done around the place. So he texted me:

"Hey all good. Neighbors smelled something burning on our floor."

Um, what?!???? 

Apparently the people who live above us smelled smoke but there was no one around to get inside our apartments and check it out - the texter was out of town for the weekend and Brian and I were both at work.

Of course I panicked, because duh, and decided I needed to rush home and check just in case. There was no way I was going to get anything done anyway, I'd be so worried about my house burning down. 

I raced out of the office sending Brian a bunch of frantic text messages and while I was riding the subway home I remembered that our smoke alarm has been broken for months and we keep forgetting to talk to our landlord about it and my brain filled with increasingly terrifying images of our whole apartment aflame, our dumb broken smoke alarm just melting from the heat, warning no one (I know, people would have seen the fire at this point but cut me some slack, I'm nuts). 

Oh. ALSO. While frantically racing home on the Brooklyn bound F train, I was graced with the gift of my period arriving early, whilst wearing a pair of pretty nice, hitherto unstained white underwear AND AND AND I stepped in gum.


Whilst I was on the subway, Brian got my messages, didn't realize I was already on my way home, panicked himself because we are BOTH insane, and HE raced home too. So both of us like, took off work in the middle of the day, and ended up meeting at home (at least I got to see his cute face!) and guess what was on fire? 


The whole morning was just such a literal garbage thundershower I was honestly hoping the apartment was on fire so I could just call out for the rest of the afternoon and wallow in self pity.

But nope. Nothing. 

So I just turned myself right back around, hopped back on that goddamn F train, and was back here at my desk by 12:30 PM having been through more (first world, I know) trauma by lunchtime than I have been in weeks.

To say that I would like to restart this day (or just shut it down completely) would be the underest of understatements. 

I am just going to sit here for the rest of my day, staring at this collage of Prince George photos:

prince george is perfect

And listening to THIS Ryan Adams cover of "Bad Blood" (from 1989 cover album which comes out Monday and I already preordered!!!!) because they are the only two beautiful things left in my day and you can't take these away from me, Mercury, YOU CAN'T.

Just kidding I'm going to spend the rest of my day frantically catching up on all the work I missed while I was riding back and forth from Brooklyn and blogging and deleting my blog and writing other blogs and melodramatically flopping around the office complaining about my hard life and other really valuable uses of my workday.

Le sigh. 

And how's your day going?? 

I sure do hope it's better than mine, mostly because if it was worse, this wouldn't seem as dramatic by comparison and then you'd get more pity and attention than me and oh, wouldn't that just be Mercury's cruelest trick yet!! 






Another Awkward Week [9.11.15]

Oh hello there. Apparently it is already Friday. Who knew, I ask. WHO KNEW?!

The week after Labor Day is always a bit of a swift punch in the face and this year things seem to be in hyper-drive. Our fall at work is probably the most intense season I've experienced in my eight years here and I'm tryyyying not to allow myself to become overwhelmed...but I'm not sure I'm succeeding. I keep having all of these stress dreams where like, I'm forgetting important things and have to scramble to fix them. Like the other night I dreamt we went camping (I hate camping!) and I forgot all of my clothes and had to drive back and get them and then I couldn't find them and I woke up in a cold sweat and immediately started panicking.

It doesn't take a Freudian Scholar to decode these themes. I've had some variation of that dream pretty much every single night this week. I'm so tired! 

I'm genuinely curious to hear: how do you take care of yourself when you're feeling really stressed? What sort of self-care routines do you put in place to help yourself navigate a busy season? The madness is just beginning I need all the help I can get! I'm trying to make sure I exercise at least 4 x a week, eat really clean and take these weird sleep vitamins. But then I lay awake at night worrying about what I'm going to buy my in-laws for Christmas (WHAT? Brain...why do you torture me?!) so I might need new vitamins, ha! I know, I'm nuts and need professional help but whatever. Here we are! Help! 

So this is getting off to a rip-roaringly entertaining start, now isn't it! Just gotta keep it real sometimes, folks. But life is not all stress dreams and frantic cardio, I promise!! In fact, this week provided plenty of moments of ridiculousness so why don't we take a look at what was keeping it awkward this week. Aside from this weirdly small font that I can't figure out how to size to match the rest of the font. How do computers work again?? 

Anyway. Let's go. 

This Text Message from a Stranger:

Look in your pants

Um, pass. But thanks for asking?

This Spot:

fly poop!!!!!!!

Just...squint real good, you’ll see it there. Guess what it is??


So the other day I decided I’d take my lunch to the park and catch up on a little work reading while I noshed. It turned out to be kind of a whole thing.

First I got a chicken schwarma wrap from this Turkish food truck I’ve been meaning to try and it was...not bueno. I don’t know what it was, guys. I’m not that finnicky of an eater but something about this chicken was just NOT happening for me. It was maybe gristly or chewy or something? Whatever, it was gross. I took out all the chicken and wrapped it in a napkin and threw it out and felt VERY good about myself when I saw a homeless man was sleeping on a bench LITERALLY 10 feet away from where I was throwing away my food because I’m such a picky picky princess. Ugh.

So I sat back down and was munching on the remains of my lunch - now just a lettuce wrap...yum? - when a big fly landed on my trousers, just above my knee.

It was HUGE and had some unusual markings so at first I was worried it might be a bee. I didn’t want to get stung so I paused just a moment to confirm its genus (species? Phylum? Remember that stuff from biology?!!! Clearly I don’t) and just as I confirmed it was, indeed, out from his little fly butt came a tiny - but visible!! - squirt of brown substance.


And then it just flew away! The classic shit and scram!!

I was so grossed out I sprinted back to the office. Well, first I took like,17 various close-up images of the poop stain but thennn I sprinted back to my office to do some serious scientific research.  

I didn’t know that flies even pooped but apparently they either barf or poop almost every time they land. And I thought I had a sensitive GI tract!

I had read just enough internet articles to assure myself that fly poop is both normal and harmless when I told the story to a coworker and she pointed out that maybe it wasn’t pooping on me but instead laying eggs and now my tasteful navy work pants are the nesting place for a whole family of flies.

WHAT. I’m not ready to be a fly mom! Where will they sleep? How will we afford school? We’re not prepared!!!

Upon further internet researching (always 100% the truth) I remain committed to my initial instinct that it was, indeed, a case of the old numero dos, NOT an egg laying situation.

Phew. Fly poop is pretty gross but when the alternative is becoming the primary caretaker of an entire family of diptera (look it up), well, I’ll take the shit and scram any old day of the week.

This Video:

Hits maybe a little too close to home. I spotted this mere hours after fully hijacking my friend’s Labor Day recap to talk about The Goose.

Me - “How was your long weekend?”

Friend - “Oh it was fun, I was at Lake Michigan and…”


Cue me forcing her to look at a 15 minute slideshow of vacation photos of a four month old.

I can’t help it, guys. This chick is the best.

cool sunglasses baby

I mean!!! Look at that 'tude!!

And that’s wasssupp. Big plans for the weekend? Brian and I might be hosting a BBQ for our annual joint birthday party (barf, I know I know), weather permitting, and Sunday I’m going to my first clothing swap where I’ll pawn off all my out of season Old Navy jeggings and hopefully score some designer duds in return. Cha-ching!

Whatever you do, I hope it’s spicy, delightful and absolutely fly poop free.

xoxo Auntie Lizzie