Feelin' 32

grown up hottsauce funny blog

Hello, friends. I have some big news to share. I have become a woman!

No, I didn’t just start my period - that happened when I was in fourth grade, years before all the other girls, and I still have the emotional scars to prove it. Nor did I just lose my virginity - that happened well into my twenties, years after all the other girls, and I did have the emotional scars to prove it until I learned that Tina Fey also kept her v card until a late age so now I’m an out and proud member of the Old Virgins Club.

It turns out that, contrary to every Judy Blume novel ever written, womanhood is not one (likely v bloody) milestone that you can check off in your diary, but something unexpected and innate that sneaks up on you from behind whether you’re ready or not.

In every way I am an adult. I am thirty-two years old, by which I mean I’m very much “in my thirties,” woof. I’m married. I have a robust 401K and an assistant and a bad hip and multiple blazers and yet I still feel like a perpetual tween. I do in some ways think that city living may be a bit to blame. Unlike the town where I grew up, people here generally marry later, have kids later, live in tiny rental apartments with roommates into their 30’s, 40’s and beyond. The traditional trappings of adulthood, as embodied by the suburban parents of my childhood, don’t seem to apply to me or to any of my NYC friends, so I’ve been able to hold onto a sort of eternal Peter Pan feeling. We’re all growing older, but are any of us growing up? When I see my peers doing these adulty things like procreating or buying four bedroom houses on cul-de-sacs it feels utterly foreign and somehow wrong, like they’re play acting at real life. Those things are for adults and we can’t possibly be adults yet.  I mean, I certainly am not! Or... am I?

Some of this, surely, is because I’m such a horrid snob about non-urban living - the word “cul-de-sac” is basically moist to my ears (shudder, shudder) - but in other ways it still just takes me by surprise every day that I’m allowed to do things like take money out of the bank or rent a car without a note from my mom.

I’d say it’s a mix of this snobbishness, a little jealousy, a whole bunch of fear, and no small pinch of denial that’s had me feeling pretty OK about this eternal tween scene. Who even needs adulthood?? SEEMS BORING.

And then, when I least expected it, it found me.

Last week I was hanging out with two young co-workers, both 22, fresh outta college, just like me! Err...me circa a literal decade ago. I have always known I’m like, older than these gals, but we’re all still peers, right? Hashtag millennials! Snapchat! The Chainsmokers, probably!?!?

The two of them were regaling the group with funny stories about their apartment situations - all the post-college classics like bad roommates and plenty of mice, navigating subleases and guarantors, pulling together just enough cash for a security deposit, crashing on couches, full of optimism and enviable naivete As they talked I became filled with these unexpected feelings. I was worried for them. I wanted to nurture them. I could sympathize with what they were going through, having been there myself before, but I could not currently relate. Instead of being like, “OMG girls, life is so crazy, should we do some shots?!”, I just...nodded, a supportive yet moderately concerned look on my face. I gave them advice on dealing with landlords and reminded them never to meet a person from Craigslist without a buddy. I blithely uttered the phrase, “when I was your age,” with no irony whatsoever and all at once it hit me: holy shit, me, you are a grown-up. 

Apparently to achieve adulthood you need not purchase a townhouse or a minivan or even just one of those medium sized SUVs all the hot soccer moms are driving these days, you simply need to close your eyes and think “dear god, you could not pay me to be 22 again” and whoosh, there you are, in adulthood. It’s like Dorothy clicking her ruby slippers to get home again except instead of leaving Oz behind, it’s your youth that’s fading from technicolor behind you.

Ain't life something? 

So there you have it, world, I am an adult now. I am not a girl, not yet ... nope... 100% a woman. And I don’t know how I feel about it, so if anyone’s looking for me you’ll find me at the nearest Chico’s indulging in a little retail therapy while I sort it all out.

Whatever the mature version of xoxoxox is, 



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,





Mo Money, No Problems

treat yo self hottsauce powerball

As basically anyone with eyes, ears and a facebook page is likely aware, the Powerball lottery is currently topping out at 1.5 billion dollars. I usually avoid these sorts of shenanigans - what are the chances, really?! - but gosh, that’s a lot and it’s kind of fun to get swept up in the madness, so I stopped at the newsstand in my office building on the way out of work and handed over $10 in exchange for five chances to win. Five out of how many, total? I’m not even going to venture to guess.

There are now about two hours to go until the lottery is drawn and Brian and I are trying to decide what we’ll do with our winnings.

First things first: pay off my student loans.

Ok, no. The VERY first thing we'll do is take out a whole bunch of cash, all in hundreds and throw it all over the bed and have sex on top of it. 

And thenI'll pay off my student loans. I am not beginning my ritzy new life with that albatross around my neck. I’d pay off my siblings’ loans too (even my brother’s law school!) and my mom’s mortgage. And then probably buy her a beach home and a new car and anything else she could ever want, so she can retire and just live a life of leisure. Honestly if anyone’s making out like a bandit from these winnings, it’s The Schmoops. She’ll be living like royalty without all the taxes and winner’s guilt and such.

So, then! A house of our own, here in New York. The West Village and Brooklyn Heights are utter dreams,  but we like to be close to the park so we can run. Maybe we’ll relocate to Manhattan, get one of those penthouses overlooking Central Park. But Manhattan’s like, over, right? So we’ll stay right here in Park Slope, just lightly upgrade to something bigger, brighter, maybe with a deck?

“And a washer/dryer of our very own!!!” I yelped with glee, before realizing I could hire a whole army of laundry minions to take pick up my soiled garments off the floor and hand wash them, piece by piece by piece before steaming and hanging perfectly in my closet.

MYcloset! MY OWN WALK IN closet that I don’t have to share with my husband!  I’ll be like one of those House Hunters wives, sweeping through massive closets and simpering “this will do for my shoes, at least...where will you store your things, honey?”

Oh, I’ll be insufferable.

But it’ll be fine because he will have a closet of his own where he can line up row after row after row of perfectly pressed Uniqlo button downs.

Or maybe even JCrew button downs! And not even JCrew Factory but real true JCrew, right out of the catalog. And me, I’ll start buying full price designer jeans that are actually long enough for my legs, instead of $19 pairs that stop mid-calf. I certainly won’t stop shopping at Old Navy, though, I could never leave them behind.

Maybe I’ll BUY Old Navy! I’ll become the new CEO of Old Navy, that’s what I’ll do. We couldn’t decide if we’d keep working or not - we both think we’d go mad just sitting around, doing nothing. Brian thinks he’ll start his own non profit education organization, helping low income kids get a leg up. If he really wants, he could still teach a math class or two. I figured I’d go like, mega Ann Patchett, buy up a string of indie bookstores all across America, while also running some kind of literacy non-profit. I think I could juggle all of that while still running Old Navy, yeah?

I mean, I’ll have plenty of staff. A personal assistant making my doctor’s appointments and things. The laundry minions. A cook! We won’t stop cooking all together, but think a part-time chef would be helpful. Think of the time I’d save on my meal prep. All the hours I waste messing up the kitchen trying to make weekday lunches, I could now pour into my various careers and charity endeavors. Oh and we'll be so healthy too. Maybe we’ll go vegan! Imagine all the green juices one could drink if one didn’t then have to clean up the goddamn juicer afterwards.

Obviously unspoken no duh expenditure: a personal trainer. Gwyneth will weep at the sight of my triceps. I’ll get my hair colored by a real professional stylist. Maybe get those eyelash extensions, too?

Also and I wish this was a joke but dead serious the first thing that came into my head when I was pondering absurd expenditures was laser hair removal, especially on the bikini zone. I’ll finally be rich enough to afford regular waxes but won’t even need ‘em because I’ll be so rich, I zapped it all off.

(Yes it’s a sad state of affairs for the modern woman that the first and best use I can dream up for my billions is pube management.)

Anyway, I’ll need to be all sleek and silky smooth for all the bikinis I’ll be rocking on various beaches. We considered buying a beach property somewhere, but we don’t want to feel tied down, so instead we’ll just vacation whenever we please, wherever we please. New cities every year. Every month! We’ll take our friends on extravagant getaways with us, rent out whole villas. Buy the best wines, the richest cheeses, the ripest fruits.

Oh and I’m never even looking at a coach seat on an airplane again. First class or bust, baby! With extra champagne.

We will NOT buy our own plane, because private jets seem to crash at an alarmingly higher rate than commercial and I did not win all this money just to meet some tragic John Denver fate.

RIP John Denver.

Maybe we’ll buy Denver! The city, I mean. Can someone own a city? Do we want to own a city? Brian briefly tossed around the idea of going full Bloomberg. You know, investing a lot, reviving a city and then running for Mayor of New York, but then we remembered that being the Mayor of New York carries a lot of, you know, responsibility, and we’re just not down for that.

I suppose in exchange for Mayorship, I might finally let Brian get a dog, now that we can afford someone to walk it while we’re at work or over in Tuscany, overseeing our vineyard.

Oh right, I forgot to mention: we’re buying a vineyard! Wine for life! What should we call it? Hott Wine sounds like garbage juice. BriLiz Vitners? Billion Dolla Grapes?

I kind of like that last one.

We will, of course, set up all sorts of scholarships and funds and donate to lots of charitable organizations and the like. And we’re considering becoming a two man Shark Tank Team, investing in lots of weird startups and inventions.

And we’re going to need to watch Shark Tank, you know for research, so we’re going FULL cable, bitches. HBO, Showtime, Starz, fuzzy local channels that only play Korean Christian music videos, we’re getting ‘em all.

Our kids will go to the finest schools in the city but somehow we’ll manage to keep them grounded and save them from turning into little Chuck Bass monsters. How? Who knows. We have plenty of time (and money!) to figure that out.

(Also, based on how quickly and dramatically our conversation veered from fun what-if daydreams into dramatic hand-wringing over the price of raising children - how much do diapers cost?? Where will our kids go to daycare? HOW WILL WE AFFORD ALL THESE SOCCER CLEATS!!! - it looks like we may need to actually win this lottery before procreating.)

We’ll have a country home too, somewhere nearby where we can escape the hustle and bustle of the city. We’ll get a car, I suppose, though I’m such a shit driver, I imagine we’d have to hire a chauffeur. A chauffeured car seems like the ultimate douche move but it’s either that or live with the constant risk of me running into a stone wall or guard rail or the Empire State Building or something so...full douche it is!

We’ll live like kings, but nice kings, whose subjects adore them. There will be no Marie Antoinette beheadings in our lottery life. We’ll keep it real, like JLo, not get fooled by the rocks that we’ve got. We used to have a little, now we have a lot, but no matter where we go, we’ll know where we came from.

(A perfectly fine upper-middle class yuppie life, TBH.)

And that’s what we’ll do, when we win! All we have left to decide is which brownstone we’ll buy and, of course, which AM TV program to visit first. I’m deciding between GMA (top ratings!) and CBS This Morning (luh that Gayle King) and Brian says, and I quote “I want no media attention” to which I replied, and again I quote “bitch, please.” You will see me - spray tanned and perfectly coiffed - all up on the cover of People Magazine, my friends.




Will I keep blogging, you ask, after I (erm, we) win my (OUR!!) billions? A fair question, but only time will tell. I mean, I barely blog now, as a regular old poor, and I can’t guarantee how much time running Old Navy will require (literally what does a CEO do?? Executively Officiate? What does that even mean?!) but I’ll do my best to continue to bless the internet with my wit and charm, even after I’m richer than god.

And by god I obviously mean Beyonce. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I must dash off to Christie’s Auction House. Those Picassos are not going to bid on themselves!

Ciao, darlings!

xoxo Liz Hott

liz lemon make it rain hottsauce gif powerball

Another Awkward Week [2.27.15]

Guys, hi! I know I was all "I need a change" but sometimes you just gotta stick with what's working, you know? 

How was everyone's week? Did you get swept up in the whirlwind of that blue/black/white/gold dress?! OF COURSE YOU DID THE WHOLE WORLD DID. No one could look away! The first time I looked, I was seeing blue and black and Brian was seeing white and gold and then the second time it looked white to me and then it started to really stress me out and then we both thought it looked kind of beige and grey and then Brian discovered that Taylor Swift was on team blue...

Team Swift

...so of course I had to hop on that bandwagon. You're my girl, T! 

Apparently it all has to do with pixels and lenses and biology, but I still don't understand it, man.

I DO however now have that Black and Yellow (Black and Yellow, Black and Yellow, Black and Yellow) song stuck in my head so thanks for nothing, SCIENCE. 

Anywayyyy, enough about that nonsense. Why don't we take a look at what was keeping it awkward this week. 

This Mess:


Turns out no matter how long you take off blogging, some simple facts remain the same. Like water will ALWAYS spill out of your bottle if you turn it upside down without the cap on.

Also, tissues are great for runny noses...less great for mopping up huge puddles from Amtrak seats.  

This Treat:


As I alluded last week, we're having a bit of an issue with cleanliness and order around Hott Manor. We've both just been so busy it's easy to let dishes fester in the sink and junk pile up around the house. We were giving ourselves a major pass - we'll get to it! - until this week when I reached into the couch cushions and pulled out this bag of smashed old chocolate candies... gross. Just gross.

Brian just looked at me and said: "We gotta get it together."

Ugh, we so do.

This Elevator Ride:


That awkward moment when you get on the elevator on the 4th Floor intending to take it down to the ground floor but instead it goes up to the 7th floor and a lady gets on and then SHE rides it all the way up to the 10th floor and then and only then do you realize you're going in the opposite direction and dramatically yelp "Oh NO!!" really loudly and the strange lady stares at you and then you get to the 10th floor and she gets off and looks back at you like, "you getting out, weirdo?" and you say, aloud "no, I'm good" (what?) and then just stand there for a million hours before you remember you STILL need to press the button for the ground floor if you ever intend to get anywhere.

And then the elevator, of course, stops at every gdamn floor in the entire building on the way down. Le sigh.

Speaking of interacting with other humans...

This Cheese Plate 

cheese platter yum yum

So my boss, in addition to being an incredible Publicity Director (and yoga instructor and adventurer and all around cool cat) is a brilliant poet. Her first book of poems was published this month!! You can check her out on NPR here and then rush out and purchase the book. You won't be disappointed!

This is also the first/only book of poems I've ever read aside from Shel Silverstein. Such a sophisticate!

Anywhoo, on Wednesday night a huge group gathered at Brooklyn's Book Court for a launch party / reading celebration complete with a yummy cheese platter. Here's a little insidery glimpse into the publishing industry: publishing people fucking LOVE cheese platters. Can not get enough. 

The night was winding down and I was hovering near the food, as I do, and out of the corner of my eye saw a woman scraping at the dregs of one of the blocks of cheese, really going for it just making sure she got every last bite of cheese off that plate. 

thought this woman was my colleague Alex, turned to her and said "Yeahhh! Get it girl!"


Turns out she didn't even look a THING like Alex save that they're both brunette white ladies. 

She looked at me in abject horror and ran away. 

Oh my god. She probably thought I was making fun of her, too, for going to town on that cheese. But I was so proud!! A woman after my own heart. 

Smooth, smooth SMOOTH.

And that, my friends is the haps! Any fun weekend plans? I'm rocking a variety of suburbs all weekend long, with a birthday party in New Jersey this evening and a bridal shower on Long Island tomorrow...to which I'll be wearing a sweater dress that is either light grey with darker grey accents or dark grey with lighter grey accents depending on how your lenses pixelate it. SCIENCE!!!! 

Hope your weekend is magical and mystical and no strangers attack you at the cheese plate.

xoxo Liz