Long Live The Queen

So, I don’t know if you do this but whenever I’m driving, or more accurately, whenever I am riding along in a putrid MegaBus, and it’s all smooth sailing and open lanes I am terrified to so much as think much less say outloud “oh! we’re really making good time!” because I just know that the moment the words leave my lips we’ll come around a bend to a five car pile up and be stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic and life will be ruined allll because of me. Perhaps I sound a tad fatalistic, but I can’t help myself. I come from a long line of neurotics with bad luck & lots of Irish Catholic guilt. All good things will surely end and when they do, it’s all our fault.

Really healthy bunch we are, mentally.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it is with Beyonce.

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

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

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

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


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



Yesterday was the coolest! The bigwigs at WordPress HQ, located deep in the depths of The Internet (a place that looks exactly like the Capital City from The Hunger Games, one imagines), selected my latest post memorializing Whitney Houston to be on their Freshly Pressed homepage and within a few hours I was flooded with of new comments, followers, and hopefully (fingies crossed!) digital friends.  Yesterday’s pageviews were a cool 59 times my average daily count for the past 2 years I’ve been blogging. As my good, personal, real life friend Liz Lemon might say:

This was, literally, a dream come true. Everyone knows I blog 70% out of love for writing / 30 % love for attention. Well, maybe closer to 60/40 (orrr 20/80...1/99, whatever). So to have my writing selected, resulting in an outpouring of attention was a real shining moment for me. This is what it must feel like to be Homecoming Queen, or Kate Middleton.

But more than just getting the love and adoration I so clearly deserve, this Freshly Pressed experience is a major stepping stone toward becoming a better blogger. I know what you’re thinking: “Liz, you are already the best blogger ever!” Well thank you very much, but even masters can improve. One thing I’ve always admired about good bloggers is the ability to connect with other bloggers who share similar views, follow blogs they like and find readers for their own. For a number of reasons, laziness probably being no’s 1-17, I haven’t yet figured out how to make those cool connections happen for me.  Now thanks to Freshly Pressed, a TON of new faces have come to visit One Awkward Year (Hi! Thanks for reading! I love you! Romantically!) and I am so excited to go check out their stuff and hopefully, if I play my cards right, just completely ignore my actual paying job in favor of reading the Internet.

I’m also going to have to write more often. Can’t let down my new fans! These poor, poor bloggers are about to get so much Liz Ho up in their lives, I almost feel sorry for them.

One quick housekeeping note: due to the overwhelmingly positive response to my most recent post, this blog will now be devoted entirely to celebrity obituaries. I’m not saying I’m hoping a lot of famous folks start to kick the bucket but when they do, oh I will be here.

Ooh! Great idea for a screenplay: Broke writer of celeb obits becomes a serial killer, stalking the mansions of Hollywood Hills to bolster her business and pay her rent. Hijinks ensue. Starring Rachel McAdams, Billy Ray Cyrus and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. Oscars for everyone.

BRB - have to go call my agent!

One Awkward Lunch Break: Stalking Paul Rudd!

Have you ever been out on the street, just walking, a bit pigeon-toed, schlubby in your worn hoodie and leather coat, idly scrolling through your blackberry, enjoying the surprising warmth of the sun on a chilly January day, when suddenly you begin to sense that someone is following you, frantically, at a very close range? Not too close to be fully detected but still very clearly there? If so, you might be Paul Rudd.


Two fun facts:

1. I have no game (especially when it comes to celebrities, remember this? Yikes.)

2. I loves me some PAUL RUDD. And errrrybody knows it.

This afternoon, just moments ago, I was sitting at my desk working hard as I always do because I am a powerful Book Publicist, when a few colleagues popped into my doorway.

"Liz. Paul Rudd. At Pret. Right next to the garbage can."

I flung my computer mouse into the air (literally), threw on my coat and ran, RAN for the elevators. This Pret of which they speak is Pret A Manger which is a popular takeout restaurant. The name means Sandwiches For The Stars in Francais, so it's really very little surprise that The Ruddster had chosen there for his Tuesday lunch.

I entered the crowded restaurant and there he was, as promised, alone next to the trash cans. I wavered in the doorway, considering my next move. Say hello? Not while he was eating. Stand and stare, awkwardly? Already doing that. Accidentally trip and pour soup all over him? Solid plan, but the soup line was far too long.

I decided the best option was to buy a pre-made sandwich from the cases near to the door. I was not hungry, but the activity would allow me to buy some time to think while Ruddmasta finished his lunch.

And then, as I stood there, ham sammie in hand, the Love Of My Life walked out of the door - and my life - forever.

"How fleeting life is!" I thought to myself. "How swiftly these beautiful moments pass us by. If only I could look upon that shining face for just one moment more!" I threw caution to the wind, tossed my sandwich back on the shelf and raced out the door behind him.

He was a few paces ahead of me, but my legs are longer, my passion more powerful so I quickly fell into step a few paces behind him. We walked one block, we walked two, we walked a third. What a tableau! The charming, every-man actor walking down Hudson Street, enjoying the day while a gangly, frizzy stalker crept up from behind. So beautiful! So inspiring!

So, so, SO weird.

At this point  I'd tailed the Ruddski for four blocks, literally, like an amateur spy (I was even wearing a trench coat!!). We'd walked past my office and any other place I may need to be. We were reaching the point of no return. As we approached a natural stopping point, a red light, I weighed my options.  I still held a burning desire just to say "hi!" but from where I stood, three feet behind him, the task seemed impossible.

  1. I could race ahead, and cut him off at the pass.
  2. I could speed up and bust out my patented Accidental-Bump-And-Apologize move (you ain't the only man for that, Ron Livingston.)
  3. I could yell out, "Hi Paul! Paul, Hi!"
  4. I could reach out and tap him on the shoulder, grab his arm...pinch his butt!
  5. Or I could turn around and head back to whence I came.

I chose the final option. Chicken, perhaps, but what did I lose, in the end? What was my ultimate goal in this stalking expedition (in everything, really) besides a good story? There is, of course, the very likely chance that he would have invited me back to his loft apartment, made me a grilled cheese sandwich and made tender, passionate love upon me but he is married and I don't roll like that. And there is the equally likely chance he'd immediately notice my sparkling wit and talent and invite me to star in his next film but if we're all being honest here, and I do think this is a space for honesty, the life of a celebrity seems all too invasive for me. I don't need freaks chasing me around the West Village on their lunch breaks.

So yeah, I'd say it was a success. Who have you stalked today?!