Another Awkward Week [9.27.13]

Holla! It's Friday! How was everyone's week? Mine was longggg. I woke up Thursday AM and swore. Like sah-wore, would stake Jon Hamm's life on it, that it was Friday. NORP. Only Thursday. RIP, Jon, my bad. Anyone else barely make it through the week? I feel ya, pals. I feel you.

I'm extra glad it finally is Friday, because my Schmoopster and sister Maggie are visiting for the weekend. Yay! Marge came up last night and we went to a concert together to see this band Okkervil River. Heard of 'em? Probably not, they're pretty cool hipster shit, you know that's how I roll. Just kidding, that's how my sister rolls...y'all know the kind of tuneage I jam out to.

The concert was quite fun but also a very palpable reminder of just how old and grouchy I am. Their opening act was some guy called Black Joe Lewis who played very loud rock and roll music with lots of electric guitar solos and all the songs sounded the same (I'm sure they were great! I admit: I have no taste) and all I could think about was how loud it was and how much I wanted to sit down. Okkervil River, the main act, is energetic but still sort of mellow, gentle music. Nearly everyone was being cool and normal and bopping to the tunes except for four kids in the audience who were WAY INTO IT and jumping up and down, literally jumping and flailing their arms and clapping and singing all the lyrics at the top of their lungs. Guess what unfortunate soul had to stand right next to these clowns? ME. You know how dogs can smell fear? I swear that these annoying rowdy types can sense who's a crotchety no-fun and just get alll up in their business.

Listen, I don't want to tell you how to enjoy live music but maybe enjoy it quietly and politely from within your own personal space bubble and keep  your elbows and sweaty long hair and terrible voice out of my zone.

In other words: get off my lawn!

Anywaaay, that what's up with me! 29 going on 90. Why don't we stop complaining about the youths and take a look at what else was keeping it awkward this week:

This Lineup:

dirty jeans

Getting dressed Sunday afternoon it took me three tries to find a pair of pantalones not covered in food stains.

Maybe time to pack up my poisonous laundry candy & do some wash?

PS - I don't care if skinny jeans go out of style, I'm wearing them forever and an eternity. I want to be buried in my jeggings.

And while we're talking fashion...

These Shirts:

chambray

As I  mentioned, Brian and I had a joint birthday party on Saturday cuz we're cute like that, and apparently the dress code was chambray. It would be so like me to demand that everyone dress like me on my birthday but I swear this was unintentional.

How long am I going to drag out this 'pay attention to me it is/was my birthday' shtick? Infinitely.

So let's keep going!

This Card:

card

From my seester. If you can't read it's a photo of two old ladies, one examining the other's cardigan, saying "It's a little early in the day to wear your 'do me' sweater, don't you think?"

Hilarious, I know! Extra hilarious: I saw this card in CVS a few weeks back and laughed and laughed and purchased it and sent on to Maggie, just as a no reason hello, because, like me, Old Marge understands the sex appeal of a good cardigan.

Turns out that she had just bought the exact same card to give to ME for my birthday. Great minds. The HoBag ladies know the value of a sassy sweater.

And also...

These Gifts:

gift

My faves. A homemade BLT (on white toast with mayo, only way to do it) from my friend Kamran and poo-pourri from Maureen. Sandwiches and bowl movement accessories...my pals know me so well!

This Outfit:

blah

Do you ever have those days where you're just like pwoooompppp. You just feel like a blob? Like a human version of the mucinex guy?

That was me in this get-up on Monday.  My pants were too tight, my shoes rubbed my feet in every possible location - I now have eight blisters and the shoes are in the garbage can - I had food on my sweater, was in the midst of a week-long streak of bad hair days and had to remove that belt I'm holding midday after gorging on too much food at lunch. Granted it was vegan food, but still: apparently an 8 pound burrito is an 8 pound burrito whether it contains animal products or not. Lesson learned!

I felt like such a slobby lump I found it hard to get anything done all day, I just wanted to go home and shower and make myself presentable...or just curl up in a ball and go back to bed.

 I know it sounds like I want everyone to chime in and be like "Omg, what! Liz, you are beautiful!" and yes, I know, thank you, I am amazing, but this isn't a call for compliments.  I mostly just wanted to look for a little camaraderie from my internet peepz. Sometimes you feel like a blob, right? Right? Anyone? Bueller?

And now...

A Tale of Three Bathrooms by Charles "HoBag" Dickens 

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I've never actually read A Tale of Two Cities, but tell me, how much of the novel involves making a scene in a public restroom? Oh, none of them? Boring. I've got that beat x3.

Bathroom One:

BR!

A charming wine bar in Manhattan's East Village. Brian and I spent last Friday night wining and dining our way around Lower Manhattan in celebration of his birthday and one of our stops was for a glass of vino on the patio of this adorable joint. At the end of the evening I popped inside to visit the facilities and discovered it was one of those tiny, quaint places with only one unisex bathroom for everyone to share. So after waiting what seemed like an eternity for the lady in front of me to do her thang (women, amirite?!), my turn arrived. Yadda yadda, you know how human biology works, I went to flush and realized that the toilet water seemed precariously high.

"This can't be right," I thought to myself. I knew it was dangerous, and yet I couldn't walk out and face the line of folks waiting to pee after me knowing I hadn't flushed.

I went for it.

Water began to pour from EVERYWHERE. The bowl, the tank, everywhere. It was like the boiler room in the Titanic, just a solid wall of water flooding towards me.

I yelped, hoisted myself up onto the bathroom trash can, swung to safety, quickly opened the door and slammed it behind me.

I turned to face the waiting masses and stammered "it's broken! Don't go in there. It's flooding. The toilet. It is flooding." I then scurried over to the bar, grabbed the nearest employee, yelped "Your toilet's broken!" annnnd ran out the door, never to return. Well, I still had to sit on the patio and finish my drink and wait for the check but hopefully it was dark enough that noone would recognize me as the bathroom flooding bandit.

Needless to say, this was THANK HEAVENS just a number 1 situation. If it had been the other option,  well, I would have just sprinted out of the bar and never looked back - not stopping for my coat or purse or maybe even Brian. He'd be sad for a while (I hope) but eventually would just move on and find someone normal and occasionally look back and think of me fondly. But it would be best for him. No one should have to be saddled with someone who flooded a restaurant with poo.

Then a few days later...

Bathroom Two:

BR2

I was at a community theater production of Les Mis, because of course I was, held in a high school way out in Bay Ridge, deep into Brooklyn. We stopped into the ladies quickly before the show and the school had these weird janky old bathrooms which flushed by pushing the most impossible button - see above. I don't know how young people are expected to maneuver these things. I'm an adult in relatively OK physical shape and had to put the weight of my entire body behind me just to flush, but I managed to get it to work.

Intermission rolled around and we needed to make another visit so we waited patiently in the endless line of other desperate audience members. I was next up but the woman in front of me could not, for the life of her, get the toilet to flush.

"Don't worry about it," I said "I know how to use these, I'll take care of it."

BRAVE. BOLD. No prissy business from Liz Ho.

Obviously and no duh, I got myself into the stall, pushed the button and: no dice. I pushed and pushed and pushed and paused for a photo and pushed and pushed and couldn't get it to flush. So I just sat, peed, tried once more...and then opened the stall, announced "nope! won't flush!" ....and ran out the bathroom door.

And then, the following night...

Bathroom Three:

BR3

On Monday I met some girlfriends to catch up over drinks and crostini at Gottino, which is one of my very favorite adorable bars in the West Village, if you're ever in NYC and looking for a charming spot to get your pinot greeg on. They have a lovely back yard (pictured above) and, like the previous wine bar mentioned, have just one bathroom, this time located down a set of steps next to their wine cellar.

I snuck down mid-way through the evening and found the lock on the bathroom door to be rather perplexing. It didn't actually seem to be holding the door shut, at all. I twisted it and turned it a few times but it didn't click anywhere.

"I'm sure it's fine!" I thought to myself.

I'd no sooner dropped trou and taken a seat on the throne when I learned the error of my judgement. It was not, in fact fine, it was completely unlocked, allowing for a man to swing open the door and walk in on me.

He stammered "oh god I'm so sorry!" and backed away, covering his eyes, while I half heartedly covered my biz and sighed: again? How had my life come to this?

Turns out I hadn't actually shut the door the whole way, so the lock was not catching as it should. Whoopsidoodles.

I finished what I came for and then, once again, found myself sprinting away from a toilet.

7 Days. 3 Public Bathroom Disasters. A new record, even for me.

I'm nervous to see what the future holds!

And there you have it. My week. Tell me 'bout yours! And what's everyone up to this weekend? I'm taking a 1/2 day today to party with the Margepants - Bernie rolls in early tomorrow and we're taking a trip to Ikea. Whoop whoop!

Wishing everyone a fantastical weekend and just be sure to double check all bathroom locks and take it from me: if it looks like it might overflow...it probably will.

xoxo Liz Ho

One Awkward Love Affair

And once again I  disappear.The latest excuse? I’m head over heels In Love.
No, not with this guy: (Ok maybe a little bit with this guy!)With thiisssss guy. Erm, girl:

Meet Zucchini. She lives in my new apartment where she’s pretty much The Queen. In one short month she’s turned my life upside down and completely changed me...for the worse.  She has turned me into my nightmare.

I’ma just come out and say something that might offend a few people but, you know what, this is a safe place where I get to do me. Here it is: I think animals, well pet animals, are dumb. I do not care for them! I got a Michael Vick t-shirt for my birthday, you guys. I don’t do kitty videos or puppy calendars or YA novels about horses who help red headed girls have self esteem while dying of cancer.  I think the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was making that godforsaken ASPCA commercial with the Sarah McLachlan song and all the dying, homeless kittens. Shut  your face, Sarah.

I’m a horrible person! I am well aware. But  I'm just being Miley, y'all.  I guess I just don’t get it? I’m missing some kind of animal empathy chip. It is actually a frequent disaster. I find myself literally unable to empathize with friends over their relationships with their pets. Cat ran away? Get a new one! Dog died? Sorry to hear that. Actually I don’t feel any emotions at all! I’m trying to be sad for you because you are my friend but I thought your dog was kind of a pain the ass and once she peed on my backpack and that really sucked so...rest in peace?

I am sure there is a special circle of Hell reserved just for people like me and I look forward to being there.

Quick Anecdote: One summer during college I dated this guy, and when I say dated, I use the term very, very loosely.  We would sporadically hang out and talk on AOL Instant Messenger but, to paraphrase Beyonce, he had me sprung and didn’t care who saw. I was doing every single move He’s Just Not That Into You warns against, plus adding some real doozies of my own design. I knew this was headed exactly nowhere but I was consumed with the kind of fiery passion that burns when you’re a 20-year-old virgin and some dude makes you a mix CD.

I carried this torch into the fall, keeping it burning during a full semester of my year abroad, returning home over Christmas ready for some Burning Hot Luv. The reality of was more of a lukewarm situation but oh, I soldiered on.

The day before I was due to return to Old Europa, homeboy got a lil puggle puppy. I went to his place ready to blow his miiiind with the tender, loving way I nurtured his new pet who, might I add, he’d owned for all of 14 hours at this point, but what happened instead was, I broke her. The dog. I broke his dog.

We went for a walk and I was carrying her for some reason and then, in the flashiest of flashes, she went from snuggled in my arms to flat on the ground, limbs akimbo, squealing in pain. No one knows exactly how it happened. I mean, let’s be honest I probably dropped her but maybe, just maybe, she jumped. She can’t exactly speak up to defend herself so I’ma go ahead and say it: the bitch took a dive. She lived, but spent the rest of the night limping and the dude spent the rest of the night doing the very opposite of making out with me and then I went back to Europe and he never talked to me again.

I am now a grownup, slightly (slightly!) more rational and confident young lady, so I know my vicious crime against dogmanity was not in any way related to this brush off (the dramatic ‘why don’t you love me!’ e-mails may have played a minor role) (20-year-old Liz was a real gem) but there was an embarrassingly long stretch of my life there where I associated dogs with getting dumped.

You might say this period in my life was pretty RUFF!

Oh just a little joke! Shit was starting to get a bit too real up in here.

But all of my Sarah McLachlan-hating, puppy-limb-breaking days are behind me, now that I’ve met the Zucc monster.  Like the Whoos down in Whooville with their cheery Christmas songs, she’s changed my grinchy disposition in alarming ways. I snuggle with her and try to get her to sleep in my bed and I talk to her like she’s a human and I play ball with her and take cell phone pictures of her every move and, you guys, I love her.

Like every Great Love, we do still have our moments. Last week I took her for a walk to the dog park where she promptly took a giant dump. I had a plastic baggie with me but didn’t know how to get the poop from the ground into the baggie...I guess you’re supposed to like, put it over your hand and then scoop and then turn the bag inside out, but this disgusted me, so instead I found a stick and used it as sort of a poop-skewer to transfer each turd into the bag. No sooner had I tossed the stinky sack into the garbage when, dog after my own heart, the old girl dropped another deuce. I considered just grabbing Zucchini and running away, leaving the steaming pile for someone else to deal with, but in NYC that’s a crime and crime does not pay, kids, it does not. So I did the next best thing. I gingerly walked back to the trash can (shudder) and took my baggie back out.

It was then I realized that the greatest trick the devil really ever pulled was making lil creatures so fucking cute that even as you're walking circles in a park carrying a grocery bag full of dogshit you still can't get enough of 'em.

Awww. Zucchini!!

One Awkward Bathroom Break

My fans! Hello! I have not abandoned you. I've been so busy banging hot dudes and training for the 2010 Winter Olympics that I haven't had a spare moment to blog. Life can be so complex. You know what else is complex? Using the restroom at the office. You know what I'm talkin 'bout. Everybody poops. I just wish everyone did it at home. In my office we have one ladies room and one mens room for the whole floor. This means that every single person on our floor, from the President of the company through the front desk temps have to share the same john. I ain't shy about toilet issues (clearly, I'm blogging about it), but there are few things that make me more suicidal than office bathroom interaction.

Below are a few prime reasons why, when I’m President of the United States, I’ll mandate private bathrooms for every person in the world. Or at least at whatever company I happen to be employed:

  • The Same-Time Walk-In: You’re walking down the hall, and end up in-stride with a co-worker (best if a superior). Suddenly you realize you’re both headed for the ladies room. You walk side-by side into the bathroom, making awkward small-talk, trying to think of a way to wrap things up. “Well, good talking to you, Pam, good luck in there!”
  • The Stall-To-Stall Chatter: Even worse than above is the co-worker who wants to chat with you whilst on the loo. There is no need to do business while doing your business.
  • Sink Time: You and a co-worker stand side by side washing up. Who will finish first? You don’t want to seem groady. Just keep scrubbing. If you feel like getting frisky, make some competitive eye-contact in the mirror: “You think you’re more hygienic than me? I dare you to try.”
  • Makeup Time: Nothing says “Hi, I’m desperate and lonely and hoping to get felt up over a free dinner” like applying bronzer by the fluorescent light of the ladies room. No one needs to see that.
  • Anything, ever, involving a high-level boss in the lavatory: There have been times when I’ve purposefully gone to different floors in the building, backtracked on my way to the bathroom, or just plain held it for the rest of the day to avoid having to walk in on my boss applying her lipstick while I’m about to drop a deuce. Kill me.

Other awkward bathroom run-ins include Farting while you pee (it happens!), being on the same schedule (“Oh! You again! Haha!”), having a dude boss and walking out of the ladies room while he walks into the men’s room (Ickyyyy. Boy poop.), carrying supplies for ‘that time of the month’ (eerily reminiscent of Jr. High), and, we can get into this in further detail later, the beer shits.

And on that note, we’re done here.  Who's glad I'm back?

Had an awkward bathroom run-in? Leave it in the comments! (I’ve always wanted to say that).