Aside from being breeding grounds for pubic lice and fecal-borne bacteria, bathrooms have become the new Yellow Pages. Beyond the “For a half-decent poke, call Brenda” listings, it’s where you can pick up the best bits of information. From hair and beauty products to sales, technology, and men to avoid, there are things to be learned—especially at networking events + conferences like SXSW.

Cute Jeans. “On sale, Loehmann’s.”
Wow, I wish I had your figure. “Weight Nazi on 71st and Lex. Here’s his number.”
Do my boobs look straight? “…” (see video)

People have their guard down when they’re staring in the mirror, washing up. In movies, it’s often the location of an emotional turning point—a place of self-reflection, where our protagonist enters the bathroom with an unwavering mindset, has a stare down with herself, then suddenly (and often through reflective montage), she knows what must be done, catapulting us into the next act. That, or it’s a place for an illicit stall shag scene.

The loo is a place of leveling. Whether you’re a powerful boldfaced name spotted on Best and Most lists or the sad sack who just lost his job, girl, and twitter followers, we’ve all gotta drop a deuce sometime. We all share that. Some of us just don’t share the TMI details of it to the world—not me, but some of us.

Here’s where the SXSW bit comes in. Now mind you, this was filmed at the butt cleavage of dawn, before my Balance is Bullshit Panel. My hair was unruly and wet, and I could have stood to spend a bit more time in the bathroom mirror, but the content is good, and you’ll see I learned to think “outside the bathroom” (an improvement on ‘outside the box,’ no?) so I’m sharin’ the love (self love + otherwise).

StephanieKlein on Twitter

Also in this video: Ingrid Vanderveldt of On The Road With IV, Balance is Bullshine, Muuter, Dave Peck, SXSW Interactive. The person’s name I forgot, but love, really love: Tim Sanders

A few of my new friends have sworn their lives have changed. They’re not singing the praises of South Beach, Fatkins, or SugarBusters. No talk of cookie diets. Or super colon cleanse rituals. We’re talking about ditching wheat (and barley & rye & spelt & making Kamut go kaput).

One woman, in particular, tried everything she could to get knocked up, then resigned to the fact that she’d never give birth to her own child. As a last resort, she went gluten-free, then wham, bam, thank you mam (and man), she was with child. Said child just celebrated his second birthday with gluten-free cupcakes.

I have a friend in New York, another in LA, with Celiac disease, though the woman in New York calls it Celiac Sprue, which I then, from time to time, belt out in an operatic chant. Celiac Sprue, Celiac Sprue, What Can You Dooooo? I need to get laid, what can I tell you?

So, I wanted to help spread the word and share this film about baked goods, pizza, and general Gourmet Gluten Love. Most important, though, a lot of people have no idea that wheat’s to blame for their ‘rhea, or rashes, or weight funkiness, or fertility. "Generation Gluten-Free" is available on DVD. The cost of the DVD is $4.50 which includes shipping and handling. No, this is not my video. I’m simply sharing it as part of an awareness campaign. Enjoy. Eat up, get knocked up… and what have you. View the trailer

In general, I don’t wish anyone pain, but in the specific, I sometimes want to grab Phil’s balls and squeeze until they pop out. Oops, there goes another rubber tree plant.

In general, I think it’s good to air it, say what’s on your mind, but in the specific, I want Phil to just, for the love of God, zip it already.

The other day, my sweet little wish was granted. Phil bit his tongue so hard it actually turned black and blue. What followed can only be described as a "Peter Boyle Moment."

"You see, it’s a good thing, Philip. God was literally telling you to just hold your tongue already. Zip it. Shut it. Enough outta you."

For the rest of the day, he still managed to argue and opine, only as he tried to air his many frustrations with me, I was a convulsive jiggling woman, gasping for air, thrashing about in a laughing fit. "I feel very disrespected," sent me into spasms, set to the tune of Peter Boyle as the monster in Young Frankenstein, singing "Puttin’ on The Ritz."

So thank you God, for giving me a sense of humor to deal with this dear man. And now, a clip:

A YEAR AGO: Gossip in the Grain
2 YEARS AGO: Agents
4 YEARS AGO: Witch Slapped
5 YEARS AGO: Indexed, Let’s Play, Like A Prom Dress, Bluefood

When I Was Sweet

Exclusive content (hellacious video of me) over on the Greek Tragedy Facebook page. Why? Because I’m still figuring this new hosting situation out. Also, why not become a fan of Greek Tragedy and see all the faces behind the comments! Chat freely, post your own hideous photos, mingle, meetup. Make new friends. But keep the old. Otherwise, the Girl Scouts might b-slap you.

 A YEAR AGO: Liar Liar $250 Giveaway
2 YEARS AGO: As Promised
3 YEARS AGO: Straight Up & Dirty

Part of the New Orleans Collection

Back when Phil was still The Suitor he invited me to join him after one of his business dinners at Lure Restaurant on Mercer. "After" never came. When I arrived fashionably on time (late is oversold these days), expecting loosened ties and cigars, I was surprised to see a shoreline of Fannie Bay oysters, stone crab claws, lobster tails, and cockles. Mid-bite, my suitor flagged me down, inviting me to join the table full of cocks and cockles. My kinda night. Only thing missing? My buzz.

It was a night of overabundance with wines you’d read about in reviews, wondering who the hell reads reviews anyway, and who, dare I ask, has the opportunity to sniff, swish, and spit (as if!)?  Most notable that evening was the host: John Codling. A friend and business associate of Phil’s, John has had a life less ordinary.  A self-made success story with a tragic undercurrent of 9/11 losses.  

With stories of shitting his pants behind him, John is now married with son and fat. Yes, fat. John sings to fat, showers with the guy, and even brings him donuts after sex. But senor fat is merely a temporary occupant in the John (pardon the pun). "Temporary" because my buddy John is running the NYC Marathon, releasing the weight in honor of Paul Nichols. Paul was there for John, and countless others who needed support, and recently, Paul passed from his own battle with cancer.  Through his Team Continuum, Paul’s battle continues, turning cancer into can.

I want to support my friend John and to say thank you for keeping The Suitor out late that night, for being warm and welcoming, and always making me laugh… and think. You’re an extraordinary person, and I’m thankful you’re in my life. Only, brothah, we wish there was "less of you" in it. 

And about your buddha buddy fat… think you can arrange a set-up with my sweet little muchacha fat? She’s tired of sitting on the sofa with me, and she’d kill a small horse for the opportunity not to be subjected to "I’m a Celebrity: Get Me Out Of Here." She and your fatty mcfatpants can go stab tubs of Bearnaise at this little restaurant we like to call Lure FishBar, while I cheer you on from the sidelines, wearing neon pink and yellow in your honor.

 A YEAR AGO: 40 Carrots
4 YEARS AGO: Clean