Yesterday morning, I woke up- quite begrudgingly, as this gentleman convinced me to spend my Wednesday evening pouring pinot grigio into my body.

There was too much blood in my alcohol stream, anyway.

I’m exhausted and hungover and blurry eyed as I stumble over to (one of) my closets, and attempt the Picking of the Outfit that must commence in order for one to go to work.

Yanno, and not cause a scene, what with the whole nudity thing, and all. (Communists.)

So I see a lovely brightly colored skirt tucked away in a corner, one I haven’t worn yet this summer. Fab, right? Maybe the myriad of colors will help to camouflage the vile pallor of my skin.

Okay, on to Step 2:  SHIRT. This is more troublesome, as some consideration must now be made in order to confirm that the chosen shirt MATCHES said skirt.

This is science, people. Difficult stuff. I’m like Bill Nye (with better hair) up in here. Don’t you feel smarter already, just reading my blog?

(Don’t answer that.)

Suddenly, a lovely little Carolina blue number catches my eye. PERFECTION. I pull it on and glance at the mirror for the requisite once-over.

Hmm. There appears to be a teeny, tiny, almost not noticeable hole… right below my left boob.

The way I see it, I had three choices…

1. Attempt to find new shirt, as clearly wearing ONE WITH A HOLE IN IT would not be considered putting one’s best foot forward at the office. Risks involved: possibly having to change the whole outfit. (Guys, just trust me on this. Ladies, you know.)

2. Bust out my handy dandy sewing kit Mama sent me off to college with that has somehow made its way through the years with me, probably because it’s in my tool kit that Pops sent me off to college with and I would never move without the duct tape… and spend all of the two minutes it would take to stitch that bad boy up.

Or…

3. Lie to myself, pretend it doesn’t matter, I don’t get paid enough to care and frankly, maybe a little draft would feel nice at my desk, yanno? And head off to work just like that.

Duh. If you’ve read three sentences of any other post of mine, you know I went with numero tres.

Later that morning, all is going well at the office, (read: it’s slow enough that I can slowly nurse away my hangover with coffee and unlike yesterday, there is a bathroom within 20 paces at all times). I am slightly insane and so decide the best way to feel better is to go sweat it out, and head down to the office gym at lunch.

I know, I know. That even makes me hate MYSELF. But it happened.

So I take a shower afterwards and go to get dressed. I pull my Carolina blue shirt over my head and…

RRRRRRRRRRRIP.

Of course. The hole that was hardly noticeable is now the size of a quarter… directly on the cleft of my boob.

And I am wearing a nude-colored bra.

Life… you are hard. So very, very hard sometimes.

I spent the rest of the day alternating between looking very arms-crossed-over-chest angry, and doing that awkward holding-one-arm-while-it-dangles move that 14 year old boys have been perfecting at school dances for generations now.

It was intense.

Moral of the story?

Save everybody some time and go to work naked.

Forget Casual Friday… let’s just skip to Pantsless Friday!

God, I am such an innovator.

Happy weekend, twerps!

Edit: Okay, okay! Picture was demanded, so I just threw the shirt on over my PJs. (Yes, I am at home today… don’t hate!) (Suckas!)

First of all, everyone needs to head over to Marie’s site and demand to see pictures of her in her brand new Snuggie. They should be hilarious because I met her on Friday, and she is a delight, and also twee, and the Snuggie is twice as long as she is. (Also, THAT is last time I mention the Snuggie. For reals this time. No, really!)

Second of all, I am done drinking forever. Representing the Awesomest States of America to your Canadian friend in one short weekend is hard, boozalicious work. Last night I was so drunk that I openly proclaimed Step Up to be one of the most fabulous films I’ve ever seen. Actually, I must still be drunk, because it’s the morning and I’m kind of still thinking this to be true. Haven’t seen it? Think Save the Last Dance meets Center Stage, with a dash of something with drug dealers. At it’s best, it’s America’s Best Dance Crew with bad acting.

Wait a minute. B just informed me that there is a Step Up 2: The Streets! I know what I’m doing tonight…

Okay, okay. Simma down na. Moving on from bulimic ballerinas and leaving your gangster bros behind for some ho. (How could you, Tyler??)

Item Tres: I have officially had it with Blogger. When I guest posted over at Brookem’s a couple weeks ago, I destroyed the last shred of blissful ignorance I had about the blatant superiority of Wordpress over Blogger. Look, Google, you win EVERYWHERE else, but when it comes to blogging, you are sadly inadequate, and something must be done.

I already have the dot com, so the website wouldn’t change or anything. The ONLY thing that’s been holding me back is the fact that the username LiLu is already taken, which makes me sad in my pants. BUT, I believe if we put our heads together, we can come up with something acceptable, NAY, even better! Which is why I have A) put a poll to the right requesting your input on my own meager ideas, and B) humbly solicit your genius and wittiness here in the comments. What you got, Willis?? Help a girl out.

And finally, HOW MUCH AM I LOVING THIS WEATHER??? Honestly, walking to work today, my heart kept singing and I had to tell it to shut the hell up because the construction workers were looking at us oddly. Hooray for outdoor drinking and margaritas and skirts and flipflops and sand and sun and barbequing and such!

Dear Spring: I am totally stoked for you. That is all. Love, LiLu.

Honestly, nothing this week could have been better than the outpouring of love and support I received from you guys over Wednesday’s post (email or tweet for password). It was genuine, and humbling, and amazing, and again, THANK YOU.

So in return, I’d like to share some of the other things that made living a little extra worthwhile this week. Because I heart you like that.

Now I promise this is not just a lazy Friday. I have been treasuring these nuggets all week, eagerly waiting to drop them on you. Which may or may not say something about my mental stability. Whatever. Reap the benefits, my friends, cause these are GOLD.

Last week I was trolluping around (it’s a phrase, ask your mom) the interwebs, when I came across Katie’s blog, Can I Just Say… and I was FACE BLASTED with this awesomeness:

TAKE ME BACK, JOEY. Take me back to a time of Whoas and high tops and white kids spray painting neon on buildings! Le sigh.

Next up… I found the link for this on Crissy’s blog a few days ago, and I’ve never been so glad I clicked. You all know of my love for ridiculous and fugly creatures. This is one very, very special animal… I am not exaggerating when I say that tears were literally streaming down my cheeks the first time I watched it.

I give you: Snowball, the dancing cockatoo.

He just wants to DANCE!!! There are 724,986 views on that video. I think 724,980 are probably mine.

And finally, I found this gem on holytaco.com… and wasted no time in sending it to three of my favorite soon-to-be-mommy bloggers, Lisa, Dolce, and Crissy. You know, to make them feel better about not being NEARLY this lame.

Are you blind yet? I think that was also your Weekend Dose of the Fugly, all rolled into one. Now let’s get back to talking about anal! (God, it’s never normal around here, is it?)

Don’t ever say I never did anything for you, kiddos. Happy Weekend!

Oh, hey. How’s it hanging.

Me? Not too much. The yoosh. (Giggle.)

A shit-eating grin, you say?

I suppose I might. It’s nothing.

Well, I don’t want to jinx it…

Okay, okay. God, you’re pushy.

I GOT THE JOB.

(You may buy me a drink now.)

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There’s still some details (very important details) to work out, but if all goes according to plan, I should be at a very different sort of Holiday Party this year. (I heard tell of pomegranate mojitos and a karaoke room.* Just saying.)

The place is huge and grand and all important and politicky and such, basically the wet dream of an International Politics major. I couldn’t be more excited. And now when people ask what my major was in college, and subsequently ask where I work, they won’t look at me as if I just said I use boogers to mosaic my lampshades on the weekends.

Too much? Sorry.

I only have one great fear… As I promised Lem that I will never leave her alone in the dark place, scared and lonely with no e-hugs or e-farts or e-incredibly offensive remarks about the unsuspecting innocents of the world, the question of whether Gmail/chat will be available looms on the horizon. Because without it, I would totally e-die.

But for now, can I just say… Squeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!! I don’t even mind that someone got here by googling “my secret taboo love preteen” yesterday. (It came up with my Banana Pants post. Figures.) Let’s celebrate!

It’s Business Time, bitches!

*Huge thanks to Beach Bum for thinking of me! I owe you, chica.

I mean, I love you all. I really do. But…

palm trees.

monkeys.

rain forest.

with the man of my dreams.

NOT WORKING FOR 10 DAYS.

You’re on your own, hookers. (I’m a little ferklempt. Talk amongst yourselves.)

See ya on the 27th!

P.S. This was part of my birthday present.

Best. Boyfriend. EVER.

Every now and then, I like to wholeheartedly embarrass the crap out of myself for your reading enjoyment. Since Lemmonex has made me promise to share this juicy tidbit with the interwebs, I figure there’s no time like the present. Also, since I’m leaving tomorrow (!!!) for a week and a half in Costa Rica- no big deal- you can all re-read this when you miss me, and think of happier times. While I dance with monkeys, drink a shit ton of Imperial, and break my ass trying to surf.

When I was in 4th grade, I was the most popular girl in school. I’m not even joking. It was the ONLY time in my life I could ever say that, but I quite literally pwned 4th grade. Therefore, I had free license over setting any and all fashion trends at Spring Street Elementary School. Whatever I said? Went. (Ed. note: I was totally a nobody the second I got to middle school, so forgive me if I over-appreciate the short time I had at the top of the totem pole. PS: It was AWESOME.) It was a lot of power for a ten year old, however, and it may have gone to my head. It’s taken 15 years and a lot of therapy, but I can now admit that perhaps a few mistakes were made.

Let me introduce you to the Banana Pants.

My bff Karen and I were inseparable, as preteen girls are wont to be. We were large and in charge. (Well, okay, we were a mess of knobby knees and bony elbows, but we were kind of tall for our age… it works.) We orchestrated the games of “Don’t Touch the Gravel”; we had chains of fellow students who passed our secret notes for us (Mrs. Gannon, you are STILL a total booger-head); we decided who sat at the “cool kids” lunch table.

And once every couple of weeks, one of us would call the other in the evening, and agree that the next day would be “Banana Pants Day.”

The Banana Pants were a pair of spandex-y leggings, covered with cartoonish pictures of tropical fruit. Mine were most definitely stirrups (this was the early 90s, after all,) and colder months warranted socks worn OVER the stirrups. Karen’s were (the ever-flattering) capris. The pants had a matching, bright neon, ohmygod do you have some extra retinas laying around because I just burned mine clear out of my head, YELLOW. This, of course, was to complement the oh-so-prominent bananas scattered throughout the pattern of the pants.

I google-imaged far and wide for a picture of something resembling these pants, and this was the best I could find:

Now let me be clear, these pants do not even BEGIN to do mine justice. If mine were a 10, these are a very shameful 4 on the loudness scale.

We wore those damn pants so proudly, and everyone was completely jealous of them. Of us. I can’t even remember where or how we came across them, but I do know that no one had a prayer of finding them.

Kids say the darndest things, huh? In the PANTS.

(You knew there had to be ONE of those today…)

Even though I outgrew the Banana Pants, literally and, um, emotionally, if I had a pair of these today? I would totally rock them. Because I’m 25 today, bitches. Twenty-fucking-five.

And I have never, ever, been happier.

What do you say, chicas? Should we buy these and make Tuesdays Banana Pants Day from now on?)