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Now, hear me out, before you get out your pitchforks made of rainbows and CareBears.

Much like you can’t truly love until your heart has been broken (says every cheesy chick flick ever, and probably Journey, I don’t know); I don’t think you can appreciate the things and people you love in life unless you routinely experience the things and people that you despise.

Think about it. Hating bonds strangers together in a way nothing else really can. You wanna make a friend? Rip on that jagoff you both just saw cut in the Starbuck’s line to a neighbor. (Just kidding, that would never happen, because DOOD WOULD BE SHANKED.)

Hating on things is also funny. One of my favorite activities is a bottle of wine, a busy corner, and a friend who can keep up with my snark. How often have you laughed yourself into hysterics over something kind, thoughtful, or otherwise benign? Oh, that’s right, NEVER. (Unless there was a cat involved, probably.) But keeping tabs on that horrific first date in the corner? The one where you’re pretty much positive he hasn’t showered in three days while playing internet bingo and she’s clearly a spoiled brat who is going to totally balk when he asks for her half and OH GOD I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE THAT MOMENT?

That is hilarious, and also strangely satisfying.

Now, please note I am in no way glorifying cruelty here. Haterade is best (and healthiest) when dealt out in private whispers, and preferably about perfect strangers who will never be the wiser. This is not a license to talk about friends behind their backs; everyone knows those kinds of things should only be said to the offender themselves, and after a lot of drinks have been imbibed. (Also prime for optimal mockage are: faceless corporations, celebrities, and yourself.)

In some ways, hating is actually very constructive. When someone/thing pisses you off by lacking in a certain area, it helps you to identify the things and qualities that you value in services and in people, and therefore, to appreciate them (and hopefully, to cultivate them in yourself). If it drives you nuts that a friend is perpetually late, you value punctuality, and will make an effort to be more on time yourself. When you’re fuming as you watch a 30 year old man sitting down on the metro while a pregnant lady hangs on to the ceiling handles for dear life, it makes you more aware of your surroundings and considerate of others. When some asshat takes the last serving of macaroni and cheese from the Au Bon Pain soup tureen and ALL YOU WANTED IN LIFE WAS A GLOB OF ARTERY-CLOGGING CHEESE TODAY…

Well, maybe not that last one.

I also find it to be super cathartic to go on a good rant, kind of like an ugly cry. But that may just be my own very deep-seated issues. MOVING ON.

My point is, hate is not your enemy. A little anger, a passionate rant, even a festering sense of malice towards Subway for never, ever putting enough of those stupid cheese triangle thingies on your sandwich… these can all go a long way towards making a new friend, getting something toxic out of your system, and maybe, just maybe, being a better person.

Mama said share.

People who are always right are really, really annoying… but you’d do well to surround yourself with them. Maybe even listen to them. (Once in a while.)

As much as I want one, having a job that didn’t require me to wear pants would probably not end well. For anyone.

There can never, ever be too many silly cats on the interwebs.

I don’t care if it’s immature. I will celebrate my birthday until the day I die. (And so should you. Be there.)

I take people who’ve never worked in a restaurant, or at least customer service, with an enormous grain of salt.

You CAN have too many friends… quality vs. quantity, y’all. Sometimes you need to snip snip.

Mock Jersey Shore and those who watch it all you want… what they say may at times sound stupid or simple, but more often than not, it’s just the naked truth.

 


***Despite the above statement, I’m never averse to making new friends. So, if you’re in the Chicago area, please come out and say hi this Saturday night when B and I are in town! Details here.***

Mama said share.

(Ahhhhhhhhh ohmigod ohmigod it’s actually here! VOTING ME FOR MTV’s TWITTER JOCKEY TIME IS UPON US TOMORROW!!! And yes, I did throw up a little while brushing my teeth this morning! So help a girl out, and spread the word one last time…)

Twitter your hearts out, love muffins…

Follow @LivitLuvit, my favorite in the @MTVTJ search for MTV’s first Twitter Jockey! #zyncmtvtj #lilu4TJ

(Feel free to get creative, this suggestion is just for your copy & paste convenience. Cause I’m good like that.)

Voting TOMORROW! (ACK!!!) will be via Facebook. You will only get to have to vote once, so make sure we’re Facebook friends!!!

Also, you can just click here to share my plight with your friends on the ‘Book. Love you long time. SMOOCHES.

And now back to our regular programming…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have tasted disappointment, my friends… and it reeks of M. Night Shyamalan’s man-undercarriage.

Anyone who’s been hanging around this corner of the interwebs knows the following: A) I am a huge dork, and B) consequently, I am in love with the Avatar: The Last Airbender animated series.

So you can imagine how completely geeked out excited I was when we heard it was going to be made into a movie. Epic battles! Flame throwing! A four-element controlling avatar whose duty it was to defeat the Fire Nation and restore balance to the WORLD!!!!!!!!

And most of all, an unbearably cute flying bison who I was finally going to see ten feet tall. Giant fluffy moo-cow for the win!

So we bought tickets. We bought them in 3-D, because there was no other option…

And then we read the reviews.

The only thing 3-D about the film was the fact that I couldn’t take my glasses off or everything was blurry. Grandma if I do, Harry Potter if I don’t.

Look, I get it. It’s an ingenius way to make it feel like we’re falling into a giant abyss towards a bubbling pool of lava, and hike the prices up 50%. But frankly, if I want to feel like I’m flying over the Grand Canyon or about to be eaten by a Great White, it’s because I’m at the Museum of Natural History trying to convince my family we’re having fun since I can’t take them to our favorite local bar to eat tater tots and yell out the answers to Cash Cab with the other regulars like we normally do on Thursday night.

What?

We found ourselves a block away from the movie theater the night prior to our showing, and very seriously considered attempting to get our tickets refunded after reading Ebert’s and Vanity Fair’s scathing-yet-hilarious reviews, but lazy won out and we decided instead to just bring flasks make the best of it.

Honestly, it wasn’t as bad as we were expecting. But since a couple reviews called it “an abortion of a movie,” that’s really, really not saying much. (Also, the last movie I saw in the theater was SATC2. So, you know… lowest bar EVER.)

They erased all traces of East Asian descent from the characters, and replaced them with child actors so awful they couldn’t convince a dog to come with bacon in their hand. They blatantly changed the pronounciation of the main character’s name. They left out and changed and added things to the storyline that any good dork lover of the animated version knew had no place being there.

But through it all, I sipped on my vodka/HiC and I thought… “At least I’ll get to see a giant Appa, the flying air buffalo!”

(I’m easy to please.)

But. BUT.

When I finally did see Appa’s face… oh, how tragically disappointing. It looked like a hobbit woman and Hagrid had a love child that fell out of an ugly tree and hit every damn branch on the way down.

The adorable Appa I've come to know and love looks like this...

M. Night's abomination looks like this. (Short bus not included.)

These pictures perfectly embody what was done to this adorable little television show, this sweet and heart-wrenching tale where you couldn’t help but cheer for the lovable characters on their interesting and engaging journey.

They took my beloved cartoon… and they gave it a lobotomy.






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Mama said share.

Well, friends, today’s FINALLY the day!

I’m gonna keep it short and sweet, because some things are just to important to joke about.

Not abortion or Engrish jokes, obviously. Those are free game.

No, I’m talking about the fact that a few weeks ago, MTV- yes, you read that right, MTV- they came to me.

Little old me.

And well, basically… they’ve offered me the chance of a lifetime.

As of today, June 21st, I am one of 20 contestants competing in “The Search for the First MTV TJ” – aka Twitter Jockey.

And so, in three little words…

I need you.

In a few more,

I need you to make my dream come true.

To check out the full details, my ridiculous intro video, my full profile- all that is here.

Meanwhile, in this place, all I can do is ask for your help to make my dream job a reality.

The job itself may not have existed yet when I was born, or even two months ago, for that matter… but I believe it was meant for me. And, frankly?

I would own it.

And so, selfishly, unabashedly, I am asking for your help. For you to help me spread the word, via Twitter, an email or a Facebook shout out to your friends (are WE friends?? Make sure!), blogging it, posting the badge below… and eventually, for your vote when the voting opens in a few weeks.

In return, I vow to fill all the vending machines with PBR, Big League Chew, and unicorn farts for everyone!

Or something.

HOW TO HELP A GIRL OUT:

Add this badge to your sidebar (275 px):

<a href="http://www.livitluvit.com/i-need-you" target="_blank"><img src="http://i556.photobucket.com/albums/ss5/Livitluvit/mtvtj-1.png" border="0" alt="LiLu for MTV TJ"></a>

Smaller version (175 px):

<a href="http://www.livitluvit.com/i-need-you" target="_blank"><img src="http://i556.photobucket.com/albums/ss5/Livitluvit/mtvtj-1-1.png" border="0" alt="LiLu for MTV TJ"></a>

Tweet your heart out for me, all day, every day! (Yes, yes I’m greedy):

Follow @LivitLuvit, my favorite contestant in the @MTVTJ search for MTV’s first Twitter Jockey! #zyncmtvtj

(Feel free to modify, the above suggestion is just for your copy & paste convenience. Cause I’m good like that.)

And then, my love ducks… then we pray. Until we can vote. And then we vote and pray again.

I know there might be a lot of newcomers today, so I’d like to officially welcome you to my humble corner of the interwebs with the musical stylings of my partner in crime Maxie and myself, in the key of Stephen Colbert:

You’re welcome.

If you have any questions, new reader or old, please comment or email me. I’d love to hear from you in any and all formats.

But mostly by you pimping me on Twitter.

What?

Update: Here’s my intro video I sent into MTV. Um, after watching the others, it’s a little… DIFFERENT. But you wouldn’t expect anything less from me, would you?

Mama said share.

Apparently, the hot new thing to do is follow in Oprah’s footsteps and declare to the world the things we “don’t do.” (I personally came across this over at the mama in red, though I’ve seen it a few places since.)

Since I am feeling a teeny bit diva-esque today, not only am I going to rock this, I am going to do it IN THIRD PERSON.

Watch out now.

LiLu doesn’t… do bunnies and roses and kittens and motivational inspirational crapola. It just ain’t me. Fart jokes all the way, yo.

LiLu doesn’t… do “hiding emotions”. Note: this is more often a curse than a blessing. Hearts-on-Sleeves Club for life!

LiLu doesn’t… apologize for the endless cat jokes/pictures/tweets. You know you love it.

LiLu doesn’t… do surprises or secrets. Like presents. No waiting. Gimme gimme gimme gimme!

LiLu doesn’t… do seafood of the “slimy” variety. Aphrodisi-MY ASS.

LiLu doesn’t… dream about a big fancy schmancy wedding with doves and a black church choir and a year’s pay of f#*@ing flowers. Just good friends, an open bar… and a LOT of 80s music.

LiLu doesn’t… stand idly by when someone messes with her family or friends. In ANY capacity. Ben knows this.

LiLu doesn’t… know what the eff she would do without all the people she’s met, both of the e- and IRL variety, via this here corner of the interwebs. /schmoop

I yam what I yam and that’s all that I yam, y’all.

Take it, leave it, love it, spank it.

What?

Mama said share.

Disclaimer: Events in this recollection may be far bitchier than they actually appeared.

…But were still totally bitchy. Trust.

Last Saturday, Brad, Katierose, B and I decided to experience the (well, mostly- like a 7.5?) awesome that is Iron Man 2 on an eleventy foot screen. (Math is not my forté. Shut up.)

Knowing full well that it was opening weekend and everyone in the world was going to want an eyeball full of Robby or ScarJo (respectively), we got to the theater an absurd 45 minutes early, so as to optimize our seat placement.

(Nerd alert! *pushes glasses up nose*)

Sure enough, we were the first in the theater, even disregarding the manager’s instructions that we go wait in a line that had apparently formed well after we’d arrived.

Yeah, we’re bad asses like that.

So we walk into the empty room, and obviously beeline for the front-row center of the main seating area- you know, the row that has the ohsoawesome “put your feet up inappropriately as though you were at home but at least it’s not on anyone’s head” bar. We calculated the four middle seats with our protractors, and settled in for optimum summer blockbuster viewing.

Not long after, the other suckers- I mean, patrons- started pouring in and choosing their way less awesome seats, while we sat smugly on our throne of quintessential movie viewing… and waited for the hour and a half of commercials and previews to commence.

Suddenly, what could only be an entitled Georgetown trust fund baby of 19 sauntered into our row, clearly assessing her competition.

“Excuse me,” wanna-be Blair Waldorf whined, as she smacked her gum in our general direction. “Do you think you all could move down a couple seats, so my friends and I could sit in the middle?”

Ummmm.

*cartoonish head boggle*

What?!?

*moment of silence as we exchange glances of utter disbelief*

Brad: Definitely not.

B: Uh, yeah, no. We got here early specifically to sit in the center… that was kind of the point.

Wanna-be Blair: Well, isn’t THAT the middle? *gestures to two seats to our right*

Me: Um, no. If it was, we would have, well… SAT there?

Wanna-be Blair: *in what can only be described as “a huff”* Well, you don’t have to be ofFENsive about it! *hair toss, evil glare*

I have to admit, I quite purposefully did not move my legs out of tripping distance as she passed by me. Which was probably why she muttered “bitch” under her breath, as I tried failed to hide my secret smile of victory. … It’s the little things.

I bet Robert Downey wasn’t HALF as rougish and charmingly adorable from three seats over, honey.

Enjoy the goddamn show.

Mama said share.

You know how sometimes after that fourth beer, people will accidentally say something that reinforces a known stereotype, and at first everyone gasps in horror (if strangers are around- I mean, what?), but then someone goes “Well, stereotypes exist for a reason, after all,” and at some point in history that became an entirely valid argument for being just a little bit racist or bigoty or whatever your judgment of choice is?

Well, I would like to extend this same courtesy to clichés.

Look, clichés exist for the same reason we’ve decided to consider all Jews funny, and all Latinos passionate lovers with pimped out Civics, and all white people as horrible dancers (unless an 80′s beat is involved and The Sprinkler is a bona fide dance move).

Partly because it’s just plain funnier that way… but most of all, it’s EASY.

Think about it. You go to a new place for the first time, you don’t know what the hell to do. So, you go dance on the piano key steps of FAO Schwarz, or have dinner on top of the Space Needle, or visit the Kendall Jackson winery in Napa, or lead a parade through the streets of Chicago singing “Twist and Shout”.

Wait, maybe not that last one.

My point is, what’s so wrong with these things? Just because millions of people do them every year, we’re supposed to look down on them? It’s so WAY TOTALLY COOLER to come home and brag about how you got off the beaten path and found this local bar with a local band playing and and drank the local beer the local bartender recommended and got to talk with the local people, man!

Well, you know what? You were probably annoying the hell out of them, and they all made fun of you as soon as you walked out the door.

(Really, you can’t blame them. You *were* wearing a scrunchie.)

All I know is that when I’m in Vegas in nine days, we will take a totally cheesy picture in front of the Bellagio fountain. We will scream “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, except herpes!!!” about eleventy billion times, and someone will most likely get married by an Elvis impersonator.

And that’s? Okay.

It’s okay to go out in Adams Morgan and end up at a Jumbo Slice every once in a while. Hell, ride a segway around Penn Quarter, for all I care. Do whatever makes you happy! Life is too damn short to not see the ball drop in Times Square or show your boobs at the Mardi Gras, just because zillions of people have done it before.

Because after all, is there ANYTHING more cliché than some hipster or otherwise pretentious d-bag saying, “Oh, that is so cliché” *condescending hand wave*  ?

I think not.

Bee tee dubs, a very special lady is going to war with a very assholey brain tumor today. Please head over and wish her the best of luck in her fight against Wallace!!!!!

Mama said share.

… is what I would name my monkey if I could get my hands on one.

Because then at least we’d HAVE some round these parts.

I’m not sure what it is lately. My own mother recently asked me if I just wasn’t writing about my life…

Or if it was just *that* boring.

(In not those exact words, perhaps, but, yanno. A daugter knows.)

The problem is, my life IS boring… boring, and simple, and drama free, and oh so goddamn CONTENT.

I have my man. My amazing friends, both near and far. A couple of furbabies that make me laugh for hours on end, a couch made for my ass to sink into, and Netflix streaming in all the watch-instantly Dexter and Friday Night Lights a girl could ever want.

Life is good.

Maybe a little *too* good… because I am stumped, people. What am I supposed to share with you? The glorious view of my cat’s butt from the couch and how happy it makes me?

Oh, shit… I already did that.

No shame. ... (Okay, a LITTLE shame.)

Of course, there was this past Saturday night, when we had to beat down some d-bag in AdMo for calling random chicks pregnant on the street, before dancing the night away with some odd ducks wearing fanny packs and fighting off the 21 year old trying- very poorly, I might add- to roofie Lexa.

Maybe my life isn’t as boring as I think…

Mama said share.

Okay, so.

A lot of you probably already know about this, but I wanted to wait to announce it here until it’d taken off a bit… and it sure as shit has.

If you’ll remember, earlier this month B and I embarked on a new and quite X-treme!!! fitness journey, which is going very well. Many of you asked me to keep you updated on our progress… but I’ve decided to do you one better.

One way, WAY better.

Last Tuesday when I was pounding away on the treadmill, it came to me. Like Smee in Hook, “lightning… had just struck my brain.”

BAM. Within minutes, I was the proud new owner of InItToGymIt.com.

I moved forward quickly- I knew exactly what I wanted this place to be. A little web design, 80+ contributors, and more than 30 posts (from as many people!) later… In It To Gym It was born.

Our ‘About‘ page:

We’re all In It for different reasons.

We have different things we need to share, different goals, different pant sizes.

This is a place to vent, to despair, to support, to be unbelievably corny.

This is a place to do whatever we have to in order to hold ourselves accountable, be it record calories, exercise, feelings, insults, ambitions, poundage, or ugly cries.

This is not a competition. This place is simply meant to help each other facilitate those goals, whatever they may be. To create a community of support and motivation, no matter how silly or trivial a complaint or worry or bitchfest may seem.

(And, um, to add a little thing called accountability in the mix? Don’t hurt a thing.)

60+ contributors and growing, posting whenever, whatever, they need to.

The only rule is play nice.

The name of the game is get in shape, girls and boys…

Therefore, we are:

IN IT TO GYM IT.

As DC Blogs* called it last night…

And it’s all ours.

Thank you so much to everyone who helped with it’s creation, who jumped on board, who reads, who comments, who supports and helps motivate. That really is the name of the game, after all.

Sidebar: Want the IITGI button for your sidebar? Here’s the code:

<a href="http://inittogymit.com" target="_blank"><img src="http://i1020.photobucket.com/albums/af321/liluspics2/gym-1-1.jpg" border="0" alt="In It To Gym It"></a>

Twitter, Facebook, 20sb, and our Google Group. Okay, swear I’m done!

So from now on, any fitness-related notions or updates of mine will be over there. If that’s your bag, check it out! The bigger the community the better, right?

If not, rest assured that THIS place, the LiLu you’ve come to know and (hopefully) love, won’t be changing a smidge. It will be cat antics, self-deprecation, the shiz B says, and other ridiculous business as usual.

So wherever I see you around, whether it’s here, there, or everywhere, thanks for being there. You fill my heart with butterflies, rainbows, and cats wearing silly outfits.

*Speaking of DC Blogs, I am honored to announce that I will be taking over the Tuesday round-up as a regular gig from now on. So make sure to always post your best stuff on Mondays!

Wait, what?

Mama said share.

Ten years ago, the best long distance runner on our track team was jealous of MY legs, and I was competing with the shot putters to see who could do more push-ups during calis.

Yes, it was ten years ago. Yes, I was 16 and didn’t yet have a curve to my name.

I don’t care.

I want it back.

I want that feeling… that strength. That swagger.

I want to rock it at my girl’s wedding. I want to make this look goooooood in Vegas.

Now, I am not a big girl by any means. I know this. 

But I am SOFT, y’all. I’ve gone from sharp chedder to a ripe brie… and I’ve had enough.

I am sick of feeling weak. I am tired of feeling self-conscious.

It is time for a real change. It is time to get EXTREME. 

And so, my friends… with the power of B by my side, an absolutely insane hour-a-day training program, and a devastating lack of cheeseburgers from my life… I will do it. I will get it back, with a side of Michelle Obama arms to boot.

Please and thank you.

Three months, six days a week.

Half the booze, none of the fried.

(Somebody shoot me.)

Mama said share.