All right. After what I did to you yesterday, I think we all deserve a funny. And it ain’t the baby Jesus’ birthday anymore, so let’s talk about sex, baby! With everyone’s favorite Sexpert, Eugene Mirman…

BAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Priceless.

Oh, and YES, I will totally be doing that finger-blowing-off-gun move, repeatedly, for the next month. Get ready for it.

Okay, now that we’ve covered sex, it’s time for some drugs!

And of course, you can’t have sex and drugs without a little Rock ‘n Roll…

A special thanks to my baby sister for introducing me to this comedic genius. Yesterday was more than just Christmas Day for us… it also was the first time I got WASTED with my little sis. Here’s to you, punkin head. CHEERS.

I think we’ve all stumbled across the GenderAnalyzer (my blog is 63% woman- HA!)

But I discovered the Typealyzer on Marissa’s blog today, and it’s even cooler…

Check it out!

I am:

ESFP – The Performers

The entertaining and friendly type. They are especially attuned to pleasure and beauty and like to fill their surroundings with soft fabrics, bright colors and sweet smells. They live in the present moment and don´t like to plan ahead – they are always in risk of exhausting themselves.

They enjoy work that makes them able to help other people in a concrete and visible way. They tend to avoid conflicts and rarely initiate confrontation – qualities that can make it hard for them in management positions.

I don’t think anyone’s shocked, eh?

What are you?

Gah. Moving day. Today shall be spent arguing over ugly coatracks, fighting off the homeless, getting style advice from some trannys, and going postal at Uhaul.

As such, when Restaurant Refugee mentioned a topic he would like to discuss (read: vent about) but was unable to do in his own space, I was only too glad to pass the buck for a day let him borrow mine.

Enjoy, dear friends. (And if anyone feels like lifting heavy shit all day, I mean helping a friend, why not skip out of work early and at the very least, come join our very colorful neighborhood watch and taunt B and I while we struggle? Apparently all you need is a lawnchair, some asscrack, and a Schlitz. Settle in and enjoy the show…)

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Friday afternoons are lovely. Summer Friday afternoons are even lovelier.

Add a patio, 7(-ish?) buckets o’ beer, some fantastic (and comedic) company, and you’ve got yourself a helluva evening.

Among the topics discussed: walking in on other people fornicating (umm… like my grandparents… don’t ask), taking nude pictures and the possible consequences, our fantastic waiter (who was not only adept at service, but story telling as well)…

And one little nugget in particular that I didn’t remember until Shannon reminded me of it: Apparently, a couple of weeks ago at the R&R Hotel on the H Street corridor, I was tired. This part I remember; the night before had been my last night working at Bar Screwie, which meant I was there til at least 3am. We (the bartenders of my bar and the surrounding venues) also went to the sketchy 24-hour Chinese food place next door to celebrate the birthday of one of our coworkers (yes, at 3am), which meant I got, oh, maybe 2 1/2 hours of sleep that night. Fast forward to the next day, and I was relatively useless. I powered through on a 3rd and 4th wave of adrenaline, and finally around 11 had to pack it in. Allegedly, I turned to Shannon and said:

Livitluvit: “I’m so sorry but I have to go home.”

Shannon: “Are you sure? Are you okay?”

Livitluvit: “Yes… for now… but I have to be sober enough to put out tonight, and I think I’m walking the line.”

When the table finally stopped laughing at her account of the exchange, all I could muster was, “Well, it does sound like something I’d say.”

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Saturday was spent chasing down the most gorgeous leather couch we’d ever seen. A hipster living next to the 930 club (OF COURSE) was selling it on Craigslist. I wish the original ad was still posted, but it ran something along the lines of, “I need to sell my sofa- I think it’s leather, but I don’t know how to find out for sure. My parents gave it to me. Best offer.”

It looked absolutely beautiful in the picture, so we hustled our very hungover buns over there (um, did I mention we’d been drinking mimosas/very strong bloody marys/drifting off into nap land all day?)

It was most DEFINITELY leather, lovely, heavy, espresso/chocolate brown leather. Probably a $2,000 couch, at least when first purchased, and it was in perfect condition. I guess hipsters whose parents buy their furniture don’t have much of a concept when it comes to the value of said items, because we somehow convinced him to sell it to us for less than $400. SCORE!

I will say that he was unbelievably nice, and totally honored the whole “first person to respond who can pick up said item within a reasonable amount of time” unspoken law of Craigslist. He even helped us carry it down to the truck, because while I have abnormally strong legs, my forearms are kinda like this… (If you haven’t seen Meet the Robinsons, I highly recommend it. You might want to drop acid first, though. Or at least smoke a bowl. But it was a very entertaining hour and a half.)

So, although a bit clueless, Hipster McNice was fantastic, despite his very, very skinny jeans, and he shall be at the Housewarming. Just look for the feathered mohawk.

Saturday night was spent celebrating the new couch, the new place, and our new neighbors, Fellow Masshole and the Chocolate Monster, at my new local Irish pub. (That I always frequented anyway. Now it’s just dangerously close…) “We can stay for one” of course turned into, “What the hell was in that shot, and we’ll just take the bottle of wine, kthxbai.” So, yes, B and I had hair of the dog…. for hair of the dog. Cause that’s how we do.

Fortunately, it was an early night. Unfortunately, the reason that was fortunate was because Sunday was spent MOVING…………

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8:09 a.m… For some ungodly reason (most likely because I passed out with pepperoni pizza on my face at 11pm) I wake up. I promptly wake B up, too (why suffer alone?) and we decide that since we have to get a truck anyway to pick up the couch, we might as well move as much of his apartment as we can as well. Hell, why don’t we make a whole day of it and go to IKEA? (This is the point in time when it would have been really great if one of us had twisted an ankle or something, thus ensuing that the day ahead could not happen. Next time, B, I’ll be sure to take a dive- it’s easy enough with 4 inch heels on.)

10:31 a.m… B and I enter the U-Haul (THIS ONE, read the reviews… they do it justice). There are 6 people in line. They look agitated. We, like two very very stupid happy little bunnies, jump in line giggling and high on coffee. Future Us from an hour later would have shot 10:30 Us on sight.

10:51 a.m… The same 6 people are still in front of us. The line has not budged. Five more have come in and warily joined the line behind us. We start making fun of the establishment/everything around us for entertainment. The people in line are mostly really cool and we are all of one mind, having fun with the horrific situation at hand and joking with each other. For now.

10:57 a.m… Still, not one person from the line has made it to the counter. B and I take bets on what time we’ll actually be helped. He says 11:30. I say 11:53. We are not joking, but still determined to keep up a positive demeanor. A girl in line sees a folding chair in the corner, and strides over, picks it up, brings it back to line, sets it down and sits in it decisively, arms folded. We marvel at her moxie and are simultaneously jealous that we did not think of this ourselves. My lower back (thank you, ten years of working on my feet in restaurants) is killing me from standing and we haven’t even started moving yet.

11:02 a.m… The guy who was at the counter when we first came in is still there, and getting into an argument with the (admittedly, inCREDibly speshul) people behind the counter. The manager, a 4′1″ Southeast DC-style black leprechaun in a wifebeater, gets in his face and makes it clear that frustration will get us nowhere. B and I resolve to sit back and enjoy the ride.

11:17 a.m… The girl behinds us returns to her boyfriend with coffee and a newspaper. Everyone in line (it’s up to about 18 at this point) descends upon her like hungry jackals. She passes out sections to all of us, and we kiss her feet.

11:30 a.m… Still trying to keep up a brave face, I joke with B about how I’m going to win our bet, but our patience is clearly waning rapidly. The line is now up to 22 people.

11:43 a.m… Some douchenozzle cuts the line by pretending he is only buying some boxes and packing tape. It gets very quiet as the 20 person+ line realizes what is happening. At this point, we have two more people in front of us, and have been waiting for over an hour. The air smells of mutiny and bloodshed.

11:51 a.m… It is now clear that douchenozzle is, in fact, renting a truck. I am foaming at the mout

h and B tries desperately to hold me back. I beg him to let me say something, and he begs me to refrain so we can get the hell out of there and not anger the Leprechaun Manager. I silently will the douchenozzle to turn around and take in the power of the snarl I am wearing. He knows he has done wrong and refuses to make eye contact with any of the patrons in line, much to my chagrin.

11:55 a.m… We are called up to the counter by Curtis, the “employee” who has made it clear he is the most speshul of the bunch. (It is taking him approximately 33 minutes per customer, whereas we saw a different employee get someone out in 19.) He apparently is sick and spend 40% of his time with us snuffling into a dust rag, 40% of it not doing anything at all, and 19% of it asking Leprechaun Manager questions about normal procedure stuff, at which point Leprechaun Manager launches into a condescending tutorial about protocol, instead of just handling whatever the issue is. Curtis spends approximately 1% of the time we are at the counter with him actually helping us with anything.

12:16 a.m… We actually have the key in hand and walk out to our Uhaul.

Bear in mind, friends, that WE STILL HAVE TO ACTUALLY MOVE.

Fuck you, Uhaul. I know we’re cheap bastards for even using you and all, but seriously…

Fuck. You.

So, last night I mentioned Restaurant Refugee’s Worst Date Blog Contest to my gay bff out in LA. Big mistake.

Ever thought you had a bad date? Want to feel better about it? Tell it to a gay man. I don’t know if it’s because of the heightened sense of drama, the free-flowing booze, or the rampant testosterone in the homosexual world… maybe it’s just that my boy can tell a helluva story. Whatever the reason, a gay man’s dating experience is always going to be way worse/funnier than yours.

And really, I should have known this truth, if I’d only thought about it. After all, I spent 3 years at his side in college, witnessing these over the top and amazing, yet completely truthful events. There is, perhaps, a small element of exaggeration perhaps added in for good measure in the retelling of said events, but overall, and I saw it with my own eyes: The boy just attracts some crazy ass shit.

There was the president of the Young Republicans from Dook. The closeted Colombian waiter at Maggiano’s. Half the Carolina wrestling team, and a ridiculous percentage of the frat boys as well. (Whenever we’d walk by a pack of them, “That one… and that one… oh, and that one’s still calling me.”)

Take, for instance, the story he told me just last night. Apparently, a couple mutual friends thought he and this guy might hit it off (Thomas had never met him before). In good faith and always up for an adventure, he agreed to meet him for an early evening cocktail- a friendly get-together, if you will, with no romantic pressure (allegedly).

Thomas arrived at his favorite low-class, tacky Mexican joint in West Hollywood (2-for-1 drinks every night from 4-7!), grabbed a beer, and spotted the date in question (courtesy of Facebook stalking).

He was standing at the bar, tasting the stomach of another dude.

Never one to balk at confrontation, Thomas tapped him on the shoulder and gave him a huge, shit-eating grin.

“Hi! I’m Thomas, your date,” he crowed, much too enthusiastically. (We invented sarcasm in Chapel Hill, circa 2003, if you weren’t aware. Or at least the ability to make others feel extremely uncomfortable when we thought we’d been wronged.)

Sketchy McSketcherson looked at Thomas unsteadily, seemingly only slightly aware of any faux pas.

“Oh hi,” he swayed, obviously well on his way to Drunk Town. At 4 pm. On a Wednesday.

At this point sticking with it for the story, Thomas suggested that they sit down. After helping Sketchy over to a table, my boy sat down across from him- and noticed that Sketchy was apparently only using one eye. The other was mostly closed, but did not appear to be the result of an affliction of any kind. Rather, it seemed deliberate. Sketchy was, it seemed, trying to give Thomas the stink eye.

“So, when did you move to LA?” Thomas tried a little civility.

Nothing. Sketchy just eyed Thomas, swaying gently in his chair, occasionally sipping his Electric Blue vodka slushee.

“Um… are you okay?” Thomas tried to politely inquite after Sketchy’s health, or at least alert him to the fact that he looked like he’d just taken a shot in the eye. (And I don’t mean bullets. This is gay-town, after all.)

Sketchy promptly burst into tears.

This was not one gentle tear glistening on a cheek, people. The guy was bawling. Heaving, ragged-breath sobs escaped from the blubbering mess of gay boy in front of him as Thomas looked on in horror.

Multiple inquiries as to the source of Sketchy McSketcherson’s tears proved futile. People were starting to notice, and it was not the kind of attention my boy enjoys. All of a sudden, Sketchy looked up, his face blotchy and red, teeth neon blue from the slushee.

“Yoo wantsh to get outta heah?” Sketchy slurred. Perhaps it wasn’t the stink eye after all, Thomas thought. Perhaps Sketchy was trying to eye-fuck him (shoulda taken a lesson from me, obvi).

“Ummm… I have a full beer.” Thomas glanced around, anxious to ascertain the total lack of… well… anyone he knew.

“Let’sch go to my plache,” Sketchy murmured intimately, swinging himself around the table and into the chair next to Thomas. Thomas quickly extricated himself and slid into a chair on the opposite side, only slightly appalled (I told you he’s dealt with a lot of this).

“Uh, yeah… like I said, I have a full beer.” Thomas took a swig and held it high in the air, his proof of inability to go anywhere with Sketchy McSketcherson. Finally, when it became clear to Sketchy that Thomas would not be going anywhere with him, he stood up from his chair and stumbled out of the bar, head held high, proud gay face front and forward.

Thomas collected himself, decided Sketchy was not going to come back in with a trash can or something and bash him over the head, and got another beer. Five minutes later, a text came through:

From: Sketchy McSketcherson

Text: Ass.

(One can only hope it was an insult, and not a request.)

Love you Tommy! Happy weekend everyone.

This guy is why I will never stop swearing…

Ah, the beauteous imagery one can paint with creative and carefully chosen expletives!

After being exceptionally lazy all day yesterday, my Sunday was livened up by the only thing that really can: Public Nudity.

One of my favorite new people and I braved that which is the suburbs to attend the scatterbrained and overtly sex-charged play, “Dial ‘P’ for Pasties” (probably NSFW). The five actors were extremely witty, adept at improvisation, and very comfortable with stripping down to their skivvies while dancing. There was only a faint semblance of a plotline, but since the one-liners making fun of the show’s low budget and many required stretches-of-imagination were abundant and hilarious, we had a marvelous time. The narrator/star of the show sang a song about bestiality that had my friend in tears and me nearly hyperventilating from laughter; consequently, I can’t remember nearly as much as I’d like, but I do recall a couple of the lines that about caused me to have an accident.

“I fuck chickens… My daddy wonders why their eggs are always scrambled”

“I fuck chickens… I got an STD at KFC”

(Yes, I have a twisted sense of humor. This was exemplified by the fact that out of the 100 or so people there, my friend and I were pretty much the only two laughing like hyenas. But hey, it was the suburbs of Virginia. On a Sunday. What’s a church?)

Sidenote, I think it speaks volumes about us that out of all the merchandise they had on sale after the show, my friend and I went straight for the matching underwear and had both purchased a pair within a minute of spotting them.

And that we managed to meet up with some townies and drag them out to a regulars bar, where we stayed late into the night talking about sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. You know. The yoosh.

***Yes, this is an actual post I wrote the morning after meeting who you now know as the lovely and charming B. Enjoy!***

While I really have come to love DC in the six months or so that I’ve lived here, it does have one very obvious and much-blogged-about problem… the dating pool, is, well, dorky. And generally not that attractive. In the months since I’ve relocated to our nation’s great capital, I’m sure I could count on two hands (possibly one) the number of times that I’ve seen a guy and thought, “Whoa. He’s cute. I need to talk to him.” It’s not really a big deal (yet), because I ended a (terribly draining, or maybe just terrible) relationship when I moved here and have been concentrating on making friends and working 60 hours a week and all that. But I am a little boy-crazy in general (read: huge flirt) and I check out EVERYONE I see, because I find people fascinating and can’t help it. (Girls for fashion and comparison, boys for the obvious, old people for the interesting.)

So last night, Fellow Masshole bff and I (she is fantastic, and the reason that I called out hungover for the first time EVER last Thursday) made our way first to an alumni event of hers (apparently I went to college in Ohio, natch) at a bar I’d never been to. (Still haven’t been inside, technically- I’m told it’s fancy but touristy by my trusted Capitol-Hill-living coworker, Turducken.) The event was outside (it was sunny yet sprinkling?), very squished, and I got hit on by a college senior (half the attendees were here for the summer on internships, which made me feel oh-so-old. Then I immediately said, “Oh, you’re a baby,” which made me feel oh-so-older. It’s not really an age thing, it’s just that I couldn’t date someone still in college when I’m so clearly entrenched in the professional world. Different phases of life, and all that).

Miffed by the rain and late for a dinner reservation at one of my favorite restaurants in DC (best. pizza. ever.), we extracted ourselves and four tipsy girls took a cab three blocks (we were wearing heels, what?) to meet the Sweetest Girl Ever for our reservation. After, oh, 2 bottles of wine at the bar, and 3 at the table, (there were 7 of us, to be fair, but some had their own drinks… I had at least the equivalent of a bottle myself- happy Wednesday!), and eating a TON of delicious pizza, Fellow Masshole and I were to the point of needing to go home, and/or extricate ourselves from the group. (One girl, who we shall call High-Strung VegHead, was loud, argumentative and so self-centered that I knew I was about one drink away from telling her as much. I may have sort of bitched her out for being a shitty tipper, but hey, you shouldn’t be a shitty tipper. Our waitress was adorable, friendly and helpful, which was a nice change of pace from the service I usually receive in the restaurant. Why go back? Maybe you didn’t hear me say best. pizza. ever.)

Anyhoo, Fellow Masshole and I excused ourselves and upon exiting, immediately turned to each other and said, “Drinks at Fado?” (Have I mentioned that we’re trouble together?) Seeing as we’d had about 3 bottles of wine to drink between the two of us, we asserted that we should take it easy and get something on the milder side. Which went like this:

Me: Car bomb?
Fellow Masshole: (to bartender) We’ll have two car bombs and two vodka sodas, please.

Yeah, apparently that’s taking it easy. (Have I mentioned that we’re trouble together?) Three dorky and older guys to our right expressed their admiration at our drink selection (the car bombs), and then promptly challenged our ability to drink it. Apparently they haven’t met us. (Have I mentioned that we’re trouble together?) About two seconds later, as we slammed down the empty chocolatey-milk glasses and wiped off our mustaches, one of them turned to the other and said, “Whoa… they just drank that way faster than you do.”

One of them mustered a pathetic attempt at flirting with us, (I wish I could remember what it was he was going on about, but I do remember being truly astonished that he would think it was interesting.) I believe it was something about him, himself, and his life, and after a few minutes of the cold shoulder, Fellow Masshole asked him if he actually wanted to know anything about us, or if he was content to just hear himself talk, in which case we were no longer going to pretend to listen. Funny, I don’t remember him being around after that…

After bonding with the bartender, who was obviously impressed with our mad car-bombing skills, Fellow Masshole and I toyed with the idea of actually being responsible for once and going home at a normal hour. Just then, a very cute (!!!) Hill staffer stood directly in my line of vision while closing his tab. Never one to be shy (especially a bottle of wine deep), I promptly “eye-fucked the shit out of him“. (I’m crediting this even though I’m positive I said that before the movie came out. I am an expert eye-fucker.) And he gave it right back. As he walked by, he stopped and said, “Hi, I’m XXXX.” (My favorite line.)

He was adorable, and charming, and intelligent. He was taking out a group of interns (who were making out on the other side of the bar), which is totally hot (being in charge of other people, and all that). We talked easily and honestly for at least an hour. (Fellow Masshole, who is attached in the long-term-we-may-get-married sense, oh-so-discreetly handed me her drink, said, “Finish this. I’m going to bed,” and left, sensing that I would be just fine on my own…) He was complimentary, and in a genuine and truly flattering way. I felt completely comfortable with him, which I love, because I’m generally the kind of person who either clicks immediately, or just doesn’t.

Eventually, Intern Babysitter offered to walk me outside to find a cab. Which turned into us sitting on the steps of a church on 8th Street at who knows what hour, making out. Awesome. And I can’t explain it (maybe the wine can) but when he said that he really didn’t want to see me go, I couldn’t help but agree. Even though he had vehemently proclaimed his desire to see me again, and that he would be calling me TOMORROW, and watched my phone ring to make sure I hadn’t given him a fake number when he called it after getting my number… I thought it would be nice to cuddle with someone for the night. So I told him he could come home with me if he promised to behave.

And he did. (Both came home with me, and behaved. Read: I only had to remove his hands from inappropriate places a couple times, which is pretty good for a guy.)

And it was nice. We’ll see if he calls… for once, I have no doubt that he will.

Update: He just called! I win! And I have a date on Saturday…

Since all the people I work for are <ahem>, wealthy, none of them are ever here on Fridays in the summer. Which means I get to waste many hours on the internet.

Which should explain this:

And finally, this:

Yes, people, that’s right… I’ve spent my entire morning creating my South Park, Simpsons, and M&M avatars. Trust, they look exactly like me. Actually, you know what’s sad? I really think the M&M nailed it the best.

And now back to The Superficial…

I really wish I had a picture… walking home through Dupont Circle yesterday after a delicious Kramerbooks brunch, I passed a homeless woman huddled in front of the PNC Bank building. She had her legs stretched out in front of her, and was cradling something in her lap. As I approached her, I eventually made out that it was a tub of Edy’s Peanut Butter ice cream.

“Oh my god,” I said to my companion. “That is, undoubtedly, the best day of her life.”

I was very excited for the woman- what a success. Who knows how long it been since she’d tasted the frosty treat, and now she had a whole gallon of it to herself! I smiled at her as I walked past… that is, until I noticed that the ice cream had about two inches melted on top… because she was trying to eat it with a plastic knife.

I ask you, WHO buys a homeless woman a GALLON of ice cream and NO SPOON?

Sadists. Even I’m not that cruel.