Today is a big day, friends. Today is the day I retire my @livitluvit twitter handle for something more grown-uppy and profesh. (Does being an adult mean I can’t use the word “profesh”? Probably. LE SIGH.)

It is with a lot of relief, actually, that I leave behind @livitluvit, which kind of sounds like a 7th grader’s AIM screen name (KIT! LYLAS!!!)… for the much more mature and adulty:

@rachaelgk.

Doesn’t it sound like that person probably has fancy scarves, and knows how to wear them? She probably never forgets to cut off that thread-thingy on the bottom of skirts and jackets. I’m sure she doesn’t swear in front of children at brunch, and she’s probably never told a bathroom joke to a complete stranger in her life.

Well, I don’t know how many people I’ll fool into thinking I might be that lady, but you can’t blame a girl for trying. (And if you do happen to see my tag sticking out, thereby alerting you to the fact that my shirt’s on inside out… let a girl know, hmm?)

P.S. If you’re a lady in or just out of college, let me know in the comments if you wouldn’t mind answering five very QUICK research questions! You’ll be doing me a huge favor and… well basically, that’s it. But that counts for something, right? **HUGS**

All good on the survey front! Thanks so much for all the help!

Mama said share.

I’ve never been a fan of the awards shows. I’m not part of the film or music industry; sure, I’m a consumer, but I just don’t really care to see these celebritous-people in their natural- aka boring- state. (Men who make my loins quiver excluded, naturally.) But in general, if they’re not dancing for me, I’m not interested, frankly.

But the peer pressure of Twitter is a powerful thing, and so when I realized the Oscars could not truly be avoided (and that nothing else was on TV), I decided to tune in.

My disdain for Anne Hathaway (which, truth be told, was already well established – she is a terrible actor with approximately two different facial expressions, and she seems like a pretentious snob IRL) – immediately multiplied tenfold.

It’s a shame, really, because James Franco is fun and cute and genuine and probably could have done a decent job on his own. But with that hyena giggling and shrieking and pulling every cornball move she could think of next to him, he didn’t stand a chance. She was just so phony… so completely stiff and awkwardly scripted. It was painful watching her try and be that silly, bubbly, ditzy girl who fawns all over everyone.

You're hurting us, Anne. Seriously.

She spent the entire evening trying so hard to be “likable” that I was afraid she was going to have an aneurysm. (At least then the Oscars would have been entertaining…) But at the end of the day, you just can’t teach likable, darlin.

Look, Anne, if you’re kind of a bitch, just BE kind of a bitch. Be the no bullshit girl who says what she thinks, and drop this “America’s sweetheart” BS, because it’s not your color. Trust me, people will appreciate that you’re at least being real.

...Sexy ain't your color either. Awk. Ward.

No amount of Sex Panther is going to help you out in this department, sweetheart. Liz Lemon exudes more sex appeal than you do. While holding Emily Dickinson.

"I can fit Emily Dickinson's whole head in my mouth!"

To be fair, it wasn’t just Anne. Even Justin’s oh-so-scripted Banksy jokes smacked of insincerity and indifference. Every line delivered throughout the evening was devoid of true fun- not for one second did you feel like anyone might actually be enjoying themselves up there. (Except, of course, for the acceptance speeches, which were probably really enjoyable for the 13 people thanked… and no one else. One of my tweets last night:

The 30 second glimmer of Bob Hope’s hologram showed more character and was more genuine than any other words spoken last night, and that, my friends, is a tragedy.

Yes, we’re hard on the Oscars. Sure, we enjoy the opportunity to rag on at the popular kids- though, to be fair, some of those outfits are just begging for it.

But at the end of the day, these awards shows just aren’t FUN anymore. It’s one awkward delivery of a corny joke off a teleprompter after another. No one’s real. No one’s genuine. No one’s having a good time on stage, so why on earth would we enjoy watching it?

It is the age of transparency, dear friends of the Academy. You can’t fool us with this puppet show façade anymore- these phony kissy-face stars sucking up to one another all night long, without anyone speaking a word of true emotion?

We’re Gen Y, and we’re here to tell you that we’re not buying it.

And if you’re smart… you’ll listen.

Mama said share.

I am a bit, how shall we say… terrified of getting older.

I know, I know. No big shock, right? So’s your mom.

But here’s the thing: it’s less about actually aging and drooping and having mortgages and breaking hips and shit than it is about…

Not being cool.

You know… with it. In vogue. Streets ahead, and so on and so forth.

I know what you’re thinking:

But LiLu, you’re already the biggest dork we know! For Pete & Pete’s sake, you’re obsessed with your cats and an anime Nicktoon…

Don't hate. He's the world's very LAST Airbender!!!

 and frankly, we didn’t want to say it, but you’re a little bit loco in the cabeza with the Always Sunny references… AND the twss jokes.

*You duck in anticipation of my flailing-arm protest*

The thing is, I KNOW all that. I’m well aware of my Reigning Dorkdom. And what it boils down to is, I basically don’t stand a chance of being hip in my golden years. And that scares me.

You see, this weekend at the wedding, I met the World’s Coolest Lady.

(No, seriously. I’d present her with a sash that said so if I thought she wasn’t too cool to wear it.)

The lovely bride put together a meet and greet for the families on Friday night; we gathered around a fire pit to bond over far too much just the right amount of vino. From the moment Aunt Theresa walked in, I was in awe.

This woman was Helen Mirren with a side of Meryl Streep, all wrapped up in a healthy dose of Bea Arthur’s ‘tude.

Redic… wait for it… ulous.

Statuesque and sophisticated at NINETY, (and never without a cocktail in hand,) she regaled me with tales of her life, her travels, and her four marriages (one in her 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s). “Oh, you grow,” she told me with a casual wave of her hand, the mark of a person who’s not only experienced, but accepted life.

At the reception, I continued to hassle her (in between showcasing my White Girl Dance Moves) for the secret to rocking it at almost a century year old, until B came to subtly rescue her from my drunk clutches.

The next day at the airport, B and I were nursing our Awesome Wedding Hangover with some hair of the dog when I turned to him.

Me: She was just so freaking cool! I wonder what the secret is to never getting lame…

(pregnant pause, B begrudgingly turns one eye towards me from ESPN)

Me: I guess… I guess it’s just not having kids, so you stay rich and thin and can travel the world and be fabulous all the time?

B: *laughs* Yeah, I’d say that’s pretty much it.

Le sigh.

Aunt Theresa, I raise my glass to you. You are 90-some years old, and cooler than I could ever hope to be.

Mama said share.

Because you should be… and not just because it has the best opening credits song since The Wire.

(Click here for more info.)

Listen to me. I’m a doctor.*

*of Loooooooooooooove.**

**Also, shuttup. I am recovering from a bachelorette and it may have been my first one but dayum, y’all… I am TOO OLD for this shit.

Mama said share.

I just deleted an incredibly long play-by-play account of how perfectly miserable this past Saturday’s ShamrockFest was*.

And it was, don’t get me wrong. It was raining steadily and nastily the entire time; the parking lot was a mix of mudslides and six inch puddles; my guest Flippy and I waited in line after line to get in; they sent us the wrong way (not “VIP”) and we had to walk all the way back to the front to get our “VIP” glasses twenty minutes later, at which point they did not see fit to give us the bracelets meant to go along with them; the festival opened at noon but “VIPs” were forced to wait outside of the “VIP” area until 1pm- an hour in the rain with free beer that (well, not us but other people) have PAID for is a fate worse than death; when the “VIP” crowd literally rioted to be let in at 1, the power-hungry gate attendants made them wait until 1:05 and we were scared for our lives; there were more staff than patrons there yet they openly admitted they had had no training and couldn’t give us any information about what was going on; the entire event was so poorly disorganized it was laughable; “VIPs” weren’t allowed to bring their beer outside of the “VIP” area to where the bands were playing; we admitted defeat just moments after they finally opened the “VIP” gate and we realized we needed the bracelets we hadn’t been given with our cups. The idea of walking back to the gate a second time was laughable after already having done it once and standing in the rain for an hour waiting for a free beer.

(“VIP” is in quotes because I don’t believe anyone there was not “VIP”. Sort of defeats the purpose, no?)

We watched as the crowd rushed in and decided A) the lines for the free watery beer would be ridiculous by the time we got back, and B) we were too old for this shit.

So Flippy and I, in our neon lime-green legwarmers and aqua leggings, (respectively,) laughed our ass out of that place so fast we didn’t even get to see LMFAO sing “Shots.”

We swam through the mud puddles passed the line of unfortunate souls waiting to get in- literally, my shoes are now brown- and hailed the first cab we could find to take us to a warm bar where the booze flowed (and our fingers weren’t so frozen we couldn’t even Tweet the anguish).

So, if you ask me how ShamrockFest was, I will probably laugh. And I will tell you that as long as you never step foot in the park itself… as long as you head straight to a cozy bar with a good friend and stool up to a pitcher of beer and some garlic fries and spend the next four hours laughing and bonding and planning road trips and making fun of small children…

You’ll probably have a grand old time.

I did.

*Yes, my tickets were totally courtesy of a PR company. Otherwise I never, ever, EVER would have gone. Lesson learned.

Mama said share.

As a woman in a somewhat functional relationship, there are times when *gasp* girlfriends come to ME for dating advice.

Sometimes they even do it sober.

(I know, right?!)

Anyhoo, while it may seem that I am old and married and perpetually on our couch curled up in my pj’s having fart-off contests with B, there was a time- not so long ago, even- when I too was a single gal fighting my way through the “scene”.

When I think about my dating history, well… let’s just say there’s a lot to learn from. While most of the guys I dated were, I believe, good guys at heart, they were lacking in a myriad of different ways when it came to true partner material. Not so long ago I considered what my Dealbreakers for Friendship have evolved to be, over many years of befriending the good, the bad and the ugly. What would that list look like if I were to create it for a relationship? When would I tell a girlfriend to cut and run, based on my own experiences?

*Keep in mind these are meant to be for that first year or so, when you’re deciding whether this hot tamale really has the legs to make it… not after you’ve been together for five years and are hitched with munchkins. That is wayyyy out of my league.

Thank the baby Jeebus Amen.*

And so. My “red flags” that would (now) send me running for the hills, were I to be thrust (TWSS) back into The Game We Call Dating…

Get TFO (The Fuck Out) If…

You like his family and friends more than him.

Alone time with him stresses you out.

If he admits your ass looks fat in that.

You go on vacation for the first time… and it is a huge, enormous, fail. (If you can’t make it through a long weekend of traveling… you can’t make it at all.)

He puts the TP on so it comes out the bottom instead of over the top. (No explanation necessary.)

You have ever been truly frightened that he would do something to purposefully harm you, physically or otherwise.

If he spends more time primping than you, and by extension…

You and your friends joke-about-but-secretly-truly-worry that he might be gay.

You go a week without sex… and don’t notice. (Remember, this is for new-ish couples only. If you’ve got a couple of toddlers, from what I hear, once a week would be porn style.)

If you can’t let your inner dork/freak fly when you’re alone.

If he avoids meeting the people you love most.

If he believes you when you say you don’t want anything for your birthday.

If he doesn’t make you laugh. Like, all the time and stuff.

If you think, deep down, that he would probably bone your best friend, given the right circumstances.

If you feel like you pay for more than he does. (Disclaimer: unless you make a significant amount more than him.) (Disclaimer not valid if he’s unemployed- and we’re talking real trailer park trash unemployed, not “the economy is flushed” unemployed.)

If he lets you down instead of building you up, a la Mr. Astley.

And, finally…

If you’re unhappy more often than you’re happy.

This is obviously just one chick’s perspective. Unfortunately I’ve never been a dude, so I can’t speak for them, but I’m pretty sure the main two are “stops giving beejays” and “keep talking”, yes?

P.S. The gorgeous and unbelievably adorable Ben Boudreau of No Ordinary Rollercoaster has made me my very own personalized vlog in response to my question to him:

“Is it possible for you to *not* melt men’s- and Kelly Clarkson’s- hearts worldwide with those big puppy dog eyes?”

It may or may not involve the word “schnookums”…

LOVE. IN THE FACE.

Mama said share.

***Update: Doods! My site caught swine flu and was down all day yesterday. It should be up and running fine now- vaccinate your children!- but do me a solid and let me know if you notice anything wonky, mmmkay? Xoxo***

Anyhoo. Today shall be a better day. My morning started like this:

Coworker: How old is your little sister?

Me: 21. No, wait, 22. CRAP, no, she’s TWENTY THREE!!!!

Coworker: (laughing at me) Oh, so you’re ancient, right?

(Actually, exactly what I’d been thinking was “Holy fuck, I’m OLD.”)

My baby sister turns 23 years young today. The hooker will always be younger than me, but somehow, I love her anyway.

Dear Sis,

I’m sorry for the time I dislocated your arm. (Accident! But still.)

I really miss making LEGO worlds with you.

I'm pretty sure it looked something like this. Boys drool!

I wish I’d let you play with the Barbies that still had hair more often.

Oh, and stolen less of, um, ALL your toys.

I love how ridiculously smart, funny, and compassionate you are. (Mostly the funny. You make me laugh like no other. But I can make you snarf milk through your nose, so we’re even.)

I’m proud of you for knowing yourself so well. You’re one of the few who never seemed to struggle with that angsty existential crisis so many of us do in our formative years.

(Guess I took on that burden for you…)

Ahem!

My only complaint about you? That you haven’t watched Always Sunny.

There’s a present for you in the mail… you have no excuse now, my dear.

(Um, surprise?)

Happy Birthday, Lil Sis.

Pay no attention to the Kate Gosselin style highlights, please and thank you.

P.S. Moog, Mike, Narm, JP, and most other readers with penii… I am just waiting for you to make some joke about banging my sister. MY MOM READS THIS. Just a friendly reminder.

(Now they’re going to make a joke about banging my mom. Warning FAIL.)

P.P.S. If you’re a blogger in the DC area, you should be a member of the free Washington, DC Blogger Meetup group. The lovely Lexa and I are hitting up their Meetup tonight at Madame’s Organ around 7, and we’d love to see you there too.

Don’t forget to RSVP if you’re coming!

Mama said share.

The thing about being in a relationship is that once you get used to the idea of “Being With Someone, You Know, Officially” (i.e., on Facebook) (kidding) (sort of), you kind of just assume it. It becomes part of you. And eventually, you forget that “TAKEN” isn’t stamped across your forehead with “and happy” in fine print beneath it. Because, as one of my new blog crushes La Dolce Vita found out, there are those guys who even “I’M MARRIED AND PREGGERS” won’t stop. Blech.

Anyway, after YOU get used to the fact that you have an S.O., you sort of forget that everyone else doesn’t magically know about it. And even though you cease to see your everyday interactions as possibilities, flirtations, etc… the rest of the world does not.

Which explains why I might have sort of accidentally hit on someone yesterday.

And didn’t realize it until about five minutes after the fact.

Let me ‘splain.

As I’ve said, B and I are kicking our own asses this month, diet- and exercise-wise. (Who knew you could fall asleep without booze? Crazy talk!) So, my mission yesterday was to actually see the gym at my office for the first time, and quite possibly even go so far as to SIGN UP. Which probably would have burned 5 calories alone! But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

I was heading down towards the basement to check it out, which was about all I knew as far as said gym’s “location”, and I held the door open for a guy coming into the stairwell behind me. As I continued downstairs I realized two things:

A) I do not have the slightest idea where the gym actually is, and there
are about 4 levels to the “basement”…

B) The guy behind me was carrying a gym bag.

Using my phenomenal powers of deduction, I realized that said gentleman could probably point me in the right direction. I awkwardly stopped, turned around, and said,

“Hey, I’m sorry to bother you… but are you going to the gym?”

Which, apparently, when said by a 20-something girl to a 20-something guy, can mean two entirely different things based on your “Status”. See below:

In a Relationship: “I’m sorry to bother you… but are you going to the gym?”

Single: “I think you’re cute and I couldn’t think of a less lame way to talk to you.”

WHOOPS. At least I didn’t make muscley-arms at him, a la Ron Burgundy. (“I don’t know if you heard me counting, I did about a thousand…”) He looked surprised and then flattered, pointed me in the right direction, and offered to walk me there, at which point I decided to beg off and duck into the library. The gym and my, ahem, voluptuous ass could wait one more day.

As I left, he kind of winked at me, and said, “The gym, is good, yes?” and I realized I had inadvertently hit on a young Latino man. Talk about flipping roles. But apparently, the “Are you going to the gym?” guy code transcends all language barriers.

And now I’m off to get some ink on my forehead that says, “No, I’m not flirting with you… I’m just dumb.”

Mama said share.

It took 12 hours to get home to Massachusetts.

And yes, there are stories. But they’ll have to wait… I have to save up what little energy I have left.

We’re about to go shopping.

At least I found this this morning… it is the only thing consoling me when I think about the parking lots and lines and crowds I’m about to battle.

Happy Christmas Eve, you cotton-headed ninny muggins-es!

Mama said share.

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?)

Mama said share.