Great deals on magazine subscriptions with no auto renewals.

So, you all know that I started a lovely new job in January. (And if you don’t, consider yourself EDUCATED, fool!!)

Said lovely new job involves a bit of travel. One and two day trips to consult with clients around the country; a conference here and there. At first, I was excited. “I’m so Big Time!”, I thought. “I’ll get to visit e-friends all over, see new cities, huzzah!”

Anyone who’s ever had to travel for work would now like to tell me one thing:

I’m an idiot.

Work travel is basically everything that’s stressful about a vacation, except, yanno… minus the vacation. You agonize over what to pack, only times a bazillion because it’s FOR YOUR JOB. You worry about being late, only times a bazillion because it’s FOR YOUR JOB. You actually have to shower in the morning, only times a bazillion because it’s FOR YOUR JOB. (What?)

In a nutshell, it’s travel without sun, sand, skis, or wine. Hopefully at the end of the day there is a job well done, and maybe HBO in the hotel (but never Bravo, WTF?!) – but that’s about it.

Now, I’m not complaining. Because even considering all that, traveling to meet with clients is still pretty cool, frankly. And I love my job, so putting a checkbox in the “great meeting!” box feels fantastic.

It’s just, you know… stressy and such.

(For those of you who were following my journey to Wisconsin on Twitter yesterday, which totally involved me DRIVING A CAR, LIKE, FOR THE FIRST TIME IN FOUR-ISH YEARS??? … I’m alive! So is everyone else who I encountered on the road! The car is even intact!)

And, as a bonus, I had dinner with the absolutely hysterical and extremely freaking talented Jenn of Ex Hot Girl, who then- probably due to the multiple boozy beverages I plied her with- took me to her studio to just, you know, shoot some headshots for fun. Because that’s what awesome fun people who are also photogs do, apparently. And in less than three minutes (no, seriously) – the girl made me look like this:

Click here to see her professional site/portfolio

If you need a headshot for social media (or anything else), wedding/engagement photos, etc – please check her out! She does travel and she IS amazing. Thank you Jenn!!!

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.

You all know that person. You’re out with friends, talking about the hilarious episode of The Office from last week, and suddenly, you hear someone sneer…

“Oh, how can you even WATCH that? The British version is soooooooooooooo much better.”

You know what? We get it. The British version of everything is always sooooooo much BETTER. So much more SOPHISTICATED and QUIRKY and POOR QUALITY FILM which makes it that much more AUTHEEEEEENTIC!!!!!!!!

And here’s the kicker. Every. single. time you do this, you act like it’s a novel thought. Hate to break it to you, mate, but you’re kiiind of a cliche at this point.

So save your breath, you angry Brit-TV-ophiles, because I happen to think MY Jim Halpert is just fine.

(More than fine, in fact. I’d be his Pam any day.)

I love them BOTH. And that's? Okay.

Look, I love me a Ricky Gervais cameo. Emma Thompson is pure genius. And who *doesn’t* want to bang Colin Firth?? But at the end of the day, British shows just don’t really do it for me. Maybe that makes me unsophisticated , or vapid, or just plain not-a-Communist… either way, I’m cool with it.

(P.S.- Aren’t you sort of the same people who love to brag about how they don’t own TVs by choice? How are you even watching these shows in the first place, again?)

/rant.

And to all my lovely friends across the pond: it’s not you. It’s the people here who won’t shut up ABOUT you(r bloody programming).

Cheers!

Mama said share.

Ladies and germs, come on dowwwwwn to the Greatest Show/Hot Mess/Birthday Party/Epic to End All Epicness in the World!!!!

This Saturday I, along with my co-birthday gals Maxie & Liz, most of DC, and friends from California to Colorado to Pennsylvania to New York to Chicago to Seattle will be coming together to celebrate the amazing, the awesome, the helluva hot mess that is

We’ll be launching the PARTAY (hey! ho! hey! ho!) at Sign of the Whale (18th and M, Farragut North) at 8pm this Saturday evening, with no end in sight. Put on your big girl panties, your drinking hat, and come on out for a Grand Ole Time. Just say “PB and Tuna” at the door, and they’ll usher you into our top secret back room area, where we will enjoy $3 domestics, $3 rail drinks, and $4 SWEET TEA VODKAS, YO.

For more where/when/who info, and to RSVP (not required, but your mama raised you right, yes?)- please just click that big disgusting PB & Tuna button up there. For more reasons to show your pretty face and for pictures from last year’s event, check out my lovely lady Maxie’s post.

Can’t wait to see you all!!!!!!!!!

Mama said share.

Hiya! I’m back from Narnia the woods, alive and well save for a few (dozen) bug bites. It may not have been my ideal vacation on paper, but it actually turned out to be the perfect week of relaxation.

I agreed to go into the wilderness if I had four walls, a bathroom we weren’t sharing with strangers, and… a jacuzzi. So, yeah, I wouldn’t exactly call it “roughing it”… but if we hadn’t had said jacuzzi, then our friends Ken and Laura (and the bears, of course) never would have been treated to B’s and my very, very loud (and hopefully moving) duet of Disney’s “A Whole New World”. So there.

B and Ken have been getting into trouble together the best of friends since they were wee lads, so one nice thing about the trip was getting to know Laura a lot better. Since the boys were frequently off in the canoe playing “Vikings of the Shenandoah” and lighting things on fire, we had a lot of time to drink wine and talk and drink wine and watch “The World’s Fattest Man” and drink wine. And it was a grand old time, save for one small detail: while we did try desperately to bring everything we thought we might need in the wilderness, Laura and I managed to let down ourselves, the boys, and most importantly, AMERICA by forgetting the single most essential camping item…

S’MORES.

The first night, as the boys were building a fire (um, sidebar- men are OBSESSED with fire- wtf?! See below…), Laura and I looked at each other in horror as we realized our huge, gigantic, shameful misstep in planning. We simply HAD to fix the lack of s’mores in our life before the last day; a camping trip without s’mores would make us no better than common Commies.

We remembered seeing some graham crackers in one of the cupboards, so one of three bases was covered, at least. The next day, as we were out and about visiting Luray Caverns and getting creative at a few wineries, we made the guys pull over at every gas station and 7-11 we saw searching for marshmallows. We could only find the miniature kind, but we went for it, thinking that was as close as we were going to get. The Hershey’s was of course up front with the candy, so we would have to make do.

That night as we made dinner, I skewered mini marshmallows onto satay-style sticks. Later, as the fire was roaring, it was time to put the s’mores into action.

Let’s see how that went:

1. Those skewers? Are very, VERY tiny when you’re thrusting it into a molten lava hot fire (twss). Just sayin.

2. Once our marshmallows were cooked (in some cases burnt to a crisp; in mine, just above lukewarm), we cracked open the Hershey’s, which we all assumed would be the best part of the whole thing. I glanced down at the chocolate as I opened it…

Me: Um… there appears to be some sort of plastic on the bottom. Hold on… *tries to tear off* Oh… okay… apparently that’s just what the chocolate looks like. It’s kind of… white? Crusty?

Laura: What does the expiration date say? Is that… holy shit. It says 2001.

All of us: EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

3. The graham crackers were beyond stale, as were the marshmallows, but shockingly enough, the Hershey’s took the cake as far as the worst ingredient to our horrible disaster makeshift s’mores. Fail, fail, fail, HUGE freaking FAIL.

And yes, we all took a bite because we were drunk and had to make sure they were really that bad. Well, except Ken, because he smelled it first, and I would say that makes him the smartest one in the bunch…

If he hadn’t thrown his shirt in the fire moments later, “just because”.

We’re a special bunch. But honestly? I can’t wait to do it again.

I have a rematch with those goddamn s’mores.

P.S. This is what it looks like when two men obsessed with fire finally, well, get to build a fire:

Re. Dic.

Mama said share.

Remember last summer when we all “Got Our Kvetch On, Blogging Style“? We bitched and moaned about the things that drive us INSANE when it comes to blog layouts, features, writing, etc.

Well, as a contributing editor over at DC Blogs, we deal with that shiz every time we go through some hundreds of blogs to find our favorites for a round up. Co-contributing editor Restaurant Refugee and I decided to have a drunken gchat of a rant share with y’all some of the things that (almost) automatically disqualify a post from being included.

So check it out and share your thoughts… or just see what I look like on gchat after throwing back a couple cocktails.

It’s Not You, It’s Your Aesthetic

P.S. B and I are going to be visiting the Windy City the weekend of October 9th to see my bffie Kbo run the Bank of America Chicago Marathon. This means two things:

1. My girl’s running with TNT to beat leukemia! If you have a dollar or ten to spare, please please support her!

2. If you’re in Chicago or will be or COULD be on Saturday, October 9th, let me know in the comments and I’ll add you to my email list for the meet up I’ll be plotting. What what!

P.P.S. Because it’s Friday: http://youshouldhaveseenthis.com

Mama said share.

via someecards.com

Mama said share.

Hey there, cowboy! Get ready, cause I’m about to crack an egg of knowledge all over your head.

And by “knowledge” I mean pure, unadulterated awesome.

My father is to thank for sending me this shitshow of awkward-yet-mind-blowing-hilariousity I’m about to drop on you…

It really is no surprise where I came from, is it?

Happy long weekend 4th of July, poodlekins! If that video’s not freaking American, I don’t know what is.

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

Hey! Have you tweeted yet today? (If you don’t know what this is about, please to clicky here!)

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

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

The actual VOTING will start on July 7, and it will be via Facebook. (I know, the irony…) Anyway! You will only get to have to vote once, so make sure we’re Facebook friends and I’ll send ya a reminder! WOOT!!!

Mama said share.

It’s been a long time since there was a show on I COULD NOT MISS. There was Boy Meets World, Saved by the Bell, the Fresh Prince, Blossom…

(Shuttup. I’d still do Joey Lawrence. Whoa!)

But this, my friends… this is a shit show I have been waiting for with bated breath.

On July 29th, our beloved “Jersey Shore” returns to us, full blow-outs ahead.

MTV released thirteen minutes of first episode at their Movie Awards on Sunday, and a magical thirteen minutes they were. (Here, if you missed it. P.S. About missing it? DON’T.)

Oh, Snooki, J-Woww, Pauly D, and my very favorite Situation, I love you so. You truly represent the American dream.

Well, the 21st century one, anyway… you know: get on a reality show, make a gigantic (memorable) ass out of yourself, and make the nation fall in love/hate with you.

And I want to hate you. I know you represent all that is wrong with America’s youth today, or at least the Northeastern seaboard’s.

But I just can’t. I freaking love you crazy bastards, with your lube-shellacked hair, George Hamilton glow, and mouths that would make- well, me- blush.

What I would give to spend one night out with you guys. I already have the Bumpit and the potty mouth. All I need is a few hair-pulling lessons, and I’m good to go.

Let’s be honest, no one likes Angelina anyway. Bring me in and I’ll not only not cockblock you, hell, I’ll bring the talent HOME.

No grenades, I promise. You can creep all you want, pound it out with all the girls, and I’ll just have Snooki work on perfecting my pouf while we giggle at Pauly D berating some girl who’s stalking his whole entire life on the boardwalk.

See? I know the lingo and everything. I’ll even share my Jersey Shore drinking game with you while we pregame. One condition though: I’m not standing next to Snooki at the bar. Girl is like a magnet for physical abuse, and I like my face in one piece.

Bring it on, y’all. I can’t WAIT to “Get Jersey”… even if it is in Miami.

Mama said share.

You know how people always claim that they hold everything inside, pretend everything’s fine when it’s not, until the very last possible moment, when they can’t POSSIBLY hold it in anymore?

Yeah.

That ain’t me.

I’m the kind of person where when something happens to me, it happens to my whole goddamn world. No one escapes it.*

I had no idea when I wrote this post about Liz Lemon-ing my way through jury duty selection… I had NO idea what the next two weeks would hold in store for me.

The benevolent judge looked me in the eye, and asked if there was any reason I could not be a fair and impartial juror.

Oh, how I wish I could have lied.

But I couldn’t. I didn’t.

And eight days later, I set a man, a man accused of shooting an 18 year old girl through the heart, a man I believe to be a killer in cold blood…

I set him free.

Yes, there were twelve of us. Yes, we did what the law instructed us to do.

Yet somehow, we all know justice wasn’t served on Tuesday, April 12th, 2010.

I don’t believe in God. But somehow, I believe that poor girl’s sister when she said it’s in his hands now.

Maybe in some way, karma and God are the same principle.

Eventually, the nightmares will stop. With time, the victim’s mother’s tears, the prosecutor dropping to her knees at our verdict… they’ll fade from my memory.

But to that young, beautiful girl who had her entire future ahead of her…

I will never forget you.

None of us will, we dozen who held the opportunity to make your brutal and senseless death just the *tiniest* bit right, in our oh so very tied hands…

And failed you.

*(Dear B, you are a saint. Smooches.)

Mama said share.