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While watching Project Runway last night, I couldn’t help but admire Heidi Klum for the zillionth time. She’s just drop dead gorgeous – and without being scary skinny. (The gossip mags have shown her working out all over NYC lately – lady? It’s paying off.)

Her career is off the charts, even as she’s creeping up on her 40s – and it ain’t easy for a model to make the transition off the runway to something else lucrative and not sad or trivial. Her kids are impossibly adorable, and she and Seal seem to be one of the few celebrity couples who have a truly healthy marriage – and are still nuts about each other to boot.

Well, aren't you two just vomitously cute?

And the worst part is: she’s so darn sweet that jealous as I am, I can’t even hate her. In fact, I utterly adore her.

WTF, Klum?

(Disclaimer: I’m in no way saying these are the things (career, love, kids) that every person should want. But as they seem to be what she wanted, I think it’s fair to say she has an exceptionally well-rounded life, and has successfully managed the balance between career and family, which I think we can agree is award-worthy all on its own.)

Anyway! I was thinking of all this… but then I checked myself before I wrecked myself, because my eyes are a lovely green, but my ‘tude doesn’t need to match them. And more importantly, I remembered this little nugget: nothing’s ever as perfect as it seems. I’m sure there are certain aspects Heidi hates about her job, something that Seal constantly does that drive her nuts, mundane or annoying things she wishes she could change about her day to day life.

And it occurred to me that I might even seem the same way, were someone looking in through the windowpane into the sunshiney breakfast nook area of my own life. Since landing the job I worked so hard for in January, things have certainly fallen into place in a way they never have before. I have the career, the incredible friends, the lover, and the kids (even if they are four-legged). Sure, I’m not a world famous or fabulously rich supermodel… but at the end of the day, my biggest problem is the 10 pounds I’d kill to lose and how to manage my hair in this disgusting DC summer humidity. It’s a good place to be, to put it mildly.

And even now, I sit here, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

How effed is that? Finally everything falls into place, so I sit here, poised, preparing for the next valley to follow this peak. Rather than sitting back and enjoying everything I’ve made for myself, I’m counting down the minutes until something horrible happens. I know it’s crazy, and probably more than a little unhealthy, but I can’t help it.

Do you do this? Does Heidi? How do you shut your brain up and make it smell the f#^%*#@ing roses?

Mama said share.

We all judge.

And if you say you don’t, you’re lying. “Judging” based on first appearances, preconceived notions, and God forbid, STEREOTYPES- are skills we have developed over the evolutionary years of our existence to streamline the overflux of information that is forcibly pushed onto our senses, and must be neatly and efficiently categorized by our tired brains every single day. It’s science.

So admit it, my darling dears. You judge. Maybe you even like it. (For everyone who says they enjoy “people watching”? Yeah, that’s just a fancy name for judging.)

And I’m here to tell you that it’s okay. Look, I’ll even go first.

Yes, I judge. I judge without shame, and with reckless abandon. And here’s when:

If you…

Use more exclamation points and smiley faces than you do periods.

Hate animals. (Severe-allergy-inspired hatred not included, Lex.)

Declare Ari Gold your personal hero. (Million Dollar Listings, I’m looking at you.)

Try to push your faith or opinions on other people, rather than simply expressing them. (There is a BIG difference.)

Are a flake.

Are a liar.

Genuinely believe PajamaJeans are a great idea.

Make your ultrasound your Facebook profile picture.

Can’t handle the heat and won’t get out of the kitchen.

Refer to yourself as a “social media guru”.

Speak when you don’t have anything to contribute. Your voice isn’t that pretty.

Start every sentence with “My boyfriend says…” (I am hanging out with you. Not him. Don’t care. Not sorry.)

Take everything personally.

Take everything (too) seriously.

Don’t nostalgically adore (and can quote) the Princess Bride.

Walk on city sidewalks with a golf umbrella.

Call yourself a ‘foodie’. (All my friends who could *actually* be considered food experts? Despise this word.)

Are 25+ and still get sloppy drunk on the regular. You are an adult. Handle yourself… because I’m not going to do it for you.

Never day drink. (Just don’t get sloppy.)

Are willing to redefine rape, but not marriage.

So go on, now. Don’t be skerred.

What makes you unapologetically judgy?

Mama said share.

My world is absolutely insane lately. Everything is changing, but it’s all things that are out of my control. I feel entirely overwhelmed, a little bit hungover, and a lot bit lost at all times. I can hardly catch my breath, and when I do, I use it to agree to one more thing I probably shouldn’t, for my mental health’s sake. I’m trying to be in charge of it all, to be a part of everything, and because of that, I feel like I’m accomplishing nothing.

I’m running on ice with socks on. It doesn’t work very well.

The job hunt continues, but without a specific direction. I know I don’t want to be an assistant anymore, and I know now the things that I enjoy doing- AND I even have experience doing them!, but it’s so vague a world I can’t for the life of me figure out the path I should take to get there. Or what the destination is.

Shit, y’all, I really don’t know shit.

I miss my family, and friends who are too far away, but I’m exhausted from traveling. I desperately want to get back into an exercise routine, but I can’t get my ass out of bed in the mornings. I’m determined to stop eating like shit and cook dinner, but we’re out half the nights of the week. I’m sick of side projects and never being able to relax, but I’m broke as a joke. I love that my social circle is expanding, but hate growing apart from friends. My clothes don’t fit, my apartment’s a mess, and my bathtub looks like the swamp thing because it’s so backed up with cat hair. (Sink cat’s not so damn cute now, is it?)

(Ok, yes it is.)

So, yes. Things are a bit crazy.

But in truth, I’m fine. Absolutely, 100%, A-OK. Sure, a bit stressed, but I know it’ll work out in the end.

And here’s why:

Happy Birthday, darling. You’re cute and funny and thoughtful and you cook and you make up songs for me and the kitties AND you keep me (somewhat) sane, so you’re a hero in my book. I love you.






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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.

This week, my work counterpart unexpectantly called out sick… for the ENTIRE WEEK. Needless to say, doing the work of two people has not made this my favorite five days. Even worse, I was supposed to be sitting at home today, painting my toenails and torturing my cats while I watched the premiere of Jersey Shore I taped last night. Alas, I am sitting at my desk, plotting different routes to cropdust the office just for revenge-y shits and giggles.

But my misfortune is your gain, lovers. Let me show you a few things that my sympathetic friends sent to me to make this no good very bad week better!

I have watched this approximately 1,000 times on repeat, and no, it doesn’t get any less cute. SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Snuggie meets the ShamWow! aka MAGIC SAUCE.

Yes, it’s bootleg… but it’s WORTH IT.

Oh, Cartman… when you’re on, you’re ON FIRE.

Happy Weekend, my dears!

Mama said share.

Last Friday, I had the grave misfortune of attending… dum dum dum… a “Work and Time Management” seminar. You see, I work at one of those huge, incredibly bureaucratic companies where, come Annual Review time, you’d better have some concrete thingamabobs to put on that form that represent trying to better oneself.

I know, I know. Total BS. But whatevs, mama needs a raise. So I’m playing the game, see?

The seminar was from 9 to 5, aka alllllllllllllllllllllllllll goddamn day. So I knew going in it would either be a great thing (i.e. an easy day off work), or complete and utter torture.

I grabbed a coffee and a seat with a few ladies I recognized from my department. I immediately noticed the four “drawing boards” strategically placed at the corners of the room, just screaming “WE ENCOURAGE ACTIVE PARICIPATION!!!”

And the sense of dread set in.

Sure enough, at 9 sharp, a rotund woman in a pants suit that did nothing for her gathered herself at the front of the room, and clapped her hands together sharply.

“Goooooooooood morning!!!”

It was all I could do not to shout “VIETNAM!” at the top of my lungs. The room gave her a half-hearted, “I haven’t had my coffee yet” bedraggled response.

I already knew what was coming.

“I know it’s morning, but you can do better than that!!! It’s FRIIIIIIIIIIday!”

Seriously, lady? SERIOUSLY? That line hasn’t been funny for the past two decades… and I’m willing to bet, neither have you.

She spent the rest of the day giggling at us like Mrs. Butterworth on happy pills while choking on corporate buzzword after buzzword.

“Urgency versus importance!” “Stressful work environments!” “Time management tips & tricks!”

At 10:40, I finally managed to escape long enough to tweet my despair…

“In a seminar w/ teacher Mary Fucking Sunshine. I honestly do not get how one can be so full of PEP and GLEE and STEREOTYPICAL CATCH PHRASES.”

I was just waiting for her to refer to us as her “special people”, a la Billy Madison.

But the most annoying part of it all? It actually wasn’t her. It was the dumbass robots around me who bought every last bit of it, hook line and sinker. The sympathetic nods as people sob-storied about working til 9pm, eating lunch at their desks, even having insomnia from getting up at 3am to handle correspondence with our Asia and Pacific branch.

Um… WHAT? Why??? We’re all assistants. I know what you get paid. Why on earth would you do that to yourself in a dead end job? Didn’t anyone ever teach you to keep the bar low??

After a couple hours of talking about our feeeeeelings, Mary pulls out her handy dandy self-developed “Time Management Matrix” tool, outlining the four categories ‘tasks’ should be labeled as in order to identify their priority in our “work plans”. Whatever, right? Let’s just get this over wi-

And then someone actually tried to ARGUE with Mary that the categories were wrong.

<Insert world’s biggest, huffiest sigh of agitated disbelief here.>

Do you really think the lady who MADE THIS UP is going to say, “Oh hey, glorified secretary, you’re right! I’ve been going about this wrong for 15 years! How silly of me to have been teaching this all over the world!”

It’s a good thing there weren’t any sharp objects in that room. I think I would have been the first person to off another human being with a stapler.

OOOOOOOooooo. I just got the email to complete my evaluation of said course…

This? Should be fun.

*evil cackle*

Mama said share.

It’s bad enough that everyone is posting about being  So Excited! About! Fall! The only reason I’m even slightly glad it’s getting colder is because I’ll reallllllly enjoy being in Costa Rica in a few weeks. After that? Hell. Frozen over HELL until what, May? As much as I try to convince myself that winter’s all about snuggling under a quilt from Gramma with the one I love, giving each other Eskimo kisses while we sip hot chocolate next to a fireplace…

It’s freaking NOT.

Winter sucks. All of it. At least in Massachusetts we could pretend to go skiing on one of our “mountains” every once in a while, which in no way made up for five months of ice/snow/sleet/hail/freezing rain, but at least flying down a hill on a Sno Tube while you fear for your life and the possibility you might lose an eye in the woods at the bottom is kinda fun.

(What can I say. I live dangerously.)

But here in the District, there’s no snow to speak of. It’s just gray and mush and God’s frozen tears covering the land, while I try not to get plowed (twss) by the 42 bus on the walk to work. Because, yanno, the busses are always FULL when it’s cold and gross out, so there’s no point in waiting for one to zip by you.

At least they’re heavier when they do kill you, so it’s over quicker, I’d imagine.

But none of these things account for why I truly hate the weather getting colder. These things are a nuisance, to be sure, but I am a Masshole, after all. I will live.

No, my friends. The reason I REALLY hate the chill of the months that end in ‘Ber, is because of my one true nemesis…

EL PUMPKIN.

I can just hear it mocking me… it and its little green ghouls!

The evil, evil pumpkin and I go way back, to the time it made me hurl an entire Thanksgiving dinner at the tender age of ten. And I ask you to consider, my friends… what was the last thing I’d eaten?!

That’s right, my friends. PUMPKIN PIE. All I saw for the next two hours of food poisony vomiting was that cinnamon-speckled orange goop, mocking me as I prayed to the porcelain gods.

Now the very smell of those repulsive, stringy, George Hamilton-colored innards make me gag and run for cover. I’d rather sit in John Goodman’s fart stank cloud than be in a room with El Pumpkin.

I spend every holiday meal in fear of the end, when an evil convert of El Pumpkin may try to voraciously foist their master’s gelatinous pie form upon me, banking on my good manners that I will be unable to refuse. The pie is the most offensive of El Pumpkin’s pulpy shapes, but not the sneakiest. Oh no, my friends. That honor belongs to the one and only…

PUMPKIN SCENTED CANDLE.

That’s right, people. As if the pumkin pie and the pumpkin cookies and the pumkin bread weren’t bad enough, now El Pumpkin has found a way to infiltrate my BREATHING AIR. He’s gone biological warfare on me, folks.

But alas, it doesn’t end there. As one final grand insult to injury, the corporate demon Starbucks has joined forces with The Dark Pumpkin Lord, and somehow devised an evil potion that has all of the people nearest and dearest to me constantly singing the Pulpy Prince’s praises! The Facebooks and the Twitterings are haunted by one deadly phrase… Pumpkin Spiced Latte. It would seem that only a few strong souls are able to resist its nutmeggy charms… and we are so overwhelmingly outnumbered, the fight ahead of us seems impossible.

But somehow, some way… I must rid the world of the mind controlling chemical “Pumpkin Spiced Latte,” and free my friends from the control of the evildoer, so that we may live our sad little wintery lives in peace once more.

Mama said share.

Maybe B and I shouldn’t be allowed to have three day weekends, because apparently this is what happens.

It all started with a simple tweet…

Maxie, how long do you think Axe Murderer would wear this before killing me?

Her response?

“I think it’s worth $5 to find out.”

FTMFW!!!!!!!!!!

This is the point where I mention how last week when we had a steak knife in the living room to help open IKEA boxes, Axe Murderer picked it up in her mouth and ran around the room with it.

Keep that in mind as you view the rest of these. I sure didn’t.

The difference between you and her?

She makes this look good.

You are dead to her, B.

I'm not sure Murray even notices anything's there.

What? Life is good.

You have to be done now, right?

I hope you get me some dignity for Christmas.

What the...

Seriously... I pity you.

I do not think you realize the gravity of your actions.

Contemplating a jump.

This is my "I'm Killing You In Your Sleep" face.

I am so mad this whole video didn’t come out, because it was the funniest two minutes of my entire life, but somehow only a (hilarious) split second recorded.

Enjoy.

Mama said share.

Yesterday, I stopped at my friendly local pharmacy after work to get my baby killers. I quickly realized my mistake, as it was 5:30 and the place was hoppin, but I figured I had nowhere to be and got in line behind the six other girls waiting to get their own baby killers and/or prescription-strength Vagisil. (Trust. They were quite whore-y.)

Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck stood up, and a chill gave me goosebumps… the bad kind.

“HEY THERE,” a creepy, fleshy voice came from behind me. Somehow in my heart, I knew five puppies had just been kicked and Tinkerbell was dead… and no amount of clapping would bring her back.

With dread seeping from every pore, I slowly turned around to face The Guy in My Office That Makes Me Want to Gouge My Eyes Out With a Spoon.

I can’t explain it. This guy’s not mean, or rude. As far as I can tell, he doesn’t smell. He might be a bit socially awkward, but that’s not reason to DESPISE someone so very passionately. I have absolutely no valid reason for it, but the very sight of this man’s face makes me dizzy and nauseous with an overwhelming and feverish hatred.

What makes this even worse? Is that I have absolutely NO poker face. I couldn’t hide an emotion if I was wearing this:

For real, y’all. When this guy is in the room, I literally cannot stop my upper lip from curling into a snarl of absolute disgust at his mere presence. He’s like my dementor, sucking all the life and joy out of the room… and he’s never been anything but nice to me.

I know that technically, he probably looks like a everyday normal guy (and his sexual performances are average!)

But when I look at him? This is all I see:

With no regret, I wish the worst strain of hepatitis on this poor soul. Or even better, some horrible disfigurement so I wouldn’t have to look at him anymore. I know that it’s wrong. I know it makes no sense at all… but I just. Can’t. HELP IT.

And I am not alone.

Last week, B came home from work and announced that a new girl had just started in his office.

“It’s the weirdest thing,” he said. “She’s very pretty, perfectly nice… but the second she opened her mouth and said “Hi”… I hated her with the fire of a thousand suns.”

When I finished laughing, he continued.

“Seriously! It’s so bad, when Work Wife and I walked by her today, I could not hide my contempt in a simple greeting. Work Wife turned to me after we’d passed and asked, “What’s THAT about?” and I’ve only exchanged, like, five words total with this girl.”

Irrational hatred is everywhere, folks. I’m sure someone out there is irrationally hating me right now…

It’s probably the war paint.

Mama said share.

I’ve been boring you all to tears writing this blog for nearly two years now. Which is, in itself, a great strength of feet.

But what makes it even more amazing, I think, is that I have gotten pretty much zero hate mail. No evil comments. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

I’m kind of insulted, honestly. I mean, I think I’m pretty high up there on the scale of offensivity, no? There are sharts, edible kitten toots, and frozen coochie, for chrissakes! I’ve glorified all things inappropriate via TMI Thursdays; there are very few posts on these pages that would constitute anything resembling “polite dinner conversation”.

And that’s how I like it. And, presumably, so do you.

But come on. People most often stumble onto this corner of the interwebs via searches such as “live” and “love“! Also, yesterday:  “fixing my karma“, and “as seen on TV pickle jar“. (Um, I don’t know, friend, but if you find that jar, send it this way. I’ll put a penny in it every time I get a hate comment and, um… I’ll still be real freaking poor. Penny pickle jar FAIL, internet weirdo!)

I’ve had, maybe, two trolls, in all the time that I’ve been writing. I am disappointed in myself. Clearly, I am not pushing enough boundaries. I guess it’s time to to bust out the dead baby jokes.

(pause)

Okay, I just tried to make a dead baby joke to prove my point, and I couldn’t do it. There are some things even I don’t have the stomach for, apparently.*

I mean, what’s a girl gotta do to get an internet predator around here? Maybe I do such a good job making fun of myself that everyone pities me?! I DON’T WANT YOUR PITY, TROLLS!

(Just your money. Please to make your checks out to LiLu at 6969 Fuck Your Mother Drive, Northwest DC! Don’t forget the Northwest. God forbid, you don’t want that money going to the Capitol.)

Seriously, Madame Karma is totally off her game here. I mean, I spout off at least one post of Le Haterade every fortnight (that’s my 9th grade English at work. You did good, Mrs. Thompkins). Everyone knows you’ve only made it when someone writes you death threats because you told the shite American president where he can stick it. Wait, only me and the Dixie Chicks know that. But you can take our word for it. Well, their word. (They’re a lot richer than me. And everyone knows rich people are the smartest. Just ask Paris…)

No one even takes the time to write me nasty emails! This is the crudest thing I’ve gotten all month:

[redacted] to livitluvit

Hello,
How to make a zit pop early?  I know you are probably very busy but I was hoping you could give me a couple pointers.
A little advice would go a long way right now.  Thank you.
Sincerely, Paul

Honestly, I’m not even mad, Paul… I’m just impressed.

So in short, world, I am sick of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because at this point, I’m pretty sure it’s a steel-toed boot, and I’d really like to get this karmic retribution thing on a payment plan, if possible. Who do I talk to about that? I would have said William Shatner until last week but, well, he BLOCKED THE BLOGGESS on Twitter AND Priceline screwed us over on a car rental. Two strikes you’re out, Shat.

I’m cutthroat like that. Bia.

LiLu OUT!!!

 (Are you offended yet?)

*Okay, maybe just one. We’ll try it out:

What’s the difference between a dead baby and a trampoline?

When you jump on a trampoline, you take your boots off.

Oh, look. I just threw up.

On my boots, of course.

Mama said share.