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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.

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.

But at least we can do something about it. Show that you stand with Planned Parenthood by adding this hot little orange button to your own site:

Just copy and paste into a sidebar widget:

<center><a href=”https://secure.ppaction.org/site/SPageServer?pagename=pp_ppol_ws_I_Stand_with_PP&s_src=standwithppfeb2011_taf&JServSessionIdr004=o2m95kpjc2.app209b” mce_href=”https://secure.ppaction.org/site/SPageServer?pagename=pp_ppol_ws_I_Stand_with_PP&s_src=standwithppfeb2011_taf&JServSessionIdr004=o2m95kpjc2.app209b” target=”_blank”><img src=”http://i556.photobucket.com/albums/ss5/Livitluvit/I-Stand-with-Planned-Parenthood-1.jpg” mce_src=”http://i556.photobucket.com/albums/ss5/Livitluvit/I-Stand-with-Planned-Parenthood-1.jpg” border=”0″ alt=”I Support Planned Parenthood”></a></center>

And make sure you click through and sign that baby, too! THE GOVERNMENT STOPS AT OUR SKIN, ladies.

Let’s keep it that way.

Mama said share.

Boston, Chicago, Colorado, L.A., San Diego, Texas, Washington State, North Carolina, all over Canada, Saratoga Springs, New York City, the UK, China, Indonesia, Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, Virginia, Baltimore, Pennsylvania, Jersey, Cleveland, Detroit, Vegas, Egypt, New England, South Dakota… the list goes on and on.

The list of people that I adore, that is… and the glaring fact that they are so very, very too far away from me.

These people that I interact with almost every day, they get engaged. They have birthdays (tomorrow!) and bring home new puppies and get knocked up and they do it all. without. me!

Now, look. I completely recognize that DC is a *unique* crew in that A) there are a lot of us and B) we hang out more often than any strange group of people who met each other off the internet rightfully should… and sure, it’s always a good time. We do it right. (Like we will this Friday.)

But every time we do, I feel like a few dozen (hundred) people are missing.

It’s 2000 TEN, after all! How do we not have teleportation yet?! (Because you know it’s #1 use would be to bring bloggers together…)

So yes, Internet, I am hereby dubbing you A Tease. You e-introduce me to all these great people from all over, and then never let me tenderly hold them in my arms and stroke their hair give them a bear hug when they graduate from college? When they stand up to their bosses and demand to be placed in D.C. (yes I’m biased)? When Lady Gaga almost steals their boyfriends?

I call bullshit, Interwebs.

Bull.

Shit.

Mama said share.

I usually try not to offend too much at this little place (guys! GUYS! I said that with a straight face!!)… but Andhari’s hilarious plea for more… ahem, “colorful” bloggers to be nominated for the 20SB “featured blogger” yesterday has inspired me.

Dear oh-so-boring tweeters on Twitter (and Facebook-status-updaters)…

You really grind my gears.

“I had a ham sandwich for lunch! It was mediocre!”

“Me too! Let’s be besties 4-eva!”

And the back and forth convos that no one else in any way needs to see?

“Are we meeting at 6:30?”

“Better make it 6:35, I have to brush my teeth!”

Guess who cares? Go on, guess. We’ll wait.

NO ONE.

I mean, I’m sure I’ve gotten drunk  before and twittered something inane, like “mmmm… jumbo slice“. Sometimes you just have to throw out a simple “Thanks!” or “Happy Birthday, Jane!” It happens; we all get a few freebies. But come on, people. For the most part, unless it’s funny, witty, bitchy, complimentary, or about something horrible that happened to you… I don’t want to hear it. I don’t think any of us do.

And what is the obvious solution to this problem… don’t read them, right? And so I don’t. I rarely look at the timeline, and I only use it when people say something “@” me. Same for Facebook… I pretty much only log in when I’ve got a request or something.

Still, it’s kind of sad, because now I’m missing the good stuff too. But I’m sorry, Twitter/Facebook… I just can’t do it anymore.

Bottom line, people?

I love you… BUT…

Think before you tweet.

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.

On any given day, I am the biggest proponent of city living you’ll ever meet.

Whereas other people are torn, seeing the positives of big city life as well as wide open spaces, I get hives at the very thought of living anywhere I might have to operate a motor vehicle. My ass looks far too good from the miles of walking I do every week, and the half a mile I drove a car while we were in Virginia last month was TERRIFYING.

But sometimes, it can get to be a bit much here. Because I have this cute little affliction… I think it’s called “Being Notsomuch A Fan of Other People.” And, well, there’s a LOT of them here.

In fact, they’re sort of everywhere. On the sidewalks during my walkin’ commute, they stand in my way. They “do the dance” as they walk towards me, because some people do not understand the simple concept of moving to the right. They are touristy and stop in the middle of the walk and stand on corners while DC-ers pile up behind them.

I love our new neighborhood, but it is very, ahem, Latin. Which means we have great food, but I also cannot take one step outside my apartment in anything other than a burka without being cat called, kissy faced, and hissed at for the next five blocks.

As I crossed the street today, a homeless man I can only describe as yeti-like waited to accost me on the other side. His breath almost made me revisit the banana I’d eaten this morning. Consequently, I will be working out today, if only for the shower I get to take afterwards.

For the second day in a row, I forgot my badge, which I need since I work in a building lots of dirty hippies would LOVE to blow up if given the chance. I do this pretty much every Monday, but it still takes me ten minutes to get through the visitor’s entrance because after nine months of working here, the same three security guards fail- or pretend to fail- to recognize me.

Yesterday was the last day of our old lease. I have emailed, texted, and called our landlord to ask how he would like to handle the return of our keys and security deposit (!!!), but he has been curiously MIA. If he decides to say we’re not getting it back, or says nothing at all, what are we supposed to do? This isn’t my $100 deposit I paid in Carolina, folks. This is almost two grand we’re talking about. Such is city living.

I adore DC. I really, really do.

But it is time for a fracking vacation.

Two months… two months…

/rant.

Mama said share.

To the man who clearly had never used a self check out line in a grocery store before and whom I watched attempt to pay for ONE WATERMELON for the Twenty. Freaking. Minutes…

I believe with all my heart that you should be sterilized.

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

To the woman who obviously did not need the wheelchair she was in but threw herself in B’s and my path yesterday and demanded some of our Negro Modelo…

Don’t think that I won’t cut you if you lay a finger on my beer.

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

To my new temp, who told me all about his adoration for wine country, his refusal to live anywhere except 17th and R in Dupont, and his childhood best friend who is the J.D. to his Turk…

They’re gay, and so are you. You can stop talking about your “girlfriend” now. I know a really cute guy I could be setting you up with…

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

To the 4+ restaurants in my new neighborhood who are advertising half-priced burger Happy Hours…

Are you trying to kill me? Everyone knows cheese ‘n cow is my kryptonite.

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

To my shins, who are vehemently protesting my decision to walk 2 miles to and from work, as well as working out on lunch breaks…

Don’t you know we have a lot of cheeseburgers to work off?!

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

To my dear friend Elizabeth Marie, or as I like to call her, “Shankapotamus”, and whose post today is revoltingly sweet and almost made a little onion water fall out of my eye…

Why didn’t you use my Glamour Shot?

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

Xoxo,

LiLu

P.S. RIP, Teddy. As a Masshole, I will always think of you fondly.

Mama said share.

Mama said share.