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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.

You will succeed with our business magazines.

Whenever I come across someone who it would be beneficial for me to know more about, I turn to the Goog to see what kind of profiles pop up for them. Where do they work, and what professional connections might I have to them? (LinkedIn.) Who are they having conversations with, what are they talking about, and what would a tiny snapshot of them look like (e.g., what’s really important to them)? (Twitter.) What friends or groups do we have in common, and how much do you opt to share with the public on your profile? (Facebook). Never mind what happens AFTER we become Facebook friends…

And this is just “new person” stalking. I also have my routines for general passive stalking, natch. I look through wedding photos of those high school friends I don’t talk to anymore (mostly to see who got fat, since generally my entire high school is AT said wedding. Very few of us make it out of Worcester, Massachusetts, y’all).

I get notified from the Job Change Notifier when you change job titles on LinkedIn. I follow your conversation threads on Twitter to see who or what you’re passive aggressively tweeting about. I ponder your hopes and dreams on Pinterest, what you think is funny on Tumblr, and now thanks to Instagram, I know everything there is to know about your pets.

My point is this: I do all of this without having a vested interest in you. Do you really think someone looking to HIRE you wouldn’t do the same?

I’ve had a few alarming conversations with people lately who still think that privacy on the interwebs is a real thing. Kids, that time has come and gone. If you put it in e-print, it’s officially Out There. The possibility for anyone, anywhere to see it now exists, no matter how tight on lock down you think you’ve got it.

{read the rest of this post on my new Gen Y and social media blog, “Get Connected”}

Mama said share.

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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.

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WARNING: These are the things I think about when I’m in that weird, not-quite-awake, half-dreaming place…

Imagine for a moment that there were no domestic cats in the world.

No Persians, no tabbies, no orange tiger kitties. No Siamese, no calicos, no tuxedos. They just never existed.

Now, imagine you went to the zoo, and you saw the Big Cats prowling around, all majestic and such:

You would look at these guys, and you would think to yourself:

“My lands, those are some fanciful beasts! What a pity there isn’t a teeny tiny version of them I could keep in mine own house. It would be like a mini horse, except a feline – just a wee tiger I could tussle and play with, but it would fit in my apartment and not be able to kill me!”

(You would SO use those words. Would too!)

Can you imagine how unbelievably cool that would be? To have a perfect, tiny lion/tiger/jaguar/panther just WALKING AROUND YOUR LIVING ROOM on the reg?!?!

You’d be all, oh, NBD, I just happen to have a freaking MINIATURE LEOPARD curled up next to me in bed. Juan likes to be the little spoon.

Mini cats: pretty much the best thing that could ever exist in the universe. AND THEY DO.

Well played, world. Well. Played.

Mama said share.

Unsurprisingly, I often end up in discussions about social media with people. It’s what I love, it’s what I do for a living- it’s an ongoing supplement to nearly everything in my life. No matter how much fun it was, an event didn’t really happen until it’s been tweeted, “liked”, and checked into.

(If mimosas are consumed, but no one twitpics it, did brunch ever really happen?)

So, yes, social media is a big part of my life. And in my conversations with people about it- especially clients- we often end up talking about the different platforms, what they’re for… and which is my favorite.

If you know me at all, you know I’m a Twitter gal. I get my news from Twitter. I make friends on Twitter. Twitter brings me Charlie Sheen jokes and endless cat pictures/comics/videos/accessories on the daily. If it wasn’t for Twitter, I would never have seen this:

Or this:

Hell, I think in Twitter. I absolutely love the challenge of trying to fit a entire witty, intelligent, informative, hilarious, or otherwise complete AND interesting sentiment into 140 characters. Less, if I can. It’s like a never ending game where people are constantly forced to share only what really matters if they want to get their point across.

If only real life was like Twitter, with everyone forced to be efficient with their words! There’d be no more long-winded, boring, redundant explanations from bosses. No more horrible phone calls where you’re trapped and can’t get a word in edgewise to say goodbye.

Guys. Guys!!!!

THERE WOULD BE NO MORE SMALL TALK.

Think about it. On Twitter, you’re surrounded by a world of veritable strangers. Most of them are simple, beloved e-friends- people you share a love of the West Wing or bears wearing hats with- nothing more.

If I read something on Twitter that’s not interesting to me, I simply don’t engage. You only talk about the things you want to, with the people who want to… and even then, only in short bursts.

I. Freaking. LOVE it.

No one on Twitter ever says “hey, what’s up?” just to say something, like they do in real life, on the phone, in emails- even on Facebook. On Twitter, someone only @’s you to say: “Look at this cat wearing a monocle!” or “Honey badger don’t care! Honey badger don’t give a sh*t!!!”

And this makes me very, very happy.

P.S. Yes… I realize this entire post makes me sound like a female Ron Swanson. Well, just call me Ronnette. Now where are my cornrows??

(Though I do think Ron would appreciate the Sheen Pyramid of Greatness…)

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.

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.

So, I may have mentioned before that I’ve never seen Glee. And before you yell at me and tell me how zomg it is the amazeballs!!!!! - it’s not that I didn’t want to; I just missed half of the first season and I can’t stand starting shows halfway through YES EVEN IF IT DOESN’T REALLY MATTER FOR THE STORY (call it an OCD thing), and then suddenly it was season two and then two and a half or some shit and frankly, I have like 9 seasons of the Real Housewives to keep me occupied so I figured I’d just get around to it sometime, ya dig?

Well, I’ve recently discovered that A) you can rent awesome shows from iTunes and play them on your iPad for 99 cents, and B) 45 minute elliptical workouts are a hell of a lot better when you’re watching something that you adore and not freaking ESPN 8, a la Espanol to one side and C-SPAN to the other because apparently the people on either side of you at the gym prefer to be BORED OUT OF THEIR SKULLS on the treadmill. Maybe it’s a tactic to black out ever having gone at all, so you don’t remember how miserable it is? Either way, not my cup of tea.

SO. Once I put this magical possibility together in my head, I realized that Glee is available for iTunes “renting” and it is a glorious 43 minutes per episode. AKA the perfect length for a workout, and bonus- whenever I’m feeling extra tired, a musical number kicks in! THANKS KURT-AS-BEYONCE, I NEEDED THAT.

Now sneak attack back to the ring!!!

Mmmm hmmmmm. Work that sass, ladiiiiiiiiiies!

Anyway.

So yes, folks. I am officially a Gleek, and loving it. The hardest part is that I’m only allowing myself to watch it when I’m working out, so I foresee a LOT of gym hours in my future.

(Clearly, I’m not above treating myself like a five year old who wants a candy bar if it will get my ass on the treadmill. Only my Snickers is the Acafellas, and my Reeses is watching Sue Sylvester take you down a peg or eighteen.)

Oh and, sidebar… make sure no one’s around when you watch the scene where Kurt comes out to his dad. Because HOLY TEARBALLS, BATMAN.

If you like this post, I actually run a community blog called In It To GYM It with 100+ contributors, all… you guess it… In It To GYM It. If that’s your bag, feel free to check us out over there.

Mama said share.

So, remember that time I wrote this super whiny post about “blah blah my life is so hard because I’m doing way too much of all the things I love to do BUT ALSO I’D LIKE TO GET PAID FOR IT PLEASE”? And you guys were totally awesome and you were all “Dude. We hear you. You rock. If you whine build it, it will come” and that’s why I freaking love you so much?

Thanks for that. Seriously. Likealot.

(((Group hug)))

Moving on!

So, since I’ve been rocking this whole “OMG one foot in front of the goddamn other” ‘tude, I’ve noticed that every tiny little thing that happens has a very, uh, magnified effect in regards to how I feeeeeeeeeel about it. Basically, if I stub my toe, or I rip my tights, or that Thai for lunch gives me heartburn (which it does because I’m eighty apparently)…

DAY = RUINED.

Fortunately, this extreme seems to go both ways, in that something like buying tickets to see an awesomely bad movie or knowing that you’re getting on a plane to Boulder in the morning or a particularly awesome gif can mean

DAY = TOTALLY REDEEMED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Case in point:

I noticed I was dangerously close to being out of face wash on Monday. Le sad.

So I stopped at CVS and, remembering what the kind lady from my recent splurge-facial (oh god there’s at least 15 jokes in there) told me about the necessity for microbeads in one’s life, I picked up this bad boy from Neutrogena:

Simple enough, right?

Fast forward to the next morning.

You know that super, SUPER annoying commercial, with the two girls who are allegedly supposed to be dorm mates and one of them totes has a hangover even though they’re clearly preteens, and the non-hungover crazy peppy whore is all “I know what you need, gurrrrl, you need some of this amazing unicorn-urine-punch-you-in-the-face-with-special-zit-removal-powers-and-happiness face wash!!!” And the other girl is all “FINE, Peyton, I’ll use your stupid unicorn shit but then you have to SHUT YOUR FACE UNTIL I GET SOME BOONE’S FARM HAIR OF THE DOG IN MY LIFE”, but then she does use it and she magically comes out of her angry hangover cocoon and is born a beautiful butterfly who farts Lisa Frank rainbows and leaves a trail of glitter wherever she goes, and they start dancing around the room to some pop-alicious song about “waking up to love” or some shit, which sort of makes no sense because isn’t today’s message to women supposed to be “Forget Prince Charming, you good enough all by your badass self, chica*!”

*The “chica” is used to represent the company’s sensitivity to cultural diversity. Why am I not in marketing, again?

Right, so. Know the one I mean? No?

Seriously?

Fine. Here it is.

So ANYWAY, that commercial is so unbelievably annoying that I have to mute it every time it comes on, even though this action requires things like “movement” and “doing something other than drinking wine”, which are both things I AM OPPOSED TO DOING when I’m pantsless on the couch. That’s how much I hate it.

But.

This stupid Neutrogena face wash? For reals guys. It was just. like. that.

It makes me feel like belting out Miley in the shower while eating clementines. Because there’s just a hint of citrus in it… a GENTLE amount of citrus. The citrus hint is so tender, it’s not even mentioned on the bottle. It just wraps you up snugly in a faint and pleasant, not-overambitious citrus hug, probably with Norah Jones playing softly in the background.

And it makes me happy.

Baby steps, and the little things.

Sadly enough, I was in no way compensated for this post and the Neutrogena people don’t even know I’m alive, as far as I know. Though I am absolutely not opposed to them stumbling across this and offering me money for it. Just saying. What?

Mama said share.

Okay. So. I’m literally sitting here, forcing myself to put e-words on the e-paper, because I have so much going on right now- not good, not bad, necessarily, just crazy- that the idea of writing a normal blog is totally and completely freaking overwhelming. I have so much to say but none of it ever, you know, finishes.

Twss.

(Some things never change, eh?)

But… I MISS you guys.

I miss making you laugh, I miss knowing what’s going on in everyone’s lives, I miss being a part of the interwebby community.

In an effort to get a job doing what I love, (instead of working a job I hate and doing everything I love in my free time), I am basically doubling said spare-time (NON-PAID) efforts to get more experience, while I continue to hunt for the right job, the right place, the one who will take a chance on me. I know it’s what needs to be done, but I. Am. Exhausted.

I love everything I’m a part of- Events Chair for the Social Media Club DC, Events Admin for 20 Something Bloggers, Social Media volunteer at a local non-profit, Contributing Editor at DCBlogs.com (check out my round up today, what what!)- and oh yeah, my own Twitter and Facebook and LinkedIn and the IITGI site and that Twitter, and a couple new tumblrs and the website design stuff and that whole applying for jobs thing that is so vital to the whole “Getting a New Job” process… resume changes and cover letters and salary requirements, oh my.

And, you know, trying to be healthier and occasionally see friends and call my mom every now and then and oh right, all that usual day-to-day stuff you have to do if you want to be considered a functional adult.

(OVERRATED.)

The main problem is, I just can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. Example: when I go for a run, I generally start out at a reasonable pace. Then, somewhere in the middle, I inevitably feel like I’m going to die and really, really just want to STOP. But as soon as I get to the top of the hill, or know I only have a couple minutes left on that treadmill to make my goal, suddenly I’m sprinting toward that finish line- my 47th wind hits, I suppose, and it comes in strong.

I can’t even see the crest of that hill. I can’t hear the people cheering at the finish line, ready to celebrate my accomplishment and take me out for a nice steak dinner. If anything, it seems as though it’s fading farther and farther away with each rejection, with each person who tells me “I’m a shoo-in” for something they clearly don’t understand.

Why do you build me up, Buttercup baby just to bring me down? And mess me around…

This post is probably the most ridiculous hot mess of a thing I’ve ever written. (And we all know that’s saying something.)

Me, in probably a month or so. Watch out.

But I’m hitting publish anyway, because honestly, selfishly… I really just want to hear your voices.

How are you?

P.S. Oh, right. Also, in an effort to procrastinate against the many constructive things I could have been doing this weekend, I made a new header/rebranded the blog. So, uh. Whaddya think?

Mama said share.