After a couple years of gift giving, B and I seem to be running out of ideas for presents for each other.

We’ve done the watch, the nice coat, the Wii, the wine fridge, the Mad Men-esque scotch glasses (even if they did turn out to be hobbit-sized).

I searched everything online… even Red Envelope, despite their site being so vomitous it makes me want to punch it where its nutsack should be.

It was six days before his birthday and I knew I had to act fast. I did what any girl does when things get tough:

I called my daddy.

“I just don’t know what to do,” I whined said. “He BUYS everything he wants. The iPad, the Google phone, new speakers… all perfectly good gift ideas he stole from me!”

“Well,” my wise old man said, “you know those toy planes and helicopters? I always wanted one of those. Actually, I always wanted to fly a real plane, but those seem fun too.”

GENIUS, I thought! What man wouldn’t want to machine-operate something through the air?!?

After a bit of research and a lot of Twitter help, I found what claimed to be the perfect starter RC plane: the HobbyZone Firebird Commander (2)!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Look at the badassery!! Rawwwwwr and such!

I paid way too much for two day shipping and was thrilled when the tracking told me it was indeed waiting for us at home on the day of his birthday.

B was already home when I picked up the enormous 4 foot long box (huzzah! Look at that wingspan, bishes!!!) from our apartment office and proudly lugged it upstairs.

His reaction when he saw me drag the package inside was almost worth it alone.

“What on earth…” He stared at it in disbelief. “WHAT did you get me??”

“Open it, open it, open it!” I chanted. “Fashion show, fashion show, fashion show at lunch!”

With some help from Axe Murderer, he did just that…

And stared at it in what I knew could only be awe and wonderment.

Until, that is, he started laughing.

Hysterically.

And this was not “child’s joy” laughter. This was much more like “wtf has my crazy-ass girlfriend done THIS time” laughter.

B: (in utter disbelief) “A PLANE?! … What am I going to do with a plane??”

Me: “Wha… FLY it, of course!!”

B: “Baby. We live in an apartment building in Washington DC. We don’t have a yard. Where exactly would I fly this?”

Me: “In the park! We have a whole park behind our building!”

B: “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal… hon, you do know these are pretty much impossible to fly? Like, people spend years learning. And pretty much everyone just crashes them immediately anyway.”

Me: (totally crushed) “You HATE it. You hate my present.”

B: (yup, still laughing) “I don’t hate it! I just was really, REALLY not expecting a plane. You win for creativity, my dear.”

Me: *sad face*

Le sigh.

He did come home the next night pretty excited about at least getting to crash it. Enjoy it, my love. You crash the HELL out of that stupid, stupid plane.

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.

~Hey! Are you reading this in a Reader? That’s cool… don’t want the man to see you being lazy, for sure. But do me a wee favor and click here, just for a second, if you don’t mind… *vague and mysterious ftw*~

Well, it finally happened.

I knew it was going to. I could have stopped it. I could have prevented it, if only I had taken a precious few seconds of my life to think before I acted.

Ok, wait. Let’s back it up. (Ha. That will be punny in a moment.)

Every once in a while, I have to pee. Consequently, I will, at times, use a restroom. Sometimes I even do it at work.

But, see, here’s the thing. I have this really bad efficient habit of, um, “getting ready” before I enter the stall. “Making preparations,” if you will.

Must’ve been all those years of Brownies.

(And by years, I mean one. One class. Brownies freaking blew.)

So, yeah, without fail, I begin the pulling-down-of-the-pants, or the pulling-up-of-the-skirt, before I am actually within in the confines of a specific cube of bathroom privacy.

Which means that anyone walking in said bathroom would unwillingly be privy to a sneak preview of my bathing suit area.

Given that this is A) a women’s restroom and B) a place of work, I’ll go out on a limb here and say that none of the potential viewers want a piece of that.

And I KNOW this. I think about it every time I go to the bathroom, and think,

“Damn! I did it again! Moron… one of these days it is gonna happen, and it’s not going to be pretty. Check yoself!”

But I still do it every. damn. time.

And yesterday, Wile E. Coyote finally caught the Road Runner.

Or something.

Basically, I mooned my boss.

I'm slightly better looking.

No, that’s not accurate, actually…

I mooned my BOSS’ boss.

Is there a someecard for that?

Mama said share.

I had a bit of an adventure yesterday.

I met a new friend for a perfectly lovely lunch, and will hopefully be building a website for her campaign next month. (Speaking of which, did you see my sugarplum Jess’ awesome new online portfolio I made for her yet? Didja? DO IT! And then hire her!)

Anyhoo. While I am rocking my new healthy diet ‘n exercise lifestyle (blech), I couldn’t turn down the sample of homemade potato chips the bartender brought over for us. Trust me, it would have been a sin to waste those puppies.

About a half an hour after getting back to my desk, I was talking to a colleague when I started choking…

and felt my throat start to close up.

Now, I have never been allergic to a thing in my life. Maybe some sniffles in the Spring, but an actual hives/itching/choking sort of allergy? Never. So, I was a wee bit terrified.

We’re fortunate enough to have a clinic at my job, so when the half-closed throat sensation didn’t go away, I headed over.

After waiting for a half an hour and not dying, I decided perhaps I had developed a very sudden and severe case of strep, rather than a life-threatening allergy. A clearly inexperienced but very sweet nurse finally called me in and took my vitals.

“It’s a good thing you came in!” She said. “I’ve seen strep cases come on so suddenly.” She took blood pressure, temperature, felt my glands, peered down my throat and in my ears, but couldn’t see anything noticeably wrong, so she called in the wizened old nurse practitioner to give me a look.

“It’s just very strange,” I was saying. “I haven’t had strep in years, and I’ve never been allergic to a thing in my life!”

“Well, our bodies change, dear,” Inexperienced-Yet-Sweet Nurse patted my hand, as her veteran colleague entered the room. Without looking up from my folder, this was the first thing she said:

“So, did you have anything sharp at lunch today? Potato chips, perhaps?”

I blinked. “Um, I did, actually… OHHHHhhhhhhhhhh.” I began laughing as the truth sunk in.

“I cut myself on a potato chip, didn’t I?”

She peered down my throat.

“Looks that way. Here. Have a swig of Maalox and drink some fluids. I think you’ll pull through this one.”

Tail between my legs, I slunk out of the clinic and back to my desk, where I had to share my diagnosis with my colleague.

“Apparently, this whole “extreme workout” thing is getting out of hand. Even the way I EAT is extreme now… I don’t even chew!”

Sigh.

And now, to distract you from my idiocy, I give you…

Taylor Lautner looks like a llama.

Sorry, Maxie. But he really, really does.

 Happy Tuesday. Eat safely out there, kiddos… only you can prevent potato-chip throat injuries.

Mama said share.

I’ve been waiting to share this oh-so-LiLu moment with you guys for a couple weeks, partly because it’s humiliating, and partly because it’s taken me that long to go back and get a very necessary picture for full-effect-y-ness and all that. Shocking, I know.

SO.

It was a particularly grey day, the nasty kind where it’s sort of misting sideways, you know? DC has been ROCKING those lately.

Dear Weather Spirits: Please stop. Or at least make it SNOW so we can have a day off, yes?

It had been one of those, how do you say, “looooooooooong days” at the office, and all I wanted in life was to be on the couch with these fools. I dashed through the disgusting, frizzy-hair inducing mess outside towards my bus stop, and quick-like-a-bunny’d up underneath the protective shelter area with the other sopping wet Washingtonians.

As I shook out my umbrella while simultaneously trying to look up when the next bus was coming (thanks to Restaurant Refugee for showing me http://wmata.com/mobile !), I suddenly realized that I was, quite rudely, standing directly in front of someone and boxing them against the wall of the crowded (emphasis on crowded, here) shelter.

I whipped around, very clearly exclaiming,

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry! I didn’t… see you.. OH.”

Because I had just realized that I was apologizing to a quite famous lady…

ON AN ADVERTISEMENT.

With many, many witnesses around to see.

Yup… no doubt about it. I had just publicly- and loudly- apologized for standing in front of an ad for the Joy Behar Show.

In front of, oh, a dozen or so Washington business-types.

I AM SO AWESOME.

At least it wasn’t Hassel-butt…

I know, Rosie. I KNOW.

Sigh. I need a cup of cocoa and a hug.

***I’m going to decide whether tomorrow will be a Post Secret-style TMI Thursday based on how many entries I get, so send ‘em in now! Instructions here.***

Mama said share.

Last week, B and I had one of those long, contemplative chats in bed that practically married fat and happy couples tend to have. Or so I hear.

And it pretty much boiled down to this…

I should stop being such a cunt at work.

Pardon the language (ha! You know where you are.) But it’s true.

When I started my current job, I was coming from a place I HATED. I had also recently quit my second job as a bartender after a decade of catering to the wants and needs of perfect (often assholey) strangers. I was, to put it lightly, a bit burnt the frick out.

And the new organization is enormous, intimidating, and has their own acronym for Ev. Ery. Thing. Seriously. I’m pretty sure “toilet paper” is TPR.

“Hey, Ronda, did you call facilities about that TPR situation in Stall 4 Shelf 2?”

“No, I just used some of the PPR TWL. And now I have a rash.”

Poor Ronda.

At some point, I subconsciously decided to just keep my head down, do my job well, and keep my nose out of anyone’s business. Work to live, you know?

That decision, coupled with the fact that I hate all things small talk and, in general, other people (hi, I’m LiLu, have we met?) means that I have avoided getting to know other coworkers like the plague. Obviously, not the dozen or so people I work for- I’m no idiot. But, the other hundred in my department? Short of wowing them with a rousing karaoke rendition of “The Piano Man” at the Holiday Party last year, they have absolutely no idea who I am.

And I like it that way. I prefer it that way. And up til now, seeing this job as that “Work to Live” kinda deal, in that I’m grateful to pay my bills and see a dentist but it will never be a career kinda way, I figured, who cares? Maybe I’ll seem mysterious and use some reverse psychology to make everyone desperately want to please me. It used to work as a bartender… I always made more money when I was being a complete bitch. (People are effed, man.)

But after talking it out with B, I’ve realized that tactic is more than a little narrow-minded. What about when my contract runs up? What happens when the time for promotions comes around? What if I’m pitted against someone better liked for an opportunity, or worse, to KEEP my job?

I know it might seem shocking that I’m the Cold Bitch at the office, but I’m pretty sure it’s true.

So, yeah, I’d like to change that. It’s just that I’m not sure there’s enough Pixie Stix in the world to make me sweet.

Update: Freaking hilarious… “30 Warning Signs You’re the Office Bitch Everyone Complains About.” (Especially #18…)

2nd Update: Daffy just sent me this. I am so getting a button made and wearing it around the office. Which completely defeats the point but who cares, IT’S THAT FUNNY…

Mama said share.

No funnies today. Will be back tomorrow.

Please to enjoy this gem in my absence, courtesy of Smellexa…

xoxo,

LiLu

Mama said share.

Hi lovelies! I know it looks like I’m here today, but I’m actually not. This is merely a hologram. The real LiLu is over at On the Road With Cavy, guest blogging her ass off.

Go check it out now. Go. Click! I see you not clicking! DO IT!!!

Okay, now that you’ve all clicked through and read the funsies over there and left her lotsa love, I want to spread a little bit more over here. You see, I’ve been a very bad blogger. I have been ungrateful, and I am ashamed to say, that in these very tough economic times, I have been rude enough to overlook a bunch of lovely presents from fantastical bloggy people, without giving them love back over here.

It is time to right this terrible wrongdoing. I truly am not doing this to toot my own horn… I’m really much more comfortable telling you all how I wiped my ass with CVS cotton rounds, how I ended up spooning Maxie in my bed, or slipped on a used condom in the snow. But these lovelies deserve to be recognized as well for the witticisms and general awesomeness they put into the blogosphere every day. This is honestly to make up for my own laziness and meant to be a tribute to these dy-no-MITE bloggers.

That being said, I have put up permanent links to each and every one of the darling people who have given me these awards (in absolutely RANDOM order, promise), and ALL you have to do to check them out is click on the icons! Down and to the right… under the blogroll… thaaaat’s it. Right there. Mmmmmm.

Oh, sorry. Back now. That was awkward.

A big fat thank you to each and every one of you, my darlings. You make me happy in my pants, you make me laugh in my pants, you make me splooge-

This is getting weird again. Signing off now.

But first Click Here.

Hahaha I GOT YOU!!!

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.

I’ve mentioned before that I once had a slight… problem… with shoplifting. It got pretty bad at one point. I followed the typical kleptomaniac pattern: the items I stole had very little value- pencils, candy, shiny things… anything that was less than three feet from the ground and hideable.

Why three feet from the ground, you might ask?

That’s easy, dear reader. Because I was four.

I don’t know how it started. Probably because I never really liked hearing the word “No.” (What can I say? I’m a can-do kinda gal.) The thing is, at four years old, you don’t really understand the Why behind the “No.” I assumed that my parents said No, I couldn’t have the pretty/tasty/rainbow colored things I wanted because they were MEAN. Obviously, they didn’t want me to be happy, and it was up to me to find a way to make my toy-starved childhood bearable. (Ed. note: “toy-starved” can be translated to “having nearly every Lego, Barbie, and My Little Pony available to mankind, and occasionally being refused a cookie 5 minutes before dinnertime.”)

Like I said, the responsibility to brighten my own gray and barren existence fell squarely on my twee toddler shoulders. And so I did, one pack of Fruit Stripes gum at a time. Of course, I had no concept of the idea of stealing, and why it was wrong. I didn’t understand that I was taking something without providing an equal exchange of Goods and/or Services. The stores I stole from were merely faceless corporations, veritable charity organizations displaying the necessities of life on their shelves… and all we had to do was put them in our cart. What was so hard about that? Nothing, I tell you! My parents were simply trying to deny me the good stuff in life.

Now, my cat-like reflexes and superhuman mad dexterity skills had not yet been perfected at the tender age of 4, so my pilfering was, more often that not, observed by the treacherous parental units (or some assmonkey onlooker who decided to call their attention to my tiny thieving hands). What is all that ‘cute’ and ‘dimpley’ for if perfect strangers won’t just wink and “Awww” and let you have the damn Tic-tacs?!

My favorite of my pillagings was at a craft store with my mother. We rounded a corner, and suddenly, my sparkly green eyes lit up with delight! (Definitely delight, and not a mountain of greed. Not at all.) Lo and behold, there was an entire BIN of faux flowers! Daisies and sunflowers and roses, oh my! I danced among the pansies and black-eyed-susans, rummaging for the PRETTIEST (read: pinkest) OF THEM ALL. “Mommy!” I shrieked with innocent joy. “Which shall we choose to brighten and adorn our beautiful home, that you take such good care of and I am grateful for each and every day?” I’m also pretty sure I looked just like this:

But my sweet and generous mother was gone. In her place was a fire-breathing beast of epic proportions, who fed on the misery of adorable little girls. “None,” the evil Beast bellowed, as it snacked on surrounding customers’ hopes and dreams. “You shall have NOTHING. Now behave, or I’ll cut all the hair off your Barbie Dolls when we get home.”

(Ed. note: My mother insists that she did not see a beast of any kind, and that she said something along the lines of, “Those are ridiculously expensive and I already bought you 19 things this week, which you seem to have forgotten even though you promised not to ask for anything as we were walking into this very store. Stop screeching like a banshee, people are looking.”) Whatever.

Now, what you need to know is that it was a blustery New England winter day, which means I had my puffy coat on, AND those way cool mittens-on-a-string that you thread through the sleeves so that you can’t lose them. When the Beast’s scaly back was turned (I think it was busy tipping over old women’s walkers), I valiantly stuffed my puffy sleeves full of the flowers, or as I like to think of them, mini-beacons of joy.

Brimming at the seams with the glorious buds, I followed the Beast- I mean my mother- through the check out and outside into the frigid winter air. “LiLu, put your mittens on!” She said, as if she cared for my well-being. Monster. I fumbled with the mittens-on-a-string, sliding them back and forth and trailing behind my mother as I struggled to get them on my wee hands. She turned to see what was taking me so long, and I watched her eyes follow my path from the store front to where I stood.

“LiLu,” she said dangerously, “Did you take anything from that store?”

“No, Mama,” I deadpanned. Did the Beast- I mean my mom- have X-ray vision??

“LiLu, what do you have in your coat?” Her eyes twinkled in the winter night. Mostly with thoughts of murder.

“Nothing, Mama!” My little heart was beating furiously. Exasperated, my mother put her hands on my shoulders.

“Then why, my dear,” (she turned me around)… “Is there a trail of flowers following you out of the store?” Damn you, mittens-on-a-string! Clearly, my brilliant plot was foiled. And then the dreaded words came, “I’m going to have to tell your father about this.”

Telling my father I had done wrong meant only one thing: The Wooden Spoon.

Sure, it might look harmless enough. YOU may associate it with Macaroni & Cheese, or even Funfetti cake batter. But I? I associate it with my early years of guilt, an aching backside, and anguished cries of “This hurts me more than it hurts you!” (Um… yeah… BULLSHIT.)

On more than one occasion, we arrived home only to have me refuse to take my jacket off with them watching. “I’m going to take it off… in the other room…” I’d murmur slyly, my little eyes darting back and forth. (I am equally as covert at being secretive today.) Don’t know how my father ever figured that one out, but I ended up with a red heiney and a bruised ego every damn time.

P.S. Someone got to my blog this weekend by googling, “i love bacon panties.” Know what’s even weirder than that? When I saw it, I felt a strange sense of pride.

Mama said share.