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

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

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

And now back to our regular programming…

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

If you know me, “shy” and “introverted” are two words you would never, EVER use to describe me. And you’d be right. I can- and will- talk to anyone about anything. Hell, I’ll talk to anyTHING about anyONE.

Leave me and my wall alone.

But seriously. Give me five minutes with a stranger and we’ll be do-si-do-ing around the bar, the park, the public restroom- whatever.

And they won’t even like country music.

But. But!

There is one social interaction in my life I struggle with on a daily basis.

Dum dum dum…

The security guards.

Ya see, my DC office building is about a 9 on the security scale… meaning there’s a guard at every entrance, and you have to scan your fancy high-tech badge with an awkward driver’s license-esque picture to get in.

The guards rotate positions, so I see them all regularly. They’re nice people, and frankly, I’m glad they’re there, seeing as we sit a cool four blocks from La Casa Blanca. (That’s “White House,” for everyone who didn’t pass fourth grade Spanish. What?)

But.

This means I see them quite a few times a day, coming and going, walking past the building, etc. And four years in Chapel Thrill, NC has taught this Masshole that it would be just plain Stephanie-Tanner-HOW-RUDE to just bluster by without so much as a head nod.

So, I try. Every time, I try to pull off a sincere and warm greeting of some fashion.

And every time, I fail miserably.

I don’t know what it is. My Joe “The Smooth” Camel just fails me here; I become a bumbling fool, questioning my methods and changing my mind midsentence, so that whatever does manage to come out makes me sound like an awkward 20-something stroke victim.

Don't smoke, kiddies. Cigarettes are only for desert beasts and Don Draper.

Sometimes I trip while trying to wave. Sometimes my “how-do-you-do” trails off into a mumble as the realization of how dorky I truly am washes over me. More often, I pull out a spoonerism unlike anything heard before.

“How’s your going day?”

“Lovely day here out, it is?”

“Have a good night, now!” (At lunchtime.)

“Your sweat stain looks like you peed your pants.”

(Okay, not that last one. YET. I bet I just jinxed myself and I’ll say it today.)

I should probably just develop my own hand signal. Then they’d be all “oh, that’s the girl who says hello with a golf clap” or “by throwing the shocker. She always livens up my day!” Or even better… the vulcan hand salute!!!

I'd do the stern face and everything. It's a walk off!!!!!!!! Where's David Bowie?

And then I’d never have to CHOOSE when it came to my form of greeting. And life, it would be a much simpler thing.

P.S. Oh, and as long as we’re on the subject of Star Trek, THIS made my life yesterday…

via Kay Steiger by way of my darling friend amblass.

~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?

Last Friday, we had a little whine ‘n cheese party for a colleague who’s retiring. Which is nice and all, if you’re into forced smalltalk with a group of lawyers who constantly ask a) when you’re going to law school (never?); b) when you’re getting married; and c) what did you do last weekend so they can live vicariously through you.

But seeing as it was FRIDAY!!!!! and we’d been given permission to leave at 2 pm for the holiday weekend, I listened to the head honcho give his speech, bobbed my head knowingly at the appropriate moments, and then made like a tree back to my office cubicle wide open desk in the middle of a room where every single person can see my shit.

Hmm. I really need to stop looking at stuffonmycat.com.

Anyhoodle, I had work to finish, and hot damn if I was gonna be in the building even a minute after 2. (I am nothing if not a dedicated employee. …Dedicated to getting the fuck out of as soon as possible, that is.)

People were filtering in and out from the party while I worked, but I was as one-track-minded as a 13 year old boy watching Basic Instinct for the first time.

It was 1:53 and the clock was ticking down. Jack Bauer had nothing on me as I furiously printed, copied, emailed, and TPS-reported my way towards the deadline.

As I began the requisite preparations for my departure (starting with the change to flipflops under the desk, and working my way up to the more obvious “I’m OUTTAAAAAAAAAA HERE!!!!! turning off of the computer), my nostrils were very suddenly assaulted by an extremely pungent odor. The scent of a sweaty man’s gym socks punched me in the face, while an eau de Jersey Turnpike gave me a one-two uppercut to the nose.

Dazed and confused (FAH Q!), I quickly looked down at myself in horror. Was it even possible for a human being to smell that way?? I hadn’t worked out, I’d showered that morning, I have no history with any sort of BO (no, this does NOT count)… in fact, I’d NEVER smelled anything so horrible emanating from any living creature (well, other than kitten diarrhea) in my life.

Just as I was devising an emergency plan of action to get down to the office gym showers jump out the window out of pure mortification, I happened to glance over at the table to my right, aka our office’s “dumping ground” for all things edible, be it holiday treats, party leftovers, etc.

Sitting there, with those wavy lines in the air literally enamating from the source, was a plate of the moldiest, stinkiest cheese this side of the Atlantic.

(Gotta give the Frenchies their due. I’m sure they’ve come up with something smellier. But I never, ever want to meet it.)

After I wept tears of relief that I was not to be the new poster child for Smelly Kids Anonymous, I grabbed my bag and checked out a whopping five minutes early. I figured I’d earned it.

Though thankfully, there were no battle wounds odors to prove it.

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

Steal this button and put it in your post just by copying and pasting the html code in the box below, or just link back to the hub with this link, so your readers can read ALLLLLLL the TMI glory, and I’ll make sure to link to you.***

<a href="http://www.livitluvit.com/category/tmi-thursday" target="_blank"><img src="http://i556.photobucket.com/albums/ss5/Livitluvit/tmithursday.jpg" border="0" alt="TMI Thursday" /></a>

Now get ready, my darlings, for the ever popular, yet gravely feared, TMI THURSDAYS…

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

On Monday, I was actually feeling pretty good.

Sure, I knew five days of work were ahead of me. Yes, I had a bit uf da sniffoos. And having twisted my knee during p90x kickboxing was not making for a pleasant sensation.

But still, I felt all right. It’d been a great weekend, I’d slept well, and hey, first world problems, yanno?

So I got my tea and breakfast and settled into my desk, chatting with a coworker about all our other colleagues before they got to the office (and could defend themselves). It was fixing to be a decent day.

And then.

I reached up to open a cupboard over my desk, and…

Well, let’s play this out in slow mo, shall we?

1. The cupboard opens, and I realize that something was leaning against the inside of the door. I don’t know how, since this wasn’t an airplane and “the contents of the overhead bins” should not be shifting during any flights.

2. Said object tumbles out onto my desk. Quite angrily, if you ask me.

3. It becomes apparent that said object is on a collision course with my cup of scalding fucking hot English tea.

4. Like the grand finale in MouseTrap, said object strikes cup, cup tips over…

5. And spills its entire 460 degree contents into my lap of very tender, ohsopink Scotch-Irish skin.

And so. In a matter of a very horrible 2 seconds, I went from being “that quirky, mildly entertaining girl who sometimes doesn’t think before she speaks but hey, she gets her stuff done” to “that weirdo who scalded this shit out of her VAGINA at work.”

Awesome sauce.

My coworker stared in shock and disbelief for a few moments, before she shook her head with a deep sense of pity, and said:

“Go home.”

It was meant to be a gesture of compassion, but I could see the disdain in her eyes. I gathered my things silently, including my seemingly urinated-on crotch, and slunk out of the building to head home to my non-judgy cats and a very soothing Tori and Dean marathon.

When I got back to work on Tuesday, we didn’t speak of The Incident. I walked in, sat down, and simply said:

“Do over?”

“Do over,” she replied. And I turned to my computer, and began answering emails. Because, like it or not…

Me and my scorched vagine?

We’re in this klutzy-ass life together.

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

Other awesomely bad TMIs…

citygirlblog’s Rimming it

Classy in Philadelphia’s TMI Thursday- The Time I Had The Most Awkward Planned Hookup Ever

Mary’s TMIT: Brokeback Meowtain

LivingWicked’s TMIThursday’s: Masturbation 101 by Dr. Dumbass

Carissa Jade’s TMI Thursday: We’re talkin about a queefolution…

That Kind of Girl’s TKOG Who has probably watched Deep Throat too many times (mega TMI Thursday and pics NSFW to boot!)

Zan’s TMI Thursday: Mah Pussay is Broke!

Floreta’s Anal Lube Giveaway (NSFW)

Lisa’s TMI Thursday: I’ll Tumble For Ya, But Only for Five Minutes.

Just Linda’s Why husbands shouldn’t be allowed to have the cameras:

Losing It’s TMI Thursday: Oops, I crapped my pants

StarGazer’s T.M.I… read with caution!

P’s TMI THURSDAY: SOME UNMENTIONABLES

Torn’s TMI Thursday–The Pontoon Boat

Lucy’s TMI THURSDAY: WISHING I Could Change the World!

Spleen’s epic backfat fail

Sean’s TMI Thursday: End of an Era

shine’s TMI Thursday – A tale of two poops.

GCK’s TMI Thursday #4: The Cooch

Heather’s TMI Thursday: Masturbation and Anal Glands

ClaireMontgomeryMD’s tmi thursday: can a vagina puke?

Bev’s TMI Thursday: The time I lacked Poise.

Adam L’s TMI Thursday: The Joys of Running, Part VI: My First Marathon

Nickie’s TMI Thursday: On How I Burned It. (You Know..)

angel’s TMI Thursday… Memaw’s spells

ClevelandPoet’s TMI Thursday: The pantless edition

Rachel’s TMI Thursday: It really can get stuck

Vixation’s TMI Thursday for YOU: The List

RachelSmiles’ TMI Thursday: I have sleeping problems

verybadcat’s TMI Thursday: Walk of Shame

Vittoria’s TMI Thursday: Drunk Sex is Best! Except when it’s not.

Wonderful’s The Importance of Locks

amber murphy’s tmi thursday: in which my job almost went down the toilet

Courtney’s TMI Thursday: Kids Say the Darndest Things

Coffeypot’s TMI Thursday – A Dump At School

Patti’s Thursday, Thursday

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.

Ten years ago, the best long distance runner on our track team was jealous of MY legs, and I was competing with the shot putters to see who could do more push-ups during calis.

Yes, it was ten years ago. Yes, I was 16 and didn’t yet have a curve to my name.

I don’t care.

I want it back.

I want that feeling… that strength. That swagger.

I want to rock it at my girl’s wedding. I want to make this look goooooood in Vegas.

Now, I am not a big girl by any means. I know this. 

But I am SOFT, y’all. I’ve gone from sharp chedder to a ripe brie… and I’ve had enough.

I am sick of feeling weak. I am tired of feeling self-conscious.

It is time for a real change. It is time to get EXTREME. 

And so, my friends… with the power of B by my side, an absolutely insane hour-a-day training program, and a devastating lack of cheeseburgers from my life… I will do it. I will get it back, with a side of Michelle Obama arms to boot.

Please and thank you.

Three months, six days a week.

Half the booze, none of the fried.

(Somebody shoot me.)

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

Steal this button and put it in your post just by copying and pasting the html code in the box below, or just link back to the hub with this link, so your readers can read ALLLLLLL the TMI glory, and I’ll make sure to link to you.***

<a href="http://www.livitluvit.com/category/tmi-thursday" target="_blank"><img src="http://i556.photobucket.com/albums/ss5/Livitluvit/tmithursday.jpg" border="0" alt="TMI Thursday" /></a>

Now get ready, my darlings, for the ever popular, yet gravely feared, TMI THURSDAYS…

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

So. You perhaps may remember that I went to visit my GBF Thomas in NYC a few months ago.

I did not blog this then, because I thought perhaps I’d gotten away with it and he hadn’t seen me. Win!

Except, then I went out to LA to surprise him for his birthday.

And, over a perfectly drunken brunch, it was disclosed to me that he had totally seen me, and possibly even (lovingly) mocked me, and, well, ain’t no point in keeping it under wraps anymore!

The scene:

We started out drinking tall boy PBRs in the Village at, oh, noon? We moved from bar to bar to Five Guys to his apartment for a boozy Rachel Zoe marathon to bar to club to bar, drinking all the while.

Little known fact about me: I am old. No, seriously. I may love to drink with friends, but we have to start EARLY because I inevitably crash at 11pm. Not kidding. My body just goes all, BEDTIME!!!! ZOMG WHY ARE YOU VERTICAL RIGHT NOW?!? FIND A CAB IMMEDIATELY AND GET US OUT OF HEEEERE!!!!

Also? I can no longer take shots. At all. Even a little. (Maxie, for the love of the 8 pound 6 ounce baby Jesus, please accept this statement. I am begging you.)

ANYHOO. It’s now 2:30am and my soul is dying slowly as Thomas drags me into yet another fabulous gay bar. At this point, I may love him dearly, but we’ve been drinking for 3,214 hours and BED. GIVE IT TO ME NOW. IN THE FACE.

We pull up to the bar and I hear my darling dear say,

“Two beers… and two shots of tequila, please!”

My stinkiest of eyes did nothing to deter him and his desire to relive our nostalgic Chapel Thrill-tequila-drinking ways.

And I’m a fucking trooper, y’all. So I downed it.

But, you know how sometimes your body just flat out rejects the idea of something? You know… physically.

So it was like that, and that damn shot of tequila was sitting in my throat and I knew I had less than 30 seconds to decide WHERE to direct the imminent ejection.

My options were grim. The bar was wall to wall gay boys, with no possible passage to a probably occupied unisex bathroom. My beer was full, leaving no room for excess fluid and obviously, I was incapable of drinking any of it to make room. And, of course, there was the matter of discretion to consider.

With the clock ticking down (I’m like the Jack Bauer of puking), I covertly sloshed a fair amount of my beer onto a nearby counter, “took a sip”- AKA expelled the tequila impatiently resting in my gullet, and set what looked like a full beer once again on the counter.

I can only hope no one mistook it for their own drink.

But, um… at least it was Patrón?

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

Other awesomely bad TMIs this week…

Virgin alert! Chelsea Talks Smalk’s TMI Thursday; Strippers and such. Sorry Dad.

Cheddar’s TMI Thursday: Dating Tips

confessor69’s TMI Thursday: If Flubbery Isn’t a Word, It Should Be

The Solitary Panda’s Free Massage

Sebastian’s Harry Potter soundboard, with a hint of slash fan fiction

Living Wicked’s TMIThursday: A Hole Surprise

P’s TMI THURSDAY: THE ONE WITH THE NOTE . . .

Adam L’s TMI Thursday: The Joys of Running Part II: The Fire Between Your Legs

Beverly’s TMI Thursday: How I Dented My Derriere

Just Linda’s I like YOU, Internet, because YOU know I’m just joking…

Sean’s TMI Thursday: Winter-1 Sean-0

Another virgin! grilledcheeseandketchup’s TMI Thurday #1: Ireland

MiMi’s Did you know…TMI edition

Dani’s TMI Thursday: hey lady, your vanilla is showing…

Lisa’s TMI Thursday: Taking a Break from the Serious

Lucy’s TMI Thursday: The Mistress

Heather’s TMI Thursdays: The Thong Song

Jeney’s TMI Thursday: One Girl, One Cup (Not like you would think…)

ClevelandPoet’s TMI THURSDAY: When coughs attack

Agy Talks’ TMI Thursday: Deperate Guys looking for Girls

Jane Marie’s TMI Thursday: Things no one tells you about labor and delivery.

Vixations’ TMI QUESTION TIME!

City Girl’s My PSA: Buy the Turbo 8

amber murphy’s TMI Thursday: in which i won’t tell you about that.

ClaireMontgomeryMD’s tmi thursday: fecal matter kills

Simply “T”s TMI Thursday: Twins, Basil. Twins.

Dominick Bonny’s TMI Thursday: The tale of the tesicle

Thoughts and tidbits from my “draft ideas” folder that never quite made it into posts, but are rather entertaining all on their lonesome (says me):

1. (Inspired by Avatar): I really wish evolution hadn’t done away with our tails. How much fun would that be? What a great conversational starter in bars! The physical comedy possibilities alone are ENDLESS.

2. Every time someone farts in bed (not ME, of course, I would never), I think about the scene in Good Will Hunting where Robin Williams tells the story of the time his wife farted so loud she woke herself up and asked, “What was that??”

3. A delightful observation Foilwoman had over drinks a few weeks ago: twittering a conversation between two people- “Hey, I’ll be there in five minutes! Order me a beer!” “Okay, I’m to the left of the bar! I might order some chicken fingers!”- is the equivalent of talking really, really loudly on the metro. Whether it’s to a friend or (even more annoying) on the phone, we can alllllllllllll hear you. And, yanno… WE’D RATHER NOT.

4. Sometimes, I wish I was a more organized person. But I’ve decided that A) it’s part of my charm, and B) what the hell would y’all read about?

5. I quite often have visions of really odd things I would love to spring on people, just to see what they do. For instance, I have this recurring daydream where, during the groggy-ass morning bus commute when everyone looks like they want to kill themselves… I suddenly BLAST Lady’s Gaga’s “Just Dance” at top volume and boogie my heart out. How many people would join me in a gigantic, unprecedented dance party? (How many would call the police?)

6. I believe that dressing a man- (helping him with his cufflinks, straightening his tie)- is even hotter than undressing him… when you love him.

7. Speaking of undressing, I have a tendency to start to undress as I’m walking into the bathroom stall. You know, at work. This is absolutely going to get me in trouble one of these days… yet I do it anyway.

8. Whenever I leave a totally sappy, not-at-all-funny comment on someone’s blog, I’m always afraid Maxie will stumble on it and make fun of me. (Ed. note: Because I totally would do it to her, too.)

9. If someone took a movie of me watching a movie, it would probably be the greatest youtube video EVER. Even in the theater, my face is throughout a ridiculous overdramatized reaction to whatever’s happening on screen. I am also not allowed to have a wine glass in hand when “scary parts” come on. (“Scary parts” range from a slasher/babysitting movie to any time things get a little too tense in a Pixar flick.)

ZOMG watch out!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

10. (Seeing as it’s Wednesday and all)… Would you rather have your partner cheat on you with a member of the same sex, or of the opposite? (This question brought to you by a friend far, far away that none of you know who caught her fiancé… well, um. NOT with a woman, but definitely cheating.)

Sorry. The “aughts” was just such a great name. It’s going to be hard to let go.

Anyhoo. I think resolutions are for quitters, or something, so I’ll be doing these MY WAY.

Which is, of course, totes different from the way I ever do anything else.

(B, I can hear you laughing.)

My (Not-So-Resolution-y) Resolutions.

1. Start wearing more bling.

I’ve never been good at wearing accessories, be it of the sparkly/shiny, nail polishy, or badass hat/scarf/insert other French thing here. I HAVE them, it just never occurs to me to WEAR them. Matching is hard, yo. Most mornings I’m just trying to remember to wear a bra and some mascara, never mind make sure I have my brown watch on with my gold earrings, or whatevs. But I could probably stand to look a bit more, ahem, put together.

Either that, or start working from home and never, ever wear pants again.

God, option two sounds GREAT.

2. Call my sister more.

She’s pretty awesome. And she’s the only one I’ve got. And she gives me MAD SHIT when she calls me and I don’t answer and then email her back a month later with a link to some tardy cat video. I know, redic. Fine, woman. I will call you every damn day and ask you alllllllllll about your JOB SEARCH (holla? Anyone in Beantown hiring a genius, incredibly funny 23 year old?) and your LOVE LIFE and your BOWEL MOVEMENTS until you’re screening my calls because you don’t want your friends to hear me yelling about your stools. So there.

Love you mean it.

3. Never, ever, ever drink Firefly sweet tea vodka again.

No, really. NO, REALLY. I am still hungover from Saturday. That stuff rips me up. Firefly going in, FIRE coming out. Just sayin. *dies of death*

In fact, I think I may take January off from drinking, in honor of both shrinking my ass, and this awesome Scottish dude I used to work with in a Maggiano’s who always did it “just to make sure he still could”. I’m pretty sure Scottish dudes are wise, or something. Especially ones with as many awesome “this guyyyyyy!!!!!” jokes as he had.

4. FOUR? Whoa, whoa, whoa, little overachiever. Let’s take this slow. Mama’s still hungover, remember??

Happy New Year, lovers.

P.S. Did you vote for me yet in the 20SB Bootlegger Awards? You totally can. Til Sunday. I won’t even get mad. Swear.

Ever since Maxie showed me this, I have been unable to stop watching it.

(If I turn up dead? B killed me, and this video is why.)

*giggles uncontrollably*

No? Just me?

Sigh. It’s hard being weird sometimes.

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

Steal this button and put it in your post just by copying and pasting the html code in the box below, or just link back to the hub with this link, so your readers can read ALLLLLLL the TMI glory, and I’ll make sure to link to you.***

<a href="http://www.livitluvit.com/category/tmi-thursday" target="_blank"><img src="http://i556.photobucket.com/albums/ss5/Livitluvit/tmithursday.jpg" border="0" alt="TMI Thursday" /></a>

Now get ready, my darlings, for the ever popular, yet gravely feared, TMI THURSDAYS…

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

Last weekend, B and a friend headed to the Leesburg outlets while I met the girls for brunch.

“Buy me something!” I yelled, as I left our apartment in search of bacon and champagne.

I know. I’m subtle like that.

A few hours later, we reconvened at home, where the proud little five year old in him showed me his shiny new toys; a lovely suit, a new tie, etc. And then…

“I got you something too!” He beamed, and tossed a bag onto the bed. I scampered over and tore it open, to find what seemed to be a pair of running shorts.

“Oh, thanks babe! You remembered I need new running stuff!” I shook them open and held them up to see what they were like.

And quickly realized that something was wrong. Very, very wrong. As in, too-much-material and no-leg-holes wrong.

“Um… did you just buy me a skort?” I asked accusingly, and immediately twittered.

It turned out to not be a skort, but a “running skirt” with underoo netting, which my running pro friend Kbo assured me was all the rage now in Charleston. So I packed it up the next morning, intending to give it a try at my lunch hour workout.

Noon rolled around and I begrudgingly headed down to the gym. I suited up in my workout attire, skirt and all.

It was (bulky) fuscia with running stripes… and I looked absolutely ridiculous.

But when has that ever stopped me from anything before?

Now, I’ve worked out enough where I know you’re better off using the restroom beforehand, rather than experiencing the need during. So, I popped into a stall, and delighted with the easy-access design of the skirt for the first time, I whipped it up, and, ahem, began to, ah,well… tinkle, if you will.

(Most of you probably won’t.)

Immediately, I felt that something was very, very wrong. And also my thighs were  kind of hot. And not in a good way.

I looked down, and realized that while the skirt did indeed flip up easily for accessibility…

The underwear netting beneath it certainly did not.

Awk.

Ward.

Sigh. All I can say is, if anyone asks me when the last time I peed my pants was, I’m totally going to lie… because I was NOT wearing pants. I was wearing a goddamn running skort that can go get the freaking swine flu, for all I care.

So THERE!

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

Were you expecting a “Post Secret” TMI Thursday? Well, I need more entries! You can use the top secret anonymous email account to send it in (Gmail, username tmithursday, password tmit1234), and send them to me at heylivitluvit at gmail dot com. I suggest the free photo editing website Fotoflexer to make it super duper easy.

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

Other awesomely bad TMIs this week…

That Kind of Girl’s TKOG Who <3s sluts and hula hoops (TMI Thursday!)

LivingWicked’s TMIThursday: Eye Will Try Anything … Once.

spleen’s The ass is out of the bag. (TMI Thursday)

P’s TMI THURSDAY : AND THIS WEEK, TMI STANDS FOR . . .

Carissa Jade’s TMI: Vlog- I love deers and peeing

Sebastian’s Penises are not as great as you might think

Griffin’s TMI Thursday: When my phone decides to become a Fish

Just Another Momma’s TMI Thursday – Out Of Which End?

shine’s TMI Thursday – No, but really…this happened.

Daffy’s TMI Thursday: Jose Cuervo and Cookies

Lucy’s TMI Thursday:This is so wrong and yet so funny!

Travis’ TMI Thursday: Yes, I Have Balls That Can Write…

saratogajean’s Usually this would CLEAR a room

Mary’s TMIT: Kitchen Mishap

Dani’s TMI Thursday: There are some shames that cannot be washed away by cheap beer…

Hillbilly Duhn’s TMI Thursday – Anything you can do I can do better!

Lisa’s TMI Thursday: Uterus in Revolt

lnicole’s TMI Thursdays: I Hate Showering

Tricia’s TMIT: Up Close and Personal

Carol’s TMI Thursday

Insomniac Lolita’s TMI Thursday : Can I Get a “Chivas”?

Jeff’s i am a highly trained computer technician

the iNDefatigable mjenks’ TMI Thursday: The Shaking of the Bed

ClevelandPoet’s Jimi’s pussy twofer or TMI Thursday

Ms.Terri’s Guess what, cigarette butt? Mr. Sister is here!

amber murphy’s TMI Thursday: peel the onion

Dual Mom’s TMI Thursday – Cougars On The Prowl

Joshua’s TMI Thursday: Full Of It

JewliaGoulia’s TMI Thursday – 1st Edition

Wendy’s TMI Thursday: I guess I’m just that approachable, even when naked from the waist down. Wait, that came out wrong.

the ikss’ tit for tat

lebombed1’s And she’s in charge of impressionable young minds…

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.***

…is, apparently, to violently accost your friends’ and families mailboxes with an atrocity like this.

That. Just. HAPPENED.

The thing is, while hopefully this holiday abomination brought a smile to their faces, it in no way captured the journey that was this photo shoot. So now, I share this with the world…

I call it, “2 Cats 1 VeryCertainDeathofTheirOwners”.

Now, if someone could just tell me how the hell to top this next year, I would be eternally grateful.

(The cats, however, would not.)

Happy Holidays!

One of the reasons- the main one, most likely- that I feel like I relate to so many of you, IMHO, is because I unabashedly share every teeny, tiny, weird little oddity from all the quirky corners of my personality… and you probably relate to at least ONE of those. I’m winning you over with a numbers game of weirdness!! *evil cackle*

Ahem. Anytwaffle, one of my strange and nonsensical hobbies is, (somewhat ironically,) that I actually keep a running record of all the less-than-normal *coughbatshitcrazycough* things I do. Seriously, whenever I do something and worry about how it would look if someone saw me/heard me/knew WHY I was doing it, I immediately think, “I should probably share that with the whole internet.”

So here we have it, folks. A collective running list of all the things I do that make me weirder than your average bear, purely for your enjoyment.

You’re WELCOME.

LiLu-isms, (For Only Me) To Live By…

I have a secret ‘code of conduct’ rule with myself on airplanes: I only put my seat back if the person directly in front of me does. Addendum: Or if the person behind me is especially obnoxious…

I absolutely DESPISE inner ear headphones. Can. Not. Do it. They hurt, they fall out, they just don’t fit… twss. Give me the big, klonky, nerdy “might as well be earmuffs” headphones any day.

I may or may not enjoy Christmas music year round. (Again, thank goodness for said enormous headphones… and personal iPods.)

I unabashedly love country music. And, I’m not even gonna justify by saying only I only listen to GOOD country, either, like Johnny Cash… nothing makes me happier than road tripping with my Carolina girl Kbo, belting out Trace Adkins’ “Honkey Tonk Badonkadonk“. DEAL WITH IT.

I have, have HAVE to brush my teeth before getting into the shower. There can be no exceptions. (This was never a problem before my cats got so damn sinky!)

Every. Goddamn. MORNING!

I cannot stand having multiple browser windows open. I would rather have 4,000 tabs open at once than two windows. Must. See. EVERYTHING at once!

Sometimes I leave corny comments on people’s posts when they’re of a serious subject matter, or I’m just not sure what to say. I then live in fear that Maxie will somehow see it and mercilessly make fun of me for it.

I get really, really excited whenever I make pasta and discover that I put in JUST THE RIGHT AMOUNT of water when I add the noodles.

Speaking of my love for country music, I have to listen to Garth Brooks’ “Callin’ Baton Rouge” at least once every time I work out. I don’t know. It has a good beat!

Stop looking at me that way! We can still be friends, right? It’s not like I hate babies, or anything…

Oh.

Some of you are fortunate crazy enough to follow me on the insanity that is The Twitter.

Shameless plug WHAT!

Some of you are smart enough not to.

To you I say, tough noogies!

Please to enjoy some of the mini-drivels I subject my fellow Twatterers to on the reg…

Me: Am I overbearing? B: *(cheerful as shit)* Only when you’re overbearing!

I just said the word “hizzy”, with hand gestures. I really, really wish I had a picture of B’s face.

Dear Padma: This is like the third pants suit you’ve worn this season. WE ARE OFFICIALLY OVER.

This is really sad, but… finding out that Shift + Tab is “Tab” backwards? One of the ten best things that’s happened to me this year.

Me: Oh, you got tall boys tonight, huh? B: Yeah… it means I have to get off the couch less. On account of the four extra ounces and all.

Only on my blog do the comments turn into The Great Strap-On Debate. Oh, wait… there’s no debate. You’re all for it, apparently.

This is going to sound weird, but the IT guy who just helped me smelled really good.. like a dad who bought you a bike on Christmas morning.

A twee Hispanic man just hissed “lesbian” at me on the street. I look decidedly preppy today. Color me confused.

I am 95% sure the old lady next to me on the bus just pooped herself. Where’s an “Oops I Crapped My Pants” when you need one?!

Me: Is it weird that my go-to insult is to say they look like they have pubic hair on their head? … Don’t answer that. @LexaLemmy: I won’t.

Ahahahahahahahahaha!!!! http://tiny.cc/leU3Q The best part? He was already on probation for having sex with the SAME HORSE. via @chasrunner

B shaving off his beard, step 1:

B shaving off his beard, step 2:

B shaving off his beard, step Porno Star:

Me: You just CANNOT get a decent burger in Central America. @lexalemmy: I seriously want to post that to Things White People Say.

Coworker: Welcome back! Oh, you’re not tan. I thought you went to CR? Me: I did… this is super tan for me. Coworker: Oh. … I’m sorry.

In case you don’t want to look through 250 pics, my favorite from Costa Rica… SCOTT BAIO BARTENDER!!!!!!!

B just called me an evil hooker-whore. He then explained that it’s hyphenated when I glared at him with skepticism.

Awkward moment of the day: For some reason, I just told an almost-stranger of a coworker that my vacation was “magical”.

Apparently, Axe Murderer takes after her mama and papa – http://twitpic.com/q1yx1

LOVE IT.

Check it out.

(Totally safe for work. Swear on my shoe closet. It’s made of real shoes, so you know it’s good.)

Missed you hookers!

I am so freaking sick of SHOULDS.

Hitting my mid-20s, a lot has changed. Lemmonex and I talk openly about coupons for the grocery store, for chrissakes… and we’re not making fun of little blue haired ladies who use them. B and his friends in the financial industry discuss their retirement plans… and they actually have one. My doctor has started to nag me about extra calcium and weight training, because apparently I will perish into a pile of dust at 42 without said things.

Isn’t just making a home cooked meal every now and then enough? Isn’t making it from paycheck to paycheck without having your account fall into the negative enough? Isn’t cardio four times a week enough?

Because it’s a helluva lot more than I was doing at 21 or 22. But no, apparently… it’s not enough.

It’s never, EVER enough.

I am a big girl now. Officially, whether I like it or not. I have a home with a man and we have things and bills and living creatures that we pay for all by our bigass selves.

And it’s taken it’s toll… I feel it every day, in little ways. I feel guilty when I forget to take my multivitamin. (And simultaneously, like a dork for having them sitting on my desk at work.) I feel guilty when I realize I went a whole weekend without flossing. I feel guilty every time I walk by my company’s credit union where I really should open a credit card and transfer my high interest balance from the evil that is Capitol One… but it’s been almost a year that I’ve been walking by, and I’ve never made it inside.

These are all things I wouldn’t have dreamed of worrying about just a couple years ago. And now little “responsible” things like this weigh me down just a little more, every day.

“We are old,” Lemmonex and I say to each other once a day, whether we’re getting excited about a cheap homegoods store she found online, or the fact that we wanted to shoot ourselves in that bar Saturday night when we were elbow to elbow with all the “kids”.

We used to be those kids…

Now we’re wondering “if anyone still says that” and why on earth they don’t know what Hammer Pants are.

I wrote this post not so long ago about “Doing the Splits into Grown Up World”…

Looks like I’ve taken one more biiiiig, slippery step down this slope into “adulthood”.

Oh, well. I plan to undo at least half of the new “responsible me” I’ve discovered next weekend as my birthday present to myself.

Life is hard.

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

Steal this button and put it in your post just by copying and pasting the html code in the box below, or just link back to the hub with this link, so your readers can read ALLLLLLL the TMI glory, and I’ll make sure to link to you.***

<a href="http://www.livitluvit.com/category/tmi-thursday" target="_blank"><img src="http://i556.photobucket.com/albums/ss5/Livitluvit/tmithursday.jpg" border="0" alt="TMI Thursday" /></a>

Now get ready, my darlings, for the ever popular, yet gravely feared, TMI THURSDAYS…

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

So. Every week, I think, “What the FUDGE am I gonna write this Thursday?! Surely I’ve run out of completely inappropriate and entirely vile slash humiliating stories by now!”

And then myself happens.

Thank the baby jeebus, for your sake.

Moving on!

Yesterday morning, I was on my way to your typical three hour Oh My God This Shit Is So Boring But Goddamn Will It Look Good On My Annual Review Seminar. Having already consumed my morning coffee, I was waiting for the elevator when I felt…

THE URGE.

Y’all know what I mean. That ohsospecial moment when your body’s bowls- your assloins, if you will- start churning in a way that lets you know the timer to The Morning Assplosion is ticking down, and ticking down FAST. The rumblings, if you will.

Knowing that I was going to be sitting in a room with twenty strangers for the better part of the morning, I opted to take care of biznas beforehand. Which was lucky for me, because as I opened the restroom door, my “you need to handle this situation down under” timer? Had DINGED. In a flash, I realized I had approximately 3.5 seconds to plant heiny-on-toilet before the sitch got hairy.

I scooted inside, dropped my notebook on the sink, unzipped as I swung open the door… and plopped down.

[insert abhorrid and inhumane sound effects here]

No, really… what happened next would have made any constipated geriatric insanely jealous. My Chipotle dinner was revisited in an incredibly, um… audible fashion, accompanied of course by my own beatboxing, entitled “Sounds of Intense Relief”. (I’m pretty sure it’s one of the CDs in those thingies at Target where you can listen to a dozen… you know, “Babbling Brook”, “Notes from the Rain Forest”, and “Sounds of Intense Relief While On The Pot”.)

Anytwaddle, after my last, weak little sigh, I reached over for the TPR…

And heard the unmistakable scrape of Other Shoes across the floor.

My heart stopped. As did my breathing. While I desperately tried to will myself invisible, I did the awkward “My Ass Is Totally Hanging Out On The Toilet But I’m Still Prairie-Doggin My Head Downward To See WHO THE FUCK’S SHOES Are In The Stall Next To Me.”

And then I saw them… the unmistakable bad ass pumps of my department head. She’s the only other person (besides me) I’ve seen rock snakeskin stilettos. Let’s just say there was absolutely no question about who was squatting two feet away from the atrocity I’d just committed.

So, I did what any normal person would do.

I camped. The fuck. OUT.

I sat there in silence, perhaps shivering a bit, until she had tinkled, wiped, flushed, exited, washed, dried, primped, and LEFT.

When I heard that door swing closed, only then did I resume breathing. She knew something akin to the Ass Holocaust had been committed here, but she didn’t know I was the Hitler.

SAAAAAAAAAAAFE!

At long last, I flushed and walked to the sink, a woman unexpectedly pardoned from Death Row. I smiled triumphantly at my mischievous reflection while I washed up, and reached smugly to grab my notebook…

Only to realize the email with the seminar’s room number proudly sitting on top.

You know the kind from Outlook? That has the receiver’s WHOLE ENTIRE GODDAMN NAME printed in EXTRA LARGE FONT at the top left?

Yeah. That kind of email.

I don’t think there’s a FML out there big enough for this.

Other awesomely bad TMIs this week…

Maxie’s TMI Thursday: Hole in Number Two

jenniferalaine’s tmi thursday: unexpected delivery

Sebastian’s Making love to my computer

mylittlebecky’s exclamation point (tmit)

spleen’s TMI Thursday: I ate bugs.

BigSis’ TMI Thursday: My Cervix

Daffy’s TMI Thursday -Got Peas?

Sarah’s TMI Thursday: Excuse you?

Sean’s TMI Thursday: Stressed

The Bare Essentials’ TMI Thursday…Ass Candy

RachelSmiles’ TMI Thursday: roommates share more than apartments

M’s TMI Thursday? – Disaster Waiting to Happen

Scarlet Begonias’ TMI Thursday: Would you like relish with that hot dog?

the iNDefatigable mjenks’ TMI Thursday: Car Jacking

Ed’s TMI Thursday: I see your sword isn’t as big as mine…

Olga’s TMI Thursday—I Wet My Pants

shine’s Violence UnSilenced

Narm’s TMI Thursday – Steam Bath

Hillbilly Duhn’s TMI – Put your right boob in…

Travis’ TMI Thursday: Yes, I HAVE Stolen K-Mart Ads…

Big Mama Cass’s Care for some sticky sex? TMI Thursday

The Love Goddess’ I DISCOVERED SHOWER WATER:TMI (NSFW)

Cheddar’s The One in Which There is Argyle

Mb’s So you want a TMI story you say?

Tabitha’s TMI Thursday: My love-hate relationship with the O-word.

Tricia’s TMI Thursday: Bathrooms are Revolting Places

Carissa’s TMI Thursday. I’m really scared of Toxic Shock

Lucy’s TMI:Thursday: Old Lady on Campus

Insomniac Lolita’s TMI Thursday : How Do You Like Your Convertible?

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…

(If you don’t understand the title, CLICK HERE.)

So I told y’all that the kittens got snipped last Friday. What I haven’t told you is how it went down. Since I was almost in tears twice, it’s bound to be a funny story, no?

Let’s DO it.

When we got the little hellions cuties, Homeward Trails informed us that a) they needed to be fixed by the end of August and b) the Washington Humane Society would do it for just $45 a pop. Okay, great. So July rolls around and I start calling for an appointment. TWO WEEKS go by and I hear nothing back from my voicemail… Until one day at work when I see a missed call on my quieted cell. AWESOME. “We’re very busy,” it says. “Please call back to leave a new message.”

Fuck. Me.

So ANOTHER two weeks goes by with no word. I’m about to just eat the greater cost of taking them elsewhere when, last Tuesday, I finally see a random 202 pop up on the cell. “HELLO!!!” I yelled as my boss watched me leaning towards the window for maximum signal strength. (I am nothing if not professional.)

The cat-snipping lady gives me very explicit preparation instructions and all I can say is “yes ma’am!”. The kids are almost 6 months old at this point, aka the BANGABILITY ZONE. I’ve already seen Murray’s rocket once. Time is of the essence, people.

So, when she says Friday is available, I say how high. And also, YES. Sure we have the happy hour that night, but I figure I’ll drop them off before work, B can pick them up at 5, drop the DRUGGED and hopefully sleepy babies off at home, and all will be right with the world.

Especially since there will no longer be the danger of banging.

The Thursday night before, we have a little wine. B asks me how I’m going to get them to the snippin’ place two miles away, especially with two cat carriers in tow… and no car. Now I’m not sure, but I believe the metro frowns on livestock, since you can’t so much as open a soda down there without getting yelled at by a dood in a reflective jacket with a Napoleon complex, so I say I’ll take a cab.

“Do you have cash?” he asks, knowing that I have just received a new debit card but am waiting for the separate piece of paper in the mail that tells me its randomly assigned pin.

“No… I’ll just call the bank in the morning and have them change it,” I say.

“You should probably do it now…” he says. Very maturely, I inform him that I don’t FEEL like it and will probably end up dropping F bombs on some poor lady because such is my hatred for all things customer service.

And so the fateful morning arrives. Let me give you the play by play…

7 am: wake up, curse the alarm, the gods and the cats for stirring my precious slumber.

7:10 am: get up, get everything packed for the cats and happy hour, cleanse and beautify, probably curse a lot and send a few angry tweets. (This is standard.)

7:40 am: call BoA, who informs me they CANNOT change my pin, only a store can, which don’t open til 9 and DOESN’T DO ME MUCH FUCKING GOOD since I have to be at work by 9. Asshats.

7:45 am: in my morning haze, decide that I can just run to the grocery store and get cash back! I am a genius!

7:55 am: arrive at the teller with ketchup and tobasco in hand (priorities, people), swipe my card…

AND REALIZE THAT I AM A FUCKING IDIOT BECAUSE OBVIOUSLY YOU NEED TO PUT YOUR PIN IN TO USE A DEBIT CARD FREAKING ANYWAY, YOU UTTER MORON.

8:00 am: frantically bombard B in bed and tell him I need his debit card. Run to the ATM a block away chanting his pin loudly enough for anyone to a) hear and b) mug me and then use. Take money out. Sprint home, call a cab, stuff the beasts into their cages carriers, go outside to my stoop.

And wait.

8:15 am: cab finally pulls up. I have to have the cats at the snippin’ place by 8:30 and I am officially Freaking Out.

So is the cab driver when he sees me running at him with a yowling feline in each hand.

I stuff myself into the car before he can drive off. He glares from me to the cats to me, and sullenly says, “It’ll be a dollah for EACH ONE A THOSE.”

Great. Fine. STELLAR. Thank you, my good man. Let’s fucking GO.

8:25 am: the cabbie is trying to take a shortcut on some back roads in Southeast. Suddenly we come face to face with what is clearly marked as a ONE WAY STREET. I quickly look down and play with my Blackberry so he thinks I won’t see as he checks for coppers.

He guns it down the one way, takes a left and we’re there. I run up to the very tightly locked steel door, and knock.

Nothing.

I knock firmly.

Nada.

I POUND ON THE DOOR WITH EVERY OUNCE OF STRENGTH IN MY WEAK UPPER BODY.

Static.

I run around to the side door marked “Deliveries Only” and pound just as hard, desperate to see human movement of any kind. Peering in the windows, I see cats draped all over an office.

Creepy, but unhelpful.

8:30 am: I dash back to the main door as the waiting cabbie shoots daggers at me from across the street, and bang on the door with both fists for a solid minute. Mid-thrust (TWSS), it finally swings open, and a teenager with dreds is glaring at me as I wipe the definitely-not-tears-of-desperation from my eyes. He eyes me warily as I fill out my paperwork, wish the babies luck, and leave them to their fate.

On the bright side, I was 15 minutes early to work.

On the unbright side, the process of “picking them up” took B three hours, at which point they informed him the cats had to be kept separate all night (in case they ripped each other’s stitches open) and fed pain meds every 30 minutes. (INFORMATION I COULD HAVE USED YESTERDAY!!!!!!!)

Which meant HE couldn’t go to the happy hour at all, and I had to leave at 9. (Hence the second almost tears.)

But our cats? Are NOT banging.

FTW!