~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.

Hey! Hey, you!

Yeah, YOU. Get back here.

Are you looking for http://www.livitluvit.com?

Yeah, I thought so. Don’t worry, you’re in the right place. We just had little work done over the weekend. Whaddya think? Apparently this is what happens when LiLu doesn’t leave the couch for 3 days… she teaches herself how to edit html code.

Also, B would like me to credit him for drawing the piece of tape in the header. It took him about two hours in Paint, no lie. Go ahead, zoom in.. he put like 19 shades of brown in there, pixel by pixel. He is now accepting kudos and congratulations for his amazing skills, and is available for freelance work if you have any adhesive swatches you need drawn.

He is a patient man. Remember how I said he balances me out? Exhibit A: I am the most impatient person I’ve ever met and would have given up after about 10 minutes and pasted a jpg of Elmer’s over it.

So seriously y’all, let me know what you think. I accidentally tricked myself into learning a lot about this designing crap over the weekend, even though my goal was to use my brain as little as possible. Oh well, you win some, you lose some. I think this was a win-win.

My corner of the interwebs isn’t the only thing changing its appearance, either. B and I have decided we have officially crossed the line from “joking about the extra L.B.s from the holidays” to “Officially Fat and Happy”. Therefore, starting Monday, we have decided to start kicking our own asses. No more junk food, no more excuses to not work out, no more significantly less booze.

Because New Year’s Resolutions are for pussies. February is the month of change, my friends. January sucks enough as it is.

B’s official goal is to lose 10 pounds by the end of February. Since I am a woman and can’t shed poundage like that, nor do I find it particularly healthy, my less-concrete goal is to fit back into my skinny jeans. Not “skinny jeans” as in hipster, “skinny jeans” as in the ones I fit into when I’m lookin’ gooood. (The next phase will be to fit into them… comfortably.)

Because we used to look like this, a la Costa Rica:

And now we look like this:

Well, maybe not EXACTLY. But we are on a slippery slope, my friends. Like when Michael Jackson got his first nosejob.

The last time I went on a serious diet like this, I cut out everything I like to put ketchup on, AND quit drinking for a month. And the results were huge. I’m not going quite that hardcore this time, but I AM nixing everything fried and taking it easy on the bottle. And it is going to be hell. Especially because, as a man, B will probably go running once a week and drop 10 pounds without even thinking about it. Jerkface.

So raise a glass (of water) to Fat February, my friends… It’s on like Donkey Kong.

I’ll keep you “posted”. Get it? GET IT?? *snarf*

God, I’m punny.

Mama said share.

I was getting ready for my 2 mile walk home from the new job on Monday evening, and it had been a TERRIBLE day. Not anything to do with the job itself, which is going splendidly, thanks for asking (yes, despite the toner incident)- more a mishmash of health problems and the ensuing feelings of distress/anxiety/wanting to cry in my Cheerios- that go along with them. At an emergency doctor appointment in the afternoon (so much for a lunch break) I found out that I need oral surgery next week and pretty much can’t eat anything tougher than soup until then, unless it’s cut into itty bitty bites. Le funsies.

So yeah, I’d already had a rough day, topped off with the usual stressification of starting a new job and, yanno, having basically no idea how to do it yet. AND trying to do it while my mouth was throbbing. (I-66? Take it away.)

So when it was finally quittin’ time, I picked up a prescription at the CVS across the street… and walked out past the candy aisle. Now, I’m not a huge sweets person- give me french fries over a Snickers any day- but I do love me some gummies. So I grabbed a 99 cent bag of gummy bears to get me through the absolutely FREEZING half-hour walk home I had in front of me. I figured I’d earned it.

As I braved the cold streets of the District, picking little handfuls of bears out of my pocket and savoring them along the way, I stumbled onto an entrance to Farragut North.

“Hmm,” I thought. “I suppose I could take the metro to Chinatown and transfer there… it’d be annoying, but at least it’d be warmer.” Then I remembered the BAG OF GUMMY BEARS in my pocket. “Oh crap. I can’t justify eating some of half of an entire bag of gummy bears if I metro home instead of walking. I suppose I could throw the 85 cents of gummies left away… (hahaha, I can’t even pretend to take that seriously!)”

So I bundled up a little tighter and trudged past the Metro stop, determined to work off at least a few of the candies on the way home.

As EVERYONE knows, Red is clearly the best flavor of every “fruity” candy known to man. (Skittles, Twizzlers, Runts, I’m looking at you.) I was bored enough to twitter this (and also how I bit my cheek immediately thereafter). I neglected, however, to say anything about Orange being my nearly unconditional second fave. Apparently, Orange is a bit of an attention whore, because she got majorly pissed off and I made it through half the bag without finding a single Orange. Which is totally not cool because everyone knows that the Superiority of Red is made all the sweeter by the presence of the sporadic Lesser But Still Pretty Good Orange.

While contemplating this existential crisis en route to my apartment, I realized that: a) walking is really boring when your cell phone’s dead and you forget your iPod, B) I might be a little crazy, and C) you really can blog about anything, huh?

Happy Humpday, lovahs. Don’t forget tomorrow is TMI Thursday!

Mama said share.

It’s been a long time since I split up from anyone, casual or otherwise. When I moved to DC a year ago, I basically took almost a year off from dating and just got to know my city, my jobs, my new friends. (Not to mention the fact that my boyfriend in Carolina and I broke up two weeks before I moved here… when I told him I was moving. Just kidding- I told him 5 minutes after we broke up. But he treated me like crap and totally deserved it.)

Consequently, I sort of forgot how I get, you know, afterwards. Some women eat. Some women drink. Some women cue up all the reruns of Grey’s Anatomy on their DVR and pretend they’re crying about Izzy and George or mad at Meredith and Christina as they hug the Ben & Jerry’s.

I become an exercise junkie.

I guess I’m lucky that way- it seems like women are generally one or the other, either blowing up or slimming down. For me, all that time I was spending going to dinners, meeting for drinks, laying on my ass watching a movie? Is now spent in my running shoes. Don’t get me wrong, I’m generally in decent shape anyway, but this is the time when my drive gets AMPed (sp?) the hell up. Cheeseburgers? Forget it. French fries? Don’t need them. Beer? No thank you.

And of course, there’s always an accompanying soundtrack for strength, power and inspiration. After JBPitt, it was Madonna’s Confessions on a Dance Floor. After Radio, it was Nelly Furtado’s Loose. After the Cuban, The Killers’ Sam’s Town.

This time around? I’m thinking all of the above, with some new Madonna, Katy Perry and Carrie Underwood thrown in. (Don’t judge… it works for me!)

Time for my lunchtime workout… Growwwrrr!!!

Update: Katy Perry it is. Holy schnikes, I love every song…

“If You Can Afford Me”

If you want me you’re gonna have to break the bank, tonight.
Cuz some don’t have the patience, some call me high-maintenance,
But you pay the bill, cuz, that’s the deal.

If you wanna ride, just name your price- don’t play cheap with your heart
Don’t make a bet if you can’t write the check, for me, for me.
Cuz I can be bought, but you’ll pay the cost
If you can afford me…

Mama said share.