Browse our cool titles for hot weather reads.

While watching Project Runway last night, I couldn’t help but admire Heidi Klum for the zillionth time. She’s just drop dead gorgeous – and without being scary skinny. (The gossip mags have shown her working out all over NYC lately – lady? It’s paying off.)

Her career is off the charts, even as she’s creeping up on her 40s – and it ain’t easy for a model to make the transition off the runway to something else lucrative and not sad or trivial. Her kids are impossibly adorable, and she and Seal seem to be one of the few celebrity couples who have a truly healthy marriage – and are still nuts about each other to boot.

Well, aren't you two just vomitously cute?

And the worst part is: she’s so darn sweet that jealous as I am, I can’t even hate her. In fact, I utterly adore her.

WTF, Klum?

(Disclaimer: I’m in no way saying these are the things (career, love, kids) that every person should want. But as they seem to be what she wanted, I think it’s fair to say she has an exceptionally well-rounded life, and has successfully managed the balance between career and family, which I think we can agree is award-worthy all on its own.)

Anyway! I was thinking of all this… but then I checked myself before I wrecked myself, because my eyes are a lovely green, but my ‘tude doesn’t need to match them. And more importantly, I remembered this little nugget: nothing’s ever as perfect as it seems. I’m sure there are certain aspects Heidi hates about her job, something that Seal constantly does that drive her nuts, mundane or annoying things she wishes she could change about her day to day life.

And it occurred to me that I might even seem the same way, were someone looking in through the windowpane into the sunshiney breakfast nook area of my own life. Since landing the job I worked so hard for in January, things have certainly fallen into place in a way they never have before. I have the career, the incredible friends, the lover, and the kids (even if they are four-legged). Sure, I’m not a world famous or fabulously rich supermodel… but at the end of the day, my biggest problem is the 10 pounds I’d kill to lose and how to manage my hair in this disgusting DC summer humidity. It’s a good place to be, to put it mildly.

And even now, I sit here, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

How effed is that? Finally everything falls into place, so I sit here, poised, preparing for the next valley to follow this peak. Rather than sitting back and enjoying everything I’ve made for myself, I’m counting down the minutes until something horrible happens. I know it’s crazy, and probably more than a little unhealthy, but I can’t help it.

Do you do this? Does Heidi? How do you shut your brain up and make it smell the f#^%*#@ing roses?

Mama said share.

B and I don’t fight often.

But when we do, it’s almost always about something entirely insignificant, like who has to go downstairs to get the takeout from the delivery guy. (We’re really big on Not Wearing Pants in our house, which clearly, this interferes with.) And 99 times out of a hundred, any argument- or negotiation, really- is entirely in jest. Unless of course it’s my week to “attract vampires,” and then not only is it dead serious but I am 100% right and NOT AT ALL BATSHIT CRAZY, no matter what the situation is.

Duh.

But the other night, we got INTO it for once. And it was bad.

You see, I am a Fall Asleep With TV On (FAWTO) person.

B, on the other hand, is an incredibly selfish Fall Asleep With TV Off, Because For Some Strange Reason He Can Turn Over, Sprinkle Some of His Magic Fairy Dust He Hides From LiLu On His Eyes, and Be Dead to the World Within 2.0 Seconds (FAWTOPBFSSRICTOSSOMMFDIHFLABAW2.0S) person.

Look, as we’ve established round these parts over the past few years, I am probably not the most “stable” person on the planet. The thoughts whirling around inside my head at any given moment are akin to what it would look like if Peter Griffin, Chelsea Handler, and a unicorn had a baby and it was ribbon-dancing a la Will Ferrell around inside my brain.

See? Scary stuff.

Anycrazypants, my point is that I simply cannot fall asleep unless my loco-ass mind is distracted. I have to trick myself into caring about the Kardashians’ latest baby scare, or Alton Brown’s ceramic potted planter BBQing technique, or whose makeup is the most atrocious on Jerseylicious (it’s Olivia, FYI), just so that I can put my own mile-a-minute thoughts aside long enough to go unconscious.

B, on the other hand, prefers to fall asleep in this very, very unnerving thing he calls… dum dum dum… 

“QUIET.”

I know. Go figure.

In truth, I know it’s probably not exactly healthy to rely on cable network to lullaby me to sleep, but it’s been my way for over a decade now. The thought of going to bed and lying there, staring wide-eyed at the blank white ceiling with nary a Jon Stewart joke to snap me out of all the inane worries that wash over me is, well, terrifying.

And so, friends, I am at a loss. Perhaps the time has come for me to give up my late night affair with The Soup reruns and a plethora of Real Housewives dramz. It breaks my heart to say goodbye…

Let’s just hope it doesn’t break my mind.

Mama said share.

…even though I haven’t been on an “I’m single” date in two years. *Evil cackle*

Head on over to read about the “S.C.O.R.E. System,” a la LiLu. And add your 2 cents while you’re at it.

Mama said share.

This WYR Wednesday brought to you by my listening to Wale’s “Center of Attention“… on the treadmill. Because that’s where I do my best only thinking.

What? I'm gangsta.

And also, because I’m actually curious what you would answer.

So, Would You Rather…

1. Receive a million dollars $300 thousand (you were all choosing this one- too easy!) absolutely free and clear, but know you will never, ever be famous in your lifetime… for anything?

2. Receive zero financial gain for it, but become famous for something awesome, like an Olympic medal or curing cancer. (Let’s assume in this scenario, for some reason curing cancer did not give you any cash money. You didn’t do something awesome and give it to orphans or anything, you just never got any money for it.)

3. Be filthy rich AND famous, but you have no control over what your fame is for. Like, you could be the Cloon… or you could be Octomom. You don’t know til it happens.

vs.

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

***By the way, don’t forget to put this Friday’s Happy Hour on your calendar! Vapiano’s in Dupont! Woot!***






Yes, this is an ad. Mama is poor, yo:

Pass 642-631 exam using 70-643 dumps and other study materials. we offer self paced a00-211 online training program with 100% success guarantee.

Mama said share.

I’ve mentioned a few times how I have a little trouble with The Sleeping.

It makes no sense, right? It’s one of the few things we as humans are supposed to be PROGRAMMED to do. Eat, sleep, bone a little, eat afterwards, pass the eff out. In a perfect world, that’s how it would be.

But for some reason, MY body prefers to “pass out, wake up to pee at 5 am, fitfully try to go back to sleep but end up thinking about omgthereissomuchtodotoday and I forgot to take the rent check downstairs and it’s the 5th so I actually need to do it today and I can just SEE the dirty dishes in the sink mocking me and my skills as a good housegirlfriend and OH EM GEE I still have not unpacked my suitcase(s) from ten days ago, am I really a grown up? REALLY? because I’m pretty sure my grandmother who taught home ec for 50-odd years would be ashamed of the woman I have become…

…until Axe Murderer inevitably reaches through the end of the bed and sinks a claw into my big toe, at which point I sigh heavily, give up on sleeping all together, and shuffle out to the living room to begin what already feels like A Helluva Day.

So, a few weeks ago, my doctor gave me a prescription for Ambien. Which I put into action over the vacay last week… and found to be positively magical. I slept through the night, woke up rested, and barely noticed the kitty teeth gnawing at my itchy witchy toesie wosies in the wee hours of the morning. B even high-fived me on Sunday when I woke up at the oh-so-late hour of NINE THIRTY (gasp!!), and said, “Great sleeping, baby!”

And all was right with the world.

EXCEPT.

I’m not much of a dreamer. Maybe a flash here or there, but it’s been years since I woke up and actually remembered a dream.

Apparently, Ambien changes all that.

Suddenly, you’re dreaming- vividly- about cleaning out your grandfather’s recently-deceased (fictional?!) neighbor’s house, when you happen across a program for an old ballet recital you had, oh, TWENTY YEARS AGO. And you’re so out of it you can’t even remember if it was sweet or creepy in the dream.

The next night, I had no eyelashes. They were just… gone. I desperately tried (and went through) about a bucket of falsies, at which point of course I was covered with them and they, naturally, turned into bugs. Creepy crawly bugs. On my face. (Wait. Did you hear me? MY FACE.)

Last night was the kicker. We started watching “Deadwood,” and I was all stoked for some cowboy dreams.

What did I get? A little Seth Bullock “Montana” action? Maybe he rescues me from the evil Al Swearengen and we live happily ever after running the swingingest saloon in town?

Rawwwwr. Lasso me, baby.

Alas, my friends. I dreamt that Maxie and Lexa and I were in Vegas, feeding tigers cinnamon and accidentally killing hookers.

I think.

It could have been a panther.

But it was definitely a jungle cat.

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

P.S. Oh, dear god. Apparently I am also here today. With back up singers @lexalemmy and @katierose_ . Um, sorry I didn’t warn you guys?

The shame.

P.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.

P.P.P.S. Yesterday, my friend Rob’s blog about the documentary he’s directing looked like this.

Today, it looks like this.

Thanks to little ole me.

LOVE.

And cavy? You’re next.

Mama said share.

First things first… I’d like to extend my most heartfelt thanks to everyone who sent me an inquiry via a myriad of technological methods, asking after me and mine in light of the Metro crash yesterday. (Amazing/horrifying WaPo pictures here.) Your thoughtfulness is truly overwhelming. Although B and I have many friends who commute on the Red Line, everyone has been accounted for… though the loved ones of at least seven others (as of 8am Tuesday, according to the Mayor) were not so lucky.

I walk around this city every day feeling completely safe, as though no harm could possibly come to me. Those cabs speeding around corners wouldn’t ACTUALLY hit me, right? Those double decker busses taking out tourists… that’s just a myth, isn’t it? METRO CARS DON’T REALLY COLLIDE, RIGHT?!?

My neighborhood, Shaw, is far from the safest in DC… but I trot home, day or night, without so much as a glance over my shoulder. I feel (felt) 100% safe here, even though I absolutely should not. Though it might seem like I can’t go to a bar without running into a friend, this is not a little podunk town where everybody knows my name… this is a Real City where Real Shit Happens. And I forget that.

It’s a wake up call in a few ways, actually. It may be twisted to think of it this way, but no tragedy occurs without the silver lining of reminding those of us still here that Life. Is. SHORT. Any of us could be gone in the blink of a Metro car that plows into the back of another train.

And as “too soon” as it may be… that reminder is the last push I needed in a battle I’ve been preparing to fight.

You see, I’ve been struggling. I’m sure some of you that read here, that see my Twitterings about the ‘too much fun’ I’m having think, ‘Just reading about this is exhausting… when does she stop?’

The answer is, I don’t. And all this funsies and debauchery, it comes with a price.

I pretend to be invincible, but the reality is that I’ve lost control over many aspects of my life. Maybe it’s that being in a relationship that was so easy and comfortable, I expected the rest of my life to follow suit… but over the past few weeks, I’ve had a rude awakening. And it’s time for me to listen to, well, myself.

I may not be able to control the Metro, or whether I get jumped in Adams Morgan one night. But yesterday, something snapped in me. I need to take back control of the things that I CAN have power over in my life.

The truth is, I haven’t felt good for a long time… inside and out. I feel sloppy, disoriented, stressed out. My body is angry with me for the things I put it through… and so, for that matter, is my wallet.

I cannot down cheeseburgers and booze all the time and expect to lose the ten pounds that have been haunting me.

I cannot never say ‘No’ to hanging with a friend and expect my bills to pay themselves.

I cannot sit on my ass and wait for my life to magically take direction on its own.

I wrote a couple weeks ago that I wasn’t burning out… and when it comes to writing, I’m not. But I AM burnt out on this thing called life, physically. I am tired of being drained, hungover, bloated. After the past few weekends, my liver has sent me a letter of resignation… and I am inclined, for the first time in my life, to accept. I feel too weak to argue… and I miss feeling strong, healthy, clean inside.

Forget something… everything’s gotta give. And I’m finally ready to grab whatever I need to by the balls and make it happen.

Mama said share.

As I expressed last Friday, I am extremely grateful for and humbled by all the lovey love you guys have shown me lately. Consequently, I feel like it’s time I gave a little sumin’ sumin’ back. That’s how blog sex favors work, right?

What?

Anyhoosits… a few months ago, I wrote a tribute to some of the funniest posts on the block. Because my heart is in need of a little warming today, I’m going to do something similar… but with posts that have somehow touched me, that were heartfelt, that were clearly difficult to write… but the authors were brave enough to put them out there and share them with us anyway.

So, I hope you likey… I sure did.

My darling Floreta writes a letter to her hypothetical child…

“Take heed, I will let you walk, and I will let you fall. I will let you stumble, then try again. Dear Child, I am terrified of having you and raising you. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it is to do things that scare you. Fear is good motivation, but so is love. Together, it is unstoppable. Remember this.”

My favorite poker player, Kali, ponders Cruel Intentions…

“…you know the saying ‘Always Leave Things Better Than You Found Them’? I like to think that goes for people too. So stop playing mindgames. Stop chipping away at people’s self-confidence to make them more manageable. Stop making people second-guess themselves. If you’re with someone and you like them, tell them. Sure it’ll be scary (and this is such a clichéd phrase), but life IS short.”

A newbie to me, but one I’ll definitely visit again… DC Femella wants to know Why Do We Label Each Other?

“Before you start labeling people, and thinking that they are this or that label, think about the reasons you are really doing this. We constantly label people in a negative light due to difference of opinion due to religion, political view, sexual preference, parenting method, etc., but why? Is it to make yourself feel better? And/or feel like they are not like you?”

I’m going to let Chelsea Talks Smack’s title speak for itself: “Trusting is like not knowing how to swim and letting someone DUNK YOU ANYWAY.“

“Whether it’s the beginning of a relationship, or twenty years into one you have to practice that act of pure belief in their words. … Then, how after that “first thing” the first fib, first omission, first lie, first fabrication do you get back to that space when you aren’t terrified of the bottom dropping out?? It’s like handing your sleeping baby over to a person walking a tight rope and saying, “just don’t drop them.” This time, I’m the person, my heart’s the baby and he’s the wire walker.”

Another newbie to me, and damn am I glad this is the first post I read from her. justatitch frankly, yet respectfully, discusses the demise of her young marriage.

“Divorce rips your heart out. Divorce hurts in a way like nothing else. The thing is that it’s not just the end of a relationship; the loss of companionship. It’s the death of being an “us”. The death of hopes and dreams. It’s being estranged from a circle of friends while everyone figures out their “side.” It’s the small stupid things: no more Christmas traditions or having someone to call who knows exactly what you want on your salad and someone to kiss goodnight. And I don’t regret divorcing him. It was, in many ways, the best decision I ever made. It saved me. It saved me from being dead inside.”

Thanks for these, my dears. Thanks for trusting us to listen, support, and not judge.

And I’ll return the schmoop… I promise. (Oooo, look! Foreshadowing!) *wink*

Mama said share.

Listen, ladies. A lot of you out there in our wonderful little blogosphere are single. And that? Is FABULOUS. You are amazing and confident and satisfied all on your damn own. And that is absolutely wonderful.

But of course, you’re open… you’re open to the idea that Mr. Right might just walk around the corner on your lunch break. You’re aware that the man who buys you a drink at the bar COULD just end up being an amazing guy, and not just some sleaze who wants to get into your pants. You just might begrudgingly attend yet another (goddamn) engagement party, only to look into the eyes of The Man You Want To Spend The Rest Of Your Life With. It could happen.

Just because you’re perfectly content on your own doesn’t mean you’re not aware of the possibility. And that’s good- it’s a great and healthy place to be.

But I’m here with a message. One that is important to me, given that I myself came so very, very close to letting the one person that I Want Forever slip through my fingers.

You see, my outgoing, sassy and boisterous bartending personality is something I have developed over many years. It has served me well in many- nay, most situations. But, as I discovered, it can also be a bit of a curse.

When I met B at Fado on that fateful night last June, I knew that I felt something special that night when we ended up making out on the steps of the church on 8th Street… but I didn’t know if it was anything more than that.

At 2 pm the next day, my phone rang. That night, he popped in to the bar where I was working… and I pulled my most bartender-y of ‘tudes on him; I put on a show to see if he was intimidated.

He was. And I almost wrote him off, calling him a “quivering little bunny rabbit” the next day in my post. I almost canceled our real first date before it even happened. I almost let the best thing that’s ever happened to me slip away, because I wanted to write off the Nice Guy. I figured he couldn’t handle me, that he was lacked confidence, that he was weak. And I have never been more wrong about anything in my life.

B is the strongest man I have ever known. He is the perfect balance for me… he is EXACTLY what I need to mellow me when I need mellowing, and to let me bring a little crazy (spice) into HIS life. It is a killer combination, and it works.

So, ladies, this is my message to you… basically, Don’t Be Me. Don’t ignore the nice guy in the bar. Don’t write him off because he’s nervous when he says hello. Don’t assume that because of that, he is a boy and not a man. After all, approaching girls is terrifying- imagine if WE had to do it! If they’re man enough to come up and say “Hi,” give him a chance. Plainly speaking, remember this…

“NICE” OR “QUIET” DOES NOT EQUAL A LACK OF CONFIDENCE.

We all want a confident guy, right? Well, that normally translates to the immediate gratification of the loudest, most obnoxious guy at the bar. Of course he’s confident… but he’s also crossing the line over to “cocky.” Wouldn’t you rather have that strong, silent type? The Don Draper kind of man? The guy that takes a little longer to get to know, but once you do… once you crack that shell, the things that are inside are AMAZING?

The problem is, pop culture always portrays the girl ending up with The Sap. And that’s kind of bullshit. That’s not what women want. They want strong, confident men, who are willing to take charge when necessary, but are also able to show care and compassion.

What we are forgetting, my dear ladies, is that there is not only The Sap and The Asshole. There is a whole world of men in between. You just have to dig a little deeper to find out which ones they are.

Mama said share.

Last week, I was at The Gibson with some uber fabulous ladies, when the conversation turned to the subject of being able to read people solely based on how they present and carry themselves.

This is, without trying to toot my own horn, something I’m pretty damn good at. It’s sort of unavoidable, honestly, after working in restaurants for as long as I have, and particularly because of bartending. Spending a decade in a job where your income depends solely upon your ability to read people means you can’t help but learn to notice their signals and nuances. Analyzing the decisions that people make when they choose how to dress, how to present themselves, how to walk, how to stand, how to approach, how to hit on, whether to hit on… every tiny little itty bitty thing that you do tells me a dozen things about the person that you are. (More details from a past bartending post here.)

It’s a bartender’s favorite game; someone enters, perhaps a couple, a group, a single- doesn’t matter- and we have a quick huddle and take bets on What Their Story Is.

“He’s a traveling (married) business man, meeting someone from Craigslist.”

“Third date, she started dating him for the money, but she’s almost decided it’s not worth it.”

“They should have gotten divorced a year ago… they’ll probably pull the trigger in a couple months.”

“Back from Iraq. Beers are on us. One of the girls, go flirt with that boy. He’s earned it.”

“Blind date… he does this professionally. He’ll have her in bed tonight and she’ll never hear from him again.”

“Closeted frat boys. One girl and one boy double team them and show off the eye candy. A free round of jagerbombs and we’ll have every last penny from their pockets.”

Mind you, we know all this by the time you sit down at the bar. When you open your mouth, it’s just a matter of validation for us. Sure, we’re wrong sometimes, but not often. And after 30 seconds of actually talking to you, we’ve got you COMPLETELY figured out.

I’ve said before how much I love to people watch. While talking about this all with the girls last week, I mentioned that I’ve long since known that if I could have a super power, it would be some sort of handheld device that allowed me to point it at people and have all their stats, information, and life story pop up. You know, so I could check if my assumptions were right. Wouldn’t that be FASCINATING? Yeah, I thought so.

Because whether I’m 100% right, or whether I’m completely surprised… I just freaking love this game.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: People are fascinating animals.

Sidenote: Hilarious Snuggie post here! Ultimate Battle: The Snuggie vs. Slanket vs. Freedom Blanket vs. Blankoat

Mama said share.

I have a confession to make, Bloggie Buddies. (And lurkers. I love you too! Just, yanno, a little bit less. KIDDING.)

I have Sidewalk Rage.

Some of you immediately know exactly what I mean. And some of you do not. Let me ‘splain.

I’m sure we’re all familiar with road rage, yes? The asshole on the road who who honks at you for stopping at a yellow light and then throws their hands up in disgust at your rearview mirror… The angst-filled teen who zips in and out of 80 mph traffic, because they can’t stand being behind anyone else? The crazy woman who rides your ass and then ZIPS by you in the left lane when you finally move over, while flipping you off?

Um… yeah. That was me. All of them. Sorry about that. What can I say? I’m a Masshole, baby. That’s how we DO up there. And because we ALL drive that way, nobody gets hurt.

Every time I’d get in the car (I just typed “bar” instead, wonder where MY head is today…?) with someone who didn’t know me that well, and was most likely under the impression that I was a delicate flower of a young lady, (hey! I heard that snort!)… they would- within moments- be shocked and appalled at the venemous filth that poured forth from my mouth. I just can’t help it- when I get behind the wheel of a car, my blood pressure immediately triples and I get a raging case of Tourettes.

(NSFW: Language.)

Yeah. Kinda like that. (God, I love that movie.)

Anyhoo, now I live in the grand ole District, and I have no car, which is better for everyone, trust. (I also get this cute little thing called “narcolepsy” whenever I drive for more than 20 minutes. I’ve driven off the road many times in my life, and the rumble strip has saved me more times than I can count.) So now I walk everywhere, which is great for my legs… but the Rage remains.

This is a tourist city, and they travel in HORDES. They cluster around maps and street signs looking pitiful and helpless while I avoid meeting their eyes. They stand on the goddamn LEFT side of the Metro escalators. They dash across the streets when there’s still 20 seconds ticking on the clock (which is more amusing than annoying, actually).

And if the tourists weren’t bad enough, even the normal people, our own citizens, are challenging… because People. Are. IDIOTS. In general, the average person is, quite honestly, a fucking moron. And every morning and evening during rush hour, I do “walking battle” with these morons. They stand in the middle of the sidewalk. They walk six abreast, with no intention of moving for the lone soldier trudging the other way. They are OBLIVIOUS to all going on around them, like ME behind them, walking on their heels and muttering under my breath as I fight to get around their slowpoke asses while they enjoy the goddamn weather or some shit.

Look, I walk fast naturally. Really fast. I know this. But the sidewalk is pretty big here! DC is a walking city, and the streets are pretty condusive to that. There is NO reason I should be fighting tooth and nail just to get to the end of the sidewalk and make the Walk Light. GOD HELP YOU IF YOU MAKE ME MISS MY WALK LIGHT!!!

I am also, if you haven’t picked up on it, a bit of a competitive walker. Even if I have no where to be, and there is no one on the whole quiet little street except for me and one person 10 paces ahead of me… I will pass them. I HAVE to. It’s this weird compulsion that I can’t explain. I must WIN. I must show them that they are slow and lazy and unworthy of their journey, and look how much better I am at completing my quest? You FOOL! Minion! Peon! Animal cracker!

Sight. I feel better now. That is, til 5:30… but at least there’s booze at the end of that walk.

/rant.

Happy Friday, lovebirds!

Mama said share.