So, last night B and I are deep into our newest television fling, Rescue Me…

Love these boys.

…and the firemen are sitting around having an old-fashioned “We are men! Measure my penis!” shoot-the-shit kinda conversation, when one of them says this:

“That’s the thing with older vs. younger women. Older women are more skilled, but they’ve done it so many times, it’s mechanical for them. Younger women may come up short in the talent department, but they’re so eager to please.”

*contemplative pause*

Another fireman responds:

“If only there was a way to combine the two, to find a happy medium.”

First fireman:

“Oh, there is… 26, my friends. 26? Is the sweet spot.”

At which point I looked over to B, and yell

“HEYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”

because whoa!, I am 26, so that’s pretty awesome, right? Lucky man!

And my darling dear, he eyes me carefully, and he says…

“So, how many months you got left?”


P.S. Obviously this is a rather ridiculous notion. I just thought it was awesome because they said 26 and hey, it’s kind of an obscure age. We don’t get much else.

Also, excuse to post a picture of hot firemen? Yes and also please.






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Mama said share.

For some inexplicable reason, there are those of you out there who would have me tell you what to do with your life.

I find this completely baffling, entirely awesome, and am ready and willing for the challenge.

Therefore, I give you what may be installment #1 of a Clusterfuck of Advice from LiLu & B.

Dear Lilu,
 
My dating life is… complicated. Add that to a habit of sabotaging myself and you’ll have a lovely string of wonderful, kind, and just not for me men in my wake.
 
However, there is a someone. We’ll call him by his call sign: Token. Now, I have known Token since high school when he was sweet, geeky, and too shy to ever ask a girl out. Four years at the Naval Academy followed by pilot training (hence the name Token), he is still sweet, geeky, but wildly outgoing. As a military brat I cannot help but be drawn to men in uniform and it turns out pilots often don’t wear anything under the jump suit. (Think about that the next time you watch Top Gun.)
 
We’ve been mutually interested in each other for nearly eight years, but the timing never really worked out. However, it seems the universe has finally decided to align and given us the chance to try this thing out in July.
 
There’s just one teeny problem.
 
He grunts.
 
You know, during the s. e. x… he grunts. Now, if it was at the end then I could totally not giggle but with every little push there’s a “UGH!” and then “HOUGH!” followed by another “UGH!” and this weird throat thing that sounds like growling which prompts giggling from my part of the process. Not exactly a moment made of sexy between the giggles and the grunts.
 
So, now that I’ve breached the information barrier: Advice? Any advice whatsoever?
 
Sincerely,
Little Fish
 
P.S. You have permission to post this email, especially if you give good advice.

BWA hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay, I’m done now. Swear.

Sorry. Couldn't be helped.

*giggle*

Dear Little Fish,

My immediate response was, there’s no way. In my experience, men are super duper sensitive while boning. I mean, you call a guy by your ex’s name ONE TIME while you’re downtown in Bangtown, and suddenly he’s curled up in the fetile position, crying in the corner of the room.

That was an uncomfortable nine hour ride back from Jacksonville, FL.

Ahem.

BUT, I thought, maybe you could, sort of, you know… suggest alternative noises that turned you on. Lead him towards some dirty talk, maybe. As long as you keep him too busy to punctuate his dirtyisms with the grunts, maybe they would just sorta… fade away?

And then I turned to B, and read your quandry to him.

B: She should just tell him.

Me: What, like, straight out??

B: Yeah. Definitely.

Me: Won’t that be… awkward? And what if he can’t stop? Then it’s all he’ll be thinking about! It’ll ruin their sexy time!

B: No. It won’t matter at all. He’s a dude. The only thing he’ll be THINKING is “I’m getting laaaaaaaaid!”

So there you have it, amiga. I say try to wean him off of it if you can… but the man says just lay it all out there.

They are simple creatures, truly.

Thoroughly Entertained,

LiLu

Please y’all, feel free to give Little Fish your own 2 cents. Or, if you have a question of your own, shoot me an email and we’ll see if we can’t help you out.

And happy freaking FRIDAY!!!

Mama said share.

***Update: Doods! My site caught swine flu and was down all day yesterday. It should be up and running fine now- vaccinate your children!- but do me a solid and let me know if you notice anything wonky, mmmmmkay? Xoxo***

While watching Real World last night (the Cancun scenery serves as a constant reminder of the 10-times-more-gorgeous place I will be in two months)…

Costa Rica, you are seriously my life motto right now.

Anytwaddle, so a few of the roommates end up having a threesome in the bed next to a fourth sleeping roommate. And when she finds out the following morning, she is, as she so eloquently put it, “Totally weirded out”.

Me: Oh, that would totally freak me out too. Ick.

B: Why? It’s the same thing as if it happened in your college dorm.

Me: No no no. In college, you have rules! Socks on door knobs and such- you have to come to a prior understanding about the rules of shared-room sexin’.

B: No way. Freshman year, my roommate Dave came home with a girl. I was sitting up, wide awake, watching TV. He took one look at me and said, “Going to bed, B?” You better believe I said “Yup” and turned out the light. And then, a few minutes later, I heard her say “You’re roommate’s not asleep yet!”, so I did what any good friend would do… and began fake snoring.

Me: Well, okay. But that’s more dude code than anything else. That wouldn’t really happen with girls.

B: Why not? Girls need love too.

Me: I know, but A) we would probably have figured out some elaborate smoke signal system so we wouldn’t be in the room at the same time and B) no guy who’s about to bang would EVER care that her roommate was still awake.

B: Touché, my dear. Touché.

Thank god I’m not college anymore.

Mama said share.

Mama said share.

(Originally posted as a guest post for a 20SB Blog Swap Day…)

Well, hello there! It’s 20SB BLOG SWAP DAY! Which is why you’re stuck here, reading me, LiLu of Livit, Luvit. But don’t worry, I plan on keeping y’all entertained.

You see, I have a little problem I’d like to share with y’all.

My darling and ever-patient boyfriend, B, and I have been very happy since we met last June, fell insanely in love in about two weeks, and were living together by the end of August in downtown Washington, DC. (I actually wrote about the night we met the day after it happened, which is kind of cool now looking back, if you want to read it here.)

Were (are) we crazy? Most definitely.

Has it been anything short of perfect? Absolutely not.

Okay, then, now we’re all up to speed. Glad to meetcha!

[pic]

Blissfully happy, right? Cutish, and all that? Sure. Whatevs. Not the point.

The point IS, while everything is basically hunky dory peach keen and all that, we do have one problem.

*Whispers*… You know… with THE SEX!!!

You see, my darling boy… well, he is a morning-sexer. He’s ready for a romp first thing in the morning NOMATTERWHAT. If we drank a bottle of tequila apiece the night before, it would not stop this man from trying to put his P in my V the very first moment he is conscious.

Which is flattering and all, it’s just, well…

NO.

My babymaker wants absolutely zero, as in NO PART OF a peen until she has had a few solid hours to adjust to the idea. In fact, she cannot imagine anything worse within the first hour of waking up (factoring in that I am mostly talking about the weekends here, which means I am usually HUNG over).

And I sympathize, I do… I understand that he usually wakes up, ahem, “ready to go”. (Gettit? GETTIT? I’m talking about MORNING WOOD! Tee hee!) But that doesn’t change the fact that Sexy Time generally, to me, sounds like the Worst Idea Ever In The Whole World until, oh, about noon. Then, all of a sudden, my mini-LiLu is all, “Hey, you know what’d be a good idea? That thing we do sometimes, you know, we’ll call it ‘dancing.’ Lemme get some of that.”

Which should be fine and dandy, right? Except by then, B has generally gotten into ESPNing or Xboxing and he’s all, “Whoa, where was this four hours ago? I’m not your sex monkey!” And I’m all “YES YOU ARE! Take off your pants!” But it’s too late and just like that, we’ve missed the precious window.

The Window of Sexin’.

Bet you didn’t see that coming.

So now we both watch the clock steadily on Saturdays and Sundays and joke about 12:30 as “the witching hour”…

If you text me round then on a weekend, you best be prepared to wait.

Cause, you know, we’re probably Having the Sex.

And now you know waaaay too much about us! Le awesome. So come over to my place, say, tomorrow for the infamous TMI Thursday, and share something about yourself!

Mama said share.

Disclaimer: Okay, I promise I’m so not the “shmoopy” kinda girl, but bear with me today… I just can’t help it, because I totally feel like this:

Last Saturday, I completely freaked my best friend out.

Then I called my two foreva-eva BFFs back in Massachusetts, and totally freaked them out too.

A couple days ago, I kind of freaked my parents out (although they hide it better. Or maybe they just want grandbabies…).

Because, you see, I told them something that I’ve never really said before. They’ve never really known me (at least not in YEARS), to be, well, for lack of a better word… smitten.

There, I said it. It’s out in the open… there’s no hiding from it now.

And what’s the strangest part about all of this?

I, personally, couldn’t be less freaked out. (If you know me at all, you know what a big deal that is. After all, most of my girlfriends think of me like this.)

Well, guess what…

Kbo: [about her BF] yeah, like, if I want to be loyal and supportive of what he needs to do, I kind of have to move a little quicker than I would like… It sucks having to think for two

Me: well… yes… but it’s also really, really nice

Kbo: yes, this is true

Me: holyshitfuck who just said that

Kbo: hahah yes I was just about to say that

Me: ha

Kbo: I like you better now that you’re not as cynical

I called my (honorary) Big Brother in Massachusetts, basically just to tell him because I knew he wouldn’t believe it.

Me: “Hi, it’s me.”

Pooky: “Hey, what’s up?”

Me: “Oh, nothing much. Well, actually, I met someone [you know how you say "met" differently when it's a big deal? Yeah, it was like that]. And, I really, really like him. AND, I think he’s going to be around for a long time. I’m bringing him home in a month to meet you and Brit.”

[Dead silence...]

Pooky: “Who is this?”

Who is this, indeed. I’m not even sure… Neither is my mother:

Me: “So, Mom, I’m coming home to see Little Sister in August… and I’m bringing someone with me.”

Mamakins: “Of course! Is it Fellow Masshole? Or Tuesday Boozeday?”

Me: “Umm, no… it’s actually a guy. If that’s okay. I want you to meet him. He’s pretty great.”

[Stunned silence. Which sounds a lot like dead silence, except that I can actually hear her mouth fall open.]

Mamakins: “I…. you… my… skjdghksjhdotiiwoe… of course it’s okay! [Regaining composure as shock subsides...] I just didn’t know you were seeing anyone! [Insert motherly peppering with questions about daughter's love life here.]

Yeah, it’s pretty much disgusting. I’m becoming one of those annoying couples who walk each other to the Metro in the morning and kiss goodbye while holding up foot traffic. I hate that; excessive PDA is so barf-tastic. But I’m doing it. Because I can’t help it.

Three months ago I wrote this post about being ready to fall in love again (after a good five year hiatus). While I meant every word, I never thought it would happen so soon. Especially in DC, as I’ve had a realllly hard time meeting guys here. In fact, in all honesty, I didn’t believe that it would ever be as intense as that first, innocent time (hello, high school!) again… but I was so, so wrong. It’s like that, only with complete trust, understanding, and a lot more wisdom. And I definitely, completely forgot how absolutely unbelievable it is.

Me: i don’t worry about ANYTHING when he’s around

Kbo: thats the way it should be!

Me: it’s pretty amazing… but it’s always been this way with me… i’m just all or nothing. i just know.

And I really do. This is the Real Deal. And I’ve never been more excited for anything in my whole entire (pathetic excuse for a) life.

“I like where you sleep
When you sleep next to me
I like where you sleep…here

Our lips can touch
And our cheeks can brush
Our lips can touch…here

Well, you are the one
The one that lies close to me
Whispers “Hello, I miss you quite terribly”
I fell in love, in love with you suddenly
Now there’s no place close I could be but here in your arms…”

-Here (In Your Arms), Hellogoodbye

(Somebody shoot me. Seriously. I deserve it.)

Mama said share.

“So, you know how we probably don’t want children right now?” (This is the understatement of the year.)

“Yes…?”

“The universe just high-fived us, babe.”

Ah, romance…

Mama said share.

Mama said share.

Mama said share.

***Yes, this is an actual post I wrote the morning after meeting who you now know as the lovely and charming B. Enjoy!***

While I really have come to love DC in the six months or so that I’ve lived here, it does have one very obvious and much-blogged-about problem… the dating pool, is, well, dorky. And generally not that attractive. In the months since I’ve relocated to our nation’s great capital, I’m sure I could count on two hands (possibly one) the number of times that I’ve seen a guy and thought, “Whoa. He’s cute. I need to talk to him.” It’s not really a big deal (yet), because I ended a (terribly draining, or maybe just terrible) relationship when I moved here and have been concentrating on making friends and working 60 hours a week and all that. But I am a little boy-crazy in general (read: huge flirt) and I check out EVERYONE I see, because I find people fascinating and can’t help it. (Girls for fashion and comparison, boys for the obvious, old people for the interesting.)

So last night, Fellow Masshole bff and I (she is fantastic, and the reason that I called out hungover for the first time EVER last Thursday) made our way first to an alumni event of hers (apparently I went to college in Ohio, natch) at a bar I’d never been to. (Still haven’t been inside, technically- I’m told it’s fancy but touristy by my trusted Capitol-Hill-living coworker, Turducken.) The event was outside (it was sunny yet sprinkling?), very squished, and I got hit on by a college senior (half the attendees were here for the summer on internships, which made me feel oh-so-old. Then I immediately said, “Oh, you’re a baby,” which made me feel oh-so-older. It’s not really an age thing, it’s just that I couldn’t date someone still in college when I’m so clearly entrenched in the professional world. Different phases of life, and all that).

Miffed by the rain and late for a dinner reservation at one of my favorite restaurants in DC (best. pizza. ever.), we extracted ourselves and four tipsy girls took a cab three blocks (we were wearing heels, what?) to meet the Sweetest Girl Ever for our reservation. After, oh, 2 bottles of wine at the bar, and 3 at the table, (there were 7 of us, to be fair, but some had their own drinks… I had at least the equivalent of a bottle myself- happy Wednesday!), and eating a TON of delicious pizza, Fellow Masshole and I were to the point of needing to go home, and/or extricate ourselves from the group. (One girl, who we shall call High-Strung VegHead, was loud, argumentative and so self-centered that I knew I was about one drink away from telling her as much. I may have sort of bitched her out for being a shitty tipper, but hey, you shouldn’t be a shitty tipper. Our waitress was adorable, friendly and helpful, which was a nice change of pace from the service I usually receive in the restaurant. Why go back? Maybe you didn’t hear me say best. pizza. ever.)

Anyhoo, Fellow Masshole and I excused ourselves and upon exiting, immediately turned to each other and said, “Drinks at Fado?” (Have I mentioned that we’re trouble together?) Seeing as we’d had about 3 bottles of wine to drink between the two of us, we asserted that we should take it easy and get something on the milder side. Which went like this:

Me: Car bomb?
Fellow Masshole: (to bartender) We’ll have two car bombs and two vodka sodas, please.

Yeah, apparently that’s taking it easy. (Have I mentioned that we’re trouble together?) Three dorky and older guys to our right expressed their admiration at our drink selection (the car bombs), and then promptly challenged our ability to drink it. Apparently they haven’t met us. (Have I mentioned that we’re trouble together?) About two seconds later, as we slammed down the empty chocolatey-milk glasses and wiped off our mustaches, one of them turned to the other and said, “Whoa… they just drank that way faster than you do.”

One of them mustered a pathetic attempt at flirting with us, (I wish I could remember what it was he was going on about, but I do remember being truly astonished that he would think it was interesting.) I believe it was something about him, himself, and his life, and after a few minutes of the cold shoulder, Fellow Masshole asked him if he actually wanted to know anything about us, or if he was content to just hear himself talk, in which case we were no longer going to pretend to listen. Funny, I don’t remember him being around after that…

After bonding with the bartender, who was obviously impressed with our mad car-bombing skills, Fellow Masshole and I toyed with the idea of actually being responsible for once and going home at a normal hour. Just then, a very cute (!!!) Hill staffer stood directly in my line of vision while closing his tab. Never one to be shy (especially a bottle of wine deep), I promptly “eye-fucked the shit out of him“. (I’m crediting this even though I’m positive I said that before the movie came out. I am an expert eye-fucker.) And he gave it right back. As he walked by, he stopped and said, “Hi, I’m XXXX.” (My favorite line.)

He was adorable, and charming, and intelligent. He was taking out a group of interns (who were making out on the other side of the bar), which is totally hot (being in charge of other people, and all that). We talked easily and honestly for at least an hour. (Fellow Masshole, who is attached in the long-term-we-may-get-married sense, oh-so-discreetly handed me her drink, said, “Finish this. I’m going to bed,” and left, sensing that I would be just fine on my own…) He was complimentary, and in a genuine and truly flattering way. I felt completely comfortable with him, which I love, because I’m generally the kind of person who either clicks immediately, or just doesn’t.

Eventually, Intern Babysitter offered to walk me outside to find a cab. Which turned into us sitting on the steps of a church on 8th Street at who knows what hour, making out. Awesome. And I can’t explain it (maybe the wine can) but when he said that he really didn’t want to see me go, I couldn’t help but agree. Even though he had vehemently proclaimed his desire to see me again, and that he would be calling me TOMORROW, and watched my phone ring to make sure I hadn’t given him a fake number when he called it after getting my number… I thought it would be nice to cuddle with someone for the night. So I told him he could come home with me if he promised to behave.

And he did. (Both came home with me, and behaved. Read: I only had to remove his hands from inappropriate places a couple times, which is pretty good for a guy.)

And it was nice. We’ll see if he calls… for once, I have no doubt that he will.

Update: He just called! I win! And I have a date on Saturday…

Mama said share.