If you will remember from yesterday’s post about how kickass my fave local band Redline Addiction is (are you following them on the Tweet yet? Liked them on Facebook? Bought their albums??? GET ON IT!)- there’s another very important part to this Challenge; the “Personal” aspect.

Personal: What three musical moments have impacted your life most?

Let’s do this.

Moment The First!

When I was still a wee Masshole in the 4th grade, I got my very first CD. I played it over and over and over and OVER until I’m sure my parents wished I’d never heard of that hot new band…

ACE OF BASE!!!!!

Not only did I have the album on repeat for the better part of 1994, my teeny bopper pals and I choreographed an entire dance routine to “The Sign”- a very, very literal one- and performed it at my elementary school’s talent show for all the world to see.

Even as a munchkin, I knew not what “embarrassment” was. And I’m about to prove that I remember every. last. move…

It was cuter when I was 10. Promise.

(The crimped hair, BoSox t-shirt, and super-flared jeans are all throw backs to my years as a 90’s kid in New England. Wicked pissah, right??)

Moment The Second!

When we made it to middle school and decided that Swedish pop bands weren’t cool enough for us anymore, my super edgy friends and I dove into the swing and ska phase that swept the nation. (I guess we weren’t so edgy after all, huh.)

I’ve always loved the old school big bands and brass boys- Glenn Miller, Duke, Dizzy, Benny Goodman, Louie Armstrong. But with the arrival of Reel Big Fish, Less Than Jake, and the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies (whose album my father refused to buy me- ha!)- my love of horns suddenly had a modern place in my life.

When The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, my MOST FAVORITE BAND EVER IN THE WORLD WORLD AT LEAST THIS MONTH ANYWAY I’M A TEENAGER AND I’M FICKLE, YO!!! came to town, I begged and begged and begged my parents to let me go to my very first concert, unsupervised, on New Year’s Eve, with a pack of 14 year olds. They said no approximately 4,389 times… and then relented just in time for a very convenient Christmas present.

We were having an okay time at the Worcester Centrum, but we wanted to get down to the floor where the actual skanking was going on! Only problem was, you needed a very fancy (read: expensive) orange wristband to do it.

So, we did what any kid would do. We bought king-sized Reese’s cups (orange!), and folded the wrappers into “bracelets.”

I don’t think we fooled the guards for one second, but they must have felt sorry for our pimply little faces, because they let us onto the floor, where we proceeded to have the Best. Night. Ever. Of our pathetic adolescent little lives, anyway.

I still have that Reese’s wrapper.

Moment The Third!

Throughout my life, whenever someone has asked me who my favorite artist of all time is, I’ve not once hesitated. It is, without question, Billy My Main Man Joel.

As long as I can remember, his songs have moved me like no one else’s. Scenes from an Italian Restaurant, She’s Always a Woman, The Entertainer, Piano Man, Captain Jack, We Didn’t Start the Fire, The Longest Time, Uptown Girl… (well, okay… ALL OF THEM, basically).

And yes, especially “Only the Good Die Young,” even though I will never forget this moment; my father and I were driving home listening to it (Hi, Dad!), and at the tender and awkward age age of 16, I proudly belted out every last word. He pulled into the driveway, stopped the car, looked at me, and said,

“Do you know what that song is about?”

OHMIGOD OHMIGOD WE ARE SO NOT HAVING THIS TALK RIGHT NOW EFFFFFF MY LIFE!!!!!!

Somehow, that moment passed without me dying. And years later, when I finally- finally- got to see my musical hero live in Madison Square Garden… that is a night I will never, ever forget.

It is, undoubtedly, one of the very biggest checks on my Bucket List.

LOVE YOU BILLY, you musical genius you!!!

Bonus Round!

I promised to RickRoll a bar if y’all got me to 3,500 followers on Twitter, and by George, you did it. So last Friday at our DC Amazeballs Happy Hour, I dragged the crew over to one of my favorite spots in town, Fado, who not only allowed us to partake, they supported me throughout with Tweets and Facebook posts. You guys are the best!

Karaoke has always been one of my favorite extracurricular activities, and the Ginger’s is often my go-to song… so in short? I’d say we rocked it.

Update: So, I just watched the Ace of Base and Rick Astley videos and succession, and I realized that my skills as a choreographer are currently EXACTLY the same as they were when I was 10.

Like the post tag says, it’s a good thing I make a mean martini. (And a mean tweet. There’s no dancing in tweeting, right, MTV?!)

Hey there, cowboy! Get ready, cause I’m about to crack an egg of knowledge all over your head.

And by “knowledge” I mean pure, unadulterated awesome.

My father is to thank for sending me this shitshow of awkward-yet-mind-blowing-hilariousity I’m about to drop on you…

It really is no surprise where I came from, is it?

Happy long weekend 4th of July, poodlekins! If that video’s not freaking American, I don’t know what is.

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

Hey! Have you tweeted yet today? (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 get creative, the above suggestion is just for your copy & paste convenience. Cause I’m good like that.)

The actual VOTING will start on July 7, and it will be via Facebook. (I know, the irony…) Anyway! You will only get to have to vote once, so make sure we’re Facebook friends and I’ll send ya a reminder! WOOT!!!

(FYI? This was entirely out of the blue, around 3pm yesterday. We had not spoken all day.)

Lil Sis: OMG I was just in the work kitchen for like 5 minutes, and I just sat back at my desk, looked down, and I had gotten like a gallon of sauce on my khaki pants.
      Now that I’ve washed most of it off, I of course look like I peed myself.

Me: *dying laughing* You are SO my sister.

Lil Sis: I still have a suspicious orangey patch. I can’t wait to go home where I don’t have to be hampered by all these clothes!

Me: Omg stop, you are making me laugh OUT LOUD. … (That’s “lol” if you’re a cool kid.)

Lil Sis: LOL I HATE CLOTHES THEY ARE TOO MUCH WORK

Me: I go through this every morning. If I didn’t have to dress myself every day, my life would improve by 50% betterness. Fact.

Lil Sis: I can handle shirts.

Me: See, I’m a dress girl. It’s the onesie for adults.

Lil Sis: I just don’t understand why there are any situations in life where jeans aren’t appropriate!

Me: Agreed. It’s 2010 people! Obama’s getting rid of the tie, for God’s sake, let’s GET RID OF THE PANT.

Lil Sis: Well first of all, if I wear a dress there’s no place to clip my badge so I’ll be getting locked out all day.

Me: I just make a place- bunch a little bit of it. It’s extra sexy.

Lil Sis: But most importantly, to wear a dress I have to have freshly-shaven legs. And that’s more work than clean pants!

Me: Says who? No one really looks. You just can’t go out in the sunshine. Vampire ftw!

Lil Sis: Says my white skin and dark brown hair. This is why jeans are heaven… never wrinkled, never look dirty, no exposure. Mmmmmmmmm jeans.

Me: I’m with ya. Preaching to the choir here. … Except that it’s been 100 degrees for a month.

Lil Sis: Well, clearly clothes are the devil.

Me: With that, sweet sister, I concur.

Just another Xmas in the LiLu household.*

*Disclaimer: My sister is insisting I inform you that these sweaters were donned ironically. Well, DUH.

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

Hey! Have you tweeted yet today? (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 get creative, the above suggestion is just for your copy & paste convenience. Cause I’m good like that.)

The actual VOTING will start on July 7, and it will be via Facebook. (I know, the irony…) Anyway! You will only get to have to vote once, so make sure we’re Facebook friends and I’ll send ya a reminder! WOOT!!!

~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*~

So! My (23 year old) baby sister joined the rat race a few weeks ago. Though we both built character worked through college, she was in restaurants and bank teller-ing, so she’s never had the full-fledged “Office Space” experience before.

It’s been beyond hilarious for me to witness her (via many gchat conversations) discover all the horrible things that come along with the cubicle farm environment, like crotchety old coworkers, bathroom trials and tribulations (the stand-off!!!), pretending to looking busy, avoiding getting dragged into a “lunch group,” etc. etc.

One of the biggest things we both despise about working with people-we-didn’t-choose in a professional setting is, of course, the small talk.

OH GOD, the small talk. If I could banish its existence from this world, I would. I would make everyone’s mouth disappear the moment they tried to talk about the weather, or their kid’s birthday party, or their irritable bowel syndrome.

It would be magical.

But alas, I have no unicorn to speak of, and so we must suffer through it.

Anyhoo, as she was mocking her coworkers yesterday for their endless droning on about insignificant stuff ‘n things, the following conversation ensued…

Lil Sis: seriously, they’re talking about fucking BJs right now
  like literally what things cost

me: who!

Lil Sis: work people

me: *silence*

Lil Sis: You can get 14 bars of Lever soap for like $7!

me: OH
  oh my god.

Lil Sis: RIGHT?

me: um… NOT what i thought you meant when you said BJs.

Lil Sis: ooooo hahahahaha

Apparently, I’ve been away from Massachusetts so long, I’ve forgotten that BJ’s can also mean this:

I kill myself.

Also, now I’m kind of wondering about what they cost.

And not the wholesale kind.




P.S. Thanks to DC Blogs for the shout-out to my neon orange Jersey Shore tribute/condemnation yesterday!

(I’m probably bipolar.)

Okay, so.

If you’ve basically ever been here to my corner before, you probably know that about 95% of B’s and my weekend time is generally spent pantsless on our couch, drinking beer and trying to make our cats wear bumblebee hats. (And if you don’t know me by now…)

I kid, I kid. If you just read that sentence, you’re pretty much up to speed.

ANYHOO, this particular weekend was spent with all four of our parents.

No, like, ALL of it. (I know.)

And I love them dearly. I do. But between a trip to Baltimore (Go Sawx!), a two hour trek to Eastern Market on a twisted ankle, a late night at the DC Improv, and a movie here or there, I could die dead right at my desk right now and pretty much be totally okay with it because at least MY EYES WOULD BE CLOSED AND I WOULD NOT BE MOVING.

Heaven.

Note to self: Next time? Take Monday off from work.

P.S. to self: Don’t let there be a next time.

(Kidding, Mom. You are my everything.)

Anyhoosits, my point is that I am fucking tired. So, here… have some bullets.

Go on, take them. They’re not rollover or anything!

(God, I hate those commercials.)

• If you know me, you know that I adore the DC Improv with all of my heart and soul. Saturday’s show did not disappoint, but they never do, and here’s why. I’ve probably been there a dozen times, and lately I’ve noticed that this guy Tim Miller is almost always the host/MC/first comic up. And he. Is. HILARIOUS. Honestly, I think he’s better than the headliner most of the time. Find a way to check this man out, y’all. His regular set is amazing, but my favorite thing about him is his ability to play off the audience for, oh, ten minutes at a time. To me, THAT is the measure of a great comic. And he gets an A+++.

(Did I mention he was funny?)

• Today might, just might, be my two year Blogoversary. Woot. I WAS going to do something really cool to celebrate, but then I happened to notice that I’m only a few hundred away from hitting the 20,000 comment mark… and frankly, I think that’s a helluva lot cooler. That marks the fact that this is a community; a place where discussion goes on. And frankly, I’m a lot more proud of having created that. So, when I do hit that mark, I’ll be having a giveaway THEN… because obviously this is all about you, not me. Also? The giveaway is entirely awesome, boozy, and a little bit illegal. What’s not to love?

(Oh, hi Feds… how you doing? Um, it’s not THAT illegal… I promise to check people’s Facebooks to make sure they’re 21! Swear it! Hey, why are you looking behind m- oh, of course I’m not crossing my fingers! Come on now… who even does that anymore… I’m almost 26 years old, for chrissake’s. Let go of my arm! KNIBB HIGH FOOTBALL RULES!!!!!!!)

• Speaking of turning 26 in LESS THAN A MONTH, Maxie and I have chosen a venue for our wedding/co-birthday party. It will be UPSTAIRS at Stetson’s at 16th and U Street at 9pm on Saturday, October 17th. So stick THAT in your hat. Or in your calendar. Mostly in your calendar. Or your calendar’s hat. I’m not picky.

As of right now, we have out of towners from Colorado, Los Angeles, Florida, Detroit, Boston, Milwaukee, Cleveland, Toronto, and CHICAGO!!!! traveling to hang out with the already enormous D.C. crew.

(Gwen, you don’t even KNOW what bananas looks like. Let us show you it.)

That’s all I got. Excuse me while I go collapse now. In the FACE.

So…

I love you guys. No, really. You were absolutely amazing yesterday- I can’t thank you enough for all your words and support. It felt like one Southern gramma big bear hug, and I honestly can’t find to tell you how grateful I am to have all of you, and this little world.

One comment in particular brought a little “No I am NOT crying I was just cutting onions!!!” to my eye… maybe because clairemontgomerymd is a mama, (btw- read my favorite “Mary” story of hers here, it is PRICELESS), but also because she just put this whole bloggysphere thing we have going on into words so damn perfectly. Check it out:

dear mrs. lilu,
blogging is kind of like one big never-ending cyber-slumber party. we’re all playing extreme truth or dare while we laugh and cry together but when asked what we’re doing, the answer is always ‘nothing’. eavesdrop a little, but turn away with a knowing grin that we’re all going to be alright. especially lilu. your daughter rocks. she makes a lot of people’s days much brighter. she’s genuine and brilliant. you’ve done raised her right. we love her and we love you for sharing with us your baby girl. now wipe your tears and make her buy you something pretty for being the best mom ever! seriously – take advantage of this opportunity.

See? SEE??? Isn’t your heart, like, a whole lot warmer now??

*sigh of contentment*

All right, now that that’s over, let’s get on with the gross stuff! (Sorry, mamakins)…

But it is my girl Maxie’s Would You Rather Wednesday!

So, would you rather…

A)  Get caught masturbating by (on) your friend’s mom…

Grandma’s Boy – More amazing video clips are a click away

or…

B)  Catch one of your PARENTS masturbating? [video clip redacted for all of our sanity]

Think about that…

Hate me yet? xoxo

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

Housekeeping: Maxie and I have had to change the date of our wedding, due to the fact that I am an idiot and double-booked a weekend.

All my best friends are SHOCKED right now, let me tell you… this is their surprised face:

Anyhoosits, the festivities will now be on Saturday, the 17th of October, rather than the 24th. Everything else shall remain the same. Except that you have one week less to buy us shit that we will then have to incorporate into the ceremony somehow.

Just kidding.

Maybe.

I had, let’s see… I think the technical jargon is “A BOMB” dropped on me this weekend.

The lovely woman that I call “Mother” stumbled- entirely innocently- onto this little corner of the interwebs.

The best part? She was worried when she found it… yeah, she was worried, about ME being upset, that I would feel like my privacy had been violated.

Now that’s a great Mom.

But you all know that- I’ve told you before how amazing the ‘rents are, and how lucky I am.

I’ve watched a few of you (Desiree, shine) go through the mess of the parents finding you out. How could it not make me think about what I would do in the same situation?

And I’ve always said I would stand by this place. I’m not ashamed of anything on these pages. The good, the bad, the sexy, and the ugly… it’s all true, and it all made me the lovable crackpot you see here today. It’s the story that brought the people I love into my life.

Besides, I started out reading the fascinating blogs of a couple “working” or otherwise sex-i-fied women… And their parents supported them. (Though I bet that discovery was a lot more painful than my own…)

I am proud of what I’ve done here. Honestly, I would have preferred to share it from the start. But asking my mother to keep a secret from my dad never seemed fair, and there are some things a father should never know about his little girl.

So what did Mamakins say? What was her reaction when I called her?

“I’m glad you’re writing.”

Best. Mom. EVER.

So, everybody say hello to the woman (partially) responsible for the TMI Thursday-ing (Mom, don’t click that) crazy pants LiLu you know and hopefully love. She is going to be stopping in from time to time, WHEN I TELL HER SHE CAN. Because she is awesome, and for some reason, she wants to see the mess her baby girl has created on this little slice of the internets.

(Besides, now when Maxie and I finally make it onto Stephen Colbert, it won’t be a shock when you see me dancing to Charlene on national television. That was gonna be your Christmas present!)

So wave with me, y’all;

“HI, MOM!!!!!!”

A few days ago, my sister sent me THIS with the subject line, “No Commentary Necessary.”

I watched it, and after I picked myself up off the floor from laughing, the following email conversation ensued…

LiLu: The whole time, I kept waiting for the punchline… and then it was SERIOUS.

Lil Sis: Oh, so serious. My favorite part is that they’re all so white. Especially the black guy.

LiLu: HAHAHAHAHA. The whiteness is blinding.

Lil Sis: Also, it’s just Taboo! They can’t be on and poppin’ in copyright law.

LiLu: Booayh!

Then, realizing my typo…

LiLu: Booyah, even. That was a letdown.

Lil Sis: Hahahaha that’s okay. For a moment I thought booayh was another awesome hip-hop term I had missed.

LiLu: I’m sure it is. Better check Urban Dictionary: Helping white people seem cool since, like, last week.

Lil Sis: Also the hand clappers! They must have just had like a million extra hand clappers lying around and were like, whatever just toss some of these in there, they cost like -2 cents.

LiLu: -2 cents because the kids in sweatshops pay to work?

Lil Sis: -2 cents because I’m sure there is an epidemic of overproduction of hand clappers.

Happy Friday, y’all. For sheezy.

P.S. Oh, um, something sort of amazing transpired yesterday… let’s just say that B and I have both undergone transformations, of sorts. Pictures to prove it on Monday…)

I love my parents. I do. They are two of the greatest human beings alive; they love me and put up with me even though sometimes I am a uber crappy daughter. In fact, one of my biggest ambitions is to become my mother one day. They are kind and caring and generous and thoughtful and go above and beyond in every way to make sure lil sister and I are taken care of, while at the same time instilling us with a sense of responsibility and preparing us for the Big World Out There, blah blah blah. Basically, they done good.

But.

There is just one, (teensy weensy,) ever-so-twee little thing about them that drives Sis and I just a little bonkers. You see, my mama took it a little hard when her baby girls done grew up and flew the coop. Empty Nest Syndrome like WHOA. And so, even though we’ve always been a family of Cat People (or low-maitenance people, either way), that wasn’t going to be good enough this time around… she wanted something more than a regal, snooty creature who deigned to let you scratch its fuzzy butt and scoop its poop. She wanted an animal that would worship her and cling to her and NEED her and fill the gaping hole in her Broken Mommy Heart. She wanted a dog.

My father was, at first, vehemently opposed, but let’s face it, I inherited my “strong will” (read: intense desire to always get my way) from somewhere, and she eventually wore him down. He insisted on something small, (presumably so he could ignore it), and my mother insisted on something cute. They found this.

They were, understandably, smitten from the get go. He was the runt of the litter, which meant that this pipsqueak of a “dog” would never grow to more than 3 pounds. See?

And, um, they named him Stewart. As in Stewart Little. (I’ll pause for a second to let you gag. No, really, it’s okay. Get it all out.) Moving on, then.

So, yes, they were madly, disgustingly, pathetically in love with little “Stoo-wie”. This is the soundtrack of my mother around him: Awwww whatsa schnooky booky cutsey wutsey wanna LOVE that face! A booley booley booley boo. A booley booley booley boo! You WUV your mommy DON’T you!!!

And there are, of course, outfits:

I only wish I could find the one of him wearing reindeer antlers and a Santa hat. Cause it happened.

The worst part is, although my father was actually against getting any more critters, especially a dog… he’s actually ten times worse than my mother now. I call him on my walk to work every day, and the first 15 minutes are spent listening to my 51 year old father talk in a baby voice about how “Stoo-wart needs a baff” and “Stoo-wart’s scaw-red cause Mommy’s weaving for work and he doesn’t WIKE it” and “Stoo-wart doesn’t like the snow because it’s too small for his widdle wegs!”. I am not making this up, people. It is truly vomitous. Here’s what he gchatted me when I told him I could still walk to my new job:

Dad: can you still walk to work?

LiLu: yup, it’s a half hour

Dad: Stewart says ‘way to go! pip-pip-purray!!’

There are no words.

When my father took a new job last year, he actually finagled a way that he could work at home three days a week because “Stoo-wart couldn’t be home a-wone for that wong!” No, of course not. Not with that little pea-sized bladder.

When B came to MEET THE PARENTS!!! for the first time last summer, he was understandably nervous about meeting my father. As an boy is wont to be, I suppose, when the elephant is the room is the fact that you’re banging his baby girl. “Don’t worry,” I told him. “They’ll have the puppy with them.” Which meant that my dad would be a pile of mush, and much too distracted to wonder what anyone’s INTENTIONS WITH HIS DAUGHTER WERE.

Sigh. I guess I can’t be too annoyed… not with this wee face, after all.

But the next time my dad starts up with the baby talk? I’m sending him a new pair of cajones in the mail.

One last time, lovers… come hang out at Bloggerational Ball tonight. I know it’s effing cold, but we’ll drink enough to keep us warm, and I want to meet y’all and give you big real-life hugs and luvs and let you see the hawt mess that is LiLu LIVE in Stereo, bitches. The deets are here… hope to see you.

Gchat with my sis Friday afternoon…

Lil Sis: so, I’ve been reading your blog… and seriously, if you buy a snuggie, I won’t love you anymore.

LiLu: hahaha i won’t. … although, KBo said her gramma was getting her whole family one… and that she didn’t want it. i’m not passing up a FREE snuggie. i mean, COME ON, let’s be serious here.

Lil Sis: when mom and I went to a comedy show last Sat, the FIRST comedian’s SECOND joke was about the snuggie.

LiLu: oh, the irony

Lil Sis: so everyone is like barely drunk, softly chuckling… and I like peed myself

LiLu: see, you’re a dork like me! twinsies!!! oh wait, sisters… not as cool.

Lil Sis: the comedian actually referred to it as “hyperventilating”

LiLu: hahahahahhaa guess what lil sis… this convo right here? is my blog post tomorrow. SNUGGIE FOLLOW UP. it was a very controversial piece, after all

Lil Sis: NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

LiLu: that’s what you get

Lil Sis: oh, the shame

LiLu: names will be changed to protect the non-innocent… so how are thingies? still enjoying the life of the bum? [Lil Sis is on break from school]

Lil Sis: today I have: 1) Awoken. 2) Peed. 3) Eaten several goldfish. so yes, yes I am.

LiLu: you bitch.

Ah, sisterly love. Also, if you have a Snuggie laying around you don’t want… please email me and I will gladly give you her address. Otherwise, I’m totally getting her one for her college graduation.

As I’ve said before, I love, love love love Christmas. Celebrating the holiday at my grandparents’ farm in upstate New York is my favorite day of the year, every year. (Although June 20th 18th is a damn strong contender this time.

But first, of course, we had to GET there. Traveling on the 23rd of December? Notsomuch.

I left my office at 2:30 pm…

We finally pulled into my parents’ driveway in Massachusetts at 3:30 am.

And have I mentioned that the flight from Baltimore to Providence… is an HOUR?

It was so unbelievably painful. Our flight, which was supposed to take off at 6:55? Did not actually take off into the air until 12:45 am. Apparently, our plane was coming from the Midwest, which was getting hit with snow. There were two other flights leaving for Providence that night, at 9 and 10. They both left hours before ours did. *&*#Y%(Y*!(*@%PCY!(%*&

Yeah, we could have stood in the 50-person line and tried to get on one of those flights, but I already knew every flight out to Providence, Hartford and Manchester (all a similar drive to my parents’ place) was sold out. So, we did what any sane person would do…

Stooled up at the bar and got wasted.

It actually worked out pretty well- we met a really interesting guy, Dave, who was one of the security guards in the airport. He was on our flight as well, so the three of us spent 3 or 4 hours getting to drink each other under know each other over the large oak bar top. We seem to have quite a knack for meeting characters while traveling, although Dave never shot a 6 year old (whether they deserved it or not).

But of course, we did eventually make it home, and in the morning, I was absolutely thrilled to see that I was guaranteed to have a white Christmas:

My parents’ back deck:

At least, it all seemed beautiful… until we realized the ice on the roof was forming a dam, and water was leaking into the kitchen. So, against my father’s protesting, B climbed out on the roof (Dad can’t fit through the window) and chipped at the ice dam with a sledgehammer and rock salt. Thanks to him, not one drop of water dripped into the house while we were at my gramma’s.

I did get out there to help for a bit… and to photograph his plight. Have I mentioned that I’m a great girlfriend…?

Best. Snowball weather. EVER. Lemm, I brought this back for you…

Somebody had the right idea, curling up by the fire:

Then we finally got to grandma’s for the big day. Here’s our stockings pre, on Christmas Eve…

Stockings Post, on Christmas Day… Impressive, no? Christmas always has a theme. This year was penguins…

There’s been monkeys, howdy doody, flamingos, wax lips, you name it. And of course, there’s always the obligatory picture of the entire family wearing the ‘theme paraphernalia’… but I’ll spare you that. (Really, I’m sparing my fam the humiliation, but shh, don’t tell them.)

And finally, here’s the always-enormous Christmas tree, stacked to the hilt with presents (there’s usually ten or so people involved, so Christmas morning is kind of a big ordeal).

And under the tree after the pets got to it. (Definitely the pets, and not me…)

Sigh. It was a very Merry Christmas, y’all. I hope yours was just as much fun.

All right. After what I did to you yesterday, I think we all deserve a funny. And it ain’t the baby Jesus’ birthday anymore, so let’s talk about sex, baby! With everyone’s favorite Sexpert, Eugene Mirman…

BAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! Priceless.

Oh, and YES, I will totally be doing that finger-blowing-off-gun move, repeatedly, for the next month. Get ready for it.

Okay, now that we’ve covered sex, it’s time for some drugs!

And of course, you can’t have sex and drugs without a little Rock ‘n Roll…

A special thanks to my baby sister for introducing me to this comedic genius. Yesterday was more than just Christmas Day for us… it also was the first time I got WASTED with my little sis. Here’s to you, punkin head. CHEERS.

The story of LiLu, the 4-Year-Old Kleptomaniac is a very famous one in the LivitLuvit household. Any and all friends stopping by are guaranteed to hear it at least once (although it might sound just a smidge different from my version. For some reason, there’s no Beast involved when my mom tells it. Family politics). But one thing that never changes is the dénouement, in which LiLu is finally broken of her felonistic ways.

My father quickly grew weary of my thieving tendencies (and probably of having to spank my wee bottom as well) and was determined to break me of my little habit. If I was caught in or near the store of said misdemeanor, I was of course forced to return the hot item(s) to a manager and apologize for my actions. This was supposed to let me know that I had done something wrong, and should be “sorry”. In theory, it sounds good, but there was a glitch in the system: I was too damn cute.

Every time I apologized to the “authorities,” they took one look at my chubby cherub cheeks (alliteration is fun!) and said, “Ohhhhh, that’s okay! Don’t worry about it, sweetie!” or my father’s personal favorite, “That’s okay, dear, you go ahead and keep it!” I can see the smoke that must have been coming out of his ears as kind-faced managers not only condoned my crimes, but actually rewarded them.

Finally, he’d had enough. (Or maybe we were running out of Wooden Spoons- who knows?) We were at a grocery store- as any child knows, the check out lines of a supermarket are by far the worst for temptations. Candies and gum galore; knick knacks and coloring books by the dozen; overflowing paraphenalia of whatever Disney/Dreamworks movie is giving away Happy Meals toys at the moment. And in this case… pink and purple sparkly Barbie pencils.

You might as well have showed me a baby unicorn that pooped out Polly Pocket pieces and could make cookies with my EZ Bake Oven while I prepared the tea party.

This time, I didn’t even ask for the object of my affection. That was far too risky- he’d watch me like a hawk. Instead, I surreptitiously palmed the glittery pencil and did my best to look nonchalant. (I’m pretty sure I couldn’t even work a pencil sharpener yet, but so. not. the point.)

Alas, my best was not (nearly) good enough. My exasperated father had me collared before I could even slip the purloined pencil into my pocket (wheeeee!). I knew it was bad when he, shaking with fury, asked the cashier to “WATCH HER” and stormed off in search of the manager. (I guess the pimply faced pre-teen at the register wasn’t going to cut it as far as inspiring fear.) But I’d been here before, we’d danced this dance. I waited patiently for a grandfatherly owner or Mrs. Claus-esque manager to come pat me on the head and give me a Tootsie pop.

What I didn’t know was that my father? Had officially had it.

Determined to cure me of my light-fingered ways, he briefed the manager on the situation and firmly instructed him to in no way condone her actions or let her think that what she has done is ‘okay.’ In fact, he told him, you could even help me out if you want to scare her a little, tell her that stealing is WRONG, so she finally stops!

“No problem,” the manager said. No problem indeed.

As I bravely faced my father and the manager, lip trembling and a tear glistening in my eye, I played out the part I had so many times before. “I’m very sorry,” I chirped, holding out the coveted pencil as a peace offering. “I won’t do it again.”

The manager loomed over me, glaring and frothing at the mouth. I cannot describe how horrible he was… but in my mind’s eye, he looked something like this:

“Do you know,” he hissed dangerously, “What happens to little girls who STEAL?”

“N-no sir,” I stammered, taken aback at this turn of events.

“Little girls who STEAL,” he cackled, “Go to JAIL. They are LOCKED away for years and years and they NEVER EVER see their families AGAIN!!!” He thundered, shaking his finger menacingly at me. Shocked, I started to cry- for real.

My father tried to interrupt, “Uh, okay, that’s great, I think she’s got the picture-”

“Little girls who STEAL never get to eat ice cream or go swimming!!!” he thundered. “They live alone with no friends or Crayola to keep them company!” I was wailing with fear at this point, and my father hurriedly dragged me away and out the door, yelling over his shoulder, “Thanks for your help! See you round!”

He felt terrible, and I don’t think we ever went back to that grocery store again. But you know what? That glittery pencil was the last damn thing I ever stole.

Awesome google search of the day leading them to me: “monkey snuggle duck.”

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

Why three feet from the ground, you might ask?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Last night, I dreamt about my daughter.

She was two or three years old, my favorite age for kids- old enough to talk and be fascinating, young enough to come up with the craziest shit you’ve ever heard. She had a head full of golden curls, and the sweetest hazel eyes I’ve ever seen. She looked exactly like I imagine January Jones (Betty Draper from Mad Men) might have as a toddler.

Now, I’m not huge on kids. Not the idea of having them myself, or the actual things that scream in enclosed spaces (especially ones that you can’t get out of, i.e. planes, trains and automobiles), trip me on the street, and generally make me want to steal their candy. (And I don’t even really like candy. Give me salt over sugar any day.)

B and I even joke that yet another reason we’re compatible is that we’re both pretty much ambivalent towards the idea of children, as far as having our own goes. (Other peoples’ kids inspire pure hatred, of course.) We agree that while mini us-es would be kinda cool, and definitely produce some laughs (at their expense, of course), we’d also like to be able to afford (mentally and financially) to take extravagant vacations, spend our real estate money on location rather than a big yard in suburbia, have lots of cool toys… basically, we want to live our lives the way we want to live them. And kids eff that up.

But, ya know, I also have ovaries. I think about it occasionally, when I see a handsome young father with his little girl on his shoulders, or a mom with a (well-behaved) adorable little boy wrapped around her leg. And sometimes, just sometimes, I think maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. In fact, when I read blogs like Amalah’s, I almost think that it has the potential to (someday) be the greatest thing ever.

This dream was so amazingly vivid, and the weirdest thing about it was that there wasn’t really a story. It was just a flash-forward to what might be, say, 10 years from now. The dream was an absolutely ordinary day: B was puttering around the house with a mini-him about a year old, same dark hair and insanely beautiful eyes. But my little girl didn’t leave my side. I walked around the house with her on my hip, doing completely ordinary, I’m-a-mom-with-a-house-and-a-dog kind of things. I can picture her sweet little face looking up at me while she asked a million questions, and I answer each and every last one, patiently (now we KNOW this was a dream) and adoringly, while I fix dinner (she “helps”, of course). I can still see her laying in bed, snuggling against me while I read her favorite Cinderella story for the eleventy billionth time, and her eyes, laden with B’s heavy lashes, slowly close as she drifts off to lands of princesses and ballerinas in tutus and unicorns. (She is my little girl, after all. There would be lots of princesses, this I know.)

Then I woke up at 4:30 in the morning and looked around for her, frantic that she was missing.

Until I saw B sleeping next to me, age 26 (in four days), and most definitely not a daddy.

Thank god. Dodged a bullet on that one…

But she was so sweet…

(Damn you, uterus!)

Btw, sidenote… if you were interested in an, ahem, more COLORFUL version of this past weekend at my parents’ house…

Click here.

(Hint: It’s called, “Why Not To Take Naked Pictures of Your Girlfriend.” Thanks for sharing that with the world, B.)

Enjoy…