Archive for the ‘TMI’ Category

  • That thing about compliments I’ve been trying to explain for years.


    I don’t take most compliments well. If you know me in real life, you know that I’m not exaggerating here. I get uncomfortable and self-deprecate as a defense mechanism. This often leads people to the conclusion that I am a negative person. That’s really not true.

    (I should add in here, that when I say “self-deprecating” I may be going a bit too far. What I usually say when faced with compliments that make me uncomfortable is, “Ha! Stop!” Which really, is exactly what I mean. Stop.)

    I’m not a negative person. However, most people live in such a fantasy land of rainbows and lollipops that any kind of realism seems negative by comparison. I deem that…someone else’s problem.

    I am realistic, for the most part (I have my moments of “Everything should just be like this because I said so,” but I’m usually aware that I’m being irrational). I am logical (it may happen that occasionally my logic doesn’t make sense to others). I am cynical (which, in my opinion, does not equal negative).

    In fact, let’s talk about that for a minute. “Cynical” has come to mean something to most people that…just doesn’t make sense to me. Go read about cynicism here and/or here, and then we’ll talk.

    One aspect of the Cynic way of life involved criticism of the types of behaviours, such as greed, which the Cynics viewed as causing suffering. Emphasis on this aspect of their teachings led, in the 19th century, to the modern understanding of cynicism as “an attitude of scornful or jaded negativity, especially a general distrust of the integrity or professed motives of others. This modern definition of cynicism differs markedly from the ancient philosophy, which emphasized “virtue and moral freedom in liberation from desire.

    Now that you’ve read about it, does it really seem like cynicism started out as a bad, negative, pessimistic thing? It doesn’t to me. I am skeptical, which I think is healthy (to a point). I am distrustful of people’s motives, often times. If you’ve figured out a way to live in my shoes and make it to 30-years-old and not be distrustful of people’s motives, please let me know. But I can absolutely see good things. I absolutely am happy. Oh, and I haven’t rejected all my material possessions or abandoned personal hygiene. Yet. Stay tuned, though. You never know.

    In addition to being cynical, I am one sarcastic bitch. It’s true. And I will happily call you on your shit or make fun of you a little. It’s rarely meant in a hurtful or malicious way.

    I think I’m pretty understanding about the fact that I’m hard to take sometimes. Especially if you’re the kind of person who wants to take everything personally or thinks everything is about you. But I tend to think of those things as character flaws, and I have very little sympathy for you if that’s the way you choose to behave.

    See? Prickly and difficult.

    Having said all that, you can kind of see why I might not really be all that into compliments, right? No?

    In that case, let me relay a conversation I had with Brad the other day (no, not Mr. Whitford). Believe it or not, he feels the same way I do about compliments. Even better? He was able to put it into words better than I could!

    Brad: It’s like this: I have a pretty good sense of who/what I am. I self-deprecate to keep any ego in check. Compliments from the outside are either a) overkill or b) don’t meet my standards for myself. People want to give compliments so easily and I want to say, “No. Don’t you see how all I did was not fail?”

    To which my head exploded because there were clearly two of us in there and there’s no room for that kind of thing.

    Me: I feel like I’m constantly having to be almost rude to people when they gush. It’s so insincere to me. I’m sure that’s my issue and not theirs, but still…

    Brad and I agreed that we are a bundle of contradictions, but we’re both okay with that. I can’t imagine that tomorrow I’m going to wake up and suddenly be all, “OH SUPER COMPLIMENT ME ALL THE TIME!”

    The level of sincerity in that sort of thing (it seems to me) is akin to the people who come to comment on your blog only so that you’ll comment on theirs. They don’t really care what you have to say or anything about you, they’re really just in it for themselves.

    YES, I recognize that not all compliments work that way. Okay? I really do. But the thing is…if I don’t believe them, they just make me uncomfortable. And no amount of you telling me over and over again that you “only say things when you mean them and you would never offer up a compliment that you didn’t mean” is going to convince me that you’re for real if you’re telling me I’m beautiful every five minutes. That doesn’t mean that I think I’m not pretty. It doesn’t mean that I hate myself. Maybe it just means that I’m not so insecure that I need to hear about my beauty every five minutes?

    Realistically, I think Natalie was on to something when she was talking about the book she read recently. We do all speak our own communication language. And if we can’t come to some sort of compromise on things like that, I think it’s very difficult to sustain any kind of relationship, whether it be friendship or romantic.

    Also, to everyone in my life: Please stop taking everything I say personally. Please stop twisting shit I say until it’s incomprehensible. If you do what you consider paying me a compliment and I say “Thanks” and then I say something more realistic about my feelings about it, please stop acting like I’m being negative. I’m fucking not. I’m over it now. You’re never going to brow-beat me into taking compliments. That’s not how it works.

  • Oh hai, I’m an asshole


    Shit's bad, all right?

    I know you already know this.

    But today, I feel like I’ve sunk to the lowest level of asshole. It all started with an IM conversation with GingerMandy about finances. She got this complicated budget sheet and she sent me a copy and WHOA! I have a headache and I kind of want to slit my wrists. But the wrong way, so I don’t actually die or anything. Suicide is serious business, y’all.

    So here’s what happened.

    I thought to myself (Because much as I’d like to, I can’t really think to anyone else. Natalie? April? Get on that shit, please.), “Self, you don’t have any money. This should probably change, so you can pay off those student loans and handle having a car payment (since your car is about to DIE a painful death of exhaustion) and, you know, buy yourself that sex toy you were going on about all day yesterday.”

    Okay, since I know you’re going to be all distracted about the sex toy, you can take a look here. That is TOTALLY NSFW. I’m serious. It’s also not safe for coworkers or family members. In fact, some of my friends should steer clear. You know who you are.

    Back to the point? Babeland, if you need someone to review that bad boy, you just call me.

    That wasn’t the point.

    The point is, I spend a lot of my damn time blogging (for free). And I feel like I’m pretty entertaining. And, well, you all KNOW I have a nice rack (because I told you, obviously). And now I’ve decided that if any of your hearts (or loins) are inspired to give me some of your hard-earned dollars, I’d be happy to take them. If you look to the top right sidebar there, you’ll notice my button (heh). That will take you to a secure PayPal site, and there you can buy me a virtual drink. Or a virtual car. What? I know some of you out there must be loaded.

    I’m kidding.

    I will promise that the money you donate will never be used for any good cause, unless you consider my shoe collection, my vagina, or the further destruction of my liver to be a good cause. If that’s the case, every red cent will be for a good cause.

    I feel like I should give you guys something in return, but well, none of you have donated yet. I do have a giveaway planned for the near future, though.

    Also, you should know that Toy With Me sent me a deliciously large sex toy in the mail to review. I’ll let you know when (if?) the review is posted, as I’m sure you’ll want to take a look at that. My mother is so proud (and by that I mean “barely speaking to me.”)

    Basically, until some of the other stuff I’m doing turns out to be gainful employment of some sort, my ass is broke. Broke and with no free time. This is not a guilt trip, I swear. I’m just telling you like it is.

    Donate, don’t donate. The decision is yours. It’s better than ads, right?

  • Through the Looking Glass


    Yesterday, I attended a funeral. As some of you may know, Natalie’s mom passed away in the early hours of Mother’s Day morning. This may be overstepping my bounds a bit (even though it was announced in several public places), but I hope that Natalie will understand that my intentions are good.

    I haven’t been to many funerals in my life. I usually choose to avoid them. Not because they cause me to look at my own mortality, but because usually I would rather my memories of a loved one not be clouded by all the tears and sadness that are staples of a funeral.

    I had never met Natalie’s mom. I was there because Natalie is my friend and I love her dearly, and I wanted to be there for her. To show my support and to honor our friendship. I can’t even imagine what Natalie is feeling right now, but in my head it is akin to stepping into a alternate universe of some sort. Where everything you thought you knew and could count on for your whole life is suddenly different.

    As I sat in that room, full of people who had loved this woman I had never met, I was surprised at the strange feeling that spread over me.

    You see, I’m an atheist. So it’s not terribly surprising that my views on death are not really the norm. I believe that life should be celebrated and lived. I believe that death is an inevitable part of life, and as such, isn’t all that sad. I didn’t expect to feel much of anything, aside from compassion for my dear friend and her family.

    The pastor made time for people to tell a story or share their thoughts. One by one, people began to stand and share. There were tears and laughs and memories. I listened respectfully, knowing, of course that I didn’t have my own story to tell.

    But if I could have, this is what I would have shared:

    I never met Debbie Aldridge. She is a complete stranger to me. I’ve now heard stories and seen pictures and I feel honored that I was allowed to attend such a personal event.

    I may not know her, but I know this: What an amazing woman she must have been. Because she is the centerpiece of a loving, warm, funny, caring family. Because all of these people love her so much. Because it takes an amazing woman to raise a daughter like Natalie.

    And I am humbled. I am moved by all the love in this room. I love that this family is able to laugh through their tears and see that an end to suffering is a good thing, despite the fact that they will all miss this woman they so cherished.

    I truly wish that I had gotten the opportunity to spend time with Debbie Aldridge. She seems to have touched every person she met. But I am so lucky that, even if I didn’t get to meet Debbie, I get to have Natalie as a part of my life. I am so grateful for that.

    I sat silently. I only teared up once (damn you, April), but I didn’t cry. I almost felt that my tears would be cheap. Cheap because I didn’t know this woman. Cheap because I hadn’t lost anything. Selfish because I get to keep my friendship with Natalie, even though she has lost someone who was such a huge part of her life.

    Last night, when I finally got home and laid my head on my own pillow, my mind was whirling. I was exhausted and emotionally drained, but I couldn’t sleep.

    I’ve been wracking my brain for a couple of weeks now, trying to figure out what I could do to honor Natalie’s mother. To show Natalie that I love her and that I care about her. I thought about asking people to do something with me, but right now, that also feels cheap.

    What I’ve settled on is this:

    I will live my life with my arms wide open. I won’t be stingy with love. I will laugh. I will give back. I will try to touch the lives of the people I meet. I will dance. I will create memories. I will leave a lasting impression.

    And if something ever goes horribly wrong, and I end up with children, I will raise them to do the same.

    I will learn to cherish my own family and be a part of their lives (if I can). I will find my passion. I will remember that my best friends should be a reflection of me and who I am, and that they are family, too.

    So to any member of Debbie Aldridge’s family who may ever read this, just know that the woman you loved so much has touched my life, too. Thank you for sharing that with me.



    I’m guessing most of you probably know about boobquake by now. Since it’s today. But if you don’t, click to read the story!

    In case you haven’t already, you should follow @jennifurret on Twitter (she’s the one who came up with the idea). And if you managed to show off your tatas today, you should certainly post a picture! Because, well, the Library of Congress has acquired the entire Twitter archives. Who DOESN’T want her boobs in the Library of Congress?

    To prove to you that I’m not a hypocrite, here’s a picture of my cleavage today:

  • TMI Thursday – But…I’m RIGHT HERE.


    Hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen! It’s time for LiLu’s TMI Thursday.

    TMI Thursday

    In case you guys didn’t get the memo, it’s the LAST TMI THURSDAY EVER. So whether you generally roll your eyes or lose your lunch, let’s show our darling LiLu some love, eh?

    Today, I’m going to spin you a tale of lost vriginity.

    But not mine.

    One of my best friends in high school was a twin. Not that her twin wasn’t my friend, but you know how it is in high school And this one was my “bestie.” Only we didn’t call each other “bestie,” because even then that sounded silly.

    Or no one had made up that word. It was probably that.

    So my bestie, let’s call her Toots, was a little, shall we say? Behind with the boys. Her sister was kind of a knockout and also more outgoing (and more of a bitch, but that’s really not the point). So Toots hadn’t really made the rounds with the boys yet.

    I’d had boyfriends in high school. One in particular for most of it. Aside from freshman year when I “went out” with this guy for a couple of weeks and wouldn’t let him kiss me and then broke up with him over the phone (because we never saw each other, yo) and then he sat across from me in Spanish class and cried. I think that was where the “If you date me and we break up, you must cry. No matter who does the breaking up.” rule was founded.

    I was essentially a late bloomer though. I didn’t really know anything about sex, so I didn’t actually (voluntarily) get my groove on until after high school. And by “after high school,” I mean “on graduation night.”

    But Toots? I think she had kissed a boy once in sixth grade on a dare or something.

    She never dated anyone, she never made out with random strangers in clubs in Mexico (like the REST OF US, duh), she didn’t flirt with boys, and boys didn’t really pay her much attention. As you can imagine, she wasn’t fond of any of this.

    Well, after my boyfriend and I broke up, but before I got back together with my regular high school boyfriend, I slept with another boy. Not a cute boy. And a REALLY sweaty boy. With a less than average penis and absolutely no skills. Don’t worry, I used a condom (don’t be a fool, wrap your tool). I didn’t really like this guy. I didn’t even really want to have sex with him. But I also didn’t want to seem “uncool.” So I did it.

    A couple of weeks later, I was hanging out with Toots at her place. Her parents were out of town and her sister was out with her boyfriend, and for some unknown reason, it seemed like a good idea to call Sweaty Boy and invite him to hang out.

    Still to this day, I could not tell you why THAT’S the boy we chose. He was a sleazebag.

    He came over and we were all doing our best “hanging out.” We decided to watch a movie. In her parents room. Just the three of us.

    Again, how this ever seemed like a good idea, I do not know. I was young and stupid.

    Sweaty Boy keeps trying his best to touch my lady parts again. I keep pushing him off because EW. And now I know it’s EW and I don’t need to prove I’m not a prude AND he wasn’t even good at it, so I dare him to say anything bad about ME.

    I didn’t feel any groping hands for a few minutes, so I looked over. And yeah, he and Toots were makin’ out.

    Awkward, party of one.

    I thought maybe they’d stop, so I just kept really still and quiet.

    Pretty soon, soft moans were coming from Toots. This was because Sweaty Boy had his hands all up in her pretty parts.

    I sat up and started to leave, but he reached over (I’m HOPING with the non-Toots parts hand) and said, “What if you just stay right here?”

    I said, “You disgust me. Toots?”

    She was looking at me with that determined “I am so going to lose my virginity and you better get the hell out of here” look.

    So I went out in the hallway (I had no vehicle and stealing Toots’s car seemed a little dramatic) and had to listen to my best friend lose her virginity in her parents’ bed to the sweaty boy I’d had sex with a couple of weeks earlier.

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