Thursday, July 24, 2014

Bridal Party Selections - Let's Get Real

Often times we find ourselves looking back at our youth wishing we had made different choices. For instance, political science wasn't the most ideal degree to pursue. Or perhaps, it'd have been a better idea to take that Millennium Scholarship and remain in state to graduate debt free. But, we make choices, and we have to live with them as office support staff with mediocre credit. If there was one thing I could go back and change, it would be all of the time I spent falling down outside of bars/clubs, not knowing why I woke up naked in a seedy apartment, and making overall bad decisions not saving money. You see, you need to spend your early twenties saving...for your late twenties when you'll be required to spend all of that money on your friends' weddings, or worse, your wedding.
As with anything in life, you need money so your friends don't judge you (as much). You need money to throw the party of a lifetime that will take you a lifetime to pay off everyone will be raving about for years to come. It is important to keep in mind, however, that the money that will go into planning a wedding doesn't begin to compete with the judgments that come flooding in the day of.

Of course, everyone in attendance is essentially interested in finding out if the bride reached her #sheddingforthewedding goal, and, more importantly, if the reception is open bar how beautiful the bride looks as she walks down the aisle to her awaiting groom while exchanging looks of pure love, but I always find myself distracted by the wedding party. Why those people? Siblings? Best friends? Obligatory appointing of a cousin? Are the bride and groom guilelessly designating people they know will ensure an aesthetically pleasing wedding album, or do those chosen few genuinely represent them as individuals? Spoiler alert: No, they do not.
This is the one thing everyone gets wrong during the wedding planning (other than opting for a cash bar, asshole). No one cares if you made a pact with your childhood friend under the slide by interlocking pinkies - don't put that troll in your wedding. By no means does that relationship exhibit your true qualities. We, the invited guests and our uninvited plus-ones, are judging you from start to finish (yes, this includes your engagement ring and honeymoon destination). Help us critique fairly by representing yourself accurately. Simply, populate your bridal party with all of the people you have slept with.
You learn from your mistakes (allegedly). Your choices shape the person you become. Those former flings were your choices, your mistakes, and they may very well determine the success of your marriage(s). So, let us know where you came from. Better yet, let your bride/groom know what they're getting into (in both the figurative and literal sense). Your last boyfriend needs to be there to help your groom loop, swoop, and pull that bowtie. Your ex girl is quintessential to the hair/makeup process for your soon-to-be wife. Perhaps this even means your baby momma will be more comfortable knowing she can hold your mutual mistake's child's hand as she dispassionately sprinkles rose petals down the aisle as a flower girl. The bridal party will boast sheer reality-TV-worthy perfection.
The best man will be the bride's most recent lay, and the maid of honor, the groom's last conquest. Unfortunately, this could make bachelor/ette parties a thing of the past so as to avoid last minute additions, but sacrifices must be made.  In this regard, weddings only get better for same-sex marriages because some members of the bridal party might be required to run back and forth during the ceremony to adequately represent both brides/grooms. Conversely, it gets rather boring for the purity-ring toting ultra-conservative folk. Might as well elope at that point - nothing to see there.
Ultimately, this might encourage people to live a more chaste life...if they're poor. If you're wealthy give a piece to anyone who is willing - makes for a better attended reception and unforgettable revelry. Careful, though - your mother might disapprove. However, if you're like me, and you're used to that kind of thing - enjoy.
Now, let's put this into practice.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

An Open Letter to the Hiring Manager (With Edits)

*Remember: Keep those cover letters clear and concise.

Dear Hiring Manager:

I am willing to pay applying for the position advertised on your career site, a site I was perusing during work hours at my current place of employment. As a product of a Las Vegas upbringing, I understand applying through a career site is a complete gamble. I am not necessarily a fan of a lottery system - sure, I play the numbers here and there, dreaming of a life of travel and leisure (so far, no hits), but I do not consider myself a lucky person, though I get lucky often. As such, I tend to reach work around the luck-of-the-draw systems. For example, instead of alcohol-infused sleepless nights hoping to be accepted into the ING New York City Marathon via their lottery, I ran. I ran nine New York Road Runner races and volunteered for one in 2012, guaranteeing myself a bib in ING’s last title sponsored New York City Marathon this past November. Essentially, I worked tirelessly for months to work even harder on November 3rd. Unfortunately, I do not have a system for working around the career site onslaught of applications. Thus, here I am, hoping a few paragraphs in a cover letter will shine bright enough to hit one of you in the face with my brilliance.

Sleeping Social media is my passion - how else is one expected to evaluate their self-worth other than with likes and retweets? I dream of working from home going into work each day, affecting the mood of a nation with a simple status update or blog post. Sadly, it has taken me quite a few post graduate years in the workforce to be in the position to allow my aspirations to come to fruition. Now that I live with my boyfriend, transitioning to a much lower salary, as your company offers, is seemingly acceptable if I ever want to enjoy what I do for a living. However, those years afforded me the time necessary to master a diverse skill set (e.g. making coffee and opening mail), for which I could not be more grateful. My prowess for administrative tasks now seems second naturewhich I despise, and my understanding of the corporate environment assists my navigation of difficult and, at times, sensitive situations. The only thing stronger than my skill set is my alcohol tolerance work ethic. I have worked since I was legally able, paying my way through college with various work study positions and part time jobs. If I wanted to afford a fake ID, I would have to earn it the honest way. I have always endeavored to better myself, and going after my passion is the only logical next step other than sleeping my way to the top.

While I understand this cover letter is rather unconventional, I hope it has adequately summarized my immense interest in working for any company other than the one I am currently employed with such a well-established and beyond successful company such as yours. I promise to bring my experience and enthusiasm to the position at your company, a promise much firmer than any Kardashian marriage vow.

Thank you for your time, and, more importantly, for choosing to review my application out of what is sure to be a vast assortment of less qualified applicants.


Patricia Lily

Coupled with my interview skills, it is evident that I will never get hired anywhere else be hired by a top company rather soon.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

That One Time Jeff Ross Roasted My Friend

I had another post planned for today, and then last night happened. 

What was shaping up to be a fairly typical Tuesday in the city - overpriced sushi coupled with terrible/nonexistent service (I'm looking at you, Haru), crowded subway trains, unwarranted Tourette's-esque outbursts from panhandlers - transformed slowly, and then rather quickly, into a Tuesday actually worth mentioning. The plan for the evening was simple enough - pre-comedy show cocktails at our favorite lounge followed by, you guessed it, a comedy show. Deviating from our regular one-on-one date night routine, two friends joined the boyfriend and me on our laughter and libations journey.

While I was enjoying beverages Mormons cannot, the boyfriend ran back from the bar after having peed himself to alert me that we had something in common with Daniel Day-Lewis - our busboy. Not one to typically be star struck, the boyfriend slowly caught his breath and wiped the drool from his chin. Tuesday was really turning around - Day-Lewis saw me at Brother Jimmy's!*

After appropriate measures were taken to ensure the safety of Mr. Day-Lewis, the four of us made our way to the 10:00pm show at the Comedy Cellar. I was elated upon arrival in the hopes that a few jokes would transform the boyfriend's tears into laughs (it's hard to leave Daniel), and overjoyed that Godfrey was scheduled to close the night. We handed the hostess our table card, made our way to our seats (which, seemingly, you would have to buy two of if your hips exceeded 32 inches), and, soon after, the show began.

As much as I want to compliment the other comics that had our stomachs in knots, this post isn't about them. It's about Jeff Ross (and Dave Attell). I watched as Jeff Roast Master General Ross (I wonder if that's his government name) entered the cellar and, to my disappointment, made his way to the bar rather than the stage. Just behind Ross, however, was Dave Attell, and he was heading toward the stage. A lovely addition to the night's lineup. Soon after his quick-witted opening jokes, Attell blew Ross's spot up by announcing he was in the room - cue rabid applause (the most ever received for a Jew that has sported cornrows). Attell made the unnecessary introductions for the well-known roaster, and the banter between the two began.

Ross was in town to guest host The View, which, he disclosed, happened that morning. What lucky ladies. Blatantly sober, Ross and Attell were pulling laughs left and right - often at the expense of the audience members. Attell seemed more prepared for a set, however, while Ross was busier juggling the roofies Tic Tacs in his pocket, scanning for unsuspecting victims potential dates. For a brief moment, I thought of Godfrey and how he must have been growing a bit peeved waiting for this duo to finish (similar to how Ross's victim date last night was impatiently awaiting his finish). As my respect for Attell and Ross was increasing to an all-time high, they blew me away with their next maneuver - roasting audience members.

The pair asked for volunteers from the audience, clearly targeting persons of the self-deprecating variety. A mistakenly-eating-a-Wonka-Factory-blueberry-sized man volunteered first - faster than Katniss Everdeen. If his appearance didn't scream self-loathing, his instantaneous submission of himself did. As expected, he proved an easy target - comedy at its almost-finest. The Kool-Aid man returned to his seat following his roast, and they wanted a girl next. We all know, as a rather self-deprecating-for-the-sake-of-the-joke young woman, I would have quickly volunteered, but, as my fresh-off-a-Day-Lewis-handshake boyfriend sat across from me, I realized I couldn't subject him to too much more personal excitement. As such, I immediately turned to my friend, "do it!" She took a second while to be convinced, and then finally raised her hand.

Mutual admiration, it seems
My friend made her way to the stage amidst a warm applause, and my mouth grew to never-before-accomplished proportions (that's not true) as I beamed with satisfaction. Ross welcomed her to the stage in the most appropriate way possible - "Oh. Geez. Wanna Fuck?" (juggles pocket roofies). I guess it makes sense that roasting a beautiful girl is rather difficult with the blood flowing a direction opposite the brain, but they did their best. Right away they asked how she spelled her definitely-could-be-Jewish name and asked her if she was part of the Tribe. With a quick shake of the head, she directed them toward her chest (a bit above where they had previously been focusing) to the diamond cross radiating from her collar bone. Disappointment. "Oh, there he is. Jesus," Attell dejectedly whispered into the microphone.

Next, they asked her who she was there with. Perfectly feeding them the ammo they required, she said, "two dudes." Cue threesome/train/double penetration banter. I could not stop clapping (I'm a clap-laugher - terribly annoying, I know) like a proud momma at her baby's first pole dancing competition. They quickly attempted to learn more, discovering that she was single, a nursing student, and hailed from Long Island all while I was growing more and more devastated over the fact that I was not allowed to record it. My favorite part, by far, was when Ross took a seat at the on-stage piano to hide his massive erection and starting singing his own rendition of Joe Cocker's (fitting) "You Are So Beautiful." Ross's version obviously included a remix - "You. Are. So..rta beautiful. To meeeee." It was the best he could do with such a great looking girl. He had just learned she was a nursing student and realized it was likely she could fondle his testicles with the utmost care. I assume this is why he favorited her tweet.

We left shortly after Godfrey began his set. For shame.

*This was not at Brother Jimmy's.

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Living in Sin

Alternative titles: “How to Hide Your Foul Habits From Your Significant-Other-Now-Roommate,” “Learning to Come to Terms With Your Mother Hating You While Saving on Rent,” and “Copulation in Every Corner” 

To get back to blogging, for those of you who enjoy the misdeeds of others, and to celebrate the start of the Lenten Season, a post about sin seems more than appropriate. It is not my intention to bore you with any regular sinning, however. Rather, seeing as I am currently (newly) living in sin, let’s delve into that, or, as my mother refers to it, “what was the gospel about in mass today?”*


Daddy issues having dissipated (or so I have convinced myself), I made the "yay-this-will-be-so-fun!" decision to move in with the boyfriend. If my mother doesn't hate me enough for it, Jesus surely does. But not to worry, I have weighed eternal damnation against splitting rent costs and a doubled DVD collection and chose wisely. I mean, cohabitation seemed like the next logical step in our relationship (not that my relationship resume boasts a history of healthy partnerships, but I have consulted friends in this regard) - essentially, I no longer wanted to travel to Brooklyn. Sadly, this came at a cost. 

Hoarding is in my genetic makeup - meaning, it’s not my fault. These tendencies were learnt behaviors that manifested themselves in the womb. There was no hope for me. Alongside learning to brush my teeth and tie my shoelaces (self-taught as I will forever argue), I was mastering the art of accumulation. Fortunately, particular skills of abundance were lost from generation to generation. As such, I have managed to keep my hoarding to a minimum - old concert ticket stubs here, notes from middle school crushes there with an occasional baby tooth sneaking in from time to time. In no way do I condone keeping cloth diapers from your child's poop-themselves days. However, my mother does. She likely has my entire youth wardrobe in the garage, ya know, "so (my) kids can wear them, too!" Again, my hoarding is not even close to this level. Yet, somehow, I was still required to purge all of my belongings and memories a lot prior to move in day.

I'm not dense. I fully understand that when two people move in together, some items are no longer acceptable. These items are of the "I've lived alone for the past two years and have dodged any judgments because of this" variety. They include, but are not limited to [entering judgment-free zone]: vibrators (no, I don't know why I had more than one - these things happen), many articles of exes' clothing (because basketball shorts and over-sized shirts are comfortable during the moments I'm not allowed to spend naked - e.g. when strangers of an asexual nature enter my dwelling), stuffed animals (gifted by everyone from grandma to the Happy Meal aficionado at McDonald's), period panties (oh, come on, you knew that one had to be mentioned), framed photos of the Kama Sutra (allegedly inappropriate), various clothing items that I wear as undershirts so it doesn't matter if they're pitted out under the arms, God, I sweat more than others, okay?! leave me alone! (apologies, that got out of control), shoes (R.I.P.), assorted unwanted gifts that await a holiday and/or birthday to come around so I can regift them, decor color schemes (zero color is a scheme, thank you), eleven throw pillows (ugh, tear), and Sipasaurus (I don't want to talk about it). Sure, the purging that I went through wasn't that dramatic - I didn't lose my identity in the process, but it was tough. [Stop here if you hate love] What isn't tough, however, is going to bed and waking up every day next to the love of my life...and splitting rent. [Resume]

After two and a half weeks of living in sin, I suppose I don't truly miss any of my old belongings (until a holiday comes around and I am a gift or seven short). Although, I do miss not thinking twice when I leave my clothes on the floor of the bathroom, the toilet paper placed the proper way on the dispenser (over, not under, of course), uninterrupted Netflix binges, and the avoidance of judgments over multiple empty bottles of wine. But all-in-all, playing house is super fun - as sinning typically is. How else do you figure out if you and your partner are fully compatible? Marriage? Eek, reeks with finality. Yes, my mother and grandparents aren't the happiest with my decision (a little bit more disappointment than when I pierced my nose at 16), but they're not paying half my new roommate is - and, in the end, isn't that the only thing that matters?

*If you are lucky enough to receive pop quizzes about mass on Sundays, here’s a tip to avoid an hour long lecture about how bottomless brunches in the Village cannot be considered a substitute for the Eucharist: Instead of regurgitating the day’s gospel story that you located via a quick Google search, get a little creative. Tell your mother, that you would rather discuss the intricately exhilarating homily that your priest/deacon/bishop (you get the idea) shared. Start with something broad to make it believable (best to go with what I will refer to as a “happy Jesus, happy life” value - e.g. treat others as you would want to be treated, honor your father and mother, do not steal/commit adultery/have fun - really just pick anything from one of the Ten Commandments and you’re golden). After she has zoned out on your Biblical recap, throw in a few curve balls. Mention how your priest discussed his unwavering support for same-sex marriage or women serving as priests. You know, something really Catholic-y. If she ignores the misstep, quickly excuse yourself until the following week. If she notices, congratulations! She won’t be calling for at least a couple weeks as she will be too busy lighting candles and praying to the Almighty to have mercy on your likely-to-be-damned soul.

Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Guys, Avoid These Girls

What your name says about you, ladies (more so - Who to avoid, gentlemen):

Amanda: [Origin: English - Worthy of being loved] Your parents chose this name because you were clearly a mistake and they hoped that its origin would help them love you. It hasn't. You're not worthy. You're not worthy of your parents' love, but you sure are worthy of the basketball team's. As the resident slut on campus, you proudly sport athlete-provided hickies like a champion. You bask in your triumphs and continue to chase jerseys well into your late 20s. Unfortunately, your penchant for athletes combined with your severe daddy-issues, leads you into one team-huddle-gang-bang too many leaving you with more baby daddies than you can count. It's hard to raise athletes when you're too busy fellating them. Nothing a healthy round of rehab or an economy pack of condoms can't help. Play on playa.

Ashley: [Origin: Anglo-Saxon: Dwells at the ash tree meadow] You're big into the outdoors - which we all know means you're into rocking vintage bush. This is completely OK with your boyfriend because it reminds him of his mother, but it does get a little weird when he reminiscently twirls your shrubbery during breastfeeding foreplay. The one great thing about your love for mother nature is that while you're ready and willing to get down and dirty, you're exceptionally great at natural family planning - meaning you won't go getting pregnant "accidentally" (unless he's loaded and has a lake house). Just make sure you warn him that those aren't bug bites, or don't.

Brittany/Britney: [Origin:  English - From Britain] In recent years, you've considered changing your last name to "Bitch." It's much too unfortunate that you've confused people calling out to you "Britney Bitch" with them quoting the pop princess. When you take a second to timeline the exact moment people began referring to you in such a manner, you realize it came long before Britney's iconic statement. You discover that, in fact, people have been referring to you as "bitch" for most of your life. It wasn't until recently that you asked one of your "friends" if there was any validity to your revelation, and she conceded that back in '97, when it all began, the kids at school thought you resembled a dog and your obsession with 101 Dalmatians didn't help. You now inexplicably regret all of those Halloweens that you ironically dressed as Britney Spears. Woof.

Elizabeth: [Origin: English: Bountiful] You fluctuate between chubby and curvy, and maintain a fashion sense that works perfectly with your body. Your style rocks, but just because you can dress yourself doesn't mean you have the talent to maintain a fashion blog. If you stuck to pictures and designer references, it'd be one thing, but when you try to articulate what your fit suggests on a metaphorical level you're just embarrassing yourself. There's a reason you went to beauty school versus majoring in English. Stop abusing the internet's disconcerting accessibility for the ignorant and keep to snapshots. You're elementry grammer mistakes our making every one nautious [sic].

Jennifer: [Origin: English - Fair One] Your whole life you worked your ass off in school. Too bad you didn't take a moment to develop some social skills to complement your wisdom. You're the epitome of an awkward pause, and your peers completely avoid you unless they need help with something. Your indifference to them works toward your advantage when you begin to embezzle money from them. You remind yourself that you're smart and they're dumb - the only thing that gets you by. Well, that, and all the newly acquired wealth you can squander. Unfortunately, you're not as smart as you think you are - you get caught. Now you're tutoring felons working toward their GED in a minimum security prison. Perhaps you'll write a book about your experience and it will become a Netflix original series. More likely, you'll return to your life of solitude and cats. Life is never fair.

Jessica: [Origin: Hebrew - Rich] You're adopted and have ignored your Asian heritage you entire life. All the teasing you encountered in your youth has only strengthened your level of independence and self-resilience, which works wonders during your world travels. That trust fund is really paying off in every sense of the word. Now you just need to find an often absent husband to give you the children you have never always wanted - dad promised you more money if you give him grandkids. Sure, you and the hubs will sleep in separate beds and won't vacation together, but those little things only enhance the co-parenting you succeed at while your kids are at boarding school. Years later, your husband will start porking the help, and you're able to trade up for a newer model. Trust funds and prenups - happily ever after...apart. 

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Like Everything's Coming Up Lilies on Facebook!

My Dad's First Novel - Available Now

My dad's first novel can now be purchased on Amazon!

I've read The Lion's Whelp a dozen times throughout the writing process and fail to grow tired of it. The story is beyond brilliant with a twist that will leave your mouth agape - much like Willow Smith's when watching Miley Cyrus at the VMAs (which we all know I approve of). 

Read it now so when it becomes a movie you can pretentiously boast that "the book was better."

Seriously, spend your money on something that will last longer and leave you more enriched than an extra life in Candy Crush.

Purchase It Here

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

The Case for Miley Cyrus

To adequately sum up how I feel about all the recent Miley haters:

Immediately following the MTV VMAs last weekend, which New York so graciously hosted (Barclays = one of the only reasons I travel to Brooklyn), a firestorm of judgment and hatred was ejaculated all over Hannah Montana's face and has yet to go limp.  It seems "We Can't Stop" throwing major shade Miley's way despite all the mediocrity in our lives that we could instead focus on.  I like slutty Miley, and this isn't the first time I've admitted it.

Hear me out.

Miley made MTV fetch again. The last time anyone talked about what happened at the VMAs with such fervor was when Britney chaotically stumbled around the stage during her "comeback" performance in 2007 - which was much harder to watch than a skinny twenty-year-old bending over and sticking her tongue out. At least Miley didn't have to be guided around the stage by her backup dancing teddy bears. While many were/are outraged by Miley's spectacle, I was positively influenced to get on her level.  That's right - she drove me to drink and possibly dance on some her honor. Conversely, Britney made me want to hide in the shower and pretend the blood on the razor was from failed attempts at completely smooth kneecaps (impossible by the way - you'll bleed out trying to prove me wrong).  This was the MTV Video Music Awards - people are shocked by something MTV produced? Well, this is a first.

What are celebrities if not cynosures existing solely for our merriment - individuals idolized so that we might feel better about our own mistakes?  When did we start looking to them for moral guidance? As long as no one is drastically harmed, I'm all for it - entertain me harder. Miley wasn't on stage making terrible decisions that resulted in negative consequences affecting society (i.e. violence, discrimination, babies, etc.). She didn't bite the head off of a living animal. She didn't even kick an audience member in the face. She simply popped around flaunting her hot bod.  Yeah, I've seen the pictures of what those latex panties did to her ass, but let's be real, you couldn't even get those drawers past your knees, ladies, and gents, what have you woken up next to lately? Lacking squats or not, you know you'd tap Miley more aggressively than a game of Whac-A-Mole. The slut-outrage I mildly understand (in my experience, most people are overly prudish), but let's stop with the body shaming. 

For the mothers upset that their children were negatively influenced by Miley's performance, here's a thought, don't let your ten-year-old watch the VMAs or film your babies twerking in hopes for internet stardom (let's be honest, those children were all accidents anyway). Growing up, I wasn't allowed to watch MTV, and look at how that turned out.  Exactly - negative outcomes develop whether you like it or not. I don't blame Britney for how I ended up. I blame my mother. So, don't blame Miley; blame your parenting.  I do worse things on a Tuesday than Miley did on that stage, and you're fooling yourself if you think your kids are going to continue to find enjoyment in the musical stylings of Yo Gabba Gabba! forever.

To Miley, I say thank you. Thank you for epitomizing my 20s perfectly. Thank you for the DGAF attitude.  Thank you for doing you. The sexualized ride down memory lane was riveting, and I only hope you've influenced companies to begin the manufacturing of foam finger vibrators and strap-ons.

Not convinced?  Well, consider that God JT gave his blessing.  I rest my case.

Twerk on, slutty Miley. Twerk on.
"Remember only God can judge ya. Forget the haters cause somebody loves ya." - Miley

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

Why You Should Never Wear White Pants

So, you're going for a clean summer look.  You pick up a fresh pair of white pants in effort to mimic your favorite celebrities.

Unfortunately, the result is not as seamless.  For one, they're see-through.

Yes, even if you consider this possibility and choose a white thong.

Know that any panties you choose will result in a fail.

Even if you manage to get the panties situation under control, you still have to worry about dirt,

Mexican food,

shark week your time of the month,

and an uncontrollable bladder.

Worse yet, you are susceptible to resembling a cloud, or a cluster of clouds.  So, just avoid white pants - for the greater good.

Bonus: White shorts (onesie?) are a no-no as well.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

House Arrest

Whenever I begin to consider visiting my hometown, I remind myself of the goings on of Las Vegas.  Not the strippers or the gambling (even though I mastered both early in life) - more so, the goings on of the quaint two-story house in the middle of a cul-de-sac of a master-planned community - the house I grew up in. Home sweet home (allegedly).  

During my last visit, over a year ago, I had been enjoying my vacation away from the big city reminiscing with my siblings and old friends. Of course, all of this reminiscing took place at bars or pools with bars - as is necessary. The final day of my trip, my sister and I returned to our mother's house during the wee hours of the morning, dodging her glares and piercing judgments as best we could.  After a few hours of recovery and fluids (the nonalcoholic kind), we were able to pull ourselves together to head back out and meet our friends for some day drinking quality time. 

We braced ourselves for the task at hand and walked outside to the car. With a quick click of the remote entry button, the doors unlocked and my sister opened the passenger door as I walked around to the driver's side - I had requested to drive seeing as I was a Manhattanite whose feet acted as a main form of transportation powered by Jameson instead of unleaded - it had been too long. Apparently, I wasn't as recovered as I had thought I was (similar to Lohan's lack of understanding of her readiness to accept sobriety) because it wasn't until I sat down in the driver's seat that I noticed my ankle monitor - my ankle monitor in the form of a club.  Yes, the steering wheel club invented to thwart would-be car thieves from operating a vehicle.  We were being treated like common criminals. Our mother had placed this bullshit device on the car before leaving in her club-less vehicle. 

It was a Sunday and, as a product of a strict Catholic upbringing, I immediately attempted to use this to my advantage. Grandma would see things my way; she'd have my back. Standing in the driveway, I enthusiastically dialed her up, woosah-ing with every dial tone to calm my frustration. Similar to enjoyably aggressive intercourse suddenly surprising you with a mistimed hip thrust resulting in penetration of the wrong opening, I was shocked and angered when my mother's voice answered the call. A quick glance at the screen of my cell phone confirmed a correct dial. "Put grandma on." As soon as gma picked up the receiver, I began explaining the situation. "Hi, Grandma! I'm not sure if your daughter already told you what she did, but there is a club on the steering wheel, and we can't get to mass." I figured this was a perfect story. I simply mispronounced "the bar" as "mass" - a common mistake, especially if you're born and reared in Las Vegas.

"Well, why don't you walk to mass?" Grandma, you snake! You know we're Catholic. We're not a couple of Orthodox Jews on our way to synagogue who must abstain from operating vehicles on Shabbat. What do you think this is? Additionally, it's sweltering at over 100 degrees outside and you want us to walk five miles? Immediately, I realized there was no winning in this situation. My mother had already polluted her mother's thoughts with images of us shooting tequila in little-to-no clothing (in our defense, please note it was over 100° outside).

Our mother's plan worked. She successfully circumvented our attempt to enjoy life further - story of my life. We were left with no other choice but to retreat back into the house and finish out our sentence. Fortunately, as the one of her four children who moved 3,000 miles away and emancipated herself years prior , I was not under her control nor the control of some device that acted as a dedicated deterrent. Single mothers sure are creative in their attempts to materialize an absent father.

Soon after this inconvenience, my sister wised up and hid the club as soon as she located it in the master closet. Too bad our mother presumably bought in bulk. She produced a fresh club each time my sister assumed she had successfully outsmarted her. One can never outsmart crazy.*

Yes, I plan on keeping a cab service on retainer the next time I visit.

*The use of crazy in this instance is meant in the most loving and respectful way.**
**In case my mother reads this.

Thursday, August 1, 2013

Getting Naked is Dangerous

Brian and I were thoroughly reveling in our last night in Miami.  Stumbling out of the club, bidding adieu to the South Beach nightlife, we made our way down to the beach to enjoy one last free pedicure the sand always so cordially provides.  We passed a few people on our stroll across the shore while the remnants of waves splashed at our ankles; some homeless, some couples, all enjoying the moon's reflection on the dark water (OK, so the homeless person was sleeping, but it's likely his glazed eyes smiled at his surroundings before he passed out).  When it came time for us to travel back up the beach toward our hotel, we exchanged a knowing look.  "Let's do it," was the general consensus.  

Removing my jewelry, dropping my purse, and losing my dress as quickly as I lose my dignity at bars, I skipped into the ocean allowing the salty waves to try their hand at sobering me up.  Occasionally squinting at the dark shore from the water, whose sand mirrored the 3am night sky rather than the hotel lights of Collins Avenue, we kept an apathetic eye our belongings. We gleefully splashed through the ocean whilst screaming inside jokes from our trip, our way of immortalizing the good, the bad, and the inappropriate before we had to hop in that death trap that is a South Beach cab to the airport a few short hours later.

Brian and I were in heaven.  That is, if you can be drunk, naked, and swimming in the ocean in heaven (I'd consider sinning less if that were the case - yeah, I know, that's unlikely).  In those moments, I was the happiest a person can be.  Don't believe me?  I snapped and texted that picture just before stripping down. Pure, unadulterated joy right there.

As Amanda Bynes famously said, "All good things must come to an end." We couldn't remain carefree floating in the ocean forever (though we considered it).  We were forced to reclaim responsibility and make our way back to shore.  Slowly trudging through the waves, unacknowledged goose bumps started forming.  We felt nothing - clearly the brisk water did little in the way of moderating our inebriation.  Where the water failed, however, a war veteran succeeded.

Our shoes were all that remained of our belongings - my $2 flip-flops and Brian's flashy Adidas sneakers.

Vocalized panic started erupting from Brian's mouth while my internal panic manifested itself in nail-biting. All I could think was - which of our friends were playing a prank on us.  Too bad all of our friends were at least 1,300 miles away.  This couldn't be happening; we were leaving for the airport in two hours.

We noticed some people about 50 yards down the shore.  I told Brian to go ask if they saw anything.  He insisted that I come with him.  I shot him a piercing look and motioned to my hands fully occupied with covering the goods (or the OKs - whichever), and responded that I would not be joining him on this endeavor.  Besides, I was busy chomping the last of my manicure off.  

Moments later he was back with the bleak news that our useless neighbors had seen nothing.  He checked inside his shoes for the second time and felt something that the hysteria had previously caused him to miss - his phone and wallet. He had tucked them into each of his shoes before jumping in the water.  While his sense of alarm began to dissipate, mine was still violently attacking me as I stood naked on the shores of South Beach.  

We tried calling my phone - it was off.  This war vet was good.  Oh, I suppose I should explain how I knew the thief was a war vet. Simple - the only way he could have stolen our things unnoticed is if he had been army crawling through the sand (important to note: this theory was later endorsed by a friend who watched a man do exactly that in an attempt to steal his friends' belongings during a similar night's swim in South Beach). So, either this person was a war vet or an infant in its pre-walking stage.  I'm going to stick with my gut on this one.

Thankfully, Brian's phone proved rather useful with its flashlight app as he was able to locate our clothes about 100 yards up the beach. I assume the vet determined our duds were neither his style nor size.  Flip flops in hand, I threw my dress back on and we agreed it was time to head to the hotel to sort things out.  En route, I called and made the necessary cancellations to cards (at least I had the sticky magnificence that is the material used to adhere credit cards to the trivial piece of paper enveloped and expedited for your convenience to look forward to - God, I love that stuff - so underrated). I then dialed the boyfriend who so wonderfully answered what could have been an annoying drunken rant and, after following my sloppy directions leading him to my passport, sent me a picture of my last available form of photo ID.  Not sure if TSA would have let me anywhere near my gate without something showing I was who I claimed to be.      

The front desk printed my passport and called up a cab.  I regretted finishing off every finger nail because the return flight was close at hand.  It's pertinent to mention that I'm a nervous flier. Ignore the fact that my father was a Naval Fighter Pilot and my mother served as a flight attendant during my youth - I should be most comfortable in the air - but as we all know, I'm most comfortable in a dive bar surrounded by my friends, Jameson and self-doubt.  I digress.  What was already a stressful situation was exacerbated by that damn vet.  I suppose I should be thankful for his service, though. Ugh.

Overall, it seems I have become a bit too comfortable neglecting protection; specifically, protection when it comes to nudity and my goods.  I suppose getting naked in any capacity requires a form of safety, but it's always a bit more exciting when safety is ignored - amiright? 

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

A Few Notes Before We Begin Down This Road Again

So, yeah, a few things:

1.) My self loathing has evolved in an aggressive way when it comes to my lack of posts.  I apologize for my hiatus, but book chapters seemed priority level one (well, priority level two, seeing as intoxicated bad decisions always occupy seat uno).

B.) I'm officially in my late 20s, so expect new posts to be overloaded with pessimism and lies.  Pessimism because eight-year-old-Lily saw present-day-Lily as a multimillionaire architect specializing in four bedroom houses boasting highly-sought-after wrap-around porches (my upbringing involved very few porches, let alone wrap-around marvels). Lies because the mentors of my youth spat nothing but deception in regard to my future.  Now, as I near thirty, I still find wrap-around porches sexy (unfortunately, they're mostly found in bankrupt Detroit or the vampire-filled south) and I lie to all youth I encounter - I believe that children are our future, teach them well and let them lead the way (that last part was borrowed - sorry your daughter is marrying your son). 

3.) I missed you, too (lie one).

4.) The repugnant pizza establishment that catered to my physical demise (see NYPD Blues), has been shut down by the health department quite recently →. Blessed be God forever (also borrowed). 

5.) I'm running the New York City ING Marathon November 3rd.  This is humorous in and of itself, and now that I've written it here, it's real (ignore any future edits to this post).

6.) I've stopped drinking and started attending daily mass (lie two).

7.) Posts will come once a week, likely on hump days because humping is fun.  Don't freak out if I post more than once here and there - I like to write intoxicated and it just so happens I consume alcoholic beverages more than once a week ("socially" if my doctor asks).

8.) I'm digging slutty Miley Cyrus.  No, seriously, this isn't my third lie.  I really enjoy the whore she's working lately - she has inspired me to twerk on the daily (which has made for awkward office encounters).  Can we all pull for her to maintain her birth control regiment, though.  Britney was slutty fun until she got knocked up, and we all know where it went from there.

9.) My mother still encourages me to focus on reflecting religious qualities in my writing and refuses to read my blog (for the best), even though she will be the first to tell you her daughter's writing landed her on Good Morning America (insert shameless plug here, GMA loves me)

10.) I am no longer single (Also not lie three - I'm just as surprised as you).

See you August 1st with some new mistakes.

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

Girls, Avoid These Guys (Continued)

(Supplement to Girls, Avoid These Guys)

What your name says about you, gentlemen (more so - Who to avoid, ladies):

Jason: [Origin: Greek - Healer] Carefully disassembling every toy in your youth resulted in a successful career in medicine.  You are the greatest in your professional field but a recluse in your personal life due to an absence of socializing in your formidable years.  You concentrate so intensely on convincing a date to accompany you back to your apartment that you completely forget to hide your collection of surgically removed foreign objects.  The date (only having agreed to go out with you to appease a mother's constant disapproval) enters your home, surveys the countless number of murky liquid-filled jars, and makes a run for it.  Not to worry - you quickly capture the fleeing victim and inject an immobilizing serum.  You got one.     
Justin: [Origin: Latin - Just or True] You always tell the truth no matter the consequence.  Sadly, you cannot expect the same from others.  Many will lie to you, and most of those liars will be women.  Keep in mind they are doing it to spare your feelings.  At least you can revel in your rare and coveted ability to be punintential with your name as often as you find amusing. "This Just-in: My dick!" "I pulled out Just-in the nick of time!" "Just-in case you finish first, I don't mind fellatio!" It's unfortunate that you will never follow through on the latter, however, because your sexual prowess is, in the kindest terms, lacking. Just-in case you finally figure out how to bring a woman to orgasm, give me a call - no lying necessary. 

Matthew: [Origin: Hebrew - Gift of God] Even though your parents didn't plan for you and your mother's desperate wish for her monthly gift failed to come, they still refer to you as their little gift.  Even after their hate-fueled divorce.  Just because your father went on to start a completely new family and no longer takes your calls, doesn't mean you're less of a gift.  You're the gift that keeps on giving. Just like your herpes.  Of course, it upset you at first, but things are looking much better - Valtrex approached you to headline their awareness tour, "Matthew: Gifted for life. Can't keep me down." Are the flare-ups less frequent now that you're a hundred-thousandnaire?  Does poppa take your calls now?  I'm sure you'll be happily married sans prenup in no time.

Michael: [Origin: Hebrew - Who is like God]  Your parents, having superior genetics themselves, were not concerned with building a family as much as they were with breeding god-like beings. As such, you were created. Because your svelte physique and modelesque features make you so desirable, it's like Easter every day with girls dropping eggs following each glance in your direction. Unfortunately, many of the girls with comparative genetics are either related to you or have stopped following you on Instagram due to your excessive post workout gym selfies.  Duckface selfies should be limited to two a week - max.  How will you continue your family's legacy if you are slowly evolving into a cold-blooded-fly-south-for-the-winter douchebag?  Figure it out, demigod.

Ryan: [Origin: Irish - Little King] It is much too unfortunate that "little" is the operative word here.  However, you've never let that stop you.  You wore your prom king crown to every party in college, attributing to a few more vertical inches.  Too bad it couldn't approve another set of combined inches.  OK, so you have come to the realization that the fraternity letters tattoo was a mistake, but at least all those girls you roofied slept with while fratting around college will never be forgotten.  Now you're the "King of the Force" having become an officer of the law to make up for all of your shortcomings.  A career of making better men cower to your authority becomes you.  Stop hitting your wife.  

Sean: [Origin: Irish - God is gracious] Your abs are gracious, as are your grandparents for letting you live in their garage. All of the money you save on rent goes into your body. There isn’t enough protein on the planet to meet your needs, and it shows. You spend too much time in the gym to get a regular job, so you have opted for gym guru by day, club promoter by night. You love staying up late at the club, not because of the booze – you don’t pollute your body with such filth – because it allows you to maintain your eating-every-three-hours schedule. You die a young death because you forgo a spotter early one morning. Should’ve lived a little.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Girls, Avoid These Guys

When we were kids, we were constantly reminded not to pick on others.  Now that we're adults, we live to judge everyone that passes by.  We simply found a better term for it: People Watching.  It's similar to revamping a resume to read better.  Instead of "teach asshole high school students who will likely become dropouts," you opt for, "create curriculum and implement lesson plans for the leaders of tomorrow."  There is always a way to manufacture a preferred representation.  Unfortunately, too few of us take advantage of changing a few details here and there to actualize a better outcome. Take your name, for example.  When was the last time you changed it?  If the answer is "never," you have some work to do.

What your name says about you, gentlemen (more so - Who to avoid, ladies):

Alexander: [Origin: Greek - Protector of Men] As the eldest of four, you grew up looking after your siblings - acting as their protector.  It's too bad you weren't a better protector of your swimmers.  You never wanted a big family, but because your high school sweetheart didn't believe in birth control as much as she did in alcohol or sexual promiscuity, you have six kids (two of which you're not sure are yours). True to your name, however, you watch over your six mistakes heroically whenever you stumble home from the bar, which you frequent after your 11-hour shift at the car wash.  They all respect you as much as your wife respects her fidelity.  On the bright side, they serve as an excellent tax write-off, which funds your nightly escape into a bottle of whiskey.

Anthony: [Origin: English - Highly Praiseworthy] The CEO of a tech startup, you are the envy of all of your peers.  Sure, you were bullied as a kid, but look at how far you've come!  Now that you have enough money, anyone will like you for the right price.  So your wife spends more time with her trainer stretching her legs overhead than she does with you, the important thing is that she loves your wallet and always will as long as it stays as thick as her trainer's -er - biceps.  From the outside looking in, you've got it all and you have convinced yourself of the same. No one guesses for a second that you are trying to prove a thing when you reach across two pews to drop a hundred dollar bill into the collection plate at mass each Sunday.  Everyone yearns for your level of happiness.

Brian: [Origin: Celtic - Strong One] A star athlete from a young age, you have always been bigger, faster, and stronger than everyone around you.  You have never had to try with women and guys are always trying to be one of your bros.  Peaking in high school, though, was an unfortunate circumstance.  Having to leave college after tearing your ACL and losing your scholarship has landed you back in your hometown where you now coach the high school football team, stroking your beer belly from the sidelines.  The tattoo that meant so much to you at the age of 18 - "desire to play" written in Kanji - has acquired an entirely different meaning in your mid-twenties - "desire to play...with yourself." Try to keep your hands off the underage cheerleaders and you'll be just fine leading your mediocre life.

Christopher: [Origin: Greek - Christ-bearer] Just an "opher" away from Christ.  That alone paves a meticulous path to a beautiful life.  Similar to Christ in every way but his young death (and that whole God thing), you experience every happiness just as you provide it for so many.  A self-starter, you built your fortune through your exquisite carpentry and have never let it get to your head - never once have you showed off by walking on water.  All you need to remember is to avoid prostitutes so you avoid poverty and always bring your own booze to a wedding in case you become too intoxicated to pull off the water-to-wine trick (read: miracle). Save that one for the ladies.

Daniel: [Origin: Hebrew - God is my judge] Too bad you'll come to meet the faces of many a judge when you live a life I'll refer to as Felony-Misdemeanor.  Similar to pot acting as a gateway drug, your failure to return crayons to your classmates in first grade will lead to your seven year stint in the Big House for neglecting to return that car you found parked in an unmanned lot.  Fortunately, your continued focus on carefully handling the soap leads you to the development a brilliant invention now found in every shower across the nation. You've become institutionalized, however, and cannot help yourself from embezzling money just for the hell of it.  At least your commissary account will always remain full.

David: [Origin: Hebrew - Friend] You've met and charmed the parents of every one of your girl the best friend. A combination of the excessive acne you battled in high school and your overall diminished self-esteem have created a personality that always lands you in the friend zone. Even your own penis friend zones you at times because of your refusal to take down the yellowing posters you've had taped to your wall since the 90s.  If Ferrah Fawcett's family could bury her, you can retire her red swimsuited smile you've been jerking it to since the moment you figured out what your sweaty appendage was for.  It's time to move on - from your platonic friendships and your monotonous past.  Try online dating.

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

How to Nail the Interview

The majority of us, at one point or another, will be required to sit for an interview, during which we will be asked a multitude of questions.  While some of these questions are straightforward (i.e. Are you willing to travel? What is the highest level of education you have completed?), others are designed to provoke different ideas on individual levels allowing the interviewer to better interpret your likelihood of success in the position you have applied for.  You know the ones I'm talking about - strengths, weaknesses, biggest failure, etc.  We are constantly told to put a positive spin on all of our answers.  "My greatest weakness is that I typically operate with urgency to complete a project while triple-checking it for accuracy." Not only do you sound like a kiss-ass, the interviewer knows you're simply regurgitating premeditated answers.  Instead, I would suggest honesty.  So, what are the right and honest answers to the tougher, complex interview questions?

What are your weaknesses? I consider myself a strong person; however, if I had to admit my weaknesses - a strong jawline coupled with five o'clock shadow and Jameson.

What are your strengths? I wish we had more time for this question, as I possess many strengths.  Narrowing it down to the mental rather than the physical (even though you didn't specify), I would have to say my strengths are disguising a low self-esteem with sarcasm and an innate ability to convince people in positions of authority of my sobriety regardless of my level of inebriation.

Where do you see yourself in 5 years? 10 years? I'm more of a live-in-the-moment person, as is typical for my generation - you're, what, a few years older than me?  You get it.  Actually, should we take advantage of this moment right now?  No?  OK.  Well, if I were to really consider it, I suppose, in five years, I see myself heading this company.  I'm a bit of an overachiever when I can score some Adderall, and fortunately for us, my friend's kid was just diagnosed with ADD/ADHD; so, I'm good to go for the near future.  In ten years, I'll likely be drinking 50% more than I currently do.  Coupled with a new Adderall addiction, I imagine that would lead to a stability problem.  We'd likely both be out of jobs by then due to my inability to lead this company.  It should be a fun run, though.

Why do you want to leave your current company? Well, we recently hired a new girl who's "real life hot," and this has really put a damper on my "office hot" title.  That and it's not so much that I want to leave them as it is they want to leave me.  I grew up without a father, though; so, I'm fairly accustomed to abandonment and the drinks steps you take to overcome it.
What can you offer us that someone else can not? An unbridled sense of self-loathing coupled with a curious level of narcissism that makes for some good stories at the water cooler.  Oh, and I am a great time at office parties.

Tell me about an accomplishment you are most proud of. Well, I wouldn't say that it's an accomplishment that I'm most proud of, but it certainly yielded immediate results. In high school I was awarded free fries at lunch because I put my entire fist in my mouth.  No, I literally put my fist in my mouth - here, watch...

Tell me about a time you made a mistake. Other than just a moment ago? Well, how much time do we have?

What is your dream job? We're getting a bit personal talking about dreams now, aren't we? My dream job? I would have to say, Heiress.

How did you hear about the position? Which position?  Most I learned in my early 20s, but some of the less intricate ones, I learned in college. 

Tell me how you handled a difficult situation. Once, I accidentally texted my mom when I had meant to text a boyfriend, and when I use "text" here, I clearly mean "sext." I just turned off my phone for a few days after that.  I have found that such strategy can extend to other circumstances.  Avoidance is key.  If you never admit a problem exists, you haven't any problems.  I think Gandhi said that.

What are your salary requirements? What are your attendance requirements?

What was your biggest failure? To date or a projection of things to come?  My biggest failure to date would have to be my inability to successfully date and wed a billionaire.  My biggest projected failure will likely be motherhood.

What motivates you? The letter B, generally.  Booze, boys, billionaires, bars, beer, bacon, blackouts, bed, bachelors, blindfolds, dicks (Ugh! I hate when I get my Bs and Ds mixed up), bail, beans, bored, and brevity, specifically.

How do you handle pressure? Quite well.  Often times, if I've been drinking, I even suggest a little more of it. 

What are your career goals? To get rich exerting as little energy as possible.

Are you a leader or a follower? Leader in shots consumed to body mass ratio.  Follower in the sense of orgasms - I never seem to finish first, if at all.  

What was the last book you’ve read for fun? I was babysitting this obnoxious miniature person last weekend.  She refused to go to sleep until she heard a bedtime story.  I pulled out my Kindle and read her the only bedtime story I had - Go the F**k to Sleep by Adam Mansbach.  That was fun.

What are your hobbies? Please refer to my motivations.

What is your availability?  Well, I'm currently dating, but nothing too serious.

What makes you uncomfortable? Panties.  Not the word.  Actual undergarments.

How would you fire someone? The same way I break up with boyfriends - treat them terribly until they leave on their own.  Confrontation is just so confrontational - Abraham Lincoln.

What questions haven’t I asked you? Am I single?  However, you're a smart man - did I mention rather attractive in a mid-level-management kind of way? - I'm sure you've inferred my relationship status from my previous answers.

What questions do you have for me? Are you single?

Hopefully these suggestions help you land the best job of your career.  Of course, don't memorize each response.  Instead, tailor them with your common vernacular so that it appears organic and, most importantly, honest.  I cannot emphasize enough, honesty is essential.  In the spirit of candor, I suppose I should acknowledge the mistitling of this post.  Would "How to Nail the Interviewer" make more sense?

Saturday, February 23, 2013

Good Morning America Liked Me

Some geniuses over at ABC's Good Morning America reached out to me regarding my response to the Craigslist ad last night.  This happened this morning:

Thanks, GMA!

Friday, February 22, 2013

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

How to Correctly Respond to a Craigslist Personal Ad

Not that there is much of an explanation necessary, but when I notice an exceptionally witty "male seeking female" advertisement on Craigslist, I respond with the sincerest of hearts.  Perhaps each of you can reach out to these two bros and put in a good word for me?  I'm currently awaiting a response with bated breath.


The aforementioned ad:

My brother and I are looking for wedding dates for our cousin's wedding in majestic Saratoga, New York on March 23rd, 2013.

We've been told by the bride that bringing dates is "mandatory" so we "won't harass all of my friends all night" and "stay under control". Rather than ask some fringe women in our lives to go and face the inevitable 'does this mean he wants to take it to the next level!?' questions, we'd rather bring complete strangers and just figure it out. Still reading? In anticipation of your questions we've developed an FAQ section below.

Dave, Mike... What's in it for me?
• An excuse to get dressed up
• Open bar & food all night
• Eccentric/downright dangerous bro-2-bro dance moves (may need to sign a waiver)
• Adventure
• Mystery
• Suspense
• True Love
• Royalties once our night's story is developed into a romantic comedy*
*if this happens (we estimate the chances at 85%) we refuse the right to let Ashton Kutcher play either of our characters, however, we will consider him for a supporting role.

SO - What are you fellas like, anyway?

Oh us? We're both in our 20s, single, dashingly tall, Anglo-Saxon, respectfully athletic, love to party, completely house trained, relaxed, passionate, smell great, have cool hair, clean up nice, boast great tie collections, will promise to shave, love our mother, have seen Love Actually several times, controversial, provocative, short-sighted (with a big picture mentality), raw, emotional, sensitive but still bad boys.

What should us ladies be like?

You should respond in pairs as you'll want to know at least 1 person at this wedding. Sisters (twins?!) are preferable, but we'll take friends, or even enemies. You should be attractive or our aunts will judge you, but not TOO attractive or one of our uncles might grope you. You should be relaxed and easy going as we'll probably make up flattering lies about you on the spot. You should own a dress, or be able to acquire one because we don't have any. If (when) you respond you should send some pictures of yourself so we know you've met the above requirements. Feel free to include a resume; this is a classy wedding and we're looking for well-rounded women. Interesting/unique pairings are encouraged; don't be afraid to make yourself stand out!

This feels kinda creepy, are you guys Craigslist killers?

No. Well, if you want to be techni.. nevermind. No, we aren't. We just genuinely want to do something different and we don't see any other way to approach it. What would verify our normalness? Facebook? Instagram? We can have a pre-date screening (interview) prior to the wedding and play 20 questions over a coupla cocktails if you'd like?

We're IN! What now?

First off -- smart thinking. Email us, send along some pictures, information, high school athletic stats, questions, etc. We'll take it from there.


My response to Dave and Mike:

Dearest Dave and Mike,

I hope this email finds you both dateless.

I came across your Craigslist ad today - was I perusing the Craigslist personals? No, it's not Saturday night for God's sake. I simply procrastinate by browsing BuzzFeed from time to time (OK, most of the day), and your ad was featured. So, off the bat, I'd like to congratulate the two of you on your internet fame - quite impressive. Even if it should be short-lived, it will undoubtedly be a story you tell over and over to each of your mistakes children and grandchildren in the years to come. However, I digress.

Like prostitutes that call themselves escorts, I'd like to apply my friend and myself to be your dates for your cousin's upcoming wedding for the following reasons:

1. We're great at wedding-ing. Yes, I have used wedding as a verb in this instance. In prime attend-a-friend's-wedding-6-times-a-year age, we both maintain a brilliant and decorated history with nuptials. Decorated in the sense that we are both bridal bouquet subjugators; brilliant in the sense that, well, we're rather smart. The latter portion of that statement might scare you, but fear not...

2. We're pretty great looking, and clean up even better. Obviously, I'm not asking that you take us at our word. As such, I have included some pictures of the two of us killing it at life.

3. Bad decisions make great stories. Sure, Craigslist's ads don't boast the most comforting of histories. People have died, many, if not most, of them women. People have been injured. People have been subjected to situations beyond their comfort zone. But fear not, my friend and I are hopeful. Hopeful that should we die, we do so partying. Should we be injured, we do so catching a bouquet. Should we be out of our comfort zone...wait, you said free booze, right? Yeah, we won't be out of our comfort zone.

4. We love brothers. We each have two. We dig them. We'll likely dig you.

5. We cut a mean rug. 'nough said (no waiver necessary).

6. Parents (family) love us. This is not specific to our parents, of course.

7. We love storytelling. As in, we'd love to go along with whatever story you gentlemen oh-so-brilliantly fabricate, and might even offer details of our own - don't worry, they'll be great.

8. We bleed class... at least we can play it off that way. We love dressing up and crossing our legs at the ankle as to not disturb the napkin delicately placed upon our laps while drinking beers champagne, pinkies up. We won't embarrass you, trust.

9. We're single and we're free on March 23rd. Yeah, we figured these had potential to be deal-breakers.

10. See numbers one through nine.

So, what do you say? Let's stalk each other's Facebooks, Twitters, and Instagrams, and get to know each other the old fashion way.

In hopes that you are no longer dateless,

Lily and Cane


How'd I do?

Update here