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.