Bikram Yoga: What you (really) need to know

For my final #NewYearNewYou post on fitness classes, I have decided to highlight Bikram Yoga because no time like the present to support sexual assault perpetrators it's one fitness scheme that I found myself returning to recently (ya know, "shedding for the wedding" and what not). Sadly, Bikram Choudhury, the creator of the practice, didn't respond to my email requesting an interview - hard to track down a man who fled from the US with pending criminal charges. While I don't support his weekend dalliances, I do appreciate his yoga, and because I didn't try too hard to get a professional/certified Bikram yogi to answer my questions, this post will solely include my amateurish thoughts on said yoga - no need to thank me. 

At the very least you know my answers will be wholly honest unlike Steph's and Pistol's which both required extensive edits and clarification.

What can I expect when trying Bikram Yoga for the first time?
Sweat. So much sweat. A class consists of 24 postures and two breathing exercises. The first posture after opening breathing requires you to hold your arms over your head for approximately 300 minutes, like you're training on the rings for the Olympics sans the obligatory performance-enhancing drugs. This is the posture Choudhury decided to start with. Essentially, you're provided a warm welcome, if a warm welcome is taken quite literally and means your body is melting in the 100+-degree room within the first ten minutes. They tell you before class begins that you are not to leave the room for the full 90-minutes, and after the first posture you've already concluded that this was the worst decision of your life (worse than your "Hillary 45" tattoo). For the next 80 minutes, your body's typical 60% water makeup is successfully reduced to .60%. Seems doable right?

What are the common myths about Bikram Yoga?

Many assume that because the room is heated in a Bikram class, it's similar to other hot yoga practices. This is not the case. Bikram is masochistic hot yoga. If you're familiar with the strenuous Child's Pose, it doesn't matter because there is never a Child's Pose sanctioned in this series. The only livable moments in the class exist during Shavasana - when you literally lie on the ground immobile for 20 seconds at a time. Hold on to those 20 seconds as long as you possibly can.

Do I need to have an athletic background to try Bikram Yoga?

Nope, just an internal hatred for yourself. 

Does Bikram Yoga help me lose weight quickly?

If "quickly" is the operative word, then, no. If it helped me lose weight quickly, I wouldn't be on the auto-renewal program hoping for something to figure itself out by June. I know, I know - weight loss is blah-percent based on diet. Whatever - at least class is 90 minutes and I am forced to fast for all 90 of them. That being said, when I finished a 30-day challenge (completing 30 classes in 30 days #HumbleBrag), I did lose some weight - enough that I didn't mind being in a bathing suit on a small Caribbean island where I knew no one and would never see these no ones ever again.

If I decide to try Bikram Yoga, when can I expect to look like you?

Day one, if you eat enough. It helps if you peaked in high school and enjoy drinking your feelings away daily caloric intake at the bar. I'm the kind of #FitChick that needs a jumping jack to achieve thigh gap. So, if you're thigh-gapping feet together, I hate you because I ain't you you're way ahead of the curve.

I sold you on Bikram Yoga, didn't I? I wonder if my yoga studio offers a referral program? 

Please bear in mind, I am fairly lazy and the only reason I tried Bikram in the first place was due to the fact that everyone in the room is aggressively sweating as opposed to just me. My Bikram sweat level easily rivals my mid-summer subway sweat. So, if you're into that sort of thing - try a Bikram class!

Namaste.

How to Correctly Respond to a Craigslist Personal Ad: UPDATE

Back in 2013, when I was making all of the exciting mistakes as a single, I responded to many a viral Craigslist personal ad that two brothers posted in search of wedding dates. I shared my response on this blog (found here), and Good Morning America happened upon it and subsequently interviewed me for a Saturday morning segment. Unfortunately, they lost the battle of booking the Stangle brothers to Matt Lauer at Today (can't say I blame them - it was Matt Lauer).

Following the buzz the Stangles created, ABC refused to be outdone and put together a meet-and-greet cocktail party for women interested in being chosen as their dates. At this point, I was Facebook friendly with Mike and Dave and they told me to come to the event to continue the humorous banter we had been engaging in. My friend and I attended the event at the Upper West Side's Empire Hotel - we threw on skinny jeans, reasonably fashionable blouses, and heels - we had no idea what we were in for.

The scene resembled a low-budget version of The Bachelor, though instead of Chris Harrison, we got Juju Chang (not to be confused with Julie Chen, you racist). The other girls in attendance seemingly came directly from blowout appointments and the Bloomingdales formalwear section (I'm pretty sure I saw a few "they'll never notice if I tuck in the tag - I can return it tomorrow" dresses). These girls were serious...about their potential TV fame, not so much about acting as a date to a random wedding. I was there for the free drinks, which, of course, turned out not to be free - need I reiterate the "low-budget" description of the scene.

With camera crews in tow, my girl, Ju, asked each set of girls (it was a requirement to come in twos) upstairs to film various clips. They filmed us "walking into the party," and performed on-camera interviews. My friend and I, having not received the semi-formal attire prerequisite, filmed our entrance sequences in various states of disarray including, but not limited to, piggyback rides, cartwheels, kick-lines, and amateur break dancing. Did I mention we showed up to the event intoxicated? After forcing us to stop they got the right entrance clip for us, they ushered us over to the corner where Juju was being powdered. I assumed we'd be getting our makeup done as well, so I walked up to the gathered group, closed my eyes and stuck out my predominant chin. Juju considered quitting the field of journalism altogether feigned laughter upon seeing me, and I shrugged off my mistake using my iPhone as mirror to apply my free-from-my-dentist bootleg Chapstick. I was ready for my closeup.

Juju asked my friend and me a series of questions, all of which escape me with the exception of one. She inquired, "What did you do to prepare to meet Mike and Dave and potentially become their wedding dates?" She was clearly mocking our lack of formalwear, but her sly affront didn't phase us for a moment. I told her that I baby-powdered my hair and popped in a mint (though I didn't specify where I popped the mint). My friend's response, however, took the cake. She nonchalantly told Juju, in front of a recording camera, on footage that ABC will forever have access to, "Well, I was at this guy's house last night and only heard about this today - I didn't have time to go home, so I just turned my underwear inside-out. Luckily, I had already waxed earlier this week." Yes, these are the friends I keep - amazing like-minded individuals.

Long story a bit longer, if a bell didn't go off when I mentioned the Stangle brothers' first names in the last paragraph - their viral Craigslist post scored them a movie deal. Yes, the film Mike and Dave Need Wedding Dates is based on the Craigslist boys. Let's just say, had either one resembled Zac Efron, I wouldn't be marrying Steven in a few short months.

ABC's meet-and-greet never aired - I assume God had answered my mother's (and Juju's) prayers on that one, and Steven and I started dating shortly after. Now I have a forever wedding date and I am encouraged to stay away from Craigslist personal ads.

CrossFit: What you (really) need to know

In further support of your wasted New Year's resolution efforts, I was able to get cult CrossFit coach and fitness model, Pistol Pete, to detail the concerning exciting world of CrossFit for us. As with my previous post about barre class, I have provided the certified advice and made unavoidable revisions to better reflect my experience when attempting a CrossFit WOD (workout of the day, for those who don't interact with cult enthusiasts CrossFitters)

What can I expect when trying CrossFit for the first time?

I won't sugar coat it, it will probably suck; you might will vomit, and you will definitely think about doing terrible things to whoever recommended it to you, if only you were capable of moving your limbs after the workout. There will be a lot of sweat and a few many tears, but hopefully not too much blood (spoiler alert: bleeding either during or following your workout is expected - yes, in your stool). What's more sickening, you’ll probably want to come back the next day and do it all over again have destroyed your body so greatly that you now require intravenous fluids to keep you alive - talk about a great diet!

@pistoledpete

What are the common myths about CrossFit?

The ladies complain CrossFit will make them big and bulky - essentially, they will look like a man, and they're right. For every girl who’s ever said that to me - I say best of luck getting there. You’re the exact girl who will never get “big and bulky,” you don’t have the work ethic; not to mention you slam skinny martinis and/or a bottle of wine every night effectively stripping you of all those gains. (I don't even know how to edit this - what are "gains?" When I work out, I'm looking for losses. The use of the word "gains" should make us all concerned and clearly justifies the ladies' concerns. Also, at least they're not fat martinis - give us some credit, Pistol. We're only on question two and things - not including my BMI - are rapidly declining.)

I also hear, "You need to already be 'fit' to do CrossFit," which is exactly why "fit" is in the name. What's the point of spending all that money and going through all of the fundamental classes Stockholm syndrome introductory juice-drinking sessions if being fit is a requirement? Hey Dumb Dumb, thats the point of CrossFit you pay us to help get you fit, by working you out so hard that you throw up everything you ever ate. Thats the point!

Do I need to have an athletic background to try CrossFit?

Not at all! Probably close to 90% of CrossFitters aren’t. Of course you do - don't embarrass yourself in front of all those former high school athletes. So bring your narp ass in here and stop making excuses. (I confirmed with Pistol that "narp" was not a typo. It stands for "non-athletic regular person," which only further supports how CrossFitters view outsiders.) 

Does CrossFit help me lose weight quickly?

Yes, absolutely YES - it also helps to put down the Doritos and stop stuffing your face with fat and sugar all day. (Looking at you, Seamless Chinese food) That being said, feel free to keep eating the junk and come on in and workout till you puke - yay bulimia-inspired fitness!  

If I decide to try CrossFit, when can I expect to look like you?

Don't hold your breath. To be completely candid, your best bet would be a time machine - that way you can confront your parents and tell them both to find other genetically superior humans to mate with. Oh, and lots and lots of steroids. Also, quit your day job.

I hope Pistol encouraged you to try CrossFit, or perhaps you only stared at his abs instead of reading the actual text (with my helpful edits). I'm pretty sure in that photo he's just wearing a shirt with all those muscles drawn in - though, if you check out his Instagram, he'd need a lot of muscle tees to keep up the charade. Regardless, go check out a CrossFit class in the new year, just don't blame me when it hurts...for days.

Are they falling or jumping? No one knows!

Barre Class: What you (really) need to know

As promised in my first post of the new year, I have some fitness tips from the experts for you attempting-a-resolution-ers (though you've probably given up by now, similar to how I gave up on sober January).

I asked certified barre (the ballet barre, not a fancy French bar serving up cocktails as I first assumed) instructor, Stephanie, to share her tips for first time barre students. Then I adjusted it to make it truthful reflect my first experience with barre. Important to note, I grew up a ballerina and that didn't gain me any points (except with my mother for the first and last time).

What can I expect when trying barre for the first time?

Barre is a ballet-inspired workout, invented by ISIS, that combines elements of dance, yoga, and pilates, and torture. Barre is typically low-impact and involves small repetitive motions that wear out (and strengthen! and sodomize!) your muscles. People often say barre gets harder the more with each passing minute you do it because it takes a few only one classes to find proper form, technique, and body alignment realize you are willingly and idiotically subjecting yourself to suffering and misery, you sadist. Most classes consist of a warm up, an arm series, leg and glute work at the barre, a core series, and a cool down, and burial.

What are the common myths about barre? 

I hear a lot of people are intimidated to try barre because they think they need to have a strong ballet background in order to be successful, and that's completely true. Growing up in a dance studio may make barre more enjoyable for you likely to stir a PTSD flare-up, but at its core, it’s a workout torment, and it really is something anyone can do if you're into pain (and not the fun pain S&M promises). That being said, I have never had a man take my class… so a “myth” with some substance behind it may be that it’s only for girls who enjoy watching other girls in shared pain - as though we won't get enough of that in Trump's America.

Do I need to have an athletic background to try barre?

Nope! Yep, because if you don't, you'll look like an uncoordinated failure among others, further supporting your rank in society. I’ve never done a sport in my life, but I love abusing my body and getting paid to abuse others. Like with any workout, if you’re just starting out with your exercise regimen (hoping it sticks this time), you may find yourself taking breaks and/or hobbling for the door during class more than other students, but with practice/continued self-harm, you will build your strength and endurance over time. Just remember, you'll never be Misty Copeland.

Does barre help me lose weight quickly?

Any form of exercise can help with weight loss when combined with a healthy diet and lifestyle tapeworm and starvation. Barre is great for toning and is recommended in conjunction with cardio (running, spin, sex, etc) for clients whose goal is weight loss. As such, for quick weight loss, I would recommend forgoing the pain and remaining sedentary for optimal comfort - just nix the food!

If I decide to try barre, when can I expect to look like you? 

Well I’ve been doing barre 3x/week for about two years now…so maybe try that? Essentially, no shot.

I hope Stephanie's insights (and my necessary edits) have adequately prepared you to attempt (or completely avoid) a barre class in the new year. New Year, New YOU!

New Year, New You People

If my recent trip home for the holidays taught me anything, it's that I should never go home for the holidays people need to change. If my therapist taught me anything, it's that I need to change (as though that's suddenly going to make my liver function at full capacity). Seeing as I no longer have regular appointments with my therapist, I will focus on the former lesson learned.

Second only to the midnight countdown, the saying "New Year, New Me" is uttered incessantly during the welcoming of a fresh year. Seeing as I have already established my unwillingness to change the irrelevance of me changing, I humbly request that you please work on yourself which would fix my issues (apart from the daddy ones). New Year, New YOU, is all I'm asking. To help get you started, I've come up with a few suggestions:

1. Do only what I say - no questions asked (though, I shouldn't need to specify this).
2. Do not stand within three feet of me unless permission is granted or mandated (e.g. a police lineup).
3. Should you be seated next to me on a flight (and I happen to be in a dreaded middle or aisle seat):
1. Find a new seat.
2. If A is an impossibility, do you really need to be on the flight?
3. If the answer to B is "yes," the following apply:
1. If I am asleep (and this should be obvious as I am a mouth breather during sleep), do not shake me awake (I'm under a blanket - makeshift or otherwise - you can't be effectively certain that you will hit my arm and not grope my breast).
2. Do not make me get up from my seat four separate times on the flight to relieve either yourself or your dog.
3. Do not repeatedly hit said dog (unless it attacks me or looks at me funny).
4. Do not take your time when heading to the lavatory (e.g. do not sit in my seat while you collect yourself on departure or return).
5. Armrests are off limits. 
4. Do not cut me off in traffic (vehicular or pedestrian). If pedestrian, do not suddenly stop in the middle of a sidewalk or hold hands with one or more people the width of the sidewalk, blocking my passage - I will Red Rover the shit out of you and not think twice.
5. Do not hold the train door from closing in protest of the MTA consistently causing you to be late for work (you should undoubtedly see the irony here).
6. Do not decide to start showing up to my regularly attended fitness classes in the month of January only (see number 2).
7. The toilet paper roll does not go under - it is ALWAYS over. Always. 
8. Do not tell me I'm crazy - even if I'm committed.
9. Do not talk to me (like you're my) mom.
10. Do not look at me.

These are merely ten(ish) recommendations. I can only provide so much guidance for how you need to change for me. The rest you'll need to figure out on your own, and I hope you do so quickly. I already have to deal with enough personal anxieties and anguish, do not add to my sleepless nights.

If, for some reason, you find yourself wholly bent on changing in the New Year for yourself (*eye roll*), I will be posting some workout tips from various fitness instructors and/or athletes in the coming weeks. Their knowledge will be provided to you free of charge, but not free of my redline edits. 

Home for the Holidays. Help!

Figuring out the logistics of Christmas travel when you’re in a relationship (one that has reached the level of shared holidays, that is) is something I wish I were better prepared for. One would assume I’d have a great handle on shuffling around to different houses having come from a broken home (referred to lovingly), but I didn’t grow up as one of those privileged kids of divorce. The kids that could leverage the guilt of one parent against the other with multiple birthday celebrations, those who learned the art of negotiation early in life – they were the real victors of divorce (as are the trap queens). My doting dad made a clean exit when he left us, and I was never afforded the learned values of effectively politicking multiple familial gatherings because of it. So, for Christmas this year, I'm made keenly aware of one more daddy issue in my wheelhouse. Thanks, Santa.

This is the first Christmas in a long while that I’m going “home” to Las Vegas. The past three Christmases as a couple, Steven has had to work. So, we stayed in New York and spent the holidays with some of his local extended family. Before we started dating, I used other excuses (e.g. I’m washing my hair) to avoid a Vegas Christmas. Though, more often than not, I simply didn’t want to couldn’t afford it. This year, Steven and I are both off from work and decided to take the full week between Christmas and New Years to visit family. Joy.

Steven absolutely loves spending time with his family. It’s one of the things I love most about him. I absolutely love spending time with myself. It’s one of the things I love most about me. I am also a fan of predictability when it comes to potentially stressful situations. I prefer to drink away the stress have a detailed plan and exit strategy. For this trip, I have been unsuccessful in pinning my family to a specific agenda, which means I am not in possession of a detailed plan or an exit strategy (other than locking down a hotel room for the length of our trip and grabbing a rental car for quick getaways – let’s just hope my mother doesn’t come across one of her many clubs while I’m there.)

As I mentioned in my welcome back post, I no longer have a therapist on retainer, and, as such, bring all complaints about my inadequacies (inadequacies that I can blame on others especially) here. Similar to my inability to suppress the urge to tell complete strangers personal details of my life, I have tried and failed at an effortless bringing together of family traditions in my relationship. I can’t say it’s my first or final failure in my relationship, but I hate losing. I hoped my many years spent as an indentured servant assistant to busy executives would have better prepared me for these scheduling crises. However, I’ve been quickly reminded that you learn much faster as a kid with their stupid spongy brains. So not only could I have been multilingual, I might have avoided unnecessary arguments with my soon-to-be husband had I learned from my parents early on. Thanks for nothing, Santa you fat fictitious motherfucker.

I realize that almost every other couple in existence has had to coordinate the holidays at multiple houses, most of them in different states or continents. I get it. I’m no saint for scheduling two family get-togethers in the same city (though, I would like to point out our families are on opposite sides of town). However, I am coordinating timelines with people I don’t typically deal with in this capacity. I’m very particular about my calendar and knowing when and where I need to be at any given point. My family does not operate like this. They are habitually late and timeline free – fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of people. However, they’re my people, and we’re going to drink more than is required do our best to make this one of the first of many joyous combined family Christmases, Klonopin at the ready.

Adopt. Don't Shop

I had wanted to get a dog for a long time, and decided that once I got my own place in the City I would do just that. That's the worst best part about being an adult - you can do what you want (but really, someone please help, tell me what to do!). I found the perfect studio - enough space to live comfortably and a part-time doorman to judge me keep me honest. I hurriedly signed the lease to triumph over the many people next in line to sign, and completely disregarded my puppy plan. I finally inquired about the canine rules of the building upon move-in and found that they hate dogs had a strict no dog policy. As an extremely indecisive person, I have to appreciate when decisions are made on my behalf, and in this case the verdict was in - no dog for me for the two-year lease term.

Within those two years, I began dating Steven.* After those two years, I moved in with Steven. We were too busy figuring out how life works as a couple to think about additions to our home. However, a puppy was still in the back of my mind.

After a year in our first apartment as a newly affianced couple, we moved (for the first time since my Manhattan residence began) away from the east 200s block to a perfect one bedroom near the river. As soon as we signed the lease, I knew this would be my chance at puppy parenthood - the apartment came with a large private backyard!

We settled into the apartment for the next year, and then, early last summer we began discussing dog adoption. We incessantly scoured Petfinder, sending each other pictures of our favorites. Like most decisions that include more than one person's opinion, finding a dog we both liked was a challenge. Steven prefers gypsy looking dogs - the longer their dog goatee the better, while I appreciate pretty dogs because I don't live in Brooklyn I'm not confident enough to make up for their shortcomings.

Finally, we found a dog we both loved - a hound mix ready for a home - for our home. I mean, look at that face. That's a dog I can take to the dog park with my head held high (unless I'm nursing a hangover - that's why the backyard is key).

We applied immediately, and I provided the contact information of the people I knew would lie about me best for their three required references. Once they all replied with glowing reviews (in the spirit of full disclosure - one which I wrote myself), the adoption agency called us to schedule a home visit. That's right, a home visit. I can go buy six great danes from a dog store right now, and no one is coming by my place to confirm it's not a closet. However, if a home visit was the final box to check before Elvis came home to us, come on over after I put away the sex swing.

[You may have noticed the puppy acquired a name - good catch. I named him Elvis for two reasons, (1) he's part hound (ahem: ♫ you ain't nothing but a hound dog ♫), and (2) Steven and I are both from Vegas. It was too perfect, and soon, we would all be one big happy multiracial family.]

I joked with Steven about the home visit because we both thought it was ridiculous. "Do you think it's just to make sure we're not operating a meth den?" I asked him. "Well, if it is, we better hide the meth." Steven's a forward thinker, it's one of the reasons I love him. After we cleaned up the meth apartment, we made an appointment and the next day, an adoption rep, with her pit-mix in tow, dropped by to sniff out the drugs.

She was a big fan of our apartment, and upon touring she joked "these visits are just to make sure you don't have a meth den." (We clearly employ the same writers.) We saved the backyard tour for last, and, after suggesting we adopt more than one dog with this type of space, she told us we passed the final test.

"Great! When can we pick up Elvis?" I eagerly inquired.

She then ruined my life explained their adoption process, which goes as such: step one - submit an application, step two - references, step three - home visit, step four - disappointment. Essentially, we were now officially approved to adopt one of their animals, and we could go to any of their events and leave with a new family member. And then I got punch in the fucking face - ELVIS WASN'T EVEN AVAILABLE ANYMORE. She had little to nothing to say in regard to the relevance of applying for a specific dog on their site. "Get out of my house," I screamed (in my head).

Since losing Elvis, I've been in mourning and our dog search has been dispassionate at best. Like being driven to drink, I've been persuaded to BUY BUY BUY. No dog shop or puppy farm is going to get my hopes up - If I pay, I play. Sure, Sarah McLachlan's "Angel" taunts my thoughts, but as an adult with abandonment issues, I can't survive another doggy disappointment. Does it count as shopping if someone else buys it for me? I didn't think so.

As such, I would like to ask Santa for only one thing this year - Elvis. Find whichever unworthy, meth-concealing family got him and pull a Grinch. Bring him to me. Or, if Steven's reading this - I'll take a dog (a good looking one) instead of all of those gifts under the tree. If you didn't keep the receipts, I'll take both.

*When I decided to start blogging again, I had a talk with my fiancé about what name he would prefer I use for the blog since I figured I would complain about mention him often. He offered the following suggestions: Mitch, Eucalyptus, Wiley, Sylvester, Reginald, Mohammad, Lars, or Simon ("as in 'Simon Says,' get it?"). As with most things, his opinions went ignored.

Don't Call it a Comeback

I debated with myself for quite a while if I should bring this blog back to life. Am I the same person? Do I still find myself in ludicrous situations at 2am? Do people even use Blogger anymore? The debates went as such:

Am I the same person?

Of course I'm not the same person - I'm 30 now (*cringe*). The girl that started this blog years ago never could have imagined she would make it to 30; yet she did (with the help of alcohol professional therapy). OK, but that's exactly how the concept of time works - you get older, age has nothing to do with being the same person. Of course, I'm the same person - I still live in Manhattan, and that will never change,* I still work a desk job despite tempting myself with the possibilities of pursuing my passions and making it work with odd jobs, and I still continue to make a fool of myself while intoxicated, though my now 30-year-old body generates more physically damaging repercussions than previously experienced. But now I don't sleep with date all the wrong guys - I'm actually getting married in six months. 20-something-year-old me would never believe I'd convince someone to do that (if the last post wasn't evidence enough). And, remember my high school superlative - most changed? I'm predisposed to become a new person every 3-4 years. So I agreed to disagree with myself - I am the same person and I'm not. At least I still revel in satirically judging others, and more so, I continue to enjoy musing at my perpetual mistakes.   

Do I still find myself in ludicrous situations at 2am?

Why did I make 2am a qualifier? What a terrible excuse. These days, I'm at my highest intoxication by 2pm. At the age of 30, bottomless brunching becomes even more important in order to create an adequate hangover preparation period. So, sure - I might not be out until all hours of the night looking for trouble anymore, but, per the aforementioned paragraph, I'm the same disaster of a personality, and that attribute maintains I bring the trouble with me regardless of the sun's position in the sky. 

Do people even use Blogger anymore?

I don't know that they ever did. However, I'm too lazy to figure out a different way to do this, and I don't have enough creativity apps on my phone to do the whole funny-text-above-a-stock-photo thing on Instagram.

None of these debates really mattered in the end. My company switched insurances and my therapist is no longer covered. I'd rather spend the money on Seamless and booze donations to dozens of charities, so I'm going to need an outlet in the interim. I figure I can just send my therapist links to the blog periodically, and maybe he'll decide some pro bono work is necessary. 

*Dear 40-year-old me, if you come back to this blog after years of absence and laugh at how 30-year-old me thought she would never leave the City, she will haunt you. She hates you. Why did you make her leave? Did your husband convince you? I bet it was the kids and "needing more space" or "we need to start thinking about their schooling." Coward. 20-something-year-old you is even more appalled - you're married...with kids?! We don't even know you anymore. 

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.

 

Source

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.

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 nature, which 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.

Sincerely,


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.

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 rent...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.

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. 

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.

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? 

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.

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 friends...as 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.