What I know for sure

The happier you are, the more embarrassing dancing and uncontrollable karaoke you are willing to showcase.  If you can’t flop to the ground and show off your impression of a hump back whale in front of your friends – you either don’t trust them enough or your friends fucking suck. 

Good bosses are like good romantic relationships.  Don’t fuck that shit up.  If your boss is nice, fair and likes the work that you are doing – don’t take that for granted.  A head hunter or two may call to entice you to work for some name impressive place (Google, GE, Playboy Mansion) that is willing to pay you wages only Satan would approve.  Know that there’s a more than decent probability that your new boss could relish in destroying your life. 

College friends are like the Beatles.  You may not see them/listen to them all the time, but when you do you are reminded at how fucking awesome they are.  And unlike the Beatles, your college friends are most likely still alive.

The last 25% of a Chipotle Burrito should not be consumed.  First off, it looks like a sagging diaper.  Second off, you have already consumed all of the delicious meat which tends to hover in the middle portion.  You are left with a sad lump of bread with a few bits of lime rice and sour cream.  The sad lump will try to seduce you into consuming it but, beware my friend; it does not come with a complimentary side of pepto bismol. 

Mo’ money. Mo’ problems.  The whole time I was a cheap ass college student, I couldn’t wait for the day that I could swim in my giant pile of money once I got a “real job.”  Then I got a real job and missed the days that I could skip class to hang out at the pool all day with my boyfriend.  And then you get promoted, a bigger salary and everyone expects that you won’t be driving around town in your crappy old Honda Civic and living in a 380 sq ft apartment.  Beware of the salary envy.  If you’re in a good job that isn’t making you a baller but lets you leave early and enjoy your life – you’re doing fine.

No one knows how long it’s been since you last washed your pants.  But don’t abuse that privilege, chump. 

WINNING! A guide to Vegas (and life)

Treat Vegas like a case of premature ejaculation.  Many a strong soldier has fallen by 6pm Friday night.  With the excitement, hysteria, and road sodas on the drive to Nevada – you may arrive in Vegas 3 (high thread count) sheets to the wind.  Put some thought into when you are going to allow yourself to get absolutely hammered so you aren’t passed out in the hotel while your buddies are knee deep in Perfect 10 models at Tao. 

Understand the unwritten law that if you make an ass of yourself, this will not actually stay in Vegas.  If you are dumb enough to throw a bag of vomit outside of a moving vehicle in front of an officer of the law, you deserve the ridicule and mocking of all of your friends.  Furthermore, know that if you try to justify your stupidity, this will only result in a life scarring nickname.   

Don’t be a cheap bastard.  And I say this with love.  Yes, bottle service and acid trips are outrageously priced.  But son, this is why god invented credit cards.  Every time you think about passing up on an opportunity in Vegas, remind yourself of your complete contempt for your boss and your children and suddenly $500 for a pool side cabana seems reasonable.  And if you’re still worried about your potential financial ruin, just remember to …

Win free money.  Going to Vegas without gambling is like reading Playboy for the articles.  Just think of it as giving a donation to the poor crippling state of Nevada.  And for your donation, you will get to throw back cheap chardonnay until you’re ready to throw up and preach to strangers that clenching your butt cheeks helps you hit 21. 

Don’t take sleeping arrangements seriously.  About a week before the actual trip, people are going to start making all kinds of wild accusations about where they will pass out in the hotel room.  Know that no spot is safe (unless you are the one that arranged the hotel room – then you get your bed of choice).  Chances are you will a) wind up in a stranger’s room naked and cold or b) wake up on top of the entertainment center surrounded by crushed pretzels and Oreos.  And to be perfectly honest, the fact that you will be sleeping at all makes you an amateur. 

Remember that corpses are easier to get rid of than tattoos and unwanted pregnancies.   So when the urge to copulate, defile yourself or kill another human being surfaces – take the easy route.  

If you don’t like yoga, you’re probably an asshole

So there was a point in my life when I thought yoga was a giant waste of time whose sole purpose was to affirm the life choices of ambitionless hippies.  The gym was like a production floor to me, churning out calories at a maximum rate.  I wanted efficiency, predictability and results.  I would sporadically take yoga classes because everyone was doing it but I wasn’t quite sure what the fuss was all about.  At my first yoga class I remember those last 5 minutes of silence and rest were the worst five minutes of my life.  Who the fuck has the time to relax? I thought.  Instead of letting go, I ran through my long list of “must do’s”( who I was thinking about fucking) and mentally revising my list of enemies.  When my dad (a long time yogi) asked me what I thought about class I said “umm, was that a work out because half of those people were asleep.”  And then I judged them HARD and basically gave up on the whole idea for many many years.

 Spring forward 5ish years and I’m now taking at least two yoga classes a week.  Sitting in tree pose last night I thought about the woman girl I used to be.  When yoga seemed like a joke I was:

More concerned with winning than really anything else.

Thought relaxing, vacations and leaving work at a decent hour were concepts designed by the lazy.

Buying a shit load of expensive clothes.  Hoarding is probably the better verb. 

Aligning myself with people who lived a lifestyle I believed I wanted to have.

Drinking a lot.

Anyone see a pattern?  Clearly I didn’t until last night.  I’ve intentionally made a lot of changes in my life this year and it’s terrifying to see that I’m become the laid back hippie my parents always wanted me to be.  I literally have to stop and ask “who the fuck am I?” as I watch myself baking, going to church and passing up on opportunities to drink my face off. 

But back to yoga – last night I got incredibly excited as I realized how flexible I was becoming.  I literally caught myself thinking “dude, I need to go back and do the sit and reach for my old gym teachers, I would ROCK that.”  And lest you think I’m a physical anomaly, I was thinking all of this while next to the most flexible tiny asian man in the world.  He could literally sauté a nice ahi tuna whilst upside down on one arm.  But his ethereal skills didn’t pressure me or get me down, I just thought “wow” and went back to concentrating on my own small victories. 

And that, my friends, is what yoga is all about. 

Things that could entice me to leave Los Angeles

The Onion comes a calling.  This satirical newspaper is conveniently headquartered in my hometown (Chicago).  In my future blissful reality, the editors get a hold of Wine Will Fix It and stop at NOTHING to get me on staff as a writer.  Then I spend the rest of my life making up news and stuffing myself with free chips and pop in the writer’s room.  They pay me just enough to afford to live in Andersonville where I will drink imported beer at the Hop Leaf and share recreational drugs with my musician friends.  I will end up supporting my artist boyfriend who will eat soy cheese.  I will complain for approximately 10+ years about how much better the weather is in Los Angeles.

University of North Carolina decides I’d make a decent therapist.  In this scenario I get off my ass and apply for a PhD in counseling psychology. I work 80 hours a week and get paid slave wages in order to achieve three nifty letters after my last name.  I live in a basement apartment in Chapel Hill because it’s all I can afford.  I don’t see sunlight for approximately five years.  My doctoral work will pale in comparison to my dad’s.  I feel like a failure.  I die frustrated and angry surrounded by Duke fans. 

Villagers in a small island off of Thailand worship me as their God.  I sleep on palm fronds and eat exotic fruits.  I smoke their peace pipe and espouse my views on the connectedness of the universe.  I interpretive dance my feelings.  I give up make up and shaving my legs.  I end up pregnant.  My child does not speak English.  No one I know now hears from me for years.

My power hungry competitive self gets a job where personal assistants and Lincoln town cars are required.  I live in some place even more expensive than LA like San Fran or NYC in a loft.  You can see my kitchen, my claw foot bath tub and my mattress from every point in my overpriced room.  I am waifishly skinny because I don’t have time to eat.  I can inflict pain on my employees just through staring at them.  I run on adrenaline, caffeine and illicit extra marital affairs.  I wear fabulous high heel shoes and pay all of my bills early. 

Justifiable homicide lands me in San Quentin.  Finally, my love of the HBO hit Drama “Oz” comes in handy.  I learn to quickly assimilate within the social hierarchy of the prison system.  I am forced to do hours of laundry and go to confession.  I attempt suicide once.  I write my memoirs with my free time and pick up lifting weights.  I get a bitching tattoo. 

“They” choose me.  I’ve already said too much.  

Thoughts I have while taking a group fitness class

I am the ugliest person here

There are different kinds of gym go-ers.  There are the girls who wake up at 6am and carefully chose their coordinated spandex outfit and artfully twist up their hair to properly bead off their sweat and make them look fantastic.  Then there are girls like me who wake up late, chug coffee and wear ugly t shirts to spin class.  Because of this, I devote the first five minutes of any exercise class to telling myself I really need to get my shit together because I am the ugliest person here.

The pregnant instructor is in better shape than me

Some days this motivates me to work harder but some days this cues self defeating thoughts about how I’m lazy and should crawl in a hole and die. 

Is that cute guy single?

You there – boy in the back row of yoga.  You look hot smart.  I bet you have a stable income and like to watch well made movies.  Perhaps you like to eat?  Well you are in luck because I want to feed you.  You look like you want to cuddle.  Cuddle me specifically.  Let’s just forgo the dating process and get married. 

Oh the humanity, your music sucks

Spin class is basically like a club.  You want loud pop/hip hop music with simple lyrics and a beat that will distract you from the pain in your thighs.  Many spin instructors understand this simple concept.  But there are a few who insist on killing you slowly with their wordless techno music, James Taylor, Pink Floyd B sides and Chumbawamba. 

If they don’t turn on the fans, I will kill a bitch

You may love the feeling of sweat dripping over your disgusting flesh.  I do not.  When the instructor asks if he/she should crank up the industrial bambi killing air conditioners, you shout NO and allow your sweat to bounce off of you and onto my eye ball.  For that, I will knife you in the parking lot.  

Blog posts I haven’t written (and probably never will)

Every once in awhile I come up with a great idea for a blog post, fall in love with a clever title, start to write and stop. 

Here are the brilliant ideas that I haven’t found the strength to finish.  

To my faithful readers - if any of these half-baked ideas are something you actually want to read – please let me know.  That's right YOU get to chose your own wine will fix it adventure.  You have the power!

• Zen and the Art of Hair Maintenance

• Chicago Bulls, Ahmad Rashad & clinical insanity

• Annie Potts, suicide & crying in your apartment alone

• Isn’t it time we all came out of the closet?

• No matter how much I try, Bob Dylan won’t leave my life

• Doobie Brothers – are all of you dead?

• I don’t want to wear my big girl pants today

• Hey there hangover – why don’t you do yourself a favor and die?

• We aren’t human and we aren’t dancers

• Jazz hands and wind instruments – the saga of my smothering stage grandparents

• Thoughts on Oliver Cromwell after 3 glasses of wine

• New Mexico …. What the fuck?

• Why is no one talking about hotel bars and hookers?

• Barely cooked & barely legal – the sushi strip club