You’re paying hundreds of dollars a night to escape from your lumpy mattress and your cranky neighbors and your mold-stained shower that you don’t feel like cleaning and your pile of laundry that you’re actively trying to avoid. That’s what vacations are for: getting the hell away from reality. And while you’re kiddying up all of your hard-earned savings to have someone leave a mint on your pillow and turn down your sheets, you might as well fuck your brains out on those sheets that you’ll never have to wash. Below, some tips for getting the most bang for your buck in your hotel room. Keep reading »
From now until the end of the internet, Rebecca Martinson will be known as the mean girl who wrote a rabid email to her University of Maryland Delta Gamma sisters berating them for being “weird,” “awkward,” “boring,” “stupid,” retarded,” “ass hat,” “faggots” who were unable to properly socialize with brother frat Sigma Nu. When Rebecca wasn’t busy writing shame mail to her sorority sisters, she was working on a future career in comedy, composing racist, classist, size-ist Tweets. But since becoming infamous, she’s deleted her Twitter feed. Well, there goes her career as the next Lisa Lampanelli! Should she make it through the rest of her college career at the University of Maryland — I imagine she’ll have to transfer — she’ll have to find some way to earn a living once she graduates. But what kind of job is someone with the gift of hate-spewing cut out for? We were wondering that very thing here at The Frisky. Her future doesn’t have to be a wash. We have some ideas for Rebecca… Keep reading »
I hate both giving and receiving dating advice, mostly because it isn’t a one-size-fits-all endeavor. But when a younger lady, wet behind the ears on the dating scene, comes to me and asks questions, I feel obligated to share my hard-learned relationship truthisms. Even if they’re harsh. I’m not going to make it all fluffy unicorns. Dating is more like an unpredictable mastodon. Yes, I know she’ll probably ignore me, the young, irreverent laddess that she is, and go do exactly what the hell she wants to do just like I did when I was 19. And she’ll learn on her own, the hard way, the way all of us did, by getting kicked out of the guy-you-think-you’re-in-love-with’s birthday party and then vomiting in a gutter at 5 a.m. Or was that just me? But ohhh, if I can spare her the unnecessary heartache, the unnecessary vomit, the time spent composing unnecessary revenge emails, then dammit, I will give my most valiant effort! If someone had told me these things back then– when I had no idea how shit worked — I would have plugged my ears. So here goes, the things I know are true about dating, even though I wish they weren’t. Take heed. Or feel free to ignore and enjoy the GIFs. You’re going to do what you want to anyone. That’s the truth. Keep reading »
“Excuse me, why do you have the sour bug?”
That’s what a guy once said to me in a bar. I know, I know; you’re totally swooning. If you’re a woman and you’re alive, chances are you’ve been hit on by a Pickup Artist (commonly known as PUAs), by this method known as “negging.”
I always thought of PUAs as nightclub prowlers, dressed like they rummaged through a clown’s closet, decked out in Ed Hardy, looking like a cross between Steven Tyler and The Situation from “Jersey Shore.” I often wondered, Who are these supposed women who found men donning sparkly scarves, multiple rings, and fingerless, leather gloves attractive? I imagine they are the same types of women who still think George Michael is straight. I thought of PUAs as full of canned come-ons, the smell of desperation wafting off of them like bad cologne. Their core problem, I analyzed, was lack of confidence. Common sense would dictate that secure men don’t need a script to approach women. Can you imagine Bill Clinton or Don Draper using PUA methods? I don’t think so.
As you may have deduced from my tone, I always looked down on PUAs and their slimy methods. Which is why I couldn’t stop myself from signing up for a class entitled “Pickup a 10 in the Streets of NYC.” At first I was just curious; I wanted to know what makes these guys tick. I imagined myself as a spy on a reconnaissance mission, collecting information from the enemy. Or like Sigourney Weaver in “Gorillas in the Mist,” studying the species’ every move. Keep reading »
Nearly two years ago, I wrote about all the reasons why having a plant is better than having a boyfriend. Then, recently, I landed myself an awesome boyfriend who is pretty much always available to listen to me in the way my plants previously did (and before that my childhood dog, Mandy).
Now, begrudgingly, I’m forced to admit that having a boyfriend is slightly better than having a plantfriend. It’s just more edifying to have someone listen to you who talks back with kind words and intelligent insights and also wants to make out with you. (Friends are good for this kind of thing as well — minus the making out — if you’re not with boyfriend at the moment.)
But just because I have a human companion, doesn’t mean that I appreciate the sage wisdom of my plants any less. A big shout out to Liberation, Money Bags, Muffin Top, Spike, and Banana for always being there for me. Here’s what I’ve learned from living with my plantfriends for the last six years, my plantitudes, if you will…
I’m an an undomestic goddess of the highest order. I believe I’ve mentioned that I hate to cook so you probably wouldn’t be that surprised to learn that I hate to clean. YET … if you walked into my apartment, you would think it was clean. How do I do make this magical illusion happen? Full disclosure: I do pay someone to deep clean my apartment one to two times a month. It’s the most worthwhile $100 I’ve ever spent. BUT ALSO, I am the master at straightening up. I don’t clean, I straighten. If you’re like me — unwilling to break out a single cleaning product when you’re having company over — then you’ll appreciate my super lazy cleaning tips. Use them well and try not to judge me. Keep reading »