Tag Archives: opinion


In my six months of singlehood, it has come to my attention that texting is the new mating call. And in a world where young people hook up at rates disturbingly close to those seen on Jersey Shore, knowing how to do it right is no joking matter.

It requires a delicate balance of tact and grammatical correctness to leap over the abyss of text failure and make it to the first date. And let me tell you, friends – nobody comes back from the abyss.

Now not everyone has the same rules for texting. Some women dismiss a guy who sexts (apparently I don’t). In any case, these are my rules. Gentlemen, grab a pen because you will be immediately dismissed for committing any of the following offenses:

1. Sending me paragraphs. It’s great that you have a really funny story to tell me. Now stop clogging my fucking inbox and tell it to me over dinner instead.

2. Using too many abbreviations. One fell into the abyss for this reason just last week. Y u no wnt 2 date? Because I’m not sure you passed preschool, that’s why.

3. Misspelling too many words. You get two strikes for the sake of autocorrect, but one man actually texted me to turn at a stop sine. Unless he’s being facetious about trigonometry, that’s a deal breaker. Though I do appreciate a good math joke.

4. Texting anything serious or important. Examples of things to talk about face-to-face: I love you, I actually like men, or I have chlamydia. Sorry about that.

5. Texting without reason. “Hello.” Goodbye.

You may wonder why I’ve got texting on the brain. Well, on Saturday night (before meeting my fake gay bff), I met a very sweet guy who also happened to be rather attractive. We chatted it up for about twenty minutes before I had to leave with my friends, and he got my number on the way out.

We have been texting back and forth since, and though he is coming on very strongly, he seems like a genuine guy who really wants to take me out and treat me well. His texts are quite frequent, but do not violate any of the above rules. So let’s give the guy a chance. Poor thing has no idea what he is signing up for, anyway. We’ll see how long he can hang, starting with dinner tomorrow night.

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SXSW: The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

Many of you may wonder what kind of horrible disease I must have caught that caused me to take a 2-day hiatus from blogging. After all, what do I even have to do other than write commentary on desserts and breast size?

Well, this week has been particularly busy. Droves of tech nerds, musicians, and hipsters have invaded my fine city to take part in the epic adventure that is SXSW. And I am in people-watching heaven.

Here is a brief summary of my adventures thus far:

The Good

SXSW means many things to many people. To me, it means free everything. My friends and I were awarded these lovely passes for having breasts. Did we take offense to this? No, we took a lovely evening of open bar, free sushi, and a live show by Jimmy Cliff instead. Thanks, creepy man with a cigar for your generosity.

Not all of the parties were quite as high-class, so we switched to some good old fashioned Texas beer when the champagne selection came from a box.

The Bad

Last night was sadly the low-light of my SXSW spree. Not because of the place or people, just because I was feeling down. It began with this bag of wine and ended with a very grumpy version of me whining until I passed out in the car.

One poor soul tried to approach me and make a connection. He asked if my eyelashes were real. When that shockingly incited no conversation, he incorrectly guessed what type of cellphone I was using to try and impress me. Then, he mostly stood there and stared like a drunken zombie.

Thank you for your inquiry, sir, but I am currently not accepting applicants with IQs under 60. Should my intelligence requirement be lifted, we will be in touch. But don’t hold your breath. I also bite. Not in a sexy way.

The Ugly

The people-watching at SXSW is incomparable. I want to rip some of the outfits off of the women and run away with them until I reach my closet, which I hear is the next craze in how to shop.

Other outfits are not only less desirable, but down right vom-worthy.

Exhibit A

Home girl needs some Stacy & Clinton in her life. Or at the very least a different pair of socks.

Exhibit B

What kills me is that I actually like her shirt. Just not awkwardly layered, and with neon bra straps a’ blazing. But the shoes leave me speechless – are they rain boots? wedges? cowboy boots? I’ll just call them “ugly.”

I have nothing more to say about this photo. So in summation…. SXSW is great. I cannot say the same for all of the wardrobe selections.

And here is my fake smile.

As one of my friends always signs off… kisses and blow jobs. (think about it. xoxo?)

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Are You the Same Person Online?

This morning, I read an article on Forbes about the multiple personality disorder of women (and I would argue men, too) in the digital age. It made me think long and hard about two things:

  1. The extent to which my online identities reflect who I am as a person
  2. How bitter I am that my employer didn’t buy me a SXSW badge so that I could attend this talk. It’s right down the street, you assholes.

We all know how it is. You’re posting about the awesome time you are having with awesome people drinking awesome booze at an awesome party. But in reality you are standing in a corner staring at your phone, waiting for someone to comment on all of the awesomeness.

In my experience, there are two types of avid Facebookers: the oversharer and the undersharer.

With the oversharer, you know every tiny detail about their obviously superior life. You know they got to work safe this morning, because they checked in. You know they got laid last night, because the lyrics to “Two Become One” have made a dramatic appearance on this morning’s status update. And you sincerely hope their grandmother recovers from that rash soon, because the photo just looks nasty.

I will never quite understand the oversharer. It seems so silly to act like your life is better than it really is on social media. Sure, you get lots of comments on that flattering photo; but when you run into your FB friends in real life and are still five hundred pounds, the jig is up.

Personally, I take the opposite route. I am an undersharer. You can learn exactly three things from my Facebook profile, all of which are true: I have dogs, I eat, and sometimes people agree to go places with me against their better judgment.

The undersharer uses Facebook just as frequently as the oversharer, but mostly for lurking, stalking, and judging. If only I had a penny for every time one of my Facebook frenemies made a terrible fashion decision.

The two most important social media platforms in my life are Facebook and WordPress.

Facebook is associated with my true identity. To gain access, you’d have to cross-reference my image with thousands of young single women to find my name, illegally obtain my home address, show up with baked goods (just plain courtesy), pin me to a wall, and force me to accept your friend request while holding my dogs hostage.

Ring Finger Tan Line, on the other hand, is only loosely associated with my true identity. To gain access, you need only search for something like “make me a cake bitch,” which I am told will put you on the fast track here.

In theory, “Facebook me” should be closer to reality than RFTL. It’s shared with people I kind-of know and am fairly certain are not serial killers. On the contrary, “Facebook me” sucks. I’m not even funny – I’m shy and strange and don’t want people all up in my business.

When I got an annulment, I even deleted my Facebook page entirely, because there was no way my high school nemesis was learning about my marriage fail on her damned mini feed. The only good thing I can say about “Facebook me” is that she uses proper grammar, and for that, I respect her.

In reality, I see myself so much more of myself in Ring Finger Tan Line. Funny how a cloak of anonymity can be just what you need to open up. I suppose on some level, it makes sense. Somehow it’s just easier to talk about sex toys with strangers than your parents. Go figure.

What do you think? Are you the same in real life as you are online?

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Things That Take Priority Over Work

On this first workday of daylight savings, I have found it rather difficult to concentrate.

Today was my first day in a new cube, so I spent most of the morning moving my tiny green Buddha around the desk and pretending to unpack all of my other worldly trinkets.  This took certain priority over my email queue, as I don’t want to know what would happen if mini Buddha didn’t enjoy his new view.

Before actually working, I needed to complete a few other critical tasks, such as:

  • Staring at the fog.
  • Watering my dead plants.
  • Creating fake email addresses and subscribing them to my blog.
    Just kidding.
    But only kind of.
  • Checking my Grandfather’s Facebook page to see if he has any new friends.
  • Combing Henry’s hair.
  • Plugging in the tiny anime-looking figurine on my desk (it’s just not as exciting when he doesn’t light up).
  • Watching Bon Qui Qui for the hundred millionth time.
  • Plotting RFTL world domination.
  • Writing this post.

Obviously, this list is too short. Please help to boost my productivity and contribute some worthy ideas.

Best one wins a picture of food that I made and probably ate by myself. Because that’s really the only thing I have to contribute to society.

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How-to: Idiot-Proof Your Red Lipstick

To me, red lips are the ultimate in classic glamour. When I think of myself with them, I usually envision finger waves in my hair, a martini in my hand, and a well-dressed gentleman sending me another round from across the bar. A day which I will continue to look forward to and creepily linger in bars waiting for.

In addition to its timeless sex appeal, red lipstick is a fabulous tool for boy scouting. It beckons the single man, while warding off the cheater who will worry about it lingering on his lying little face. Doesn’t that just make you want to send a complimentary gift basket of red lipstick to every little home wrecker out there?

Yes, red lipstick is the ultimate sex-me-now for the single life, but it is not for the faint of heart. Nor does it compliment the acne-ridden thirteen-year-old, particularly rosaceous, or those plagued with extremely-bland-personality-disorder. Should you fall into one or more of those categories, not even the following tricks can help you. Maybe go find a post on curing those problems and get back to me.

To master the art of wearing red lipstick without looking like an idiot, you must prepare yourself with the proper tools. A good quality lipstick is key (I like Chanel Rivoli from the Coco Rouge collection). You must also have some sort of primer/foundation, red lipliner in a similar shade to your lipstick, light or clear gloss, q-tips, and make-up remover.

First, prime your lips with some kind of nude-colored substance. My lips never go completely nude, but this is a lot less color than they normally have. Using the primer will give you a clean canvas to work on and help everything last longer. Except maybe your male companion – I make no promises on that.

Next, use the lipliner to line your lips. Once you’re done, fill both entire lips with the liner. It should look like you have a light red lipstick on.

The lipliner always stays on longer than the lipstick, so in an emergency where you can’t reapply post-lunch or coffee, this will ensure that you don’t walk around looking like a child drew lips on your face.

Finally, go over the liner with your lipstick and a gloss for finish.

Tips for inevitable damage control:

Never underestimate the power of a dry q-tip. This is your first, and hopefully only, line of defense.

Should the dry q-tip fail you, moisten it with a tiny bit of make-up remover. Under no circumstances wet the q-tip. That will end with you looking like a vampiress who just ate dinner.

Good luck out there, little vixens. Wear your red lipstick with pride, and should you see a cheater, be sure to get it on his shirt as he walks by.

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