I came across this article the other day, an article about how chivalry is dead, and my generation is the one who killed it.

To prove her point, the article’s author explained how she’s often cat called when she walks down the street, and laments about the days when men tipped their hats and said “mornin‘” instead of leering at a pair of breasts and saying “yee!”

Even though I think she’s got a point when she talks about certain forms of traditional chivalry going out the window (the last time a man tipped his hat at me was…well, never, and not once has anyone ever thrown a jacket over a mud puddle), I’m pretty sure that using cat calls to define the death of chivalry is just plain incorrect.

Look, men have been cat calling women since the day they realized their mouths made sounds and breasts were awesome. Sure, Victorian dudes opened carriage doors for us and offered their elbow when the terrain got rough, but don’t think they weren’t whistling and jeering under those handlebar mustaches and cute little bowler hats. Perhaps they weren’t shouting “aye, mami!” when a fine looking bustle walked down the street, but you can bet a Victorian chick knew when a Mr. Darcy was hating to see her leave, but loving to see her go. Read More »

Now, not to brag or anything, but my mama raised me right. I was always taught to say Please and Thank you, excuse myself from the dinner table before getting up to do homework (alright, who am I kidding? It was more to watch MTV, write angsty poetry and/or try to sneak smoking cigarettes out of my basement window) and I always had to be polite. To everybody. Friends, neighbors, strangers, that disgusting kid with bad breath and UFO pants that sat next to me on the bus – everybody.

I don’t blame her for wanting me to grow up (not-so) tall and grow up right, but over the years I have found myself in a plethora of situations that have crossed that fine line between being polite and looking like a complete f!@#$cking pushover (sorry for the swear word, Mom!).

I’m the girl who will let you copy her notes from the entire semester before the final without asking for a single thing in return. I’m the girl who will pick you up from some random, I-swear-he-was-so-much-hotter-last-night guy’s house the morning after– even if we’ve only met twice. I’m the girl who will buy you beer (which includes picking it up and dropping it off at your doorstep) for the fourth time in a week and not mention the fact that you stiffed me about ten dollars.

And I’m the girl who – no matter how hard I try – can not for the life of me tell my douchebag ex-boyfriend to f@#ck off – and that NO, he can not completely plagiarize my paper from last semester even though I am, obviously, an amazing writer with an impeccable way with words.

Basically, I need to grow some balls. Read More »

Here’s the thing; you should never date a douchebag.

Now, sometimes, you don’t know you’re dating a douche until it’s too late. Maybe he’s awesome in the beginning, opening doors for you and being all polite and totally charming your parents, but then one day he decides to not only sleep with your best friend, but do it in your bed!

Sometimes, that sort of thing is hard to see coming.

Except when your guy looks the part.

See, if you start dating a guy who looks like he should be a total douche, but hasn’t yet shown the signs of real douchyism, chances are his true colors are going to be coming out pretty soon.

Nobody with oily hair, a body shaped by beer, couches, and pot, stupid fashion sense, and a monosyllabic speech pattern is going to turn out awesome in the end. You may think you can change this douche’s ways, get him on the fast track to a job and maybe the treadmill, but believe me—douchiness is almost impossible to stamp out.

Which is why I have no sympathy for Lindsay Lohan and her newest “scandal”. Apparently, her boyfriend for two minutes, Riley Giles (who she met in rehab. Cool!) is shopping around “personal photos” he took of her while they were dating. Obviously, those pics show LaLohan in all stages of “undress”, and are going to seriously tarnish her sweet, virginal image.

Well, okay. Chances are they’ll do nothing but prove what most of us already think, but still, who wants homemade nakey pictures of them sold to cheap tabloids? Read More »

Chivalry is not dead. It’s alive and well—or, at least alive.Since moving to New York, I have come across varying degrees of gallantry. Some is well intentioned and friendly; while some has a faded, slightly sour quality. Some acts of chivalry are carried out with genuine kindness, and some are done because the guy can’t bare the thought of letting a woman exert any kind of power.

How do you know what level of chivalry you’re getting on a daily basis? Read on.

LEVEL 1: On this, the brightest and friendliest level, the guy is being polite and helpful because he wants to be. Opening a door for you, standing up so you can take his seat on the subway, giving you room to pass on the sidewalk, all of these things are done with a smile and a pleasant glance. This guy’s mama taught him well, and it’s no trouble at all for him to show women that he holds them in high esteem.

Although it’s rare, this level does indeed exist, and I recommend immediately inquiring if such a polite lad has a partner, and if finding him to be single, snatching him up as quick as possible. Read More »

I live in New York City. Therefore, I should be used to Random Acts of Rudeness. Small things should no longer phase me. But because I am a nice, sweet, mostly polite girl, I am still very often radically offended and crazily frustrated by rude people acting obnoxiously. Here are a few examples of my most recent run-ins with RAR.

• At a job interview, the interviewer answers his blackberry not once, not twice, but three times in the middle of my answers to his questions. No sorry, hold on a moment, just a complete switch from looking at me and listening to typing away on his stupid toy. Each time he would chuckle at whatever inside joke was taking place on the tiny screen, leaving me nothing to do but admire the bare walls and stare out the window. Needless to say, I’m taking that job the day hell freezes over. Read More »