
I have an inexplicable love for frat boys. You’d think that after college, I’d have learned my lesson and vow to never again attempt dating one. But no. Ooooh no.
It was Cinco de Mayo, right after college graduation. Four margaritas and a free t-shirt later, I saw him, stumbling toward the bar in basketball shorts, a t-shirt, J. Crew flip flops, and—
“Nice sombrero, hombre!”
Yes. A sombrero. To those who aren’t familiar, the frat boy always comes with an accessory: obnoxious headgear or aviators. My friend, who was keeping pace with my drinking at about half my size, decided to toss a line to the slightly dirtball, overly confident drunk guy. He turned, grabbed a basket of tortilla chips from another table, and slid into our booth.
“How do you ladies feel about flipcup?”
Swoon!
Hombre, as he came to be known, was a Long Islander with a hah-rrible accent whose buddy was hosting a flipcup tournament. I left the bar after putting my number in his phone, expecting never to hear from him again. Turns out Hombre had an affinity for drunk text messaging at prime booty-call hour. Which is how we ended up on our first date three days later. Read More »




Every year, some of us are guilty of giving sh*tty presents. Maybe we forget a relative until the last second, maybe we really don’t like someone but feel obligated to buy something, or maybe we’re just selfish bastards who don’t like to spend money, but whatever the case, every year during this time, truly crappy gifts are wrapped and set under the tree or beside the menorah.
Thanks to one Mr. Al Gore, I have been somewhat of a greenie (a friend of the planet, not the dog treat) for awhile now.