So…here’s the thing.

I am a big fan of social networking. Huge. Some might call me an addict. Facebook. Twitter. The internet in general. You don’t spend your time blogging, tweeting, and updating all day if you’re not a fan of the internet. But even I have to admit that sometimes being a product of the Facebook generation has its faults.

Just look at what happened to Natalie Munroe, the Central Bucks High School English teacher, who was suspended after posting degrading comments about her students on a personal blog. And now, she’s all over the internet, and not in a good way. Munroe posted the comments over a year ago, but the blog was recently discovered when someone posted it on a Facebook page and eventually one of the parents turned it into the school.

Munroe claims that she never imagined that anyone would actually read what she wrote. But they did. And now she’s one of the biggest stories of the week. The blog has since been taken down. But the quotes and comments still live on. And that’s the most important part to remember, I think, for our generation, at least.

We’re a generation of oversharers (and if you think you’re not, think again). We lack boundaries. People post about everything from their bathroom habits to their sexcapades without giving it a second thought. But what happens when someone reads that comment about your horrible boss and shows it to said horrible boss? Or when you tell your friend you’re home sick and then post pictures of yourself with your boyfriend two hours later? How many times do you update your Facebook a day? Probably more than you realize. We do it without even thinking about it. Everything that happens has to be shared. It’s part of who we are. It’s part of what we do. But now we need to think about how what we do on the internet will affect what we do in real life.

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If fantasy football is a good enough reason for guys to disappear for days on end, then I hereby give you permission to set aside the textbooks and turn off your cell phone for what is going to be the greatest (and most stressful) week of TV all year. It seems like every. freaking. show. on TV is premiering this week. Not sure how you’re going to fit it all in??

Brace yourselves, I’m about to outline the next five days’ worth of what to watch, what to TiVo, and what to skip altogether.  Oh, and all new shows are linked to their previews so you can decide for yourself!

Good luck. And thank god for Hulu. Read More »

Amidst your old favorites, there are always some new faces. It’s true for the first day of classes and it’s true for the Fall television schedule. With so many new faces this season, though, it’s not easy to decide which shows deserve that coveted slot on your DVR and which ones aren’t even worth a line on your TV guide.

CollegeCandy is here to help you sort them out. We’ve picked five new shows you won’t want to miss this year. Get your popcorn (or cookie dough – we don’t judge) ready, because Fall TV starts NOW. Read More »

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Dear New Yorker: That cover was stupid. Just admit it

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 »