[I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the epitome of prim and proper- heck, who really is nowadays? But looking around at the misguided youths of today *ahem drinking buddies*, I’m starting to think that Miss Manners might have been onto something.

While you may never need to know how to greet a duke or how to tell which fork is REALLY the oyster fork, knowing how to deal with people whom owe you money, how much to tip, and how to address the ever annoying licorice-in-teeth conundrum without being rude might actually come in handy in the real world. I'm not trying to be your mother - oh goodness, no - I'm just here to help you out of those little etiquette dilemmas. So here goes: a quick lesson in etiquette. The sh*t you might actually need to know.]

I know that times are tough. The economy is in the dumper and our wallets are just getting emptier and emptier. These days it seems like I can’t turn a corner or walk into a bar without having to pay somebody something. Though I know it’s hard to choose between blowing your last dollars on another pitcher of beer or tipping the bartender, as a one-time waitress, I would never ever suggest skimping on tips. These service providers work hard (usually on a tiny salaries) and their paychecks rely heavily on your tips.

The other day, I was appalled when after ordering a heap-load of Chinese food, a “friend” of mine flicked the delivery guy a quarter and closed the door. A quarter. As in twenty-five cents. I literally had to chase down the guy and shove a few dollars at him. When I confronted her, she said she wasn’t sure how much to tip. I called bullsh*t, but it got me wondering if this is a real problem for a lot of people. So in case you were wondering, here is a tipping cheat sheet on who to tip and how much to tip them.

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Being that I have a giant obsession with The Hills, I have forced a lot of my friends to watch it over the years. Obviously, they had no choice if they happened to be anywhere near my house on a Monday night; but it also happens to be the only thing I talk about/reference, so most of my friends felt it necessary to watch in order to understand me when I refer to their new bangs as totally Pratt-Tastic. Or if I refer to someone’s lame ass BF as a Poor (wo)Man’s Justin Bobby.

But just because they watch it doesn’t mean they love it like I do. In fact, as last nights season finale was coming to a dramatic close, I received this text from a friend:

“The Hills is the suckiest sucky show ever. I want to shove forks into my eyes.”

Clearly, this friend doesn’t see the show for the super fantastic hot mess that it really is. And that makes me sad. Read More »

Spring means a lotta things: the runways are aflutter with new collections and we can finally stow our dowdy winter gear in the closet and start rocking fresher duds, just in time for the requisite mid-year debauchery of Spring Break.

Flowers are in bloom, the sun is peeping, and love is hanging in the air with the sly promise of an unfinished flirt session. We’re all ready to turn new leaves with the season, and if we’re going to do it in style, we’re going to need a really good soundtrack.

With the music-festival craziness of SXSW coming up in a few weeks, there’s a bonanza of new spring albums to choose from. Here are three cherry picks from three phenomenally talented women, just in time to usher in a truly dreamy springtime.

Valet: Naked Acid

Valet is Honey Owens, a California transplant who’s been a legendary figure in the Portland, Oregon experimental music scene for almost a decade now. She’s lent her blonde elegance and burnout guitar riffs to projects like the legendary drone outfit Jackie-O Motherfucker — not to mention World, Nudge, Dark Yoga (yes, that’s a real band), and the newly-formed Atlas Sound. Not only that, but she’s got amazing style and co-owns one of Portland’s most unique boutiques of vintage gear, Rad Summer.

The amazingly-titled Naked Acid will totally save you the trouble of ever dabbling in the titular drug: it will blow your mind with its snakelike guitar work, the seemingly endless layers of delay-laced chanting, and the semi-conscious, gauzy tones of Owens’ whispery voice. Read More »