Faux Trixie | thesmartlychicago.com

A More Learned Faux Trixie

April 19, 2011 By Faux Trixie 14 Comments

I recently turned 30. From what I hear, it’s all downhill from here. I feel like the one truly fun decade of my life has passed me by so quickly, and I didn’t take full advantage because I was busy being a serious student and furthering my career. However, now that I’m older, I look back and realized I’ve learned a few lessons. I don’t know how serious or pragmatic or valuable they are, but if I could sit with my 20-year old self over a cup of coffee, I’d let her know this:

You look better tan. Stop trying to pull of that pasty, pale look. It doesn’t look good on you. Always be tan. You’ll feel better about yourself in pictures later.

You also look better brunette. I know, I know. You’re naturally blond, and you embrace it. However, think about changing your hair color before age 27. Also, those red streaks? They make you look more like a porn star than a lawyer.

Your dream is to live in the city? Move to a big condo overlooking beautiful downtown Chicago? City living is not really all it’s cracked up to be. Also, we don’t have a trust fund and you’ll never make enough to have a penthouse in the sky, so stop believing that you’ll be listening to Frank Sinatra and drinking a martini from your leather couch. You’ll be in an old apartment in Andersonville with no view, a hand-me-down couch, and a glass of cheap Lambrusco.

You’re never going to be rail thin, but you’ll look good, even with a little meat on your bones. Don’t sacrifice every burrito, piece of cake, fancy cocktail, or decadent meal to lose 8 ounces. This is why God created the empire waist.

Stop piercing your eyebrow. The piercer lied to you. It will leave a scar, and for the rest of your life, people will ask you what happened, wherein you will have to explain your wild streak in college.

Mom and Dad aren’t so bad. You’re just being kind of a jerk all the time.

Your friends will get married before you. Don’t freak out. It’s not that big of a deal. You’ll find someone eventually. And, by the time you get married, you’ll be so old that a big traditional wedding will no longer be acceptable and you’ll have to do a destination wedding. BONUS: Vacation!

Take more vacations. Your bosses don’t care as much as they think you do that you’re not in the office.

Stop smoking. For the love of GOD, stop before it is incredibly hard to do so, and you’re waking up every night hacking up a lung.

You and your college boyfriend are going to break up. That is a fact. You’re going to freak out a little when you find out that he’s engaged. Just remember, it was not at all meant to be.

Take better care of your car.

You always do whatever is easiest for you. Every once in awhile, try something that challenges you. Don’t worry, you won’t always fail. Sometimes, you’ll actually succeed.

You will be extremely belligerent and generally unpleasant to be around when drinking until age 28 or so, when you’ll become fun after a few cocktails. Lay off hitting the sauce too hard until that time.

Learn which angle of your face looks best in pictures. You’ll thank me when you don’t have 90 bazillion pictures of you looking horrible.

Don’t sign up for that credit card. It’s a just a bad idea. You’ll max it out and then be paying it off for the rest of your life. Also, learn how to budget. Sure, that designer shirt is cute now, but you’ll wear it twice. Do you really need it?

Someone will convince you at age 26 that you should get a tattoo of the scales of justice after you are sworn into the bar. Seriously stop and consider that choice before moving forward.

Your best asset is your sense of humor and outgoing personality. You’re never going to be the hot girl. Stop trying to be and use those assets you do have to your advantage more.

Not everyone is going to like you, and you’re not going to like everyone. That’s perfectly fine. Just learn to accept that some people are clearly not as awesome as you and move on. You’ll waste way too much time and energy trying to change their minds or exacting your revenge. It’s not worth it.

I can’t wait to see what my 40-year old self has to say to me in ten years. Just kidding; yes I can. Please pass by slowly, 30s.

Re-posted from the Faux Trixie’s personal site, which you can access here.

Photo used with permission from “irisb477″

Filed Under: Humor, Misc, Nostalgia

“Trixie” Clarification

February 21, 2011 By Faux Trixie 10 Comments

I obviously write under a pseudonym, The Faux Trixie, which I created almost five years ago. To me, the meaning of the term is clear. However, I forget that not everyone is from the north side from Chicago, and thus, the term trixie may not be known to some of the American population. As such, I thought I would take a moment to clarify.

According to Urban Dictionary, a “Lincoln Park” Trixie is defined as follows:

“A 20- or 30-something female found in Chicago, IL. Their migration patterns, though originating in Lincoln Park, include Bucktown/Wicker Park, Lincoln Park, Gold Coast, Wrigleyville, Lakeview, and, increasingly, the West Loop. They are easily identifiable by their fair skin, blond hair (or at least with highlights), good purse, manicured feet/hands, and Starbucks cup. They are born in the Midwest but have found Michigan or Ohio to be so passé, so they moved to the big city. The preferred form of transportation is the VW Jetta or Honda Accord. They have typically graduated from large state universities with good football teams and mediocre academics. Trixies tend to live and work in Chicago but hate their job although they will tend to stick with it as it accommodates their “urban” lifestyle. Trixies have nice belongings (clothes, shoes, purse, car) but tend to be cash-poor as they must maintain their standard of living. Trixies are typically attracted to Midwestern, frat-boy types: 30 years old and still wearing baseball hats backwards and rugby shirts with horizontal stripes. They will stick with these douchebags as they are buying time until they can get married as the large engagement ring is a sign of rank in their social circles, much like chevrons & rockers in military insignia.”

This is pretty accurate.

Think of all the sorority girls you knew in college (minus me and a few other awesome ladies. Yeah, yeah, I was in a sorority. What of it?). Now, imagine if the most annoying of the sorority girls grew up and moved to Chicago. Those girls are trixies. There are no finite rules in determining whether you are a trixie, but the following may be of some help:

You carry a really, really, REALLY expensive handbag.
You don’t know what your natural hair color is anymore.
You use bronzer or tan incessantly — not just in the summer, when it’s appropriate to do so.
You have an iPhone or Blackberry or a Droid or other trendy smart phone. You would not be caught dead using a flip phone.
You read Twilight, but not ironically.
You still only like guys from the Big 10, particularly if they were in fraternities, and you know if they were, because you still ask.
You don’t realize that there is a world outside the North Side, specifically, Lincoln Park, Wrigleyville, Lakeview, or Bucktown.
You buy really expensive clothes and accessories, but sacrifice your utilities to do so, because honestly, you cannot afford both on an administrative assistant’s wage or entry-level PR salary.
You will only accept an engagement ring from a high-end store and only if it’s a certain karat size.
You’ll stuff your face with La Bambas while making fun of girls who are heavier than you.
You own a Tiffany’s mesh ring or bracelet or whatever overpriced item they’re selling in a blue box now.
You think men love you, but they just want to sleep with you because you have.
You have ridiculous vanity plates.
You can’t afford membership at the East Bank Club but will find any way you can to get onto its rooftop in the summertime.

The No. 1 thing to remember is this: TRIXIES ARE VAPID.

Hence, this is why I am The Faux Trixie. Do I have expensive handbags? One or two. Do I stuff my face with La Bamba? Um, no comment. In fact, I kind of do a lot of these things: I own a Volkswagen and a Tiffany key necklace and an iPhone. What makes me different from a true trixie is that I’m not vapid or shallow. My other “faux” trixie friends and I are smart, witty, whatever. Oh, and we’ll slum it at Target for clothes and go to dive bars and drink beer and watch sports and fart. The picture I use? Sums me up perfectly (except for the whole bare midriff).

So, now that you’ve been schooled in trixies, you should have an adequate background when I refer to them in the future. And if you are a trixie, sorry. I have a lot of trixie friends, really I do. I mock them with the utmost love. I’m just not one.

Republished and edited from a previous post on The Faux Trixie’s personal site, which you can visit here.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Misc Tagged With: Chicago, Faux Trixie, Trixie

My Stongly-Worded Letter to Ty, Manufacturer of Beanie Babies

January 14, 2011 By Faux Trixie 12 Comments

Dear Ty:

First of all, I know you are probably shocked to be getting a letter from a consumer, much less any mail at all, considering your company has not been relevant since 1998. I’ve browsed your current product line, and I have to say, unimpressive. You’re really just ripping off old ideas and making creepy dolls. The “Ty Girlz” line disturbs me in ways you cannot imagine.

However, I am not contacting you to wax poetic about your current products. I have a bone to pick with you. To understand why I am upset, we have to travel back to the late 90s. The grunge era was coming to end, Clinton was in the white house, our country was prosperous, and I was a teenager. I think you understand the awkward tension that comes with being a teenager. I was torn between the comfort of my childhood years and the hope of things to come. I had a new-found sense of freedom when I was allowed to stay out past 10 and was given use of my parents’ old car. I was making out with boys, wearing enough make-up to make me look like a geisha, and proudly flaunting my A-cup cleavage in cheaply-made baby-doll shirts.

As a teenager, I tried really, really hard not to be d-bag. I did not do juvenile things. In my mind, I was mature and above stupid toys and stuffed animals. I was above it, that is, until you hit every Hallmark store in Northern Illinois with Beanie Babies. These adorable, pint-sized stuffed animals in every breed of animal available, complete with a signature red heart tag were the perfect gift for a friend or current love interest. At $5.99, the investment was as minimal as the depth of most of my relationships, making the allegory of the toy to my social network an ironic icing on the cake that I only really appreciate looking back 15 years later.

Right, right, I’m rambling.

What drew me into buying beanie babies was your brilliant marketing scheme: “Collect TY Beanie Babies! They’ll be worth THOUSANDS one day! MAKE SURE NOT TO REMOVE THE TAG!” I was sucked in. Sure, I had a job, but making $5.25 slathering cream cheese on bagels barely allowed me to put gas in my car and buy a soda at the basketball game. I was 16. I needed sweaters from the Gap and Doc Martens and more, cheap baby doll t-shirts my parents thought were trashy (in hindsight, they were right. This is why I always trust my parents now). I hatched a plan. I invested in Ty with the dream of one day cashing in my collection for thousands of dollars.

I was careful in what beanies I chose, picking only the really cool, somewhat rare stuffed animals to add to my collection. Mystic, the unicorn, was an obvious choice. Not only did I have a secret unicorn obsession carried over from childhood, if real life was anything like the fantasy world, the unicorn would be the rarest, most sought after beanie in a couple of years. I also bought a tie-dye fish, a squirrel, a dolphin, and a few others that I heard through the grapevine would make my life gravy.

I dutifully kept those beanies in mint condition. I left the tags on. I displayed them proudly in my bedroom, and then, my dorm room. Do you have any idea the kind of humiliation a 19 year-old girl endures when she brings a cute frat boy back to her dorm room for the first time and there is a STUFFED UNICORN on her shelf? No? You don’t? That does not surprise me. You manufacture stuffed animals for 40 year-old women. Still, those beanies were worth a lot of money.

And then, much like the year 2008, Ty’s bottom fell out. For a fleeting moment, I would have been able to make $600 a piece off my beanies. Foolishly, I did not trade them in. No, I kept them, thinking they would only continue to appreciate in value. Instead, people realized what a racket it was collecting pint-sized stuffed animals and abandoned the beanie baby craze. I was not made aware that the novelty was gone until it was too late. By the time I realized what had happened, my gravy train had rolled out of the station, and I was left holding a Limited Bag containing Mystic, his friends, and my hopes and dreams.

The bag now sits on a shelf in my closet, between workout clothes and an iron. Those beanies are still in there, tags firmly attached to their stuffed buttocks, waiting for a new home with the schmuck who will pay $1,000 a piece. However, the outlook is grim; ebay’s going rate is $.99 for each one. If you ask me, that amount will simply not compensate me for the years of dedication, toil, and, frankly, embarrassment I put into my small collection.

Therefore, Ty, I am left with no choice but to demand you initiate a new marketing plan, making those beanies worth money again. That, or you can simply write me a check for what you promised the value would be in 1996. And no, don’t try some fancy legal argument on me about breach of warranty. You’re clearly in the wrong. The money can be sent via Paypal. In return, Mystic may or may not be let out of a plastic bag.

Cordially,

The Faux Trixie

Filed Under: Humor, Misc, Nostalgia, Opinion

Exhuming Chivalry’s Ghost

December 20, 2010 By Faux Trixie 11 Comments

Chivalry is dead – at least in Chicago. As if city living weren’t hard enough, as a 21st century, independent career woman, I am also now totally “equal” to my male counterparts. After all, I invaded their secret boy’s club by obtaining a J.D. I compete with them for jobs. I can even support myself financially.

Yay for progress.

However, being equal apparently also means I am not longer entitled to simple courtesies that were once automatically afforded to my gender. No, I’m not talking about my car door being opened for me or my meals being ordered by my date. I don’t expect all archaic traditions to survive when texting has taken over the art of conversation and Facebook is only way I know what is going on in any of my friends’ lives.

No, my request is much simpler; I’ll explain:

This morning, I had court. I had to wake up and shave my legs to wear tights under my skirt suit. I had to dry and straighten my hair and put on make up so I looked like a presentable female. I had to play the part of the coy, sweet young lawyer.

In return, during my court appearance, my male colleagues:

1) Let the outside door slam in my face, despite the fact I was literally TWO FEET behind one;

2) Cut in front of me to go through the metal detector, even though I was clearly there first, and I simply had to place my purse on the conveyor belt to go through screening;

3) Hit me in the face THREE times in the court room with a giant messenger bag while standing in front of my chair, back to me, speaking to another attorney, adjusting a bag while doing so;

4) Stepped on my foot, with no apology;

5) Grabbed the two carbon copies of a court order, detached his copy, and placed mine back on the table even though I was standing right there.

I wish I was kidding. Worse? All of this happened in the course of 30 minutes. Even worse? This is an everyday occurrence, and it’s not just attorneys. It’s every man I have encountered as of late. I can’t remember the last time a man held open the door for me, gave up his seat on the train, or even just let me in the elevator first.

Conversely, who exactly did you think I was getting gussied up for? Myself because I like to feel beautiful? Well, sometimes, but realistically? I’m doing it because of social requirements. Trust me, my life would be much easier if I didn’t have to shave my legs, wax my eyebrows, dye, blow dry, and straighten my hair, apply make-up, wear heels and skirts, and act feminine. Sure, I’d probably be pretty gross to most people; but add up all those hours, I’d probably have an extra two days a month for me.

But I do it. Why? Because I think there is still something to be said for being feminine, just like I still think there is something to be said for chivalry. So, men, taking into account that you probably don’t want to look at or touch a bunch of women with hairy legs and armpits, ratty hair, and dry, pale, worn out faces, maybe every once in awhile, you can….

hold open a door….

let us in the elevator first……….

give up your seat on the train………..

ACT LIKE GENTLEMEN.

If you don’t, well, then I guess chivalry really is dead. And I’m not wearing make-up or a dress ever again.

Filed Under: Humor, Motivate, Nostalgia, Opinion Tagged With: chivalry, etiquette, feminism, gentlemen, men

Not so fast, Creepy Christmas Tunes

December 10, 2010 By Faux Trixie 8 Comments

I am the biggest Christmas nerd there is. I’ve decorated my house, put up my tree, and made Christmas cupcakes. I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that, every year, I watch every Christmas movie ever made while drinking spiced wine on my couch with twinkling lights from the tree beside me.

As part of my seasonal nerdiness, I listen to Christmas music pretty much all day at work from the Monday after Thanksgiving until big J’s birthday. For the most part, Christmas music is festive and uplifting and generally makes everyone happy. However, while listening to my Christmas playlist this morning, a few songs streamed through my speakers and caused me concern:

Baby, It’s Cold Outside: At first listen, it’s a cutesy little song about a boy who wants a girl to stay longer. In reality, it’s kind of super creepy. He keeps enticing her with more alcohol and not letting her borrow a coat. She pleads with him: “hey, my parents are going to freak out.” The dude’s response? He moves in closer and starts talking about her lips. Then, she notices something in her drink. It’s probably a roofie. Where I come from, that’s the start of an after-school special on date rape.

I’ll Be Home For Christmas: This song really fooled all of us. We think it’s this nice song about someone traveling home for the holidays, remembering all the fond times of Christmas past. We’re singing along, feeling warm and fuzzy, and then it gets to the end: “I”ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.” So, really, it’s just a song about some sad dude who is all alone on Christmas, probably eating take-out Chinese on his couch and contemplating joining Jimmy Stewart on that bridge because now his Christmas sucks.

Frosty The Snowman: He’s jolly and happy until he MELTS and DIES. This song is horrifying. We are lulled into a nice, sweet story about a magical snowman who plays with all the kids and makes merry along his way. Then he realizes that he’s going to melt so he plays with the kids one last time. While I agree that the lesson of enjoying life to its fullest is an important one, it doesn’t exactly invoke Christmas Cheer.

Blue Christmas: It’s a break up song. Plain and simple. You can really substitute any holiday into the lyrics and it’d be the same idea. I’ll have a blue Easter, blue Yom Kippur, Blue 4th of July, whatever. Nice try, Elvis. You’re not convincing me to buy yet another sad love song and add it to MY Christmas playlist. Stop trying to harsh my holiday mellow.

Christmas is a Coming: Not everyone is familiar with this tune. The lyrics teach you that, at the Christmastime, the more you give, the more you get, urging the listeners to give what they can. Now, I hate to be cynical, because I’m sure the message is that you’ll get more on the inside, but at first listen? It sounds like the more you give to someone, the more you’ll get in return, especially when you consider the list of things urged to be given: a friendly dog (if you haven’t got that, a friendly cat will do), turkey leg, and a mug of cider. Also, who are the gifts being given to? Oh, the singer, of course. So really, the whole song is about trying to make us believe that giving this singing guy a ton of stuff will get us stuff in return. THIS IS NOT THE MESSAGE OF CHRISTMAS.

You’ve been warned; listen to your cheerful holiday tunes carefully, friends.

Filed Under: Humor, Nostalgia, Opinion Tagged With: christmas, music

I would never eat in Hell’s Kitchen

November 18, 2010 By Faux Trixie 15 Comments

I am an avid watcher of Hell’s Kitchen. It’s not great television, but I have a tiny crush on Gordon Ramsay, who is such a jerk that it makes him insanely sexy. He calls women cows, which for some reason, I find hysterical, even though that is totally inappropriate, and I would never condone that activity in real life by anyone. I also love the show because, frankly, sometimes it’s fun to watch someone with a raging ego get knocked down a peg. Who doesn’t want to watch some self-proclaimed culinary prodigy get called a cow because she can’t sautee some green beans?

If you don’t watch Hell’s Kitchen, here’s the general premise: 20 or so wannabe cooks compete to become the head chef at one of Ramsay’s restaurants for a year. They have a series of cooking competitions, including creating new dishes and performing food preparation tasks, like filleting fish properly. If you win those, you get some fabulous prize while the other team has to do grunt work in the restaurant. The second half of the show is devoted to “dinner service,” where the competitors are divided into teams and have to cook all the meals for the patrons of the restaurant, which is appropriately named Hell’s Kitchen. I can’t determine if this restaurant is real, even though Fox tells me it is. (What? Reality shows aren’t real?) It looks pretty fake, but I would think, if it weren’t real, the patrons would be way more attractive. So. conflicted.

If the restaurant is, indeed, real, after watching this show for three or so years, you could not pay me to eat in Hell’s Kitchen. No. Way. First of all, these chefs sweat profusely the entire time they are preparing food. It’s not beads of sweat; it’s full-on, I-have-been-battling-the-jungles-of-Nam sweat. It’s disgusting, and the cameras make sure to focus on the red, slick faces. You will never be able to convince me that, during their running around and frenetic stirring, beads don’t trickle off and into my risotto.

Further, when I go to a restaurant, I am looking for a relaxing evening with a good food. Ramsayscreams at these chefs. I mean, SCREAMS. Frankly, I do not want to be eating grilled halibut and hear, “You bloody burned it, you cow. OUT!” That doesn’t sound relaxing at all. In fact, it sounds the opposite of relaxing and not worth it; I don’t care how much air time I may get.

Finally, and probably most importantly, the cooks on Hell’s Kitchen screw up the food, and it’s not every once in awhile. Something is wrong with every single dish. When I say wrong, I’m not saying the garnish is on the wrong side of the plate. No, they’re sending out RAW PORK or fish that still has PLASTIC WRAP ON IT. I’m guessing it’s fairly expensive to eat in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s not the Golden Nugget where you can get a breakfast skillet for $5.99 (which is a phenomenal cure for a hangover). I’m going to ballpark that the rack of lamb is at least $35. If I’m paying $35 for a tiny piece of lamb, I want it dipped in gold. I don’t want it to come to my table raw. It seems counterintuitive to pay an arm and a leg to eat in a restaurant run by Gordon Ramsay only for the food to suck. Thus, given the choice, I’d probably just go to one of this other, more awesome, less publicized restaurants where there are real chefs, and not culinary school drop outs.

So, Hell’s Kitchen, you will remain a staple of my Tuesday night TV viewing. However, as far as the dining experience is concerned, I’ll stick with my Chipotle burrito.

Reprinted and edited from a piece of The Faux Trixie’s person site, which you can visit here.

Filed Under: Humor, Misc, Opinion

Facebook: A Public Service Announcement

November 9, 2010 By Faux Trixie 10 Comments

Oh, Facebook. You’ve become a defining icon of my generation. You’ve completely changed how people interact, fight, plan parties, and even talk. You’ve made a billionaire out of a guy who is younger than I am (SIGH). You know what else you’ve done?

You managed to irritate me on a daily basis.

You failed to provide the rules . Yeah, I said it. You need rules because your eight million plus friends have gotten out of control. The situation is so ridiculous that, a few weeks ago, I actually deactivated my Facebook account (GASP! No fear; I had to reactivate it to announce to the world that I got engaged. DUH.) Since you have refused to implement guidelines, I will do it for you because I am a gracious, yet annoyed, user.

When posting a profile picture, try to keep it classy or funny. This isn’t Myspace. The whole “I’m going to take a picture from a really high angle so I look awesome, and everyone will awe at my huge boobs” picture pose went out of style circa 2005 and will have the same historical effect as Olan Mills studio pictures from the 80s. Having a profile picture in this pose will open you up to ridicule, and if you’re friends with me, a hearty defriending.

Everyone loves, LOVES their significant other but announcing it nine million times a day with back-and-forth Facebook posts and gag-inducing statuses makes everyone wretch. Also, terms of affection like “wifey” and “boo” make me want to reach through the computer and slap you. Since I cannot do that, my irritation is taken out on co-workers and my significant other, making them sad and scared. You don’t want to incite fear and sadness, do you? No? Then stop using these terms immediately.

People have become accustomed to announcing their entire lives on Facebook. Most of us are friends with everyone we’ve ever met on Facebook. Frankly, I’m pretty sure you don’t want that co-worker of your friend from high school that you met while drunk that you’re on your period and your cramps are horrible.

Similarly, if something really horrible happened to someone and that person isn’t sharing it on Facebook, it is probably not appropriate to post your condolences on their wall. Send them a card. If you aren’t friends in real life, SEND THEM A MESSAGE. Some people don’t want the Facebook world to know about all the super terrible things in their life.

If you have an overly cryptic Facebook status, people realize that you are just looking for attention. Things like, “super scared,” “I can’t believe what just happened,” or “So happy” scream that you want people to ask you about it. If you are that hard up for attention (we all are, it’s okay), just announce it. Further, being cryptic in an attempt to not overshare is oxymoronic, as clearly you are looking for the opportunity to over share.

Not everyone takes flattering pictures. Do not post unflattering pictures of your friends. If you must post them, do not then tag your friends in those pictures. They will hate you.

I get that we’re all worked up about politics, but if you’re going to say something ignorant about one of the parties, make sure that your grammar and spelling is correct. You don’t want to lose all credibility, do you? In fact, maybe just use correct spelling and grammar in every post. All. The. Time.

There are, of course, several other rules, but we’ll save those for another time. However, if we all start abiding by these very simple and reasonable rules, I think we can make Facebook an enjoyable corner of the internet for everyone.

You can find more snark from the Faux Trixie on her personal site: The Faux Trixie

Filed Under: Humor, Opinion, Tech, Uncategorized

How to pick a winner

October 6, 2010 By Faux Trixie 13 Comments

Every single gal out there is looking for Prince Charming: a man who is chivalrous, macho yet sensitive, funny, outgoing, great in bed… you know, a dream guy. Some say he doesn’t exist, but we trudge on with our search, hoping Mr. Right will be the next man we meet over a glass of cabernet sauvignon and a generic Italian dish at a cozy bistro on a first date.

Before I met my boyfriend, I was one such girl. I’m not an expert of dating. I don’t write columns for Cosmopolitan about how to woo and keep a man. I have, however, met my fair share of nightmare men. As a public service for my single friends, it is my duty to provide you with the warning signs that Mr. Right is, in fact, NOT sitting across from you, based upon my own bad first dates. And yes, these all really happened to me. Absolutely none of this is fabricated. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

1. He brags about not showering or brushing his teeth for two days.

2. He is wearing an alcohol monitoring device and can’t drink at dinner because he has three DUIs and a possession charge.

3. In connection with #2, he still has to serve jail time.

4. In connection with #2 & #3, you had to drive because his license is indefinitely revoked.

5. He is a “model” (models don’t date regular girls. Sorry ladies. You may have a great personality, but you’re probably not snagging a model).

6. He gets wasted before your date and has no recollection that he went out with you the next day.

7. He wears prominently-displayed jewelry from 1991. A lot of beads and/or hemp are involved.

8. He also wears shirts fake silk shirts with psychedelic patterns.

9. He is in his mid to late 30s and still has a studio apartment.

10. He slides you the bill after ordering the most expensive thing on the menu

11. Your conversation inevitably focuses on his past, and current, drug experimentation.

12. He takes you clubbing. On a first date.

13. He orders the side salad as his entree.

14. He tells you that he had a bet with his friends on how many drinks it would take for you to go home with him.

15. Alternatively, while wasted, he announces that he could “so have sex with you” but is deciding not to.

16. He orders an appletini.

17. He discloses that he’s really into rap and could be the next big white rapper. He is serious.

18. He shows you he’s serious by rapping one of his original numbers for you.

19. He has a picture of his mother in his wallet.

20. He tells you to park in a private lot and assures you that your car will not be towed. Your car is towed, and he does not take you to get it.

21. His choice for a movie on the couch Willow.

22. He brings a bottle of vodka to a BYOB restaurant.

23. When you part ways, he calls you on your drive home to inquire if you may be interested in a threesome.

24. When you wake up the next morning, he has texted you at least five times.

25. After you’ve woken up, he calls you 17 more times in two hours, despite you obviously avoiding his previous texts.

26. He plays Hey Ya by Outcast on his acoustic guitar. Wait, strike that. He plays any songs for you on the acoustic guitar. (TOLD YOU!)

If the man you’re out with does any of these things, run very far away. This dude ain’t worth the black dress you put on for him. Trust me; clearly, I know.

Adapted from an original post from the Faux Trixie’s website. Visit the Faux Trixie’s personal site here.

Filed Under: Humor, Misc

A Break-Up Letter to Starbuck’s Pumpkin Spice Latte

September 14, 2010 By Faux Trixie 30 Comments

Dear Pumpkin Spice Latte:

We need to talk. I feel that it’s time for you and I to discuss our relationship. Today, while trying to suppress my overwhelming desire to see you again, it dawned on me that our relationship may be bordering on unhealthy, and I think it’s time we take a break, if not part ways forever.

Every fall, you show up, out of the blue, just when I’ve finally gotten over you leaving me last winter. I tell myself each year that I’m not going to go back to you. After all, what have you ever done for me?

Sure, you’re delicious. When we first met, I didn’t plan on liking you at all. In fact, I only considered trying you because my friends said you were great. I don’t even LIKE pumpkin pie. However, like the cute but annoying hipster guy who ends up being surprisingly fabulous in bed, you surprised me and left me wanting more. After my first taste, every fall, I greedily gulp you all the way down before you’ve even had a chance to cool. Before I know it, I’m seeing you every day.

For the three or four months you’re around, it’s bliss. However, at the same time, I feel guilty after our time together. After all, you don’t benefit my life in any way. You have no nutritional value, your caffeine level is weak, at best, and you’re 470 calories. After a few weeks together, I notice myself getting fatter, refusing to admit it’s your fault. I can’t say no to you, so I punish myself just so I can see you.

Before I know it, without warning, you just disappear…again. There’s no explanation, other than the lame excuse that fall is over. You don’t even give me the courtesy of saying goodbye. I only find out you’ve left when I come to see you, and your friend, my barista says you’re “unavailable” ( like I haven’t heard THAT one before).

So, I sulk. I try to hang out your friends, but they’re not you. Your buddies, dark cherry mocha and salted caramel hot chocolate, while a good distraction, often disappear too, and I’m left with the has-beens, caramel macchiato and caffe mocha. Let’s get serious; been there, done that, like, 10 years ago. Once I’ve finally moved on, you reappear, and the vicious circle starts again.

So, Pumpkin Spice Latte, we have to call it quits. You’re great, but I just can’t do it anymore. I need someone more stable who cares about my health and my well-being. Sure, venti no-classic iced coffee is kind of boring. I get that, but at least he’s always there for me. He doesn’t flake out after Christmas. He doesn’t make me sacrifice others to see him, and he cares about my health and happiness. Ultimately, I just need something more stable.

Best of luck, PSL. I’ll miss you, and you’ll always have a place in my heart. Don’t worry; I’m sure you’ll find someone else very soon. After all, kind of a lot of people have already heard about you. Best of luck.

Your friend,

Faux Trixie

PS. Okay, so maybe we can see each other every once in awhile, for old time’s sake. But don’t tell anyone. I’m not that kind of girl.

Filed Under: Humor, Misc, Opinion

You are not Dave Matthews

August 27, 2010 By Faux Trixie 21 Comments

I was watching The Bachelor Pad last night, which, by the way, may be the most deplorable television show ever created. It’s like Survivor, without any surviving and way more making out and screwing around with people’s emotions. It’s like a train wreck; you don’t want to look but you can’t. turn. away.

But I digress. This is not a post about The Bachelor Pad. However, during last night’s episode, one of the ex-frat-boy contestants was serenading one of the model-waitress-hooker-actress contestants. She swooned, and in her voiceover, she explained how emotional and powerful the moment was.

Yeah, right.

For whatever reason, I have dated a lot of hipster guys. You know the type: listens to indie rock, wears vintage blazers and t-shirts, rocks a goatee, drinks red wine even though he’s a dude, and waxes poetic for hours on end about the genius of Bret Easton Ellis. You know what else these guys always did?

Played guitar.

You know what they always wanted to do?

Serenade me.

You know what?

It was never sexy. It was never emotional or powerful. Instead, it was always… incredibly…

Awkward.

Here’s how the typical serenade usually plays out:

You’re with the guitar player (hereinafer “GP”). You’ve been out, or maybe you stayed in, and you’ve hopefully been imbibing. You sat through the boring movie on the couch, with the flutter in your stomach, knowing a heavy make-out session will soon commence. You’re slightly buzzed, maybe even fully drunk.

You and GP start getting cozy, and you think he’s going to lean in and kiss you. Instead? He grabs his acoustic guitar.

If it’s your first time getting serenaded, you think, “how romantic!”

And then GP starts.

It’s usually a Dave Matthews song. That’s easiest and most cliche (don’t get me wrong. I love the Dave Matthews Band, but c’mon? Say Goodbye? How obvious is that?). GP clumsily plucks the strings of an out-of-tune guitar. He lacks coherent rhythm because he doesn’t realize how hard it is to actually play a song written by a professional guitar player, and the last time he checked, he’s not Slash.

You sit there, awkwardly taking it in, wondering how to react, particularly because, in part, you want it to end so you can start that much-anticipated make out session. The other part? Well, GP isn’t good. You smile coyly, looking lost in thought like you’re really into the music. He’ll never know you’re faking it, right? Maybe he’ll stop if you don’t talk or otherwise engage.

But no. He thinks you like it. So, he starts to SING.

GP clearly does this for a hobby, because not only is his guitar playing awkward, he sounds like a mix between a neutered cat and a babbling homeless man. Of course, he doesn’t know all the lyrics either, so he resorts to quietly babbling nonsense over those parts.

Oh Dear Lord, you start thinking. What do I do now? Do I continue to smile? Do I sing along?

If you’re like me, you stop GP and start passionately kissing him to make it stop. He thinks it’s because you’re so taken by his talent. Little does he know it’s because you desperately needed him to stop because, even though he thinks so, GP is no Dave Matthews.

This scenario has played out in my world at least five times. The last time? IT WAS AN ACOUSTIC VERSION OF HEY YA BY OUTCAST (I couldn’t make that up). So, I rest my case.

Moral of the story: being serenaded is never sexy and always awkward.

Unless, of course, you’re actually Dave Matthews.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Opinion