How to Master Tinder: The Photo

Grow boobs. Honestly. That’s all you have to do. According to our extremely reliable guy friends who peruse Tinder more than instagram due to of their huge erections, nine times out of ten girls get a mutual match with each right swipe. The theory is that Tinder is flooded with ugly guys (and guys who seem ugly because they don’t know the difference between exposure and brightness on their shitty iphone cameras), whereas every single girl at least knows something about camera angles, skinny arms, and photoshop. Not to say we photoshop each of our photos (we’re hot already, can’t make things too unfair) but we sure as hell are cropping out anything and everything we don’t want you to see. Men, on the other hand, don’t understand why their sister’s baby isn’t helping them match with all the hunnies out there.

If a photo is worth a thousand words, your first Tinder photo is worth a million. Most girls will not even click to see the rest of your pictures unless you are questionably attractive and we don’t know how to swipe. We have lots of tips to help you master the art of finding a DTF biddy, but becoming an internet Casanova takes time and patience. Here’s what to avoid with your photos:

  1. Babies. Yes, it has been statistically proven that showing that you can interact well with infants makes our ovaries tingle. But on Tinder? Not so much. Having a baby in your Tinder photo makes us wonder if it’s yours (something most women run away from, unless they’re crazy). Even if said child doesn’t belong to you (which it probably doesn’t) we aren’t going to waste time investigating. Saying “not my baby” in your bio doesn’t help either since we don’t read bios anyway. The only way you can possibly get around this rule when posing with the most photogenic baby alive is if you edit the photo and put text over it that says “not my baby.” But putting so much effort into one photo only makes us want to swipe left faster.
  2. Group Shots. These are never a good idea. I don’t care if you took a photo with Leonardo DiCaprio or if it’s a picture of you meeting the Queen. We don’t care. Group photos only detract from you (the one we are trying to evaluate). When a man has a group shot we immediately assume he is the ugliest in the group. What, do you want us swiping right so you can introduce us to your hot friends? The only exception to this rule is if you truly are butt ugly, in which case the cheerleader effect can be used to your advantage. While we don’t personally think a group shot is wise, some girls do want to know that you have a social life so one group shot is acceptable at the back of your photo queue if you have more than three solitary shots.
  3. Grainy Photos. NEXT. What, you can’t afford a good phone-camera? How are you going to provide for our future offspring or even buy us dinner. A grainy photo pretty much spells out “going dutch,” and that’s something highly respectable girls do not stand for. It’s called standards.
  4. Close-Ups. They only serve to further highlight your bad skin and crooked nose. Let us see that you’re not a summo wrestler with a skinny face.
  5. Ab Pics. If you want to get laid then keep your eight-pack photo up, but include your face or we are most definitely swiping left. We want to see that you have a nice bod but a mirror pic is not the way to do it. It makes you look sleazy and trashy. Try a casual bathing-suit pic if you must but know that it could make or break potential swipes.
  6. Smiling. It seems couter-intuitive but don’t smile in all your photos, especially not your first. Keeping a stoic and mysterious facial expression makes you like ten times hotter. Psychology bitches.
  7. Animals that aren’t dogs. As a self-proclaimed crazy-cat-lady I can tell you that a man posing with his feline friend is weird. As is posing with your ferret, snake, and or iguana. Unless it’s a dog (man’s best friend) we are going to assume you are weird from the start and will next you immediately. That’s not to say a man with an iguana, cat, or (big) snake is a turn-off, only that we don’t want to see your other friends on your tinder profile (because what normal person does that).
  8. Photos that don’t show your face. This should be self-explanatory but for some reason some men think we’re more likely to swipe right if you’ve been to the Eiffel tower. Like good for you but if you’re not cute I could care less where you’ve been. I pretty much assume that any man I plan on dating has been around the world a couple times. I mean, he will have to if he wants to keep up with my own wanderlust. We approve of pictures of you in nature, but only if we can see your hot bod and Abercrombie-worthy face.
  9. Just one photo. Do you only have one ball too? Seriously, how can we evaluate if your profile is real or if you’re a serial killer when we only have one option? NEXT.
  10. Only Professional Photos. Professional photos are extremely pompous for guys, but we like to know that you care enough about your looks to make a good first impression. But if all your photos look like profiles in GQ we are going to assume that you’re either way too high-maintenance for us (which is saying a lot coming from us), or fake. Most likely you’re a 45 year old guy in his mom’s basement looking for risky snaps. No thank you.

Remember, a girl that is looking through all your photos is only doing so for one of two reasons. Either you matched and she’s responding to your messages/considering going out with you. OR, she’s scrolling to see if you’re ugly or not (since your first photo is too ambiguous to tell).

You’re in shark infested waters. One Tinder photo fail can leave you with zero matches and no-body to bone on Saturday night post-drinks.

Hugs and Kisses,
Roberta and Juanita

Why Do Crazy People Talk To Me?

Do crazy people attract more crazy people? Honestly, I’d like to know. Here I am, minding my own business at the local coffee joint when this woman would not shut up. “Wow, your charger is really long,” she said as I plugged my computer charger into the outlet. I smiled and she went into this rant about how her charger is not long enough and this bitch wouldn’t let her sit at the table closest to the outlet. Not one to ignore gossip, I asked her about the bitch with a bad bowl cut giving me the stink eye.

Wow, these regulars truly have a lot of beef. “She’s jealous because I’m prettier than her,” the crazy woman said. This made me chuckle for two reasons. One. She looked a bit like the Queen when she turned into a hag. But this was only because she was like sixty-years old and she still looked prettier than the stink-eye girl with the bowl-cut. I think that if she’d let us we could make her into an old-six, easy. Two. I make comments like that constantly. Was this crazy-lady a reflection of what I might be in forty-years if I neglect sunblock, hair-care, and marry a janitor? Jarring. But enough to inspire me to get my shit together.

Crazy lady was very entertaining and she wouldn’t stop handing me compliments. “Your skin is amazing,” Really? This is the worst my skin has ever looked. I had seriously considered not leaving my house today in an attempt to shield the world from the very large white zit on my chin. Where’s your dermatologist with his set of cortisol shots when you need him?

Ultimately, after the crazy lady had tried to pass notes to me in a way nostalgic middle-school gossiper-way. I pretended not to be able to understand her and kept saying “what” progressively louder until she got the hint. Even crazy people have social grace. “I’m so sorry but I’m in the middle of something,” I told her, and she retreated back into her corner between crazy and deranged.

But it left me thinking. Aren’t we all a little mad?

Kisses,
Juanita

 

Should I Fuck My Uber Driver: An Ethical Dilemma

As I am sure you have realized after reading our blog, uber drivers are primarily named Mohammad. Therefore, I was incredibly shocked to have a tall, white male as my chauffeur after a night of too much tequila and extreme inebriation.

During our pleasant rendezvous back to my house, I struck conversation with Mr. White Uber Driver (who could still hypothetically be named Muhammad, which is the most popular first name in the world) as I always do. “Why are you white?” I asked. The Regina George in my head was on vacation and instead I was channeling Karen Smith with my dumb and unfiltered thoughts. He chuckled uncomfortably, as I imagine any other white uber driver would do. “Are you asking why I drive for Uber if I’m white,” he asked, the amusement in his voice encouraging our frivolous conversation.

So, like all the Uber drivers who fall under my spell, he opened his heart to me. Mr. White Uber Driver had made some bad judgements in the past. Despite being an excellent salesperson (of Cannabis), he was arrested and spent time in jail. I asked him if he got any tattoos while in jail, I honestly can’t remember his answer. I like to think he had an affair with a prison guard and got his name tattoed on his ass but that probably didn’t happen.

“There aren’t a lot of jobs for ex-cons,” Not-Muhammad told my sadly and my heart ached thinking about all the documentaries about the prison system, specifically Clinton’s 3rd Strike ruling of the 90s. Thank you Netflix for educating the masses.

“How much do you make?” I asked. Money always occupies my thoughts, sober or not, and the excessive tequila in my belly didn’t help to control my speech. Not-Muhammad didn’t mind my question at all (probably because I’m pretty) and told me he got that question quite frequently. Apparently, driving for Uber can be a very lucrative career. I took a mental note of this for my next downward spiral.

Toward the end of our expedition, his voice progressively got lower (an unconscious sign that he wanted to bone me). I profusely apologized for my brazen behavior explaining it was due to too much tequila and possibly an excessive amount of recently legalize marijuana. This brought a cheery smile to his White Uber Driver face, he had an idea.

“You know if you ever need some weed, I am your guy,” he told me with a goofy grin. To which I replied, “Honey I don’t buy weed, it’s called The Boob Rule.” This was my mistake. While true that attractive women should not (and do not) need to purchase Marijuana (unless they smoke in excess), this rule does not come without obstacles. For one, incessant flirting can only go so far. Eventually said girl becomes a tease or a whore, it’s a tedious line to walk on and as of recently I have conceded to purchasing the majority of my Cannabis (though the boob rule does get me excellent wholesale prices). Not-Muhammad had not heard of the boob rule and I explained it to him, “When you have tits like these you don’t buy weed.” This was perhaps going too far, but just like Karen Smith I have discovered that my boobs have magical powers.

“If you ever want some good weed, here’s my number.” Jackpot. Except I never take numbers, I only give them. When I told me this, he immediately asked for my digits. It wasn’t until I entered my bedroom that I considered the scenarios of smoking weed with my uber driver. It could only lead to one thing: sex. Did I really want to fuck my uber driver?

Kisses,
Juanita

Every Fairytale Has A Badass Bitch

Not every fairytale has a happily ever after. But every good fairytale has a badass bitch. “But, not every princess needs a prince!” says the angry foul-mouthed lesbian who refused to stop tweeting #notmypresident during the Women’s march (and coincidentally threw paint on my faux fur vest last November). But feminist lesbians do have their point. Why do we, women, settle for men who do not deserve our affection?

It’s because we are primed to believe that we cannot be complete without a man. Men are at the center of our lives. Don’t believe us? Think back to your favorite stories as a child. Despite an abundance of fairy-tale themed picture books that featured a female lead, according to a 2011 study, “children’s books are dominated by male central characters… with the gender disparity sending children a message that ‘women and girls occupy a less important role in society than men or boys,'” The study, which looked at roughly 6,000 children’s books published between 1900 and 2000 found that male main-characters make up 57% of children’s books, while female main-characters make up only 31% of children’s books. But what about animal characters? You may ask, hoping that those might prove more gender neutral. But you’re wrong. Male animals make up 23% of the main-characters of books each year, while female animals take the lead in only 7.5% of books.

What messages are we sending girls? It’s no wonder why we settle for men that don’t deserve us, we are unaware of our own value and self-worth. The saddest part of this cliche is that every woman must have her heart broken before she meets her knight in shining armor. Tin-foil is no substitute for authentic Valerian Steel; just as cubic zirconia is never acceptable on an engagement ring unless you live below the poverty line (in which case I am eternally jealous that you’ve found love first because I still haven’t been invited to any of Patti Stanger’s famous match-making parties).

Worse even, is that these atrocious princes have been spoiled by women with no self-respect. They are used to women chasing over them. They are used to women dropping their plans and traveling half-way across the world for them.

These men have been spoiled by women with no self-respect. This is a call to arms for every badass bitch to dump her undeserving fuckbuddy in search of a tinder fling who wants to do more than just hang out. Bonus points if he follows you around like a lost puppy. Except, that gets old fast so make sure he has a decent set of balls.

I learned the hard way that princes can be deceiving. As our Queen B: Blair Waldorf discovered first, princes are bat-shit crazy. They’re jealous, abusive, and frequently psychotic. Is the life of a princess worth it if you’re stuck alone and miserable in an ivory tower? Unless it’s some sort of fifty-shades-of-gray spinoff, being trapped and helpless is never a good look. There’s a reason why we buy comfortable heels (whenever possible), we need the freedom to run. Run far away from our problems and our undeserving men.

Hugs,
Roberta

Xanax: A New Type Of Poisoned Apple

Xanax is a magical substance akin to pixie dust or unicorn tears. Only, in recent months my drug of choice has become more like Snow White’s deadly Poisoned Apple than anything else Walt Disney has dreamt up. In truth, Xanax’s effects are incredibly similar to that of a Poisoned Apple (sans true love’s kiss), and though I adore the blissful cloud-like coma I enter each time I take 10x my prescribed dose, my family and friends no-longer support my Xanax abuse.

My most recent Xanax coma happened during my last blood test. Like any normal white girl, I dread blood tests. I don’t need more reminders of my own mortality and as my therapist knows after ten-years of on-and-off treatment, I have blood-needle-injection phobia. Some might say it’s a gift (I’ll never become a Heroin addict, though I can see the appeal of Heroin’s own blissful sleeping-spell), but for me, it means that medical procedures are extremely vexing. I avoid anything that is not mandatory. While being poked and prodded with an IV is less than exciting, it’s something I can tolerate occasionally; having my blood drawn, however, is it’s own beast entirely.

For one, it’s the phlebotomists themselves that scare me. What kind of person enjoys extracting blood all day? If I learned anything from Twilight it’s that Vampires are bat-shit crazy and I want nothing to do with anyone that sparkles unless he or she is a unicorn. And second, they never believe me when I say that I really don’t like getting my blood done (just like AAA doesn’t care that I’m having a panic attack after I lock my keys in the ignition). Normally I can handle blood tests after some heavy meditation, but a recent memory of the scene my last phlebotomist created after I collapsed has left me with more of a phobia than I had to begin with. The Phlebotomist screaming “I didn’t hurt her,” to the entire office when I broke into hysterical sobs and couldn’t stand was possibly more traumatic than catching a glimpse of the sixteen vials of blood that had been extracted from my blue-blood veins. No, Xanax became my only option for future tests.

It had been a year since said traumatic event and I knew I was due to check on some of the things that can fuck-with a twenty-three year-old’s health (STD’s, Thyroid issues, etc.). My doctor called in the order and I was told I could have my blood drawn at any time. Any time was the problem, since everyone knows that infinite choices only make one more indecisive. I knew that unless I was semi-buzzed, I would never be able to follow-through with the procedure. So I tried to be responsible, I got the day off work and got a line-up of friends who would be available to drive me to my appointment (and supervise me). My drug of choice would, of course, be Xanax (since cannabis would only make the procedure more uncomfortable), and I swallowed two 2mg bars (twice my prescribed amount but well in-league with what I normally take to ignore my problems). The 4mg I took initially was not my fatal flaw. No, my poisoned apple came in the form of a trifecta of prescription bottles (Xanax, Ativan, and “mystery pills”) that I brought with me to the appointment in my inebriated state. “Just bring them all,” I had told myself, like a hoarder afraid of parting with her precious possessions.

Despite my light inebriation, I continued to pop the pills. It was more of by habit than conscious thought and my awareness began to dwindle. I was scared. Terrified. And nervous. Who’s to blame a girl for trying to calm down? In all honestly I have no idea how much benzos I took, I’ve only been told by my friend Tauro that I was popping them like tic-tacs and had absolutely zero chill. I also wanted to pick up my glasses, he told me, and I dragged him to the fourth story of the Kaiser Hospital to pick them up. What I neglected to mention, however, was that I was also going to try on every single pair of glasses on display. That took an hour, according to Tauro, and he was less than pleased when we finally travessed the halls in search of the Phlebotomists’ layer. We found it, apparently, though Tauro said I asked five people for directions (two were the same person). Honestly, has Tauro ever babysat? Everyone knows not to let a two-year-old lead the way (and Juanita is essentially the same thing).

When we got to the lab I loudly asked the woman at the counter for a number. Tauro said that pointed to a stack of tickets and asked me to wait my turn. I lost my number twice and kept asking when I’d be called. When it finally was my turn, the Phlebotomist took my blood. I, of course, bore him/her with the story of my benzo inebriation (assuring him that I was prescribed) – I’m a very vocal and honest person if you haven’t noticed by now. I am not sure if this made the Phlebotomist laugh, (as Tauro did not find this ordeal amusing when he retold it to me) though I assume that any other human being would find an inebriated girl getting her blood done absolutely hilarious and in need of some Kardashian-like attention.

I was understandably disoriented (I asked the Phlebotomist if he/she had taken my blood yet after he/she bandaged up my arm), and he/she gave me a cup to pee in for the remainder of tests. Tauro said that I was in the bathroom for fifteen minutes before finally emerging; and, when I did, I had thrown the cup in the trash and said I couldn’t pee. Tauro had been force feeding me water by now and was less than pleased (he was late for work by this time), so I hurried back again, promising everyone that I would not throw my cup away again. But I did. Again, I emerged unable to urinate, and the process repeated. After my third mis-attempt they finally kicked us out of the laboratory and told me to do the test at home and bring it back. This, I imagine, only further added to my belief that Phlebotomists are mean, scary, terrible people who will burn in hell for the remainder of eternity. No, I am not being over-dramatic.

This particular Xanax coma was a wake-up call for me, mainly because Tauro was absolutely livid with me (rather than just thinking it was hilarious which would have most-likely been my reaction with Roberta). Not to mention I had only planned on a few wasted hours of my own time, not a full 24+ hour blackout (I woke up in the wrong bed with my glasses on and no recollection of anything except hopping into Tauro’s truck). This simple errand had turned into a forgotten adventure, a broken friendship, and two days off work.

Which brings me to this awesome product, a Fidgit Spinner, which can greatly curb anxiety. No, this is not going to eradicate all your mental health issues. Not even tri-weekly therapist visits can do that (trust me I’ve tried — Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and Dialectical Behavioral Therapy only go so far). But this wonderful little contraption can easily distract you enough to momentarily stop the racing and horrifying thoughts ruminating under your perfectly contoured face.

Don’t believe me? Try it next time you ever encounter that bitch of a Phlebotomist. No need to thank me, just write a review.

Kisses,
Juanita

Pizza is My Favorite Food Group

Pizza is it’s own food group. If you disagree with us you are either a recovering anorexic or the annoying bitch who asks her friend’s if they’ve “gained weight” whenever mother nature calls. As any self-respecting white girl (who’s called her favorite pizza joint at 3AM, sobbing hysterically since they refuse to deliver since they are “out of territory”) knows, Pizza = life.

Just as some girls choose their boyfriends over girlfriends (red-flag by the way, those ass wipes don’t respect themselves), we choose Pizza above all other food, carbs or otherwise. It is the holy-grail of God’s edible creations (cannabis, perhaps, being the one exception) and is a super-food full of all the anti-oxidants you want to make up on the spot (seriously just make that shit up it’s not real).

In fact, Pizza is a vegetable (according to congress), which is enough for us all to stop starving ourselves for three days after every over-indulgence. NOTE: If you haven’t consumed an entire pie by yourself in one sitting, you can’t sit with us. In fact, go fuck yourself and your unrelatable sense of self-control.

Pizza is the reason why we don’t judge fat people. Regrettably, we think they’ve made the right decision. They’ve put their love of pizza and other indulgences over their health, which is the ultimate declaration of love.

So, next time it’s 2AM and your roommate is judging you for ordering an entire pie of Hawaiin Pizza, tell her to go fuck herself because she’s going to die alone while your gorge yourself on full-fat deliciousness. Pizza is the only friend you need. Bonus points if you screw the delivery boy. Honestly, does that even happen? We’d like to know

Hugs & Kisses,
RJ

News Flash: Being Pretty Is Not Good Enough To Get The Guy

In the 90s, all you needed to get the guy was looks. So, naturally, I grew up thinking being pretty was enough to be successful in life. But newsflash, what may have worked in 90s RomComs don’t cut it in the 21st century. In order to get the guy in this millennium you need brains and beauty.  I guess I was blessed with a high IQ since I know that there are a lot of dumb people out there who have nothing else but their looks to focus on. But some of us have the whole package I promise.

But here’s the thing, not all pretty girls are dumb.

I know it’s hard to believe since I have the body of a young Cindy Crawford–but I have like Albert Einstein’s brain too. Well, if he was slightly less intelligent/sciency and like maybe into politics instead. Also, I get a blowout weekly so I’m probably more well groomed than Al. Though, I have heard that he had like wonderful toes (and I do too). Shutout to Ms. Nguyen my nail lady. Mwah!

Personally, I am an aspiring politico, though I would settle for first lady and wouldn’t mind being married to a Senator (if the right opportunity presented itself). But don’t let that make you think I’m only a gold digger. Because I’m not. I have my own money. Power couples are so chic. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. However, in order to become a power couple, you too must discover what you’re good at. Daddy may have paid your way through college and like all those European vacations, but not anymore. Time to show all those Wall Street studs what they’re missing: YOU, the successful, beautiful, intelligent, YOU.

Pretty girls can be smart too. Elle Woods is my role model. She is our mascot. Our mentor. She did it first, girls. We should be thanking her for showing us all that smart can look good.

You can do it, too. If all else fails, you can go to work for daddy. Pretty just ain’t enough today to score the man, the 4 plus carat ring, and the vacation home in Aspen/Hamptons. You’ll be thanking me when you are puking your guts out to fit into your custom Vera Wang wedding dress while studying to pass the Bar in three states.

Remember you is kind, you is good, you is important, you is rich.

Hugs,
Roberta