Bad Advice

Oh, Oprah!

There is so much to love about Oprah. . . her fluctuating weight, Steadman, the fact that she's gotten millions of Americans to read, Nate Berkus, her freaky spoiled dogs, Gayle, Kathy Griffin's impersonation of her. But I'm afraid the latest issue of the Oprah magazine gets it all wrong.

Okay, I didn't actually pick up the magazine this month, I found this story through CNN. It's called "The Dear John talk and other dreaded conversations." In it, one of Oprah's writers claims that if you're going to have a difficult conversation with someone—like say, you're going to dump them or fire them—you should do it in person.

How many kinds of wrong is that?

I So Dated This Guy

Today's Cary Tennis column tackles the problem of what happens to a nerdy guy who desperately wants to be cool and so moves to Williamsburg with his indie girlfriend, only to be excommunicated to an uncool borough like Queens once the relationship goes south.

If three or four years of online dating and thirteen years of living in Williamsburg taught me anything, it's that the tragic nerds are the guys a girl really has to watch out for. You think they're all dorky and cute in their ill-fitting jeans and cartoon-embossed t-shirts, but meanwhile these guys are getting over on every piece of tail in town and nothing less than a Burning Angel girl will do.

You'd never guess you were dealing with a pussy hound from looking at them or sitting through their refreshingly pop-culture-reference-free conversation, but these dudes make their bedheaded, guitar-toting, paint-spattered brethren look like amateurs. Because at least with the urpy hipster doofi, a lady knows what she's getting into—one night of mediocre sex with their band's dreary demo as sountrack.

You don't kid yourself that those guys are going to call again, because you know they're going to be banging some publicist next week. But the nerdy guys—a lady gets lulled into a whole this-is-different/I'm-doing-this-dude-a-favor mindset that comes right back around and bites you on the ass when he pulls the fuck 'n' dump. Not that I'm talking from experience or anything.

UPDATE: Mike's right—it's a girl! That's okay, my point still holds. I just dated her twin brother is all. She's going to ditch her nice boyfriend for some mouth-breather musician type, just you wait.

Ack!

A couple weeks back I wrote a post criticizing Slate's "Dear Prudy" columnist when she suggested that a woman who was positive she didn't want children, reconsider that decision. Why? Because the woman's family really wanted her to. Oh. So a grown-up lady should get pregnant and have kids because her mommy wants her to. That makes sense.

I'm betting that if that same woman wrote in saying she didn't want breast implants, but that her husband really wanted her to go under the knife and get the funbags inflated, Prudy would've had a whole different take on the situation. And as stupid a scenario as that is, even that would make more sense as silicone bags don't crap themselves or throw tantrums.

Apparently I wasn't the only one who took issue with Prudy's bad advice, so this week she's back defending herself. She talks about how rich her life is now that she's spawned. How amazing it is to watch a child grow up.

That's great. For you. I have plenty of friends who've reproduced and I'd never tell them they'd made a grave mistake. By the same token, I expect them to respect my choice. And really, shouldn't giving birth to another human require a whole lot more thought than opting not to?

One of Prudy's lamest points is repeatedly referring to people without children as being "childless" instead of "childfree." She even confesses she does this to rankle her critics. Frankly, I don't care what she calls it as long as I don't have to wipe its ass.

Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!!!!!

I started this blog with the intention that I'd use it to critique my fellow advice professionals. There are a lot of us out there, and most of us suck. (Including me, occasionally.) But I quickly bored of that idea and began writing all about myself and the things that interested, fascinated, and repulsed, the all-important me. So much more interesting, right?!?!

But today I'm returning to my roots to yell at Slate's "Dear Prudy" columnist, Emily Yoffe. After hitting the nail on the head when she advises a lesbian granny to try and talk things out with her newly fundamentalist idiot daughter (and if that doesn't work, just ignore the ignorant bitch), she blows it but hard in her next reply.

A woman in her thirties writes in saying that she's very happy to be getting married, but that she and her fiance have decided not to reproduce and they're getting sick of people pressuring them to procreate. And rightly so. Would you really want anyone to base a major decision like having a kid on peer pressure? I've always felt that why are you having a child is a much better question than why aren't you. Giving birth and the subsequent 20-something years of a the kid's life are a huge responsibility and not something to be jumped into on a whim. You'd think Dear Prudy would get this.

But no. Instead, she tells her this:

You are about to get married, and as life's circumstances change, it is worth re-examining your goals, especially this one (and yes, I know, I am offending all happy childless people). You're only in your 30s—if you have children now, they'll be grown by the time you reach your late 50s! You say you love children, but as close as you may be to your nieces and nephews, that's no substitute for having your own. The people who know and love you best hope you and your husband have children—that alone makes it something worth considering.

What the fuck?!?! You should have children because your friends think you should and they know best? Are your friends and family going to have the episiotomy for you? Will they be changing the diapers and dealing with the the kid when it hits its mouthy teenage years? And who's going to pay for college!?!? Will that also be a group activity?  And yes, having nieces and nephews is not like having your own children because you can send those kids home when you get sick of them! Having children is not for everyone and I'm sick of people treating the child-free like they're somehow too stupid to know what's best for them. Aaargh! Believe me, by not having any kids, I'm doing everyone a favor!

*Photo of the creepy giant baby head offa Flickr.

Um, Wrong!

I have tried to give Emily Yoffe—Slate.com's new advice columnist—the benefit of the doubt. I figure her first few columns were just indicative of a new gig she was growing into. After all, I generally like what she writes. In her normal writing she is absolutely fearless about making a fool of herself (a trait I admire a great deal) and is very funny in the process.

But this! This is something entirely different. This week a guy writes in saying he's in the doghouse for throwing out mementos of his wife's various affairs. WTF?!?! First of all, these things should've never even made it in the house; second, of course he chucked them! Yoffe says that he should've politely asked wifey to dispose of her philanderous souvenirs, but now that the damage that is done, they definitely have some talking to do.

Um, talking? How about throwing the wife out? This isn't just one affair, this is several. The fact that she's keeping gifts from these guys means she's at best insensitive, at worst (and more likely) a heinous cunt of misery. And what kind of a doormat is he? Why is he even writing an advice columnist with this non-problem? His wife is mad about him throwing some crap her secret lover men had given her? So what? Good! Why isn't he more angry that she's fucking around behind his back and then flaunting the evidence?

My answer: kick the slag out and grow yourself a set!

I swear, I have to do everything around here. . . .

BTW, that picture is of an undergarment called "smarty pants." Since I'm feeling like a smarty pants right about now, I thought it was an appropriate photo. Google images is such a source of inspiration for me.

People from San Francisco. . .

. . . shouldn't be in the advice business. Cary Tennis, Salon's "Since You Asked" columnist gets it half-right this week when he advises a guy whose wife has quit shaving her legs, to bargain with her. Like you shave your legs, I'll shave my ass (okay, he didn't suggest that—he thought hubby should offer bon bons). That makes sense. But then, as those Crunchy Californians are wont to do, he suggests Hairified Hubby ponder the  societal implications of leg-shaving in a patriarchal society. Or something along those lines. Not sure what exactly, because I started dozing off.

Tennis also comes up with the brill idea that Husband should volunteer to shave his wife's legs for her. If she didn't hate shaving her legs before, she's certainly not going to be a fan after getting ripped to shreds by a wayward Lady Bic in the unpracticed hands of her Horny Hubby. Talk about potential for backfire! ER visits aren't exactly juice-inducing!

I favor the bargaining route. I would ask the wife what disgusting habit he has that he could trade off for the once-a-week shave. For instance, I would gladly shave daily if a certain party could quash the loud loogying. Hell, I'd shave my head for that!

Thinking Mink

Along with old episodes of Homicide and John Waters, one of the best things about Baltimore is the City Paper. Not only were they the first to run Tim Kreider's brilliant, "The Pain: When Will it End," they've got Mink Stole as an advice columnist!*

Normally, Mink is right on; dispensing advice with wit and a sensitivity that always seems to elude me. But this week, I must respectfully point out, that she is dead wrong.

A young lady writes in, wondering if it's too "weird" to ask her boyfriend of two months if he's seeing anyone else. Mink says don't do it:

Here’s why: If your guy is like a lot of other guys, no matter how noninvasive you try to be, he will not hear a simple request for information; what he will hear is, “Are you going to marry me?” And in an instant you’re transformed from best-he’s-ever-dated gal into wedding-wanting scary gal.

Though I agree men can be hinky bastids, there's no harm in keeping it light and saying something along the lines of, "hey, are we still sleeping with other people or should I cancel my four o'clock?" I'd want to know if someone I'm sleeping with is schtupping others—not because I'm desperate for marriage, but because I'd like to know if I should keep looking. It's not fair if he's going out having all the sex while I'm sitting at home waiting for a call, thinking he's my one and only.

*The only downside being that they also carry that annoying Republican coward, Russ 9/11-scared-me-back-to-Baltimore Smith.

Dr. Pill

First Nerve changed their format to grub even more money off its members, and now match.com is partnering with Dr. Phil! No! So now someone who hasn't been single in, oh say, a gazillion years, will be advising you and I on how to date. This makes about as much sense as the Portly Phil's weight-loss book. What's next in back-a-land? His take on reversing baldness? A pamphlet on updating your facial hair from the seventies?

Online dating—much like online shopping—should be a no-brainer, yet all these sites just can't seem to stop fucking it up.

Boo hoo!

Salon's Cary Tennis is at it again (you'll have to watch an Audi ad to read it, so I'll save you the trouble). Today's reader is a whiney, under-employed, lonely guy with trust issues. Every year, his wealthy mom sends him a dress shirt and tie for xmas, even though he's told her time and again that he doesn't want a dress shirt and tie, nor does he have any occasion to wear it.

Given that mothers are second only to boyfriends in the not-retaining-a-single-thing-you-say department and second to none when it comes to passive-aggressive behavior, I'd say this guy is getting off easy and should grow the hell up already. I remember getting pissed off about stuff like this back when I was a blue-haired teenager and my mom would give me lace-collared Laura Ashley frocks in the hopes that I'd someday become the daughter she wished she'd had, instead of the slutty derelict she wound up with. By the time I was in my early 20s, I'd quit arguing and started returning.

Families are supposed to make you nuts. It's what they do.

Snoopy!

Though technically part of the Tuh-HERsday section, I thought Sebastian Hart's "BFF" column deserved its own entry.

Today Sebastian hears from a young lady who suspected her boyfriend of cheating, hacked into his email account, and found out she was right. She's all worried that her wandering bf will be angry that she didn't trust him (!!) and doesn't know what to do. Seb stupidly comes up with a convoluted solution involving emailing the other woman and engaging in all manner of drama.

Wrong.

Cheating is worse than snooping. Especially when snooping nets results. Unless she's psychotic, most women won't snoop unless they have reason to be suspicious. As for confronting him, it's none of his business how she found out he was cheating. She certainly doesn't owe him honesty or anything else. Ahem.