Duchess' Words to Live By

I completely understand that I’ve been MIA, but I can explain. I’ve been working like a sweat-shop laborer to save money to move out of my grandmother’s house. I’ve finally decided to cut the apron strings, and dear lord it is pricey. Aside from rummaging through the sofa cushions for enough quarters to start a savings account, I’ve been jet setting across the Continental US. (ok, just Nashville, TN and NYC, but I consider it a  big deal. I live on an island don’t forget.)

Since I can’t think of anything important to blog about (send me ideas people)... I decided I can’t keep getting white-girl wasted off of Argentinian wine while hyperventilating over Fifty Shades of Grey. I mean, I CAN, but let’s get a grip here.... I’m one uneventful night away from joining a book club and devoting my life to celibacy and Harry Potter. I’m just kidding, I’m as fabulous as ever. 

Here is a bucket list for every duchess to dissect and devour. Tiny steps you can take to ensure your stain on this planet is nothing short of over-the-top and fantastic. Buckle up, my cherubs. 

1. Tattoo yourself. You will feel better, trust me. I’m not saying you should get your deceased cat’s name across your forearm, but if you miss your calico friend so much, go for it. Think of something that truly expresses a piece of your life and make it into art. Beauty is pain. Embrace the ink. You will have this mark for the rest of your life, think long and hard. 

2. Smile. Smiling should be the first thing you do when you wake up, ensuring a phenomenal day. Not only do I try to get eight hours of sleep each and every night, but I try to make sure I have dreams of Alec Baldwin, Jacoby Ellsbury and Joaquin Phoenix, what can go wrong there? Nobody wants to sit with somebody who looks like they’re having a colonoscopy, right? Put a smile on your friggin face. Chances are your mother’s third husband bought you veneers for your college graduation... make him proud.

3. Stop fucking overanalyzing. 

-Should I call him? He’ll think I’m a psycho.

-Should I text him first? Oh God, I can’t.

-Should I send him an edible arrangement on his birthday?

Relax, hookers. Live on the edge. Get a hold of your emotions. If you want to talk to somebody, pick up the phone. If you miss somebody, tell them. If you love them, swallow your pride and say it. What’s the worst thing that will happen? You get burned a little by rejection and are out the next night swigging whiskey and sucking face with an attorney? #toughlife You are a duchess, you’ll be beating them off with your fascinator if you stop being an insecure, over sensitive twit.

4. Move on in all aspects of your life. Improve improve improve. Imagine if you bought a used Honda Civic on your 21st birthday. You are now 28. Do you go back to the car dealership and purchase the same car, with added mileage, and the same amount of problems if not more? No. Apply this to all areas of your life. Get a new apartment. Go after a new job. Get a NEW boyfriend. If you are on your way to meet the man in your life and you feel pangs of anxiety and unease as opposed to feelings of I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off and make out with you until 2020, then you should probably hang it up, sister. Seriously, move on. Stop going back to the vortex of crazy. There’s some poor bastard out there who wants to put a ring on it, and trust me it’s a Harry Winston. 

5. Get a doctorate. Why? Why not. Every last name sounds better with PhD. attached to the end. What else are you doing in your life. Open an effing book and pay too much money for a heinous gown that will make you look like Professor Dumbledore. (TWO Harry Potter references in one post, I’m embarrassed.)

6. Travel. See the world. I’m not talking about Epcot people. Americans do NOT travel enough. Too many people tell me that they have never left the country. The world is a gorgeous place. Eat Paella in Spain, spend all morning hugging the toilet bowl in Amsterdam, enjoy chocolate in Belgium, have some Beaujolais under the Eiffel tower. Let the map be your playground, my darlings. 

Please don’t ever forget how fucking fabulous you are. Never settle for less than everything, please don’t forget that. Now, drive around all day blaring Lady Gaga “born this way.” Kisses.

Duchess' Quick Guide to Travel

It’s spring-break time. Refill your Ambiens and cue the crying babies, it’s the Duchess’ Guide to travel, people. Yes there are a set of common courtesy rules as well as some unwritten laws to make your traveling much more efficient and enjoyable. Whether you’re taking the Amtrak to Manhattan for a weekend, a bus to Oklahoma to knit scarves for the homeless or a 737 to Nassau, Bahamas where you plan on leaving your functioning liver along with any remaining shred of good moral judgment, follow along.

Number 1, be respectful of the people around you. If you are taking enough luggage to last you through the apocalypse, please don’t take public transportation. It’s extremely rude. We have all ridden the T and have tripped over some oblivious girl as it takes her 20 minutes to pay her fare, load all 17 of her bags on the car and to try and find a seat near said bags. Just take a cab. Trust me, the 20 dollars will be less likely to kill you than the enraged urban passengers. 

This goes along for cell phone use as well. Negative attention is not cute. Nobody cares that you’re walking around the airport on your iphone yelling about the previous night in a velour suit and trucker hat. We have all experienced this person. Instead of ordering another cocktail to drown out the annoying ramblings of the Snooki-alike, sternly stare at her in a way that makes her realize you are maniacal and terrifying. If she does not get the hint that she is an annoying twat, let the sociopath next to you with the hiking pack confront her. Hiking packs are very intimidating, like what the hell is in THERE?

Number 2, dress to impress. When traveling, one should always look their best. Why, you ask? The answer is simple, one should ALWAYS try to look good, why is that even a question. Imagine you step in line at Starbucks to order a Passion Tea Lemonade and you’re behind Kanye West. Yes, I’m sure he would be excited to be behind a girl wearing Ugg boots and her High School football team’s hooded sweatshirt. Not.

Also, nobody in the airport has any idea who you are. Have fun with that idea. Let’s just say that the guy in 1 carat bezel set cuff links won’t be fighting to sit next to the girl with the neck pillow, breathe right strips and yoga pants. 

Number 3, be careful with your meds. It has happened to us all. Our fear of flying has left us white-knuckled hyperventilating with our heads between our knees. It may have been last night’s hangover but chances are it was most-likely phobia related. God invented a pill for this, and by God I mean the money-hungry pharmaceutical industry.  Xanax is a beautiful thing, yes, but DO be careful. It takes the edge off of things and makes you feel like you’re jaunting down the Yellow Brick Road to get to Willy Wonka’s Ever Lasting Gobstopper. Whatever you do, do NOT have an alcoholic beverage. Chances are you will wake up in a pile of your own drool and will have missed your destination by 4 hours to a day. 

Number 4, steer clear of airplane food. Trust me on this one, you’re better off getting a form of nutrients from a Belvedere and tomato juice. If you’re on a long enough flight that they offer you a meal, it will be packed with enough sodium to make you bloat like Kirstie Alley. No lie, you will exit the plane looking like you made a late night stop at Taco Bell after killing a keg of Rolling Rock. Also, think about the havoc ensuing in your intestines. Just, a pointer. Eat a pretzel and a piece of Orbit gum, you’ll be fine. 

With that being said, darlings. Enjoy your spring breaks and everybody be safe. Happy travels to all. xoxoxo

Happy International Women's Day

Good morning, darlings. It’s 60 degrees out, the sun is shining and it just so happens to be International Women’s Day. Before you start reading Carol Gilligan and burning your bras, let’s look at a few ways we can feel like intimidating bitches every single day. Have you ever been out with friends and there was that really annoying girl... the girl who was about as much enjoyment as a spin class in July? Picture it, she giggles too much, talks about her needle-point class, only drinks white zinfandel, and has the personality of a dried sponge. If you are anything like me, you got hog-wild with your BAC and did your best Mel Gibson impression. AKA you made a complete ass out of yourself and horrified this poor girl. Here are a few pointers on intimidating the entire world and letting them know that you are a crazed duchess with an extensive neurotransmitter deficiency.

1. Be outspoken. Always, always speak your mind, ladies. Life is too short. Never sit back and let your thoughts play air hockey in that head of yours, what the hell is the good in that? Since you are a duchess, you will be well-read, and grounded. Your thoughts and words are an extension of you, share them. 
2. Stand out. If there are 25 girls in a room, be the one that makes the other 24 turn their heads. Dare to be different. Dare to flaunt the styles others are afraid of. If there are 24 girls with long hair, North Face Jackets and UGG boots, be the girl with the magenta lipstick, platinum blonde pixie and Christian Louboutins. The world is your playground, my darlings.
3. 5’10” is the new 4’10”. Ladies, tall is a blessing. It’s an incredible feeling to tower over a man, give it a try sometime. Think Nicole Kidman, only she left the troll and ended up with Keith Urban, proving truth to the rule. Also, natural selection will be in your favor. They call it ‘top-shelf’ liquor for a reason... 
4. Throw out your Nicolas Sparks books. Instead of reading a slew of love stories, focus on the classics. Read a little Lord Byron if you’re looking to get your rocks off. Trust me, Paradise Lost and Dante’s Inferno will appear more realistic than those obnoxious books meant to make you reevaluate your life of scandalousness and poor-decision making. 
5. Go big or go home. Trust me, dainty was so 1920’s. Buy some men’s aviators, a man’s watch and try to tackle the unkempt but ridiculously expensive eyebrow look. Remember, your main purpose is to intimidate the shit out of people. No one is afraid of a girl in rhinestoned Tiffany sunglasses with a Pandora bracelet.
6. Refine the palette. Learn to eat and drink like a rockstar. Life is too short. (Insert absurd YOLO comment) Stop fad-dieting and enjoy your life, while learning to eat like a piece of Euro trash, Zara wardrobe not included. 
7. Release more dopamine. Eat more chocolate. Drive faster. Have more sex. Drink more wine. Fall in love. All in moderation, I suppose, or something like that. 
8. Climb the corporate ladder. It’s 2012. Women are making more money than their partners. Don’t be afraid to be the bread-winner. Bring home the bacon, men LOVE bacon. You can start utilizing your ovaries when you get around to it. 
9. Start carrying cash. Am I wrong? Aren’t we always intimidated by people who carry around large amounts of cash? As long as you’re not in the Starbucks line unfolding $2 bills, I don’t really see the problem.
10. Be true to yourself. I hate trite remarks and cliched statements, but it’s actually a pretty good one. You are a result of the fastest swimming sperm cell, why would you change for anybody? You are a duchess, we don’t do that. Sorry, the boyshorts are staying. 

Get out there and enjoy being a woman. xoxoxoxo much love, darlings. Cheers. 

Duchess' Guide to Family Survival

March is upon us people, comes in like Joan Rivers, out like Kate Upton (or something like that.) You know what this means, the impending arrival of spring. Iron your seersucker shorts, wax your kittens, choose your new Lilly print and throw some highlights in those dreary locks of yours, the socialite season is upon us. If you have any hopes of surviving what the Mayans predict will be the last spring of your lives, you are going to have to deal with your crazy families. Remember, we don’t choose them. The hedonistic higher being has a sick sense of humor and plays a cruel joke on all of us... forcing us to share genes with people who make a Manson family outing look like a bad episode of Family Ties. 

Let’s start with the root of all insanity: parents. You must love them, even if they are responsible for your nail-biting habits, your racked-up therapy bills and your convict boyfriend. If your parents are like mine, their relationship is basic and healthy: only consisting of phone calls and registered letters from attorneys and law officials. When my mother decides to speak about  my father, her dialogue would make George Carlin blush, completely normal, I agree. When it comes to navigating through your parental interaction, just be yourself. They changed your diapers, caught you facedown in your bed at the age of 15 smelling like peach schnapps and Abercrombie Fierce, and picked you up from after school detention on the regular. They understand that you are a complete and utter train wreck. They embrace it and are hoping that some handsome heir to millions of dollars will find your chemical imbalance quite charming and decide to marry you without forcing a prenuptial agreement. 

Next, siblings. As siblings, you should consider yourself on the same team. Think of it like a flip-cup game. Your weak player will bring you down. What is the prize? Grandparents’ love. The grandparents are looking for the grandchildren who outshine the others. YOU may be a published Rhodes scholar with a PhD in sociology, but if your brother is the lead singer of a death metal band who lives in a one room apartment in Revere, the odds are against you. This equates you to two subpar individuals with a bourgeoise income and an Associate’s degree in African Literature. You will never make it to the top of Nana and Papa’s trust fund with a team like that. Get your shit together people. Your cousins are the enemy. Just realize it already. 

Aunts/ Uncles. Oh boy. Aunts and Uncles are added to the mix to really make things interesting. We all have the aunt who shows up for Easter, gets too drunk off of Bailey’s to drive home, and ends up staying until Memorial Day. Face it, imagine a holiday without her. We must not forget the Uncle with the bad breath and coke bottle glasses... he’ll be wearing the heinous sweater that he will take off by dessert time and be forced to walk around in his frayed white undershirt with the yellow armpit stains. His jokes are corny and his laugh is annoying, but you will never be able to remember how he is actually related to you. He is sort of just there, by default.... “Wait, uncle Eddie is related to who?.....” 

The significant other. Deciding whether or not you want to bring your current love-interest around the family is a serious decision. It can go extremely well, or it can go terribly. It does not matter if you really even like this guy, once again you have to have the best date. It is all about the competition people. I don’t care if he sings you Jack Johnson songs before bed and massages you in hot Egyptian oil after your shower, if Grandma does not like him, you might as well bring Tommy Lee to next year’s dinner. Yes, your cousin’s husband could be the CEO of Charmin Toilet paper, but if he showed up at my house with an Obama t-shirt and bad table manners, Grandma is going to make his life a living hell. 

Ultimately, the best survival tactic is to ‘fake-it-til-you-make-it.’ Your grandparents really have no idea that you have absurd credit card debt, FEMME FATALE tattooed under your right breast or that you are sexting last night’s make-out victim under the table during Easter dinner. In their eyes, you will always be a perfect little duchess, which you are. Remember, we are a product of our upbringings and yes, that should scare you tremendously. Cheers, dolls. 

Duchess' Guide to Awful People

That awkward moment when your friend leaves you sitting next to the one person in the room that you can’t stand. The one person who starts to engage in conversation and you can’t decide if you would rather have a root canal at that very moment or an unanesthetized colonoscopy in a communist country. It’s a terrible feeling, really. As a duchess, you must avoid these people. They only bring you down. Here is a guide to the most obnoxious people forced to roam this spinning rock. If you can’t possibly avoid them because unfortunately they share your DNA or have entered your perfect life via marriage.... read on, kittens: 

1. “The couple.” The boyfriend/girlfriend that only go out together. The couple that only hangs out with other couples. That awful friend who has been engaged for 7 minutes and has used the word fiance 764 times. Yes, you are happy for them. It gets a tad annoying when every sentence starts with ‘we....’ ‘poor-bastard and I....’ ‘our car...’ ‘our house....’ Yes. Great. You’re a couple. Duchesses, don’t ever let go of your individual shine and superiority. In the world of women, be the Zsa Zsa Gabor, not the Tammy Wynette. Go out and buy yourself a new David Yurman ring to celebrate how incredible you are.

2. “The person who always plays: my-dick-is-bigger.” You know this person all too well.

Friend 1: “How are you?”

Friend 2: “Meh, I’ve been better. Finally finished that project at work and I’ve come down with a bad cold. How about you?”

...before you can even finish your tiny blurb about your own maladies and problems... 

Friend 1: “OH MY GOD. I KNOW. Since I have a harder job than you, my project was WAY MORE INTENSE AND TIME CONSUMING. I also have come down with pneumonia, asthma, type 2 diabetes, parseltongue, a painful menstruation, conjunctivitis, a bleeding ulcer, colitis and I have 4 planter’s warts on my feet. So I know exactly what you’re going through.”

..... Take a deep breath. Calm the urge to smack this over-exaggerating hooker in the face with the nearest blunt object. Simply voice your dearest condolences for her hard time and change the subject. You are a duchess, so this shouldn’t really ruffle your feathers. He/she is a pathetic twit and all is well. Finish your gimlet, pay your tab, and run.

3. “The borrower.” Repeat after me, people: “no.” Sometimes it’s ok to say no. 

‘No, you can’t borrow my brand new Christian Louboutin shoes.’

‘No, you can’t take my car for a 45-minute joy-ride because yours has no gas.’

‘No, you can’t borrow my new sweater and return it 4 months later covered in stains and smelling like stale vomit.’

 .... We all know this friend. Anything shiny of yours that they see, they need to have it. Maybe I’m a selfish person, but I work far too hard for my things to be handing them out like vegan activist pamphlets in front of a San Francisco McDonalds. 

4. “The Authority-on everything...” This is the friend that happens to believe that they KNOW EVERYTHING. Whatever you’re talking about, they have the answer. Pearl Harbor? They were there. Art History? Yeah, they have their PhD in it. Pink elephants? They breed them. Foreign cars? Their Uncle is CEO of Hyundai. Being annoying? Well, that goes without saying.

So we all can clearly visualize that one friend who is the God damn epitome of this repulsive breed. How can you deal? Flash your pearly white smile and nod. Keep nodding. You are a duchess, meaning you’re extremely perfect and educated. Keep allowing this fuck-nut to ramble about things that he/she has no idea about. As soon as they are finished, gently school them on all things they touched on. Do it in a kind and convictive manner, which should come easy to you. Then, smile at your head-scratching friend who is left dumbfounded by your brilliance, order yourself a Glenlivet neat and marvel at your perfected brain-rape. 

5. “The ass-kisser...” That person who would compliment you if you were wearing a shredded trash bag and a pair of mismatched Old Navy flip flops, yes the 2 for 5 dollar ones. They just have to kiss your ass no matter what, I don’t get it. It’s nice the first time, but it does get annoying. Appreciate the fact that you have a small fan club and be gracious. Hold the eye-roll until your back is to them and then you can quickly vacate the premises of said brown-noser. Nobody likes the friend who compliments your weight loss when all you can fit into are yoga pants and hooded sweatshirts.... or your new hair cut which you’re pretty sure looks like a bleached out Bieber cut. Alas, smile and nod ladies. 

6. “The sloppy drunk...” Ok, ok, ok... we all have our nights... Yes, I did wake up in a Foxwoods bathrobe one night next to a 20 pound bulldog named ‘Meatball’.... it happens.... It does get old having the friend who does that every night they’re out. They meander up to the bar, hopefully not hiccuping and without better judgment start pounding Long Island Iced Teas. Next thing you know they’re face planting in their 4-inch heels, flirting with the illegal, toothless bouncer and picking fights with the group of linebacker-looking girls across the bar. As a good friend you just have to make sure she gets home safe and that she gave you enough laughs/ Patron shots throughout the night to warrant your new babysitting gig. If it gets out of hand, have a talk with 'Lindsey Lohan.' Tell her to slow her roll before she starts decorating the walls of The Betty Ford Clinic and buying flare jeans that will fit over her alcohol anklet. 

7. “The man-stealer...” This makes me cringe just typing it. You know the scene. You start eye-fornicating with the hot brunette across the bar. He’s not creeping you out, but he’s making it known that he would like to have a fun make-out sesh/ play a little sexy time. Naturally, you casually escape to the ladies room where you’ll pee, redo your makeup, hoist your twins up, apply enough lip gloss to choke a small animal and dab some Marc Jacobs rollerball on your neck. You exit the bathroom and your man-stealing friend has her drunken mouth all over the hot brunette. Slopfest, party of two. Instead of grabbing her by her extensions and slamming her head on the marble bar, keep your cool. Consider the fact that she is a raging douche and there are probably 50+ other guys you can attack. 

8. “The cigarette bummer...” Isn’t it always the same girl who asks for a cigarette but never has her own. Why is this? 

Free loader girl: “Hey, do you have an extra cigarette?”

Friend: “Oh my God. Yes. You’re so lucky. The tobacco company accidentally gave me a malfunctioned box and instead of twenty cigarettes they gave me twenty-one.”

Why? Why? Why? Buy your own, doll-face. She will also most likely put your lighter in her pocket so be careful. Sticky mitts are dangerous.... 

Moral of the story: life is too short, and unfortunately we must learn to live with one another. Grow up, move on, and laugh it off. Life is too short to be anything but happy my darlings. That’s enough for a PMS rant out of me for one blog, enjoy my dears. 

Duchess' Guide to Sisterhood

My beautiful sister turned 25 today. The Pippa to my Kate has become a woman. I remember being a little girl and my mother would tirelessly repeat the same old: “Your sister is all you’re going to have someday.” Blah, blah, blah, take it easy egg-donor, we get it. We would laugh at her ridiculousness and let it roll off of our shoulders, but in a way, her words could never be truer. I admit, I’m not the easiest sister to have, and to be honest, neither is she. Maybe that’s what perfects our dynamic and makes it such a flawless assimilation of love, rage, laughter, and tears. 

As a duchess, we must accept these for what they are, fibrous essentials of our humanistic being. I love her for the raw feelings that she has no problem showing, and she loves me for the bipolar expression of my convoluted emotions. Yes, she ran me over in her hot pink Barbie corvette, and yes I did tag along to her junior prom and make out with the limo driver. Yes, she has been with me through every medical procedure from stitches to surgery. Yes, she does put her hair back and take her earrings out when someone gives me the tiniest tainted look. This, is why I love her so much. My love for her can be summed up in the Aristotelian definition of a friend: we are one soul, dwelling in two bodies, and I would not change that for the world.

Our relationship wasn’t always a friggin cake full of rainbows and smiles, rest assured. The sibling rivalry started at a young age. No matter where we went, people would marvel at her curly, gorgeous red hair. I would sit back and fumble with my jet black, pin-straight mess of hair that fell to the middle of my back: lifeless, boring, average. As I got older, I realized that her hair makes her who she is. There is not one man I’ve met, who has ever dated a red head, who would dare fuck with one. In simpler terms, my sister could make Lorena Bobbit look like a docile Easter bunny. Her hair truly makes her who she is. It is bold, daring, powerful. No half-wit with a personality of a Pez dispenser could possess the spark and fire behind those flowing crimson locks. 

It was so easy to sit side-by-side on the swing set, legs flailing, thoughts scattering, loudly mapping out our entire lives... but, our lives are nowhere close to that plan, and that is perfectly fine with me. So what? We’re not married. We don’t have children. We don’t have houses. Boo effing hoo. My sister is 25 and has life in her back pocket. She has a group of friends that would give her the entire universe, a family that loves her unconditionally, a man in her life that sees her for the true beauty and wisdom that she possesses, and a an innate desire to live life to the fullest and to embrace all that is vivacious and spirited. 

Enough with the trite cliches and gag-inducing emotional repetitiveness. It boils down to a sisterhood. We have each other in this world and there is not one thing that will ever come between that. Pippa, your life is just beginning. You are seeomg the strong and exceptional woman that I have always known you to be. You are realizing your flaws, your capabilities, and you are doing an incredible job at it. You are an inspiration to so many and a beacon of hope to the aimless wanderers. 

Our darling mother was right, you are all I’m going to have someday and I wouldn’t want it any other way. May the next 75 years live up to the first 25. To me, you are perfect. 

Duchess' Quick Guide to Waitressing

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The Duchess' Guide to #SocialMedia

So you survived the date without any tremendous mishaps, wardrobe malfunctions or gastrointestinal maladies. Even if you had a piece of eggplant in your teeth throughout the entire dinner, or your body broke out into an alcohol-induced rash (guilty of both), chances are, things could have gone a lot worse. You may not know him enough to parade him to your house for a Sunday dinner where he will be interrogated like a prisoner of Gitmo, but you’re pretty sure he’s not the Craigslist Killer. All in all, a success for the Duchess. 

Now, there are a set of unwritten rules about the post-date social media procedure. I have not encountered them so much on this island, but I have also run into people who still use Myspace, wear Abercrombie clothes and who rub their body in Patchouli oil. I’m not judging, it’s just scientific observation. Let today’s post be a little lesson for all. It is pretty much agreed upon that girls are more obsessed with social media than men. When I say obsessed, I mean they change their profile picture more times than their underwear and they tweet about every emotion they’ve ever had. 

Exhibit A: They Tried to Make Me go to Tweet-hab

@JaneDoe is getting her drink on with @randomgirl in the city tonight! #pretendingtogohogwildwhenillbegoinghomealone

@JaneDoe is SO pissed that it’s -5 degrees. Guess I’ll have to wear UGGS! #hopingsomanypeopleactuallygiveashit #UGGSareneveracceptable

@JaneDoe can’t believe what just happened on Glee.

#nosarcastichashtagnecessary

@JaneDoe is eating an egg white omelette with veggies and some turkey bacon!

#janedoeshouldrealizethatnobodyactuallycares

All in all, you get it. Girls are crazy (to-say-the-least). So ladies, if he adds you on Facebook or starts following you on Twitter... I hate to say it, but some lines need to be drawn. This comes from personal experience. So yes, the profile pictures I had from sophomore year spring break had to go. No future President wants his future First Lady sprawled out face-down on a beach with a Red Stripe in one hand and a variety of Mardis Gras beads in the other. I’m not saying you can’t get an intern position, but First Lady is 86ed.  You may also want to untag the pics of you playing Edward-40-hands in your best friend’s basement. It was all fun and games until one of you had to relieve yourselves (raises hand). 

While we’re on the topic of pictures, enough with mobile uploads of your dogs/cats. I will admit, I’m the biggest offender. My dog is essentially my child but I’m pretty sure no potential love-interest wants to see my Jack Russell Terrier in a princess gown. (Please message me if you would like to see it. I can email it to you! Quite the beauty queen!) I will bend the rules for the creator of http://foodonmydog.tumblr.com/. Please check it out, my darlings. The Duchess gives it an A+. The same animal rules do apply to cats. Honestly speaking, the only cat your man is interested in, would never be posted on Facebook. Meow meow. Purr purr. 

On to the next rule: please don’t start a poke war. It’s not cute. It’s irritating. It’s like ‘Hi, I’m thinking of you, most likely in a naughty way. I’m too much of a chicken to act on it, so I’ll virtually ‘poke’ you and hope you take it as an inappropriate gesture representing my desire to ‘bang-you’ in my backseat. Please poke me back and reaffirm my belief that we have an unspoken agreement.’ Enough said. No poking.

While we’re ripping apart our bad Facebook habits, stop posting those pictures with inspirational quotes and rainbows on them. THAT’S WHY THE SOCIAL MEDIA HIGHER BEINGS INVENTED PINTEREST. Go to town creating boards that will fill your empty soul with hopes of imaginary weddings/boyfriends/children and baking skills. 

Another general rule: if your status makes someone want to slit their wrists in a warm bath... don’t post it. Steer clear of country song lyrics, Marilyn Monroe quotes, excerpts from James Patterson novels and anything that a 19-year-old girl might get tattooed on her ribcage. 

Exhibit B: The Attention-Seeking Status Update

Jane Doe “The greater your capacity to love, the greater your capacity to feel the pain.”

-Let’s keep in mind that 17 people have probably liked it and every female in your life will comment saying... “what happened?” “Girl, you are so much better than him.” “Baby, let’s get drinks this week.” Enough. Go for a run or something. 

vs.

Jane Doe “So and so dumped me for a bridge-watching troll with rosacea and a G.E.D. Who wants to take me out for drinks while I rip him apart and hit on anything that walks by with a collared shirt and a pulse?”

-You will receive much more likes and comments I assure you. Your rate of rebound will be quicker and much more people will be interested in your Facebook posts. A win for the Duchess. Remember, no man is really worth any status update unless you’re trying to campaign for Ron Paul.

Exhibit C: The Painful Over-Share

Jane Doe “I’ve been sick for a week now. I can’t move. I just want to curl up in my bed and watch movies but I have so much work to do. I’m not a happy girl right now.”

-One minute of somebody’s life that you just took away from them. Most people would rather watch the ending of Steel Magnolias than relive the horror of that status update. What are you looking to get out of it? Do you want somebody to come over and do your work for you? Make you cookies? Blah blah blah.

vs. 

Jane Doe “I have been sick for a week now. Who wants to come over and we can watch the Food Network and take shots of Robotussin every time Paula Deen says the word “butter?”

-Wow. That’s better. You’ve really captured your reader, and who doesn’t like Robotussin and/or Paula Deen? Any lucky man in your life will be hand-feeding you Hall’s Sugar-Free cough drops and making you his grandmother’s Hot Toddy recipe. 

As hard as you will try to make it look like you wear pearls and cardigans EVERY DAY, you want to be honest. Nobody likes that person that untags every picture of them where they have more than one chin or pit-stains. Life is full of imperfections. The Duchess has the remarkable ability to own those. There’s a difference between being a full-blown fake and trying to cover-up your past of Jagermeister shots, hotel parties and keg stands. You don’t want to fool this guy into thinking that you’re the president of the International Relations Honor Society if you can’t spell ‘Israel.’

Lastly, don’t sugarcoat your intellect or verbal style for anybody. If you want to post something that will make George Carlin blush, I say go for it. Pictures are a little different, but the U.S gives us freedom of speech and please do not be afraid to use it. If your political rant about Newt Gingrich pisses him off, he’s not worth your time anyway. I’m not saying you should describe last night’s booty call in your status, but a little wit and cleverness will get you far in life. 

If he reads your updates and you realize that he does not comprehend them, then you must kick the knucklehead to the curb. It doesn’t matter if he has Joaquin Phoenix’s face on Jacoby Ellsbury’s body... if his brain is the size of a walnut, you want nothing to do with it. It will make you sad to see the sex-pot out of your life, but a duchess chooses a toned frontal lobe over a set of ripped glutes any day. You deserve the best, and it is within reach. At the end of the day, my cherubs, we are forced to live with our own decisions. Choose wisely, I know you will. Kisses. Until next time, my regal kittens. 

You Got the Date, Hoo-Rah

So Prince Charming has jumped over the high voltage hurdles and has managed to slay all of the dragons, warranting a date with the duchess. Whether your Christian Singles account paid off or the guy you folded your laundry next to didn’t mind seeing your bleach-stained Justin Bieber hoodie... you have a date. Congrats. You’re on the right track. If you paid attention to the last post, hopefully you kept an eye out for any red flags. Don’t ever doubt the fact that your face is far too pretty to end up in somebody’s freezer. 

Now, leading up to the date is crucial. So he flirted with you, maybe you casually had eye-fornication... he made you smile. Blah. Blah. Blah. Here is the real kicker... did he have a big enough pair to confront you and ask for your number. This is very important. If he’s lolly-gagging around you with his tongue hanging out of his mouth and does nothing to harp on his animalistic instincts, you have no time for him. What’s that NSYNC song with the marionettes? Yes, bye bye bye. As my darling grandmother used to say: “Men are like buses. If you miss one, you wait five minutes and catch the next one.” 

If he does ask for your number, you kindly flash a smile and give it to him, only if you have sexual attraction to him. I’m not saying you should shell out your digits to a Ted Kaczynski look-alike. You can always do the trusty ‘If I shake my head slow enough, it looks like I don’t speak English.’ Use your instinct, ladies. If you decide it’s worth your precious time and you give it to him, pretend that the interaction didn’t even occur and go about your busy duchess ways. If he calls you, he gets a gold star. If he texts you, we give him a slap on the wrist by waiting 2 hours to respond with a quick and boring obligated text. If you don’t hear from him at all, his loss.

You keep your responses short and witty. You don’t want to send these wishy-washy lol-laden hahahahahahahahahaha texts. In all actuality, nobody ever laughs as much as they make it sound. Unless, they’re texting me, of course. We’ll keep this short. Tune-in tomorrow for advice on text-etiquette. Sext-etiquette will come later. Just kidding, that’s a goddamn free-for-all. Have at it. So you occasionally text, please make sure he’s not annoying you and blowing up your phone like your seventh grade boyfriend during study hall. You are an independent adult. Make it seem like you’re really a lot busier than you are and you don’t have time for him, even if you spend the bulk of your day searching Pinterest for additions to your Harry Potter board. (points to self) This will make the hamster in his brain start convulsing and foaming at the mouth. Men are babies, they worry. Make him sweat. Grrr. 

Let him arrange the date. It is his job. However, whatever you do, do not let him surprise you. This will end terribly. Let’s take a short trip back to a quick relationship I had with FireFighter. We met at a bar in Boston, quickly went on a few dates, hit it off and things were great. We were at an early stage in our relationship: PG-13 sleepovers, lots of dinners, wine-drinking, laughter, happiness, all of that Taylor Swift-inspired-silliness. FireFighter wanted to surprise me with a fun day trip. In return, I wanted to surprise FireFighter with my brand new Jessica Simpson clip-in hair extensions. It was July so I put on some sunless tanner, clipped my faux locks in for a Kate Middleton meets Jenna Jameson look, picked out a Vineyard Vines linen dress and strapped on some cork wedges. It was quite the ensemble. As he pulled up to my apartment I stared in horror as he was proudly sporting a topless jeep. I never cringe at the idea of topless, but let’s be real. I couldn’t explain to FireFighter that my porn-star locks would have been lost in the wind if I so much as stepped into that thing. I swallowed my pride, stepped into the Jeep and held my head in my lap like I were trying to avoid motion sickness over the Bermuda Triangle. Fantastic. The surprise ended greatly as we drove for TWO AND A HALF HOURS to a beach resort. I quickly escaped to the bathroom, took out my white-girl weave and shoved it into my tote faster than you can say ‘train-wrack.’ I exited that bathroom looking like Courtney Love after a 5 day bender. Fantastic. With that being said, surprises are terrible. You want to be mentally prepared, physically prepared and emotionally prepared. 

Clothing is a big deal. You don’t want to show up looking like Amy Winehouse, but you also don’t want to show up looking like Barbara Bush. Go for the Destiny’s Child rule. If you’re going to show legs, cover your top with at least a three-quarter sleeve. Blazers are a girl’s best friend. If you want to show off your perfect twins, flaunt a perfectly fitting bustier, but be sure to wear jeans. Of course, you want to wear heels. Doesn’t have to be an intense Victoria Beckham heel, but anything that elevates you. It will make you feel better, trust me. Just don’t drink one too many glasses of Cotes du Rhone and slide across the dining room into a patron’s soup du jour. Never a pretty sight. (not from experience or anything)

So he tells you all about the date he has planned. Great. Plan on meeting him there. It is 2012. For your own safety, avoid getting in his car. Yes it would be a lot more convenient if you could immediately spot the built-in breathalyzer or stash of pizza boxes in the back seat, but these observations will just have to wait. So you casually meet him at the restaurant. The restaurant is key. I find that French restaurants really are the way to go. Indian restaurants tend to reenact the Battle Of the Bulge on your intestines. Sushi can be risky, you don’t know what kind of quality you will get. Italian portions are ridiculous and will leave you with a carb bloat and breath that could stop a clock. Chain restaurants are an insult, and pubs are a no-no. (He’s not meeting his buddies for a burger and some hockey, let’s be honest) French it is. 

If he has half a brain he will have made a reservation. If you get there early it is a good idea to make your way over to the bar for a drink. This is key. Yes, I did rip apart men who drink white wine and estrogen-induced cocktails, so judging him based upon his drink is perfectly acceptable. Manhattan drinkers are hot, scotch drinkers really get me going, beer drinkers are ok just not on the first date and wine is always a trusted option. Martinis are perfect as long as he doesn’t order a lemon drop with a sugared rim. AKA they should have three things: vodka/gin, dry vermouth, twist/olives. I’m a purist by nature, don’t mess up a good thing... Rum is kind of iffy, let him order that when he’s taking you to Atlantis for a week... yes, these things do enter our brains.

From there, do your thing. WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T ORDER JUST A SALAD. You will look like an idiot. Whoever the hell came up with that rule... was an anorexic basket case. If you’re worried about looking like a binge-eater, order salmon. You can even go to town with eating asparagus... You’re not going to be giving it up on the first date anyway, RIGHT?! Right. Duchesses don’t do that. Make him sweat. Men are hunters, or something like that... 

Let him decide if he wants dessert. Hopefully he will order it, it makes him not appear to be a cheap a-hole and it’s cute to dig your spoons together and to fight over chocolate. Chocolate releases dopamine, almost like an orgasm... It will get your minds acting up. BUT QUICKLY MAKE IT STOP. Duchesses don’t do that... Don’t be that awkward girl that stands by her car with her shoulders slumped. (never do that, chest out. always) Initiate the goodbye, you don’t have to tell him how much fun you had, this isn’t a Nicolas Sparks novel. Thank him for dinner, which I know he paid for because he surpassed all of the previous tests, and hug him goodbye. If he’s not a complete pussy he’ll make a move. Don’t do more than kiss him though. If he absolutely skeeved you out and repeatedly talked about his illegitimate child, his ex-girlfriend or his mother all throughout dinner, you can even shake his hand, hop in your car and do a burn-out. You’re a duchess. You have life safely nestled away in your Michael Kors clutch next to your rollerball and your Bloomingdales credit car.... see ya later, sucka. 

That’s pretty much all the insight I have time for today, dearies. Must be running... Just another piece on how a post-grad can have plans of survival on this sandbar. Keep party-rocking and looking pretty, dolls. ex oh ex oh

The Duchess' Guide to Finding the One

Let’s be honest, maybe the “daddy issues” card is thrown around a little too often. It’s the perfect excuse for some troubled 19-year-old to get a saline set, a tribal tramp stamp, change her name to Electra and take off in her convict boyfriend’s Firebird. Instead of such a heinous term that is used to describe half of Maury’s casting calls... I like to believe that I have ‘vacation syndrome.’ Apparently my father was good friends with Forrest Gump’s sperm donor and they went on a little jaunt and have yet to return.

I’m not one to believe in scapegoats but I think the fact that my tattooed mortician father hopped on his motorcycle and took off while I was in middle school may or may not be a determinant in my reckless decision-making and thrill-seeking behavior. I don’t need Dr. Drew to map out the social stigma that comes with that one. 

With that being said, it’s hard for all of us who suffer with ‘Vacation Syndrome’ to find a stable, healthy relationship... and no, ladies. Cats don’t count. Even more troubling is to find a monogamous relationship worth writing to your sorority about on this condemned island. Let’s not kid ourselves, you cannot throw a stone out of your bedroom window without hitting somebody that went to third base with your best friend, and your cousin, and your cousin’s best friend and your sister’s hair stylist. Yes, it is indeed a pit of incestuous scandal where the pedigree of eskimo brotherhood grows longer, one SoCo shot at a time. 

I admit, I love being single. It’s a great feeling, but let’s not kid ourselves, nobody likes the feeling of spooning with a Bed Bath and Beyond body pillow while the Hallmark ‘Save-the-Date’ cards pile up on the coffee table. So what is a duchess to do? We can a. party like single rock stars and come home to your ex’s fraying Rush t-shirt and a bowl of frozen yogurt, b. plaster your face all over some dating website with the wishes that you won’t end up in the bottom of Buffalo Bill’s well or c. always have a full face of makeup and shaved legs whilst praying to the higher being that serendipity takes control, leaving you head-over-heels for the paramedic that responds to your frequent anxiety attacks (we all run out of our Xanax from time to time). 

With bad luck in almost all of those departments... no boyfriend of mine would own a Rush t-shirt, online dating scares the shit out of me and I don’t have good enough health insurance to ever call for an ambulance. Duchesses just have to have a set of standards to offset the apparent assclowns that will infiltrate your perfect existence. These are just some rules I’ve come up with along the way, from experience. Please, keep in mind that I have dated some WINNERS. 

Exhibit A. The partier. My ex boyfriend, who shall remain nameless. I’m just too lazy to come up with some run-on slew of words that will defame him and make me feel a little better about the fact that he dumped me during finals week. No-Name would come home from work, put on Wu-Tang Klan, pack his bowl, proceed to watch 007 marathons in a terrycloth bathrobe and a pair of snow boots while chasing left over chinese food with Miller High Lifes. 

This brings us to rule number one. Illicit drug use. Red flag. If he’s paying money for drugs, how is he ever going to buy you Yurman and take you to Top of The Hub for your anniversary dinner? I like to go with the basic rule that occasional pot use is ok, but anything more than that is a bit risky. If you find roaches all over his apartment and his car smells like a Grateful Dead concert, you may want to run. Anything harder than pot? RUN. RUN. RUN. You don’t want to fall in love with a guy that will be bumping lines off of a hospital toilet while you’re giving birth to his first child. Extreme, yes, but women are crazy and these thoughts WILL run through your head. The same goes for alcohol. It can be cute and romantic to drink a bottle of Knob Creek whiskey together and to giggle and partake in silly banter and political discussion... but if he’s doing shots of Jack Daniel’s until he wakes up looking and sounding like Ozzy Osbourne... you may want to vacate that situation. Also, never date a guy who drinks stoli-raz-and-soda-splash-of-cran, white wine, Long Island Iced Teas or Grand Marnier. The first three are extremely embarrassing and your boyfriend may as well have a sand-filled vagina. The last is on principal, my sister’s crazy ex boyfriend drinks Grand Marnier and we have vowed to put the italian curse on men who drink it. Nothing too crazy. 

Exhibit B. The fix-up. That date you get when one of your happily coupled friends swears “THEY HAVE THE PERFECT GUY FOR YOU.” Be weary. In my case, you could end up in a dive bar, on a Wednesday, with a halitosis suffering owner of a windowless van, skinny jeans and a lisp. Did I mention he had half sleeves that looked more like he were chased around the room by a pack of intellectually disabled baboons with sharpies? It was the most painful hour of my life... and I’ve survived a bilateral mammoplasty and jury duty. It was not worth breaking out the Nars lipstick and my favorite black blazer, I assure you. 

Here we come to our second rule: Don’t let people fix you up. It is people’s odd way of saying: I have a desperate person that would be a perfect match of desperation for my desperate single friend. Unless their last name is Kennedy, Vanderbilt or Kardashian (kidding) you want nothing to do with this. It is a cruel tactic that allows bored couples to create other couples for the sheer hope that all four of you can eat Mexican dip on a Friday night and play Apples to Apples. Gingerly refuse the offer. 

Exhibit C. The cash-payer. Sure, it is a great feeling when a guy takes you out and throws money around like he’s Henry from Goodfellas, but think again. HE’S MARRIED. NO DEBIT CARD=NO TRAIL=NO UNHAPPY WIFE. Get it? Let’s look back upon my 5 minute stint with slimy-blonde-wealthy-douche. He walked around with stacks of cash, used to pick me up in different company rental cars and shut his phone off after 6 pm. I did not have hopes of marrying this guy, but it stings a little to eventually realize that some poor woman is home sharing a bed with this creep and he is out on the prowl for unsuspecting duchesses. 

So alas we create another rule. If he is using large amounts of cash and trying to treat you like a queen, kick him in his nether regions, explain to him that he is a piece of shit, and try to quickly jog away without scuffing your FMP’s. Better yet, just hail a cab and cry in the backseat while explaining what happened. He’ll take you to a popular spot and maybe not charge you for the ride. Be weary if he starts tilting the mirror to peer down your grief-stricken cleavage. 

I guess the overall moral of this XX chromosome ridden rant, is that we must use our gut instincts. Don’t settle for anything that gives you an odd feeling. If you feel pangs of anxiety when you are going to spend time with him. Drop him. It is not worth it. It will age you and heighten your chances of developing Irritable Bowel Syndrome. You should be with somebody who would make out with you early in the morning after you had escargots the night before, buy you super tampons and a Three Musketeers bar during day 2 of your monthly visitor, tell you that you look fabulous when you have visible panty lines (boyshorts) and lipstick on your teeth and who will at least feign pretend interest in your family stories. That is a real winner, and let’s be honest. A duchess can’t settle for anything less than everything. Kisses. 

How it all Started

Where was my roommate Cate when I needed her? Four years ago, I should have made a vision board. It should have been decorated with images of Manhattan, Moet, Manolo Blahniks and smiling emoticons. Instead, I meandered through college like it were a Ke$ha song, always showing up to class on time with just enough baby powder to kill the smell of Jack Daniel's and cologne. I moved to Boston for school immediately after graduation. I managed to study hard (Dean's list recipient, cough cough) yet always kept enough time to play harder. I spent a semester living in a hotel where the doormen and concierge knew me by first name, a summer on the top floor of a Kenmore square brownstone, and my last year concluded on the 23rd floor of a 4-bedroom-apartment overlooking the Charles River. It was quite the experience. It was my third year of school that landed me on the Cape for a summer. Like all things that leave you in a tail-spin, it was a love story gone wrong. One of the only people that I could ever imagine seeing our names together on a government document, left me high and dry.... devastated. It was ok after a month or two... I had managed to get out of bed enough times to show up unprepared to exams, unshowered for work, and to grab just enough candy from my roomates' holiday care packages to help gain the weight that would cost me two whole jean sizes... all in all, it was a mere cross between a clusterfuck and a shitshow. Of course, I phoned home and packed up all 36 pairs of shoes, Egyptian cotton sheets, 6 or so self help books and headed home with a sub-par GPA and just enough money to buy 5 or so bottles of Yellow Tail merlot and a pizza. My family, unaware of my pain over One-True-Love, comfortably converted the smallest room in the house (my grandfather's old workshop) into a lovely bedroom with a bureau, a double bed and a ceiling fan that barely scraped the top of my head when I were wearing heels, which was always. It is safe to say that I learned after about 6 or so times that the fan had to be shut off before I took my shirt off. Pavlov should be so proud.

Luckily I landed a job at a high-end restaurant where I smiled and covered up my disdain for the world with an attempt at wit and a fluffed knowledge for wine and Epicurean delights. I subtly flirted with 60-something-year-old scotch drinkers at an attempt for a 20 percent tip, while their straw-haired, fake breasted wives glared disapprovingly. I made more money than I could spend and spent my days oiled-up on the beach, fighting the previous night's hangover. It was mid-July when I realized that my current boyfriend at the time, we'll call him slimy-blonde-wealthy-douche (which deserves no capitalization) ... was indeed married throughout our whole 3 month relationship. This did not bother me, due to the fact that we only dated because he never called me after 6 pm and my only use for  him was an attempt at forgetting One-True-Love. Of course it did not work and I would have rather sunbathed nude in front of an oncoming Amtrak instead of ever going through the whole ordeal with One-True-Love again... alas, the slimy-blonde-wealthy-douche makes me ill to this day and karma will bite him in his lying ass eventually. Although my best friend, we'll call him Handsome-Loyal-Bestie, did recently see him at the Patriot's play-off game where Handsome-Loyal-Bestie told him to "Die young" and "You got fat." Such a good friend.

After my three months of debauchery and giggles, I headed back to school where I made an attempt at finishing my degree. Living in a brand-new apartment with 3 thrill-seeking, amazing, brilliant, gorgeous girls should barely be considered attaining an education... yet they all managed to pull it off, except for me. My darling academic advisor gently pulled me aside and told me that my internship credits were not fulfilled and that I would need another semester of school. I still bought the eco-friendly, ugly, recyclable graduation gown, drank champagne and posed for pictures, but I would still need to complete my internship. In a round-about-ish way, this is why I am now, back on the Cape. I am working in a mental health facility, fitting, I agree. After four years of a Chelsea Handler novel, the government cut my allowance and pushed me out on my derriere quicker than Fran Drescher in the opening cartoon of "The Nanny." I was heart-broken. Once again, Nana made my bed for me, stocked up on organic peanut butter, Rodney Strong Cabernet and low fat cottage cheese and awaited my arrival.

Here I am. Living with my grandmother. In a place where Dunkin' Donuts is popular, UGGs are just as cool as stilettos, and apparently nobody got the Cash-For-Clunkers memo. A Saturday night consists of a local bar where patrons request Oasis' 'wonderwall' from the cover band and sing along with their Michelob Ultras in hand. It is not as dismal as I am playing it out, really. It is an honest place, with fantastic people. It is comfortable and safe, the only hard feeling is the realization that I AM Sandra Bullock from Hope Floats.... only Harry Connick Jr. is nowhere to be found and my husband never ended our marriage on a mid-day talk-show. Instead my attempt at a rebound relationship ended in a bitter breakup over my choice of underwear... What is exactly wrong with boyshorts? It's 2012 people.... women can have babies in their bathtubs, vote, read, get tattoos on their wrists and still manage to get jobs... but apparently I can not opt for a comfortable alternative to the ever-popular ass-riding-sanitary-questioning thong....

Follow along if you would like to partake in the entire, unplanned, awkward moment that is in-fact my existence. Lessons learned on how a duchess can survive the small-town life on a deserted island. Cheers.