Reason 48329201 I know nothing

Let’s break down my NCAA bracket:

  • I only have one Elite 8 team that is still alive (Louisville)
  • I told my mom that Miami was winning it all and Michigan would not make it past the Sweet 16
  • My title game was Miami vs. Ohio State
  • My Final 4 was completely wrong: Michigan State, Kansas, Ohio State, Miami
  • I won all my pools in 2009 because I was the only person who had Villanova in the Final 4
  • So sometimes I do know something
  • Just not this year!

And now another BITCH, PLEASE segment, brought to you by Princeton (UPDATED)

Jezebel posted this story earlier about how a FEMALE Princeton alum wrote a letter to the editor of the Daily Princetonian wanting to share her pearls of Ivy League wisdom by telling “the daughters [she] never had” to know that they’re screwed for life if they don’t snag a Princeton prince by first semester freshman year.”

I am trying to access the DP’s site to read this gem in its entirely but legitimately think Jezebel’s post caused all of us doomed, irate, 30-somethings to head on over to the site and give them the what for and as of right now I am pretty sure the site has crashed. So I have to do this somewhat blindly based on Jezebel’s post unless the site miraculously starts working again.

Point: For most of you, the cornerstone of your future and happiness will be inextricably linked to the man you marry, and you will never again have this concentration of men who are worthy of you.

BITCH, PLEASE: This is what you’re telling Princeton students? Really? This is your advice. Can we TALK about the quality of boys I met my freshman year? The overly beautiful president of Kappa Sig, who went by Tennessee, had perfect blue eyes and a southern drawl and would not give me the time of day even though I tried and forced my friend in KKG to give me his AIM name (SHUT IT, IT WAS 1999) and when I tried to chat with him he was like I literally do not know who you are. Then there was the dude whose dad worked for United and was just using me for my Comm 101 notes because all our professor did was talk about his canary yellow Nissan XTerra so Bob never went to class and even though I skipped every other class, he thought something was better than nothing. OR we can talk about the guy who offered to help me study for my first EVER midterm and stupid naive me actually brought my notes and all HE wanted to do was make out – cut to me getting a D-!!! I don’t give two shits that I didn’t go to Princeton, and p.s. this is not 1973 and 18-year old boys are not interested in meeting a long-term girlfriend the minute their parents unpack them and then drive off to their Connecticut mansion in their BMW. They want to get drunk and plow everything in site and YOUR ADVICE is that we should marry one of them? Pffffft. Oh, and by the WAY, I found a MOST FLATTERING picture of you:

wicked stepmother

Point: (Talking about how she went to some event there): I attended the event with my best friend since our freshman year in 1973. You girls glazed over at preliminary comments about our professional accomplishments and the importance of networking. Then the conversation shifted in tone and interest level when one of you asked how have Kendall and I sustained a friendship for 40 years. You asked if we were ever jealous of each other. You asked about the value of our friendship, about our husbands and children. Clearly, you don’t want any more career advice. At your core, you know that there are other things that you need that nobody is addressing. A lifelong friend is one of them. Finding the right man to marry is another.

BITCH, PLEASE: But most of all they need a good therapistAnd, instead of steering them back to your accomplishments, whatever they may be, or perhaps offering that there is more to life than meeting your future spouse when you’re 18, you fed in to their petty bullshit questions? Furthermore, if that’s all they TRULY care about, I am concerned these girls are hogging admission spots at Princeton that could be used by people who ACTUALLY WANT AN IVY LEAGUE DEGREE rather than a rich man fishing pole.

Jezebel notes that: Her two sons are both Princetonians; one already married a classmate of his, although he “could have married anyone,” but, lucky for Princeton ladies, her younger son is still a junior — catch him while you can! — although “the universe of women he can marry is limitless,” as he is a man who aced his SATs.

BITCH, PLEASE: I truly pity your current and future daughter-in-laws because you sound like a delusional whack job.

Point: Here is another truth that you know, but nobody is talking about. As freshman women, you have four classes of men to choose from. Every year, you lose the men in the senior class, and you become older than the class of incoming freshman men. So, by the time you are a senior, you basically have only the men in your own class to choose from, and frankly, they now have four classes of women to choose from. Maybe you should have been a little nicer to these guys when you were freshmen?

BITCH, PLEASE: I seriously feel like my head might explode now. We’ve already addressed how most people do not marry someone they meet their freshman year. But college is about finding yourself and learning what you are and what you are not. Why the fuck would anyone want to latch on immediately to a relationship before they even have a chance to experience classes and all-nighters and roommates and adjusting to life away from home for the first time? Is this really what you’re condoning? Not only finding a husband before you graduate, but an older one? GOD FORBID A WOMAN DATES A YOUNGER MAN. God forbid ANY OF US graduate single and experience life and can do whatever we want, even if that means moving ten times in like a year and half because we are trying to figure things out and we don’t have to drag someone else around with us because some Princeton alum convinced us it was A LIFE NECESSITY to meet your future spouse above all else? And what if (GASP) someone decides they don’t WANT to get married? Are we doomed to fail in life because you’re still living in the 1870’s?

LADY, I am embarrassed for you and your poor son who is still there and will probably never get laid again because no woman in her right mind would want to marry into your family.

I can’t even form coherent sentences I am so mad.

UPDATE – Below is the letter in its entirety. Now the comments section won’t load. The fun never ends!

Advice for the young women of Princeton: the daughters I never had
Forget about having it all, or not having it all, leaning in or leaning out — here’s what you really need to know that nobody is telling you.

For years (decades, really) we have been bombarded with advice on professional advancement, breaking through that glass ceiling and achieving work-life balance. We can figure that out — we are Princeton women. If anyone can overcome professional obstacles, it will be our brilliant, resourceful, very well-educated selves.

A few weeks ago, I attended the Women and Leadership conference on campus that featured a conversation between President Shirley Tilghman and Wilson School professor Anne-Marie Slaughter, and I participated in the breakout session afterward that allowed current undergraduate women to speak informally with older and presumably wiser alumnae. I attended the event with my best friend since our freshman year in 1973. You girls glazed over at preliminary comments about our professional accomplishments and the importance of networking. Then the conversation shifted in tone and interest level when one of you asked how have Kendall and I sustained a friendship for 40 years. You asked if we were ever jealous of each other. You asked about the value of our friendship, about our husbands and children. Clearly, you don’t want any more career advice. At your core, you know that there are other things that you need that nobody is addressing. A lifelong friend is one of them. Finding the right man to marry is another.

When I was an undergraduate in the mid-seventies, the 200 pioneer women in my class would talk about navigating the virile plains of Princeton as a precursor to professional success. Never being one to shy away from expressing an unpopular opinion, I said that I wanted to get married and have children. It was seen as heresy.

For most of you, the cornerstone of your future and happiness will be inextricably linked to the man you marry, and you will never again have this concentration of men who are worthy of you.

Here’s what nobody is telling you: Find a husband on campus before you graduate. Yes, I went there.

I am the mother of two sons who are both Princetonians. My older son had the good judgment and great fortune to marry a classmate of his, but he could have married anyone. My younger son is a junior and the universe of women he can marry is limitless. Men regularly marry women who are younger, less intelligent, less educated. It’s amazing how forgiving men can be about a woman’s lack of erudition, if she is exceptionally pretty. Smart women can’t (shouldn’t) marry men who aren’t at least their intellectual equal. As Princeton women, we have almost priced ourselves out of the market. Simply put, there is a very limited population of men who are as smart or smarter than we are. And I say again — you will never again be surrounded by this concentration of men who are worthy of you.

Of course, once you graduate, you will meet men who are your intellectual equal — just not that many of them. And, you could choose to marry a man who has other things to recommend him besides a soaring intellect. But ultimately, it will frustrate you to be with a man who just isn’t as smart as you.

Here is another truth that you know, but nobody is talking about. As freshman women, you have four classes of men to choose from. Every year, you lose the men in the senior class, and you become older than the class of incoming freshman men. So, by the time you are a senior, you basically have only the men in your own class to choose from, and frankly, they now have four classes of women to choose from. Maybe you should have been a little nicer to these guys when you were freshmen?

If I had daughters, this is what I would be telling them.

Susan A. Patton ’77

President of the Class of 1977

New York, N.Y.

Insomnia + Spotify = This



(Image from GAGBAY)

Woke up around five, tried to get some book writing done, then was going through my Spotify play list and noticed a ton of Disney songs. So I decided to listen to a bunch of them and jot down my first reaction to each, the result of which is below:

Kiss The Girl
~Don’t be scared

~Use big words to scare people

Cruella De Vil
~If she doesn’t scare you, well, that’s weird

A Whole New World
~Don’t you dare close your eyes

The Bare Necessities
~Forget about your worries and your strife

Chim Chim Cher-ee
~What the hell is this dude talking about?

A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes
~Whatever you wish for, you keep?
Really? Nice message that doesn’t work for two reasons (maybe three)

  1. Sometimes dreams are BAD and certainly not something you want
  2. It’s setting us up for failure
  3. Dream when you’re awake, bitch

Some Day My Prince Will Come
~Someday when spring is here, we’ll find our love anew?
Seasonal depression much?

The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers
~I really think he was always high on coke and didn’t share with Eeyore.

~Dismissed, rejected, publically humlitated. It’s more than I can bear. JOIN THE CLUB ASSHOLE

Poor Unfortunate Souls
~Life’s full of tough choices, isn’t it?

Once Upon A Dream

It’s a Small World
~The only explanation for running into people at the least opportune times

Under The Sea
~Grass is always greener on the other side. ALWAYS.



That was BRUTAL

Miami eventually prevailed on Sunday over Illinois, 63-59, and will play in the Sweet 16 on Thursday vs. Marquette.

But oh my GOD was that a brutal game to watch.

It wasn’t just because it was so close, and there was a bad call that went in Miami’s favor (though, frankly, the refs owed me one from that bullshit traveling call against Allan Ray in 2005, so I’m not as worried about that) – it was the guilt. So much guilt. I won and I lost at the same time.

I wanted Miami to win but Illinois played better. Like they wanted it more. Miami came through in the end, made a few better plays, defended a few extra 3’s.

But it was so much more. It was my pain vs. my hope, battling each other. If Illinois won, was that a sign I made the right choice? (Not that I can go back in time, but you get it, right?)

Was I even allowed to root for Miami, a school that me so miserable I left for the frozen tundra of Champaign, IL? Why did I even leave? What made me so unhappy? Why do I still latch on to them and not Illinois when the overall experience was probably better at Illinois?

Why am I still talking about this ten years out of college (VOMIT)?

At one point during the game, I had to flip to Twister, which was on ABC Family. I needed a break.

When I think of Miami, I think of the palm trees, the rich kids with the trust funds, the kid in my dorm who got a brand new Audi for a C average.

But I also remember the good friends I eventually made. Driving around in Arthur’s Miata for an entire afternoon. Laughing my ass off. NEVER BEING COLD AND WALKING TO CLASS IN -70 WIND CHILLS.

When I think of Illinois, I think of laughing more, crying more, struggling more. The most boring summer of my life. The fantastic people I met. The shot at having a true college experience vs. going to class at a day spa.

Each place had its ups and downs. Neither was perfect. When it came down to it, I pulled for Miami because …. I just did. I don’t know why. It was my gut, above all else.

It’s fascinating to me how sports can affect people this way.

While you shouldn’t die with your teams wins and losses, there are so many emotions that go into backing them, it’s almost impossible not to.

I’m just glad that particular game is over.

Annnnd, this is why I’m single, part infinity

So, things came to the ultimate WTF on Thursday night with Mr. No 2nd Date.

Reva…(you’re surely thinking), you sit here and spew all this garbage at us about learning your lesson, and how much older and wiser you are and yet, here we are. Tolerating bullshit far longer than necessary.

Let’s get everyone up to speed.

I met him around New Year’s Eve when I was sort of dating someone else and didn’t think much of us exchanging numbers. How often do people you meet at bars actually wind up wanting to see you again?

But, we did see each other again, a few weeks later, after I was finished with other dude. We had one four-hour date and since then it’s been odd, to say the least. I was never that invested, but on Thursday night I was just fed up and had to make sure that was clear. Being passive aggressive was not the way to go.

It was literally strike three.

Strike one was that we had made plans to go out but he canceled on me because it was “too fucking cold.”

Strike two was when I invited him to come out and join my friends and me on a Saturday night.

The following ensued over text message:

Me: Where are you?

Him: Just at my place.

Me: Want to come out for a drink?

Him: Very, very tempting. Gimme a few. Where are you?

Me: Huettenbar on Linclon

Him: I’m gonna pass tonight. Couch feeling too good. Lemme know if you wanna do anything fun tomorrow.

Um, okay, so in a split second he went from yes to no. Odd, but whatever, maybe he really was tired. (God, I sound like Dionne from Clueless)

Me: Whatever you don’t like me have a nice life.

Him: Oh come on

(Okay yes, maybe that was over-dramatic, but I’m not an idiot!)

Me: First it was too cold, now this, I’m not an idiot. (SEE!)

Then after a week or so of radio silence, I start getting random Saved by the Bell quotes. (We spent far too much time talking about that, and the Mighty Ducks).

Then, strike three occurred. We had plans to meet for a drink on Thursday. I had asked when/where and got “I dunno, somewhere in Wrigleyville. Same answer as last time. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

My response? “Hmmm that sounds like code for you are canceling.”

Him: No I won’t we’ll grab a drink.

This was Wednesday night. I didn’t hear from him all day Thursday until he texted me around 6pm to tell me what bar he was at. Even though we hadn’t set a time or place. I was still at work so asked if we could meet around 8pm and he said sure, but that he might be at a different bar. Okay, fine.

At 7:41, I text him: okay, where am I meeting you?

Him: wherever you want

Me: Well, where are you right now?

Him: Sluggers (p.s. this is not the place for a date. This is where you go for Dance Party USA after consuming 15 Old Styles at a Cubs game)

Me: How about Vines at 8?

…..Now it gets interesting……

Him: Um, did you read what I just wrote? I’m leaving and going home. Very tired, don’t wanna be hungover tomorrow. Normally I would say fine.

Me: No, I read that you said you would meet me whatever (that should have said WHEREVER), I knew you would do this, don’t ever text me again.

Him: Vines tomorrow for sure. I’m hear (UGH FAIL FAIL FAIL) and was totally willing to meet you – didn’t know you couldn’t make it til 8. I was picturing like a right-after-work couple drinks type of thing

Me: Well you should have fucking said that yesterday and I already have plans tomorrow and this is the second time you have done this so Fuck off.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnd this is why I’m single.

A Q & A with myself: Who will I root for on Sunday?


Well, it’s finally happened. After people suggesting it MIGHT one day happen, and me just rolling my eyes, Miami and Illinois will play each other on Sunday, with the winner advancing to the Sweet 16.

(For the new kids at the table – I did my first two years of undergrad at Da U, and the second two at Illinois.)

I have fielded many angry comments suggesting I have no choice but to root for the Illini since that is where my degree is from. But it’s not that simple! So, I decided a Q&A to get to the bottom of this might help.

Q: Why would you even CONSIDER rooting for Miami?

A: Miami is a traditional football school but has struggled for about the past nine seasons thanks to Larry Coker driving the program off a cliff. The basketball team has never made it past the Sweet 16 and they have had an amazing season. I would like to see them go all the way. The team is having fun and playing hot. Did you NOT see what they did to Duke in January?


A: I understand your frustration. Truly, I do. You are right in that I was miserable there and left. What you may NOT realize is that my first semester at U of I was so difficult that I considered going back to Miami. My mom warned me, and I DID NOT LISTEN, that transferring to a new school as a junior would be very difficult. Not academically, but socially. You’re new, but everyone else has been there for two years and has established their group of friends. Trying to find my group was hard. I lived in a transfer dorm with mostly grad students, who were mostly pretty mean. My roommate smoked pot in our room. I thought these people were my friends and they weren’t. (Except for Jim and Matt)

It was frustrating, and then 9/11 happened, and I just wanted to be with my friends, but I didn’t really have any yet. So I cried a lot and thought that maybe I made the wrong choice in leaving Miami and was it REALLY that bad? I mean, once I knew I was leaving, I actually started to have fun there because I had the “don’t give a shit” attitude that I should have had all along.

So, because I got off to a rough start in Champaign, I feel less attached to the school than someone who spent four years there. Even though it DID get MUCH better, that first semester was HELL.

Q: Okay, great! It got better. So you’re rooting for Illinois, then.

A: I didn’t say that. And that wasn’t a question.

Q: You’re infuriating. What if it was ‘Nova playing Miami or Illinois? Let’s throw your precious Villanova into the mix and see what you do, bitch!

A: This is like a bad game of marry, fuck, kill!

Hmmm, let me see.

Miami vs. Villanova

Illinois vs. Villanova

I’d root for……


A: That was also not a question.

Q: No, seriously, you’re rooting for Illinois, right?

A: How about this – no matter who wins, I will be happy, and we’ll leave it at that?

Q: No, pick one. Now.

A: Fine – but you won’t like my answer


Q: When Miami loses I am going to laugh so hard at U. HAHAHAH SEE WHAT I DID THERE? I’M SO FUNNY.

A: Sigh.

Well, that was fun. Though, I did mean what I said in that no matter who wins, I will be happy. Both teams deserve to advance.


The 5 Stages of Grief: Chicago’s Transition to Spring


Ahhh, spring. One of my favorite seasons as the bitter cold fades into warm nights; trees blossom, birds chirp, and… what the fuck is this, a Danielle Steel novel? Spring means warmth, and that’s all I care about. Apparently, however, Chicago does not believe in seasons. Many people joke we only have two here: winter and construction.

Apparently, today was the first day of spring, but you wouldn’t know it, because it was 3-degrees and felt like fucking February. Typical. So, this is pretty much the thought process I normally experience as a Chicago winter attempts to transition into spring.

1. Denial and Isolation – 

It’s not going to be this cold. This is a fluke. Tomorrow will be 50. The gym? What are you, nuts? I’m not going to the gym! I’m not doing anything but going home and putting on sweatpants. Not because it’s subzero wind chills at the end of March, but because IT IS SUBZERO WIND CHILLS AT THE END OF MARCH and I don’t NEED to go to the gym because I have mastered the art of turning a ten minute walk into a two-minute sprint to escape as quickly as possible the feeling that someone LIT MY FACE ON FIRE.

2. Anger – 

Who the FUCK do you think you are, Chicago? Three degrees on the first day of Spring? What is this, a test? You know what? I moved here from goddamn San Diego! That’s like trading in Tom Brady for Fat Bastard. And this is my reward? Frostbite and the urge to move to Florida? You know what? FUCK YOU!

3. Bargaining – 

Okay, that was rude. I didn’t mean it. 40. Can I have 40-degrees? That’s fair, right? I’m not asking for 70-degrees in March, I just want to walk outside without my eyes immediately starting to water and my entire body feeling like someone threw me in Lake Michigan. In January.

4. Depression – 

I just miss being outside! I miss my city! I miss the boat cruises on the lake and the lazy Sunday’s sitting outside enjoying a cold drink and the warmth. My god the warmth. I will never feel warmth again.

5. Acceptance – 

So, we can’t control the weather. It’ll be okay. Eventually it’ll be warm again. In the meantime, I’ll be sitting in front of the nearest fireplace for the next month.

If only I had realized sooner…


My sister sent me a link to a hilarious blog entitled “THE GROWN-ASS WOMAN’S GUIDE TO: HAVING VERY, VERY GOOD SEX“, which then led me to “THE GROWN-ASS WOMAN’S GUIDE TO: FRIENDZ WITH BENZ“.

I was literally wincing as I read it, not because it was poorly written, but because OH MY GOD HOW STUPID I HAVE BEEN – specifically with John Doe. (Not him, AGAIN, you’re thinking. Well, the only way you’ll learn from my stupidity is if I beat you over the head with it repeatedly, so DEAL WITH IT).

So, why was I wincing? I’m SO glad you asked. I will share with you some of the excerpts that made me cringe extra hard.


Hard truth first: This is a relationship

 The number one fallacy of the friends with benefits ideal is that it is this easy breezy, oh-so-casual, no-muss no-fuss, no-communication-outside-of-3am-texts-saying-”sup” situation, and that is an obvious recipe for disaster.

Not calling someone your boyfriend or girlfriend is not an excuse to avoid having those mature emotion-conversations that boyfriends and girlfriends are supposed to have sometimes. Likewise, just because you don’t see someone when it’s light outside doesn’t mean you can treat them like a pile of garbage.

John Doe and I were NEVER on the same page and this lady is not kidding. Recipe for disaster. His ideal situation would have been the above (no communication outside 3am texts) and mine was a modified version of the below (ending with a white dress, 2 kids, the whole bit, so that one time when my friend, who is one of HIS best friends, was all, “it’s not like you want to MARRY him, right”? I was all (thinking) YES I DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO but said NO!):

Make sure you’re on the same page

This means being honest with the other person—and yourself. If they say, “I do not want to go out with you, but I think it would be fun for us to sleep together,” and you say, “I agree,” you’d better actually agree, because otherwise you are setting yourself up for a world of hurt and confusion. And, gals, no offense, but I think at one point all of us have said, “I agree,” and finished that thought in our heads with, “…that we will keep up this farce of not having feelings but that one day you will be mine. It is foretold.” It is not! He will not! Probably! Mean what you say, everyone!

This EXACT THING happened once, except he said, “I just want to hook up,” and I said, “I want to be in a relationship,” and we just kept on not being in a relationship while I hoped he would change his mind. HE WON’T. EVER.  I mean sure, immediately after that horrible conversation I moved on to Dr. Evil, and then Mr. Titspervert, and then back to John Doe, because why wouldn’t I want to continue this cycle of masochism??

Just be calm and cool and talk about these issues as they arise, and you can avoid the passive aggressive text fights and weird bar confrontations that we’ve all seen as the result of Friends with Benefits gone awry.

This is her advice as it pertains to things changing – one of you develops feelings, meets someone else, etc.

John Doe and I, unfortunately, have had the weird bar/party confrontations more times than I can remember. Drama, drama, drama. And for what? The occasional romp?

In present day, I get this. From 2007-last Tuesday, I didn’t. I listened to Afterglow by Vanessa Carlton on repeat and imagined how it could have been different. So unproductive!

After the FWB post, I stumbled upon A NOTE TO THOSE LYING IN BED AFTER A BREAK-UP (I am like legit obsessed with this site now and have known about it for less than an hour). The very first paragraph made me LOL, as they say on the interwebs:

1. Stop listening to Adele

I know.  She’s singing what you can’t say. She is strumming your pain with her fingers and killing you softly with her song. But it’s not helping. You’re adding sad to sad. If it were your leg broken instead of your heart, you wouldn’t break the other leg to feel better, because you’re not an idiot. So stop with the Adele—and that goes for Patsy Cline and Smokey Robison, too. Sorry.

One day I was on the brown line on my way to work and the girl standing next to me was blasting “Someone Like You” on her iPod so loudly that I could hear it clear as a bell. Not only that but she had her eyes closed and was rocking back and forth. I wanted to be like, “Girl, I have been there, let me buy you a glass of wine, but please turn off Adele. It’s 8 in the morning.”

Although – now that I think of it, aren’t 95% of all the songs ever written in the history of man about heartbreak in some fashion? I mean, what are we supposed to do, listen to fucking Justin Bieber non-stop? Pass.

Anyway, I wish I had gotten it sooner – that FWB is a relationship of sorts, you both need to be on the same page, unless you’re a fan of disasters, and you can’t treat each other like shit. It’s hard to “get” that when you’re drowning in your own broken heart, and your friends, bless their hearts, try to reason with you, or in some instances when you’re at a mutual friend’s birthday party and for some reason he asks you to dance to some shitty song, four of them storm over to herd you away from him because they hate him and how he treats you but you’re so dense you don’t GET IT. And you’re all, “What do you bitches think you’re doing?” because they just roadblocked your way to happily ever after, or at least your way to getting a little that night.

Good times.

Epic Mind Fuckery

Brought to you by Sex and the City:

Carrie: He said, ‘I miss you, baby.’ Do you think that was meant to be some kind of coded mea culpa?

Miranda: You mean like what he really meant was, ‘I’ve been a complete idiot, please forgive me for having dinner with that other woman.’

Carrie: Exactly.

Miranda: Could be.

Carrie: Well no, because that would mean that everything he ever said that I interpreted as sincere is subject to interpretation, and in that case, what I perceive as his feelings for me may only really be reflected projections of my feelings for him. 

Miranda: What?

What the hell is this bitch talking about?? I love this show, but Carrie’s inane ramblings fueled at least an additional ten years of crazy from the rest of us.




That’s disturbing!

First of all, please welcome me back to the land of the living. I was in California for a work conference and basically had no free blogging time.


I saw something VERY disturbing on BuzzFeed earlier today – the ages of all our favorite Disney Princesses!

Let me share with you their very handy little graphic:



Assuming the legal age of consent is 18 (in NH it is 16 but I’m not going down that road – let’s say 18 for simplicity’s sake) – only FOUR of these bitches are even legal!!

Snow White was only 14??? No WONDER she let seven tiny midgets push her around.

Jasmine was only 15?? No WONDER she had such a bad attitude!!

Arial & Aurora were only 16? Well, they got the hottest dudes, but how rude is that? Greedy bitches couldn’t leave the hot guys to marry women who could legally HAVE SEX WITH THEM.

Poor Cinderella was the over-the-hill spinster at 19. I mean…what a message to send. Your life is not complete until a man rescues you! Before you’re 20! After you’ve been poisoned! Or pricked! Or almost drowned! Or kidnapped! Although, I guess Belle wasn’t TECHNICALLY kidnapped, but still being held captive.

I still love Disney movies – I have watched the Little Mermaid recently. And it’s not like I think those messages still resonate. When Snow White was made in the 30’s, it was perfectly normal to get married young and be rescued, so to speak.

Looking at all those ages though is depressing as hell.