Aretha Frankly Column

The Daily Free Press The Independent Student Newspaper at Boston University

ARETHA FRANKLY

by samantha friedman

ARETHA FRANKLY

by samantha friedman

P ub l i s h ed S ep 1 8, 201 1

I K IS SED A GIR L 1. I K I SS E D A G IRL

2. S I N GL E LA DIES

3. W H E R E T HEM G IRL S AT?

I kissed a girl and I liked it. Okay, maybe that’s not entirely true. Last Friday night I spent my evening in pursuit of some vital musical research. After watching an “E! True Hollywood Story” on America’s own Katy Perry, I couldn’t get her music out of my head. This teenage dream has a lot going for her. For starters, she can attach cupcakes to her bra and still be taken seriously. Well, semi-seriously. And if that’s not enough, she’s managed to snag Russell Brand, a sex God posing as a homeless man. Lucky lady.

But I digress. After this E! Special, Katy was on my mind. I wanted to walk like her, talk like her, and maybe even look like her. So I started thinking to myself, what could I possibly do to live a day in the life of Katy Perry? And it hit me. Live up to one of her songs. But which? After further contemplation, my eyes drifted to the GQ sitting on the coffee table beside me. Mila Kunis was posing on the cover. Man, do I have one lady boner for that gal. And there it was. I would kiss a girl. And like it. Maybe.

4. I MAY BE BA D (B U T I’M PERFECT LY GO OD AT I T )

5. I T ’ S GE T T I N G HOT IN HERRE

6. PA R T Y R O CK A NTHEM

7. TH E E D GE OF G L ORY

8. TI K T O K

9. I T ’ S T H E M OS T W ONDERFU L T I M E OF T HE YEAR

10. T E AC H ME HOW TO DOU G IE

11- WH I P M Y HA IR

Samantha Friedman is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.

She can be reached at samanthatfriedman@gmail.com

My quest began two hours later at a house party in Allston. I was a couple drinks in and squinting my eyes, I scanned the room for the perfect female lip-smacking companion. She had to be edgy, because I wasn’t about to lose my girl-on-girl kissing virginity to a lady who wouldn’t guarantee a memorable evening. At first, my judgment was considerably impaired by the bountiful dose of booze I had chug-a-lugged. I could barely see clearly, blinded by the sea of flannel shirts. Was I at a lumberjack convention? No, I was in Allston.

And then, after the Blue Moons had settled in the valley of my hetero stomach, I saw her. She had a pixie haircut that could put a fairy to shame, and glared at me with such a searing intensity that I nearly swallowed my tongue. But then I remembered that I would need it to kiss my damsel in distressed-denim shorts, and I snapped back to reality.

I started to walk towards her. Well, that’s not entirely true. I intended to strut sexily her way, but thanks to a jungle juice spill on the floor and my unwavering intoxication, I drunk-stumbled over to my v-card kiss swiper. Luckily, she found me charming.

Actually, it’s more probable that she found me pathetic, but somehow she found me tolerable and that’s all I could ask for. I complimented her hair more times than I should have, and she complimented my necklace, getting uncomfortably close to the mini-mounds peeking from my low-cut top. I was in uncharted territory.

How would this all go down? Where should I put my hands? Did I need a Tic-tac? I was clueless.

The next thing I knew, I was pinned against the wall of the grungy bathroom with nail-polished hands reading invisible braille on my face… and cupcakes. This was new to me. But I couldn’t forget the mission, so I focused. With an open mind and a very open mouth, I committed to a game of tonsil hockey that would make any athlete proud. She tasted like Hawaiian punch mixed with rum. This wasn’t the cherry chapstick that I had hoped for, but I definitely wasn’t disappointed with the flavor.

Five minutes later, we pried our faces apart. What was I supposed to do now? Spastically, I shot my arm up and gave her a high five and sprinted. I know, a high five.

But despite my pathetic end, I had collected enough data to determine a verdict: I kissed a girl and I liked it. Until I realized that this angry fairy had given me a fat lip. Katy never mentioned how feisty those ladykisses can get, and well, my new Angelina Jolie pout speaks for itself. But swollen lips aside, the experience was memorable and enjoyable. And while I don’t foresee me and the pretty lady joining forces again, I like to think of her as my soul sister. But that’s for another article.

ARETHA FRANKLY

by samantha friedman

http: //dai lyfreepress.com/2 0 11/11/0 6 /fri edman- part y- rock- ant hem/

P ub l i s h ed Oc t 2, 201 1

SING L E L A D I E S A wise person once said: “If you liked it, than you should have put a ring on it.”

I think it was Gandhi.

As you continue flirting, make sure to play with your hair incessantly, laugh loudly at all of his jokes, and most of all—keep touching his arm. Again. Now again. Okay, one more time. Perfect, now it’s totally clear you’re interested and he won’t get confused.

I like to think of myself as a professional dater. I’ve been on so many blind dates it makes my vision blurry just thinking about it. Now why do I put myself through this distressing process, you ask? Cause Gandhi told me to. And, I could totally use a good spooning sesh. So ladies, let me offer you some simple strategies on how to reel in a man—cause let’s face it, we’re all here to get our MRS. Degree. Am I right?!

Now, this target of yours is going to start falling for you hard, but don’t get distracted. Your work here is not finished. Remember to take it slow, because a man will scare easily. Stick to neutral subjects. Ask him about his classes, where he lives on campus, and how soon you can meet his mom and dad. (Mention meeting his parents no more than three times, otherwise you’ll look desperate.)

To begin the hunt for your male counterpart, groom intensively. That means wax off those moustaches and sideburns (you know who you are, ladies). Now, look at your lady-region. Do it. It’s time to confront the facts: are you a Bush supporter? If you are, sorry but time to do some landscaping. Bush is out, Obama is in. Now, this is going to be painful, but trust me—it will be less painful than a life of celibacy.

Finally, compliment his biceps, and give a feel. “I work out,” he’ll likely say, as he grins and chugs some beer.

Girl, you are so in. What now? Give him your digits (waiting for him to ask is so Amish) and walk away.

That’s right. Walk away.

Now, look in the mirror. Closer. You see those dark circles under your eyes? You see those HUGE pores? You see that massive, pulsing, totally noticeable pimple on the upper-left-side of your forehead? Yeah, we see it too. What man in his right mind is going to want that? Solution: get some male deceit. I mean, make-up.

Why? Because girl, you can’t do all the work. We gotta leave a lil’ somethin’ somethin’ to the imagination.

But trust me, he’s going to call. He will. He totally will… I mean, he’d be a dog not to! And I’m pretty positive the dog days are over.

Although that my betches, is for another article.

Run to CVS. Now. Hurry, time is running out. Find some Cover Girl, and girl, you better hope that shizz covers. Glop on a whole bunch of product, so that the woman you look like now, looks nothing like the woman you looked like first thing this morning. Perfect. (But don’t forget girls, beauty is on the inside.)

To finalize your male-luring exterior, find the highest and most uncomfortable heels available. Are you looking like a hooker yet? ‘Atta girl. It’s almost time to head to TITS—the natural habitat for all respectable men.

But before entering this male watering hole, ask yourself this vital question: has your thirst been quenched?

Of course not! So ladies, take a few chugs of that high quality Svedka in your freezer and hit the road.

You made it! You have arrived at TITS and the men are looking fine. In fact, I think I see a prince in shining Greek letters over there on your left. Do you see him? Yeah that’s right. The dude drinking from a pitcher (he must be in School of Management, cause that is bang for your buck.)

Scope the premises. Identify your male target. Now begin calculating your seduction strategy. And remember: bros before hoes. You are on a quest, single ladies: the quest for companionship. I don’t care if your chick-mate is head over a toilet seat from one diet coke and Bacardi too many—tonight is about finding Mr. Right.

Now, here’s the essential part: once you find him, do not play hard to get. I know what you’re thinking. This contradicts all of the wisdom women have been passing down for generations. But who is the professional dater here? Yeah, me… so listen up.

Start the conversation with a light subject. Ask him what he’s studying, what he wants to do when he graduates, and how many kids he wants to have. Then slip in how totally adorable your kids would look if he impregnated you—trust me, he’ll be flattered.

Samantha Friedman is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.

She can be reached at samanthatfriedman@gmail.com

ARETHA FRANKLY

by samantha friedman

ht tp: //dai lyfreepress.com/2 0 11/10 /16 /fri edman- where-t hem- gi rls- at /

P ub l i s h ed Oc t 1 6, 201 1

WHERE THEM GIRLS AT? I have a confession. I’ve been thinking a lot about my last article, and I’ve decided my perspective was a little biased. I mean, yeah, I was still right. There are undoubtedly hundreds, thousands, maybe even billions, of girls at Boston University searching for Mr. Right. But I can’t just focus on that fact alone. BU men are just as in need of care and affection as us betches.

Which brings me to part two of my “How to Find Love?” article special. You’re getting your words of wisdom straight from the horse’s mouth. And this horse happens to be a professional dater. (Lucky you!)

So men, let’s begin. I know you all try to expose a rough-and-tough exterior, but I know better. You’re all cuddly little teddy bears on the inside. Deep, deep, deep on the inside.

But I digress.

It’s pretty clear that the one thing you fellahs really want out of your college experience is a woman. The Juliet to your Romeo. The Beauty to your Beast. The Coco to your Ice-T. You want a gal with brains, beauty and a heart of gold—some lovely lady lumps probably couldn’t hurt either.

How does one acquire such a golden girl you may ask? Well boys, a man does not acquire—he hunts. Let’s not forget, you descended from hunters—chasing prey is in your blood. So if those cavemen could rack up dem biddies in loincloths, I’m fairly confident you burly boys can do the same in your pumped up Nike kicks.

But where can you find this girl of your dreams? Well, definitely not at Raising Cane’s. So stop going. Instead, consider joining a yoga class—where the most eligible (and flexible) bachelorettes congregate. However, finding the perfect woman isn’t always about where you look, but how you look. This is where I come in. Gentleman, behold: The 11-Step Guide to Getting Wifed Up. #1: Nix the whole “manly-man” routine. That is so 2010. If you want to buy yourself a girlie drink, by all means, go for it. Appletini? Cheers! Frozen margarita? Sounds like a fiesta in a glass. Seriously guys, buy whatever drink you want. We’re not going to judge you. We’re not going to think you’re less masculine simply because you’re sipping a pink concoction from a sugar-rimmed glass. Come on, that would just be cruel of us.

#4: Don’t respect us: we don’t want it! Ask us to do things for you—we just want to cater to your needs!

Examples of appropriate female tasks include: making sandwiches, offering oral pleasuring during footballs games/video games, making sandwiches. Did I leave anything out? #5: Tell us we look fat in those jeans. Seriously, we want to know. Remember: honesty is the best policy (Am I right, Casey Anthony?!) #6: Be yourself around us, no exceptions. Farting? Bring it. Belching? You chug that soda, baby. Adjusting your downstairs chestnuts, publically? UM, yes please. I’m getting all hot and bothered just thinking about it.

What’s sexier than a man not on his best behavior? #7: No means yes. Example: Male asks, “Are you upset?” Female answers “No.” LIES. You bet your left chestnut she’s upset.That’s pretty much the only example I can think of to satisfy #7. Wait . . . were you thinking of something else? #8: “I love you” is for wimps. She needs to believe you’re emotionally vacant. That’s how you maintain your superiority (see #2). #9: Be inconsistent. Women are very rational creatures— you need to shake up their routine. Call infrequently, reply to texts minimally, and always “forget” to write on her wall after she writes on yours. Seriously, keep that betch in check. #10: If you really like her, don’t ask her on a formal date. That feeds into the whole “doing nice things for her” routine, which completely contradicts the foundation of male superiority. #11: Her body is a temple. But you have an all-access pass! Assume she wants to fool around all the time, because let’s face it—that’s what she’s here for. Kidding! (And sandwiches).

So dudes—did you absorb all of that? Make sure these tips penetrate deep, because that’s really the best way to win the girl of your dreams. With attention to detail and determination, this 11-step guide will help you bring your sexy back. Just like Justin Timberlake. Although that my physically and mentally superior male readers, is for another article.

#2: Don’t bother holding the door for us. Also don’t bother buying us a drink (even though that Appletini sounds really, really good). Chivalry is dead—and it should be (I think Casey Anthony killed it). #3: If it’s tight, it’s right. Tights pants are SO hip. Keep it up! Why leave your junk to the imagination, when you can just put it all out there in a nice little package of ultra-wash denim?

Samantha Friedman is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.

She can be reached at samanthatfriedman@gmail.com

ARETHA FRANKLY

by samantha friedman

ht tp: //dai lyfreepress.com/2 0 11/10 /3 0 /fri edman- i t s- get ti ng- hot- i n- herre/

P ub l i s h ed Oc t 30, 201 1

IT’S GETTING HOT IN HERRE Well folks, we’ve entered the Dark Ages. Okay fine, this isn’t exactly the collapse of the Roman Empire, but it is midterm season. Close enough.

Now, I could write a novel about all of the reasons I hate midterm time. There’s a lot of studying, a lot of stress and a lot of hand cramping. Who wants that? I don’t. And while I could bore you with an essay complaining about lengthy exams and hours in Mugar – I’m not going to. Instead, I’ve decided to look on the bright side of all of this academic chaos. Sure, being a perpetual bookworm for two weeks straight isn’t fun, but it is useful. Allow me to elaborate.

Recently, I’ve had weather and climate on the mind. I know, I’m even cooler than you imagined. All I can think about is pressure systems, cyclones, air masses – it’s exhausting. For any of you that have taken GE101 – y’all know what I’m talkin’ bout. For the rest of you who haven’t – you’re on your own.

What I’m getting at is, I’m in the process of studying for a science midterm. A big, fat, multiple-choice, mecca of evil. (Professor, if you’re reading this, I’m totes playin’ – love your work!)

Now, this material ain’t pretty, and in my opinion, it ain’t interesting – but a girl has got to do what a girl has got to do (Am I right betches?!). So as a result of my tedious studying, weather has been overloading my thoughts. Am I daydreaming about TITS all-day? Not anymore.

Wait . . . that came out wrong.

Regardless of who’s disrobing, the theme of the song is evident: Nelly is extremely concerned about global warming. He created this powerful song (and catchy, if I may add) with the hopes of stirring up awareness for the Earth’s blatant crisis. Nelly’s song is a cry to the public, begging them to take notice of the “depleting ozone” before it’s too late. Before we’re all forced to take off all our clothes.

What an environmentalist.

Now, I’m not going to lie to you guys—I didn’t realize what his intentions were when this song first dominated the charts. I thought he was just like every other artist, making music for the sake of sales. But evidently, my assumptions were way off.

In fact, when I recently skimmed through his music repertoire, I realized loads and loads of his songs are revolutionary masterpieces. “Never Let ‘em See You Sweat” – um, obviously, another scheme to end global warming. “Move That Body” is clearly encouragement to decrease obesity, and “Work It” is part of Nelly’s efforts to end unemployment. Nelly doesn’t stop there, however. “Pimp Juice” is a provocative song, intended to eliminate prostitution worldwide, and “Just a Dream” is for the children, encouraging them to reach for the stars. Basically, Nelly is the ideal humanitarian – but you already knew that.

So where does this leave me? Well, I’m still on the anti-G-Warming train. Until I see those Ugg boots evaporate (fingers crossed), my stance is firm. Nonetheless, I think Nelly makes a pretty good point. If we don’t make efforts to decrease our carbon footprints, meltdown will occur. There will be no more “Ice Ice Baby.”

Allegedly. Although that, Vanilla Ice fans, is for another article.

So where has this constant weather daydreaming brought me? To global warming. I am so not buying it. If global warming were a serious threat, girls would not be bustin’ out the Ugg boots already. (Personally I think the serious threat is the fact girls wear Ugg boots in the first place – yelch! – but that’s besides the point.)

Obviously, my disbelief in this so-called “Global Warming” theory goes far beyond Ugg boots. It starts at the root: the ozone. If there really was a hole in the ozone, I’m pretty sure I’d be getting a lot tanner right now.

But, this ghostly pale skin speaks for itself. I’m not tan, therefore global warming is a scam. I know – I should be a lawyer!

But even though my argument is extremely thorough, there is skepticism. Especially from Nelly – you know, the dude with the Band-Aids on his face. (Somebody hook him up with some Neosporin!)

I’m sure you’re all familiar with his popular song, “Hot in Herre”. If you’re unfamiliar, then yo’ parents didn’t raise you right. (JK! But seriously.)

Now, despite the fact that Nelly’s spelling could use some work, this man has got a decent point. It is getting so hot in herre that Nelly needs to take off all his clothes. Or, he needs to take off your clothes. I’m not really sure who is supposed to be stripping down – but booty, booty, booty, booty, is about to be rockin’ everywhere.

Samantha Friedman is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.

She can be reached at samanthatfriedman@gmail.com

ARETHA FRANKLY

by samantha friedman

ht tp: //dai lyfreepress.com/2 0 11/11/0 6 /fri edman- part y- rock- ant hem/

P ub l i s h ed No v 6, 201 1

PARTY ROCK ANTHEM Frat boys—I salute you. I don’t know how you do it, but you do it so darn well.

Classification 1: The Party

Handsome, intelligent and eloquent—I gush at the mere thought of you. But this article isn’t about Robert Downey Jr.—it’s about frat boys.

We are all too familiar with the frat boy’s party life. Rampant with Natty Light, cheap vodka and biddies, ragers are the breeding ground for a sexy time—and an STD. But these parties are more than shots, dirty dancing and sloppy hookups, these parties are the roots of all meaningful relationships. Think about it. Who is your most valuable friend? Is it the person you met in bio lab? Nope. Is it the person you bonded with during freshman orientation? Nah. It is that person who held your hair back while you booted up jungle juice. If that isn’t friendship, then I don’t know what is.

So how can I sufficiently describe you fellahs? I mean, we all pass you on Commonwealth Avenue, take classes with you and sometimes make out with you. And yet, we know so little about you. This is why I’ve decided to investigate your Greek-ness. Call me Dora the Explorer. Actually, don’t.

I think you have a bad rap. You’re more than a sexy bod and great head of hair. Shizz, I’m talking about Robert Downey Jr. again, my bad. (*Note to self: stop watching “Iron Man” while writing weekly column.)

But I digress. Oh yes, the frat boy. In order to better understand you, we need to get anthropological. I’m talking classification. I’m talking archaeological digging in the dirt for stuff. I’m talking cargo pants, hiking boots and CamelBaks. I’m talking dissecting the essence of humanity through the epistemological questioning of your very nature. Okay, I took that last one too far. But I am talking classification.

Classification 2: The Rock I’m sure you’ve seen it before. The infamous spray-painted rock at the Boston University Beach. This rock is an integral part of the frat boy’s life. During the process of joining a fraternity, pledge brothers must maintain their fraternity’s letters on the rock. If a different frat paints over the rock—they’ve got to re-paint it. It’s a beautiful tradition. The frat boys are paying tribute to their cavemen brothers by illustrating on rocks— sans the bison and deer, of course.

Classification 3: The Anthem

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying you can classify everything about the frat boy. For example, their overwhelming plenitude of manliness cannot be quantified. It can’t even be accurately described. It just is.

Ah yes, the frat boy anthem. We know it well. It goes a little something like this: CHUG, CHUG, CHUG, CHUG. Ring a bell?

Secondly, even attempting to classify their “role” within society would prove futile. The magnitude of their importance is indescribable. They are the pulse of our people, the heartbeat of humanity. If you think I’m exaggerating—think again.

Some say the anthem is a primitive chant, a tribute to their hairy ancestors. Others say it’s a dangerous jingle, brainwashing boys to down that 12th beer, even if it means blackout (score!).

Do you know what would happen to our economy if frat boys stopped purchasing booze? Liquor shops would be kaput. Do you know what would happen to our culture if frat boys stopped throwing ragers? We would only know beer pong as a fantastical myth. Do you know what would happen to society if frat boys stopped creating brotherhoods? Society would be brotherless.

Seriously guys—don’t underestimate the power of the brotherhood.

But it isn’t either of these things. This anthem is the solution to humanity’s problem. What is humanity’s problem? Hell if I know. But I do know that this anthem is going to solve it. I firmly believe that if we all make more of an effort to “chug, chug, chug, chug” through the bad—we will be a stronger nation. A stronger people. A stronger brotherhood.

So come on people, drink up. You can blame it on the a-a-a-a-alcohol—we’ll be a better people for it, I promise. Although that, my alcoholics-in-training, is for another article.

Now, I’ve got zero qualms with your species, frat boys. Heck, y’all impress me. Mentoring male freshmen and guaranteeing them access to a rockin’ social life? Righteous. Sure, you may not be a brotherhood biologically—but beer is thicker than blood. Or something like that.

And so, I’ve developed the following classification system for you. I must admit, the band LMFAO had a little something to do with it. Because of my infatuation with the utterly baller song “Party Rock Anthem,” I’ve decided to apply it to you. Well, those of you who are frat boys.

Samantha Friedman is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.

She can be reached at samanthatfriedman@gmail.com

ARETHA FRANKLY

by samantha friedman

ht tp: //dai lyfreepress.com/2 0 11/11/13 /fri edman-the- edge- of- glory/

P ub l i s h ed No v 1 3, 201 1

THE EDGE OF GLORY It’s that time. Finally, the final time. Time to be a real person time. Ha, JK it’s only November. But soon enough, that day of real person-ness will come. And I’ll be there. Ready for it.

So if I’m not there yet, where am I exactly? Well, I’m in my Stuvi2 apartment, but let’s not get technical. I’m at the end of my college career (almost). I’m satisfying all of my remaining CAS math and science requirements that I’ve been ignoring since freshman year, and I’m trying to make the most of my glory days.

Because damn it, I’m at the end of them.

Wait. Woah there, Student Health, now don’t get it twisted. I’m at the end of the glory days of college, but I’m not at the end. I’m good. We’re good. Okay, let’s continue.

So the other night I sat down in my Stuvi2 apartment and started having a minor mental breakdown. Wait.

Woah there, Student Health. Now don’t get it twisted. I started having a minor mental breakdown. I’m good.

We’re good.

And so, I sat, and silently wept to myself. In that moment of self-reflection I was entirely sure that no other person identified with the sadness I was feeling on that Stuvi2 couch (you know the one with the ugly geometric pattern? But let’s not get technical.) When suddenly, my computer iTunes jumped to Gaga’s Edge of Glory. It was fate. Of all the 2,378 songs on my iPod, destiny had chosen this song.

Granted, I was on my Lady Gaga playlist, and this is the only song I have by her, but it was fate. This I’m sure of. And as her song played, I suddenly felt less alone. Sure, it was my senior year. But that was no reason to get mopey about things! I was at the edge of glory, but I hadn’t jumped the cliff yet! There was still time to enjoy what glorious fruits were left hanging from the Boston University trees. Just take the metaphor guys.

Next on the agenda was sophomore year. This was going to be tougher. I slipped on a pair of my third to last most uncomfortable heels, and put on a thin layer of eyeliner. I was starting to get myself together. I now chugged four shots of the cheapest and most terrible tasting vodka I could find, because let’s face it—my tolerance was like, so totally up there now.

I entered into Allston, but now, did not need to wander. I had made friends in fraternities; my evening plans were so sealed. Repeat search for keg, consumption of cheap beer and move-on to junior year.

Now for the fun part. Task? Accumulate my old fake ID. Not too hard. Now, dress myself in comfortable boots but enough make-up and cleavage to pass for 21. Take taxi to X bar, get rejected, get ID taken away, and sulk.

Move on to senior year. Things are looking pretty good.

What have I learned from my blast to the past? Well, it’s pretty evident that the last three years were not always so glorious. Every year has had its ups and downs, and we’re now stronger because of it . . . right?

Instead of pining, I need to accept where I am. Like this Stuvi2 couch. Damn, it’s so comfortable. But let’s not get technical.

So seniors, listen up. We may be at the edge of glory, but it’s all going to be okay. Eh, who am I kidding . . . I have a terrible poker face. But that’s for another article.

But how to begin? Well, first I wanted to return to my roots. And what better way to re-live my glory days than to re-live the freshman crawl? Exactly.

First, I slipped on my highest and most uncomfortable pair of heels. I needed to make certain that they would be entirely impractical shoes for the night ahead of me, because, well, I’m a stickler for re-living things accurately. Second, I smudged on a layer of eyeliner thick enough that raccoon eyes at the end of the night were a certainty. Perfect. And finally, I chugged 2.5 shots of the cheapest and most terrible tasting vodka I could find. I was ready.

The next thing I knew, I was stumbling down Gardner Street. I looked to my left, I looked to my right, and there it was. A creepy-looking house with equally creepy guys sitting on the porch and scouting. Scouting for what, you freshman ask? Scouting for you.

And so, I followed a group of freshman girls into the questionable house, clunking my heels on the wooden floor and scanning the room for a keg. Once I managed to snag myself a Solo cup-full of cheap beer, I felt satisfied. Freshman year was re-lived.

Samantha Friedman is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.

She can be reached at samanthatfriedman@gmail.com

ARETHA FRANKLY

by samantha friedman

ht tp: //dai lyfreepress.com/2 0 11/11/2 0 /fri edman-ti k-tok/

P ub l i s h ed No v 20, 201 1

T I K T OK Did you wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy? No? Did you wake up in the morning feeling bloated, cranky and hungry? Okay Ke$ha, I think we know what time the clock Tik Tok-ed to. Mother nature is such a betch.

Now, there are many things we know a girl does not do. She does not fart. She does not burp. And she definitely doesn’t poop. In fact, she doesn’t even say the word.

Whoops.

But there is one thing she is guilty of: PMS. Granted, it’s out of her control, but that doesn’t mean it ain’t cray-cray. When it’s that time of the month, the betch has more issues than Vogue. She becomes a werewolf under a full moon, a vampire thirsty for blood, a J Woww thirsty for alcohol. Watch yourself.

But how can a guy be sure that it’s coming? How can a guy distinguish between the typical crazy betch and the PMS betch?

Well, she’s moody. She’s wearing sweatpants. Her hair is tied in a careless ponytail. She’s watching “Love Actually.” More than usual. You asked her why she texts so much and she started crying. You offered her a hug and she started crying. “Gossip Girl” didn’t play this week and she started crying. Yeah, I’d say it’s about that time.

To all boyfriends, friends with benefits, cuddle buddies, spooners and lab partners: Rules to Survive the Week of Hell This is not a drill.

1) Carry chocolate bars.

When we morph from typical crazy betch to PMS betch, emotions get out of hand. We scream, pout, and cry. Who wants that? I know you don’t.

Solution: Hand her a chocolate bar. Sure, she’ll first slap you and say you’re trying to make her fat. But after some brief consideration, she’ll tear through that Hershey wrapper like it’s Christmas.

2) Don’t speak unless spoken to.

That’s right. You can’t utter a single word unless she gives you the go. That means you can’t ask her where the lost remote is. That means you can’t ask her where the leftover pasta is. That means you can’t ask her if she wants to smush tonight. Yeah, you definitelycan’t ask her if she wants to smush tonight. More on that later.

5) Accept defeat. Hanky-panky ain’t gonna happen this week.

I think that about sums that up.

6) No laughing allowed.

We know you don’t know why she’s a blubbering mess this week—we don’t know either. Whatever the reason, you can’t laugh in her presence. She’ll assume you’re laughing at her (which you probably are) and things could get full-moonish.

In order to avoid the surfacing of her inner werewolf, this PMS betch needs support. She needs tissues. She needs back massages (unless she doesn’t want you to touch her). She needs a heaping stack of tabloids. But most of all, she needs chocolate.

7) Do not underestimate the power of PMS. That shizz is some Jedi-mind craziness.

When a woman is surfing the crimson wave, she will exercise a part of her being man did not know existed.

I’m talking “Exorcism of Emily Rose” bidness. Things will get nutty. Do not panic. Okay, panic a little.

8) Small gestures, boys.

Were you contemplating ordering her Chinese food take-out? No? Well now you are. Do it, she’ll adore you.

Were you considering buying her flowers? A bit? Well go for it! She’ll be thrilled. Unless she’s allergic. Then she’ll hate you.

Were you pondering buying her a puppy?

You were? Seriously? That’s weird. Don’t do that.

9) Cover your bases.

Just to be safe, ensure the following products are fully stocked: Midol, Midol, Midol, Midol, Midol, Midol and chocolate bars.

If you can adhere to the rules above, this week from hell will whizz by in what feels like a mere seven days.

Remember—she loves you. She may be breathing fire now, but it’s only temporary, I promise. A week of Cosmo, Ben and Jerry’s and Midol and she’ll be back to her old self.

So give a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T and be patient, the full moon can’t last forever. Although that my innocent victims, is for another article. Period.

3) Beware of sudden movement.

Keep your body parts to yourself. Keep your eyes averted. Do not make any sudden movements and do not instigate the PMS betch. Unless of course, you’re willing to get a finger bitten off. Your call.

4) Give in to chick flicks. More than usual.

I’m sure it’s painful boys. But you’re just going to have to watch “Legally Blonde” one more time. Or maybe “27 Dresses.” Whatever her pick, buck up. Make your girl some popcorn (her own bowl of course, she’s gonna be hungry) and curl up next to her on the couch. Just not too close.

Samantha Friedman is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.

She can be reached at samanthatfriedman@gmail.com

ARETHA FRANKLY

by samantha friedman

ht tp: //dai lyfreepress.com/2 0 11/11/2 7 /fri edman- i t s-t he- most- wonderful-t i me- of-th eyear/

P ub l i s h ed Oc t 27, 201 1

IT ’S THE MOS T WOND ER F UL T IME OF THE YEAR Welcome back folks. I know you’re all super excited to be here after your relaxing Thanksgiving break. Luckily, we have finals waiting—such a comforting thought. But this article isn’t about the future. This article isn’t even about the present. This article is about the past.

Before the winner is chosen however, each team elects a speaker. This representative must charm the judges with a brief speech to explain their team’s theme.

It’s a nail-biter people.

Flashback to Thursday afternoon. Actually, flashback to my Thursday afternoon. It started with a turkey, and it ended with a black eye. Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself.

It’s 3 p.m. and my siblings and I arrive at my aunt’s house for a highly anticipated feast. Oh yeah, and for the family. I spend the next hour munching on appetizers and dodging questions about my future. My cousin wants to know where I’ll be working when I graduate. I want to know too—but I don’t. Rinse and repeat the same routine from great aunt to quirky uncle to grandparents and the room is starting to spin. Luckily, it’s turkey time.

My family flocks to the dining room, and all 25 of us pack in to gather ‘round the table. Consider “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” for a moment—do you recall the size of their family? Yeah, that’s about right. Now simply swap their spanakopita for some bagels and schmear and you’ve got us.

We begin the meal by discussing what makes this night different from all others nights. Oh wait, we don’t do that. That’s Passover.

Now that you’ve got the gist of it, I can explain how things went from turkey to black eye. That is, if you haven’t already connected the dots.

To preface, I am a competitive creature. Typically I’m perfectly happy frolicking in fields and playing with puppies—but sometimes that is just isn’t enough. Effectively, I choose to exert all of my excess energy into this gingerbread competition. I’m talking sweatbands. I’m talking combat boots. I’m talking war paint. I take no prisoners.

So rewind to the peak of this culinary warfare. We have three minutes left. My team has opted for a NASA theme, hoping to sway the judges with our sentimental and socially relevant design. As my sister and I put the final touches on our gingerbread rocket ship (that’s right, we rock-it) I realize we are missing something.

There is no American flag to place on our moon.

We begin the meal by eating. Yeah, that’s better.

I looked at the candy on the table . . . Lifesavers, Twizzlers, gummy bears. Not gonna cut it. Suddenly, I see something gleaming on the table—a single square marshmallow—God Bless America. Immediately I know this will make the perfect flag, but as I reach for it, my cousin Benji—from the opposing team—does too.

Fast-forward two hours. Some people have begun unbuttoning the tops of their pants while others have migrated to the couch for nap time. Come to think of it, this night isn’t really different from all other nights.

Suddenly, the gingerbread brawl became a brawl unlike any other. We dive across the table, squirting tubes of frosting across the ceiling and coating the floor in a sea of sprinkles. It’s serious.

Now, for dessert: the best part of Thanksgiving. Not because of the pumpkin pie, or the apple pie, or the pecan pie or the infamous Edible Arrangements—although all of those things are delish. Dessert reigns supreme because that’s when we have our annual gingerbread decorating competition: The Gingerbread Brawl.

Two minutes later, the fight ends. I’ve gained a black eye, but I’ve also gained the marshmallow.

Unfortunately, my team did not win the competition, but it was the sweetest loss I have ever had. And despite my new shiner, I like to think I handled the competition with amazing grace. Although that, good citizens, is for another article.

Confused? Allow me to explain. Every Thanksgiving, my 12 cousins and I participate in a bloodthirsty battle.

We split into three teams, get five minutes to brainstorm themes for our gingerbread creations and pick two members from each team to head to CVS and buy candy decorating supplies. This is especially tough because each team has a $10 budget and must complete their shopping in less than 10 minutes.

It’s brutal.

After the CVS spree, the teams reconvene at my aunt’s and are given 15 minutes to create. Each team is supplied with two gingerbread men, communal frosting and team jerseys—sometimes. Once the 15 minutes is up, competitors must step away from the gingerbread. The judges (aka select members of the older generation) survey our culinary masterpieces, and at this point, it’s anyone’s game.

Samantha Friedman is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.

She can be reached at samanthatfriedman@gmail.com

ARETHA FRANKLY

by samantha friedman

ht tp: //dai lyfreepress.com/2 0 11/12 /0 4 /fri edman-teach- me- how-to- dougi e/

P ub l i s h ed D ec 4, 201 1

TEACH ME HOW TO DOUGIE Please, someone . . . Anyone. Teach me how to Dougie.

I’ve always wanted to be that girl who brings the fresh dance moves to the party. Instead, I’m the girl that brings the chips and dip—so not the same.

So how do I combat this? How do I cool-ify myself, again? How do I bring back the flava? How can this Stella get her groove back? (My name is Sam, but go with it). How do I reclaim my title as Dancing Queen and drop jaws like I did when in sixth grade?

Help me Cali Swag. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.

You know the girl I’m talking about. You’re at some lame party, bouncing your head to whatever dubstep music is blasting from the basement. You’re sippin’ Natty Light from a Solo cup, or maybe even slurpin’ some purple drank. Then suddenly, the ultimate dance song comes on with a killer beat, and SHABANG! Some girl hits the dance floor and gets her funk on. I’m not talking dirty grinding moves, gyrations or even poppin’ and lockin’ it. I’m talking larger-than-life moves. Maybe she’s doing the worm. Maybe she’s doing some breakdancing. Maybe it’s even the Cupid Shuffle. Whatever it is, it’s epic. She is epic.

Now, I wasn’t always this apprehensive about my dance skills. In fact, in the 90s, I was was pretty certain my moves were the bomb diggity. At birthday parties, I was known as the Dancing Queen. Seriously guys, ABBA had nothin’ on me. When The Hokey Pokey played, I was legendary. If the Chicken Dance got started, I was a mother cluckin’ animal. And if the YMCA got rockin’, I was the first to strut what my momma gave me. I was the life of the party, or so I thought.

Things changed when I got to high school. Suddenly, the moves I deemed “cool” were . . . well, not. How did I learn this? The hard way, people. Let me take you back to my friend Emily’s Sweet Sixteen. The DJ is blasting some techno jam, and the dance floor is empty. It is calling my name. Without hesitation, I throw off my heels, chug a glass of water, and hit the stage solo. That’s right, I start doing the robot.

Needless to say, I was single that year.

Ya got nothin’ for me, eh? Okay, fine.

Then here’s what I propose. I say we go retro. I say we blast to the past. I say we bring back the awesomeness of Bar Mitzvah dance moves, Sweet Sixteen funk and righteous wedding grooviness. Let’s revive the Electric Slide. Let’s bust out the Cotton Eyed Joe. I say the next time you hit up TITS, you request “The Macarena.”

Do it, you won’t regret it.

Now I understand this proposition is going to be a challenge at first. You’re going to be worried that people are judging you while you’re doing the Cha Cha slide. You’re going to be thinking to yourself, do I look uncool right now? Do I look unhip?

And you know what? The answer will be yes. Yes you will look uncool, and yes, you will most definitely look unhip. But you will also look awesome. And awesome trumps everything. Always.

So I say flip-off the Dougie, and high-five the robot. Whoever said it’s uncool to rock the old-fashioned moves didn’t get invited to the right Bar Mitzvahs. So turn up those stereo hearts and rock some moves . . . like Jagger. Although that, groovetastic readers, is for another article.

Fast-forward to college, and not too much has changed. I still break out the robot (it’s my go-to dance move), and I still get awkward looks. I just don’t understand—I have a pretty fabulous robo-routine. When did the old go-to moves suddenly become taboo? When did the lawn-mover and the sprinkler lose their luster? Better yet, when did I lose my title as Queen?

Something has changed in the past 10 years and I don’t like it. Times are a-changing, and apparently, I haven’t managed to keep up. When the Ying Yang Twins came about, I could not shake it like a salt shaker.

When Outkast asked me to shake it like a Polaroid picture, I failed that too. When Soulja Boy asked me to crank dat, this white girl just could not ‘super man dat hoe.’ It was pathetic.

And no matter how hard I have tried to ignore my lacking dance skills, the proof is in the pudding: I am not “with it” like I once was.

I don’t know where I went wrong. I think it was sometime between “Full House” and “Sixteen and Pregnant,” but it’s hard to say. But no matter when it happened, the point is, it happened.

Samantha Friedman is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.

She can be reached at samanthatfriedman@gmail.com

ARETHA FRANKLY

by samantha friedman

ht tp: //dai lyfreepress.com/2 0 11/12 /0 4 /fri edman-teach- me- how-to- dougi e/

P ub l i s h ed D ec 4, 201 1

TEACH ME HOW TO DOUGIE Please, someone . . . Anyone. Teach me how to Dougie.

I’ve always wanted to be that girl who brings the fresh dance moves to the party. Instead, I’m the girl that brings the chips and dip—so not the same.

So how do I combat this? How do I cool-ify myself, again? How do I bring back the flava? How can this Stella get her groove back? (My name is Sam, but go with it). How do I reclaim my title as Dancing Queen and drop jaws like I did when in sixth grade?

Help me Cali Swag. Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it.

You know the girl I’m talking about. You’re at some lame party, bouncing your head to whatever dubstep music is blasting from the basement. You’re sippin’ Natty Light from a Solo cup, or maybe even slurpin’ some purple drank. Then suddenly, the ultimate dance song comes on with a killer beat, and SHABANG! Some girl hits the dance floor and gets her funk on. I’m not talking dirty grinding moves, gyrations or even poppin’ and lockin’ it. I’m talking larger-than-life moves. Maybe she’s doing the worm. Maybe she’s doing some breakdancing. Maybe it’s even the Cupid Shuffle. Whatever it is, it’s epic. She is epic.

Now, I wasn’t always this apprehensive about my dance skills. In fact, in the 90s, I was was pretty certain my moves were the bomb diggity. At birthday parties, I was known as the Dancing Queen. Seriously guys, ABBA had nothin’ on me. When The Hokey Pokey played, I was legendary. If the Chicken Dance got started, I was a mother cluckin’ animal. And if the YMCA got rockin’, I was the first to strut what my momma gave me. I was the life of the party, or so I thought.

Things changed when I got to high school. Suddenly, the moves I deemed “cool” were . . . well, not. How did I learn this? The hard way, people. Let me take you back to my friend Emily’s Sweet Sixteen. The DJ is blasting some techno jam, and the dance floor is empty. It is calling my name. Without hesitation, I throw off my heels, chug a glass of water, and hit the stage solo. That’s right, I start doing the robot.

Needless to say, I was single that year.

Ya got nothin’ for me, eh? Okay, fine.

Then here’s what I propose. I say we go retro. I say we blast to the past. I say we bring back the awesomeness of Bar Mitzvah dance moves, Sweet Sixteen funk and righteous wedding grooviness. Let’s revive the Electric Slide. Let’s bust out the Cotton Eyed Joe. I say the next time you hit up TITS, you request “The Macarena.”

Do it, you won’t regret it.

Now I understand this proposition is going to be a challenge at first. You’re going to be worried that people are judging you while you’re doing the Cha Cha slide. You’re going to be thinking to yourself, do I look uncool right now? Do I look unhip?

And you know what? The answer will be yes. Yes you will look uncool, and yes, you will most definitely look unhip. But you will also look awesome. And awesome trumps everything. Always.

So I say flip-off the Dougie, and high-five the robot. Whoever said it’s uncool to rock the old-fashioned moves didn’t get invited to the right Bar Mitzvahs. So turn up those stereo hearts and rock some moves . . . like Jagger. Although that, groovetastic readers, is for another article.

Fast-forward to college, and not too much has changed. I still break out the robot (it’s my go-to dance move), and I still get awkward looks. I just don’t understand—I have a pretty fabulous robo-routine. When did the old go-to moves suddenly become taboo? When did the lawn-mover and the sprinkler lose their luster? Better yet, when did I lose my title as Queen?

Something has changed in the past 10 years and I don’t like it. Times are a-changing, and apparently, I haven’t managed to keep up. When the Ying Yang Twins came about, I could not shake it like a salt shaker.

When Outkast asked me to shake it like a Polaroid picture, I failed that too. When Soulja Boy asked me to crank dat, this white girl just could not ‘super man dat hoe.’ It was pathetic.

And no matter how hard I have tried to ignore my lacking dance skills, the proof is in the pudding: I am not “with it” like I once was.

I don’t know where I went wrong. I think it was sometime between “Full House” and “Sixteen and Pregnant,” but it’s hard to say. But no matter when it happened, the point is, it happened.

Samantha Friedman is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.

She can be reached at samanthatfriedman@gmail.com

ARETHA FRANKLY

by samantha friedman

ht tp: //dai lyfreepress.com/2 0 11/12 /11/fri edman- whi p- my- hai r/

P ub l i s h ed D ec , 1 1 201 1

WHIP MY HAIR Let me preface with the following: This article has nothing to do with whipping my hair back and forth. I’m really sorry if any of you are disappointed. I just really wanted to use the song as an article title before my column finished. So here it is. Now here’s my article.

Ladies and Gentleman, boys and girls, betches and bros . . . it’s about that time. That’s right, end of the semester time. What does that mean for me? Well loyal readers, it means it’s time I bid you farewell. At least for now. I may often be wrong, but I am always write-ing. Hmm. That didn’t go over as well as I had hoped.

But I digress. Ah yes, the final article. The culmination of everything Aretha Frankly stands for. The happy ending to this fantastic non-oral session. I wonder what’s going to come out of this one . . .

Okay, don’t get gross guys. This isn’t an article about sex. At least not entirely. This is an article about something valuable. Something meaningful. Something tasteful. Okay, that last one was a lie—but it is about something meaningful.

Now, I know what you’re all asking yourselves. Firstly, you’re saying, damn it, Sam! Why aren’t you getting to your point already?! Well readers, I’m getting there. But for things to get really exciting, this article needs some foreplay. Secondly, you’re wondering, what topic could possibly be meaningful to all readers?

Ah, I see. Skeptics. Not a good look guys, it creates wrinkles. Y’all know better than to doubt me, I’ve got it all figured out. So take a deep breath and relax. Recline on a La-Z-Boy. Grab some Sun Chips. Turn on “How I Met Your Mother.” Actually don’t do that, because then you won’t be paying attention to the topic of this article: The Meaning of Life.

I know, I know. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

That saying wasn’t applicable but I also wanted to use it before my column finished. Moving on.

Where was I? Oh, right. Teaching you guys about important, meaningful stuff. So maybe this topic is a challenge. But so is giving birth and that hasn’t scared me off.

Woah guys, WOAH. You thought I meant, I gave birth? Gross. I meant I was given-birth-to. You know, by my mom. But I had to endure that shizz just as well as she did, and let me tell you, it was scary. I’m sitting in my comfy little womb, minding my own bidness, when suddenly the walls of my home start caving in. There’s an inexplicable force pushing me outside and I hear a lot of people speaking in an unknown tongue (I later learned this was English). Now, I totally could have given up. I totally could have refused to shoot out of my mother’s cooter and deny entering civilization. But did I? Oh no I didn’!! (Insert finger snaps here).

I forged my way out of the darkness, and I pushed my way into a world full of fussy doctors and prodding nurses. It took gumption. It took pizazz. And most of all—it took a lot of confidence entering into a room full of strangers while butt-ass-naked. But I did it. And you know what? You all did too.

So I’m thinking we can handle this topic, guys. Are you with me? Okay, awesome.

So we’re going to ease into things. We’re going to start with all the weirdisms of society I’ve witnessed in my 21+ years, and figure out why we are the way we are.

Weirdism #1: Girls always go to the bathroom together.

Why? Because we have a terrible sense of direction. Why do you think we get lost every time we’re trying to meet you somewhere? Just be thankful we move in packs, otherwise—we’d be f*$%’ed.

Weirdism #2: Parents who keep their children on leashes. Literally leashes.

Why? Because they hate their kids. Next.

Weirdism #3: Thongs are sexy.

Sure they’re dental floss between the cheeks, but who doesn’t love going to the dentist? Case in point.

Weirdism #4: Hangovers suck, but that doesn’t stop us from drinking next weekend.

My first theory is that we all suffer short-term memory loss.

My second theory is that we’re stupid.

Weirdism #5: We shouldn’t look at women while they’re breast-feeding. But we do.

It’s a sick, sick world my friends.

Weirdism #6: One of the most embarrassing things ever is falling in public.

Because you just FELL IN PUBLIC, obviously. You should be ashamed. Better yet, you should be mortified.

Tomorrow, don’t even bother leaving the house. Or, tie your shoes next time, jackass. <3 <3 Weirdism #7: We stalk photos of the people on Facebook we hardly know.

Sorry guys, I’m in the middle of checking out pics of this dude in my English class. I can’t believe he was at that party! Snap, he has a good body in that beach photo. He has two sisters? Oh. . .right, weirdism explanation. Um, I’ll get back to you.

Weirdism #8: We don’t masturbate.

That isn’t a weirdism. That is a lie. Next.

http:/ / dai ly f re e p res s .c o m/ 2 0 1 1 / 1 2 / 1 1 / f r ied m a n -w hip -my-ha ir/

Pu bl is he d D ec, 11 2 0 11

Weirdism #9: We think we’re invisible when driving.

I know you’ve picked your nose at a red light and that you’ve rocked out to Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” way too enthusiastically while cruising. I. Know. It. It’s okay though… I’ve done it too. And ya know what? This weirdism is here to stay. Cause the next time “I Like Big Butts” comes onto the radio, you bet your bottom I’m gonna shake it like a Polaroid in the front seat.

Weirdism #10: We deny we’re the one that just farted.

Huh? Me? Hell no! That was totally you. Who ever smelt it dealt it dude…

Weirdism #11: We love Kim Kardashian’s butt.

Actually, this isn’t so weird. I’d be worried if you didn’t love it.

Weirdism #12: We love watching the E! Television show, “The Kardashians.”

Now that is wrong. Check yo-self fool.

Weirdism # lucky 13: Tighty-whiteys exist. Awkward.

Listen guys, I’m sure you have a super nice package. But if you elect to wrap up your junk in tighty-whities, either you’re 5, or you’re single.

I’d say that about sums up mankind. Wouldn’t you agree? It’s pretty clear those who adhere to the weirdisms above are nothing short of a super freak—yow!

But wait a minute. This only explains the meaning of mankind. . .what about the meaning of LIFE I promised you?

Well readers, that’s for another article. . . . Speaking of which—want to know where I’ll be writing next semester? Shoot me an email and I’ll hit you with the deetz. Aretha Frankly out.

Samantha Friedman is a senior in the College of Arts & Sciences and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press.

She can be reached at samanthatfriedman@gmail.com