Emily Crichton - Two Buck Chick
Ugh, rich people. They’re always making us regular Joes feel so goddamn… poor. They drive around in their fancy-schmancy white stretch limos, eating caviar and endangered, baby mammals with their pinky sticking out, all while perpetually drowning in a sea of diamonds and mink stoles (paws still attached, of course).
So, it’s Valentine’s week (Yes, it’s an entire week now. Sorry.) and I don’t care if you’re fully ball-n-chained or single and swinging that thang all over the city, one thing V-day evokes in every last warm-blooded human being is the desire to get… some. You know what I’m talking
Howdy, brokesters… apologies for the lack of TBC musings as of late. Happy new year and shit. If you follow me on Twitter/are stalking me in real life, you know that I spent the holiday season getting blotto in my beloved home state of Wisconsin. Yes, America’s darling Dairyland.
With the holiday season under way, gift-giving anxiety is at an all-time high. So many presents, so little time… er, and disposable income. Well, that’s all about to change RIGHT NOW because I’ve got some gift ideas that will make your loved ones swoon like a 12-year-old girl at a
It’s good to be young, broke, and beautiful Dear Two Buck Chick, I’m going to Thanksgiving dinner at (insert friend/family member)’s house and I need to bring some wine. WTF should I bring? P.S. I’m broke. You came to the right column, my (completely fictitious) friend! So you ain’t got
Unless you’ve been living under a rock the past week (or what’s more likely, an overturned bus) you’ve probably noticed that our country is a little en fuego. Between that mega-bitch named Sandy and the SF Giants winning the World Series, it’s a bona fide shit show out there. No
The sentiment known as “love/hate” is one of the most ubiquitous yet enigmatic phenomenons in the human experience. I am certainly no stranger to its insidious, backhanded ways. Raw onions, ex-lovers, the mélange of scents permeating the city on a hot day, Peter Gabriel… you get the idea. For broke-ass
The other day I was thinking about a wine question that my dear friend, Ilene, emailed me a few years ago. I tried to dig it up out of the Gmail abyss so I could share it in raw form, but all I came up with was a copy of