My girlfriend travels a lot. In the winter, she’s off snowboarding every weekend. In the summer, she’s off climbing all the time. I’m worried she’s going to meet some hot snowboarder or something.
Should I learn to ski, or just relax?
— Nervous Non-Boarder
Christy Fantz has relationship advice and she’s not afraid to dish it out. Send your questions to email@example.com.
Don’t do it:
Dude. Screw that rubbish.
(You already do. Condolences.)
There are two types of people in this fair state.
One: The “mountain fornicators” (mountain fuckers, laymen) — a “Fantz in Your Pants” original reference, circa 2010.*
Two: Those who have wet dreams of whiskey on the rocks. Not rocks.
One and Two can bang just like a regular old Three and Four, but the prior duo often make for polar opposites. (Three and four involve booze and bondage in my version.)
Two’s exercise: stumbling three miles home from the bar to avoid illegal driving woes.
One’s good time: Munching on Poppycock with a fleece and a gluten-free beer. (Poppycock. Psssht. Like that’s organic.)
What did you expect? It’s Colorado. If you wanted to bang a broad who spoons double cheeseburgers, move to Mississippi.
Many relationships between One and Two fail due to differing pastimes.
She needs to compromise and take some weekends off to ride your mountain. (Don’t flatter yourself. It’s a hill.)
Or, while she’s dry humping the powder, go sit at the ski lodge bar and get tanked. I’ll be there. Order me a Jameson neat.
If she does meet some hot snowboarder, then you just got Spicoli-swapped, brah. Condolences times deux.
*Sure, the column has only graced the market for six months, but don’t act like they haven’t been the best months of your life.
I collect weird, freaky shit that my boyfriend hates. He’s moving in and I don’t want to get rid of it.
What should I do?
I like your style.
I collect weird shit, too, like plastic baby arms and mini army men that are always on my person. Well, in my purse. (You never know when those bitches come in handy.)
There’s an analog dial TV in my living room with the screen decked out in old postcards picturing 1970s catalogue men and “Rocky Horror Picture Show” collecting cards.
My blue living room walls and bright orange kitchen flows smashingly with my red and brown leather couches. Atop my record player sits a 1970s rotary telephone and pottery filled with army men.
Yes. My gentleman lover thinks I’m insane. But he deals with it because I’m a token prize. (And not at all conceited.)
It’s your place, but if he’s halving rent, he needs to feel at home, too.
Go staple some beef jerky and footballs to the wall or something.
Christy Fantz’s Fantz In Your Pants runs every Thursday in the Colorado Daily.