Wednesday, July 27, 2011


issue three. the war on women continues, friends. undaunted by our counterattack, the enemy has added two new pieces of heavy-duty artillery to its arsenal: a deodorant whose primary function is to make your armpits more attractive (wtf?) and individual vaginal cleansing wipes that you are supposed to carry around in your purse, just in case you need to freshen up before your mid-commute cervical exam. please tell me you've seen these new scolding, ethnically-diverse vagina commercials some genius (read: heterosexual male) came up with to shame women into believing that we aren't taking proper care of our vaginas. "hail to the v!" this human hand masquerading as a talking vagina proclaims, masking this self-hatred propaganda as female empowerment, right after she insinuates that you and the flies circling your smelly ladyparts are TOTALLY GROSSING HER OUT. i've always thought this was the silliest fucking thing a bitch could ever be worried about, because it's the one thing you have the absolute least control over. there's nothing you can eat, no futuristic panties you can wear, no not a goddamned thing that can change the way your "vertical smile" (another gem from the commercial) smells after a long day of chasing after babies and sitting through board meetings and slamming three cocktails during happy hour. are there any of you who've been thrown out of bed for smelling too much like a real human being with sweat glands and vaginal bacteria? yeah, neither have i.

the pretty armpit thing is another head-scratcher. seriously, who among you has ever been brought to tears by what your ARMPITS look like?! so they don't come right out and call your armpits ugly, but everyone knows that's the subtext. i thought skin grafts and laser hair removal were the only real hope for the five inch circle of scorched earth i go to great lengths to keep concealed under my arms, but you mean to tell me that after only five days of using dove go sleeveless that tough elephant bacon hidden beneath my cardigan is going to be softer, smoother, and ready to reveal?! hot damn. HELLO, SUMMER.

dealbreakers. magazines always know why you just got dumped, and if you'd only listened to them you'd probably be married by now, you fucking dummy. if only you hadn't cut your long hair, or voiced your opinion, or embellished your sex skills, or asked him not to wear shorts to your sister's wedding, or gotten wasted at his office party, YOU WOULD BE IN A SUCCESSFUL RELATIONSHIP. or at least something closely resembling one. i don't even know what they're talking about sometimes, shit like "how to flirt with him without being too obviously flirtatious because men hate that but they do like a forward, flirty girl." WHAT?! someone please tell me what that means; i can't decipher it. so i'm supposed to act like i want to have sex with this dude, but i'm not supposed to act like i really want to have sex with this dude or else he'll get mad and not want to have sex with ME? it's so confusing, and i'm too dumb to figure it out. dealbreakers i understand: hitting, kicking, punching, karate chopping, non-sexy biting, non-sexy choking, lying, cheating, stealing, leaving the toilet seat up more than once, bad grammar, not liking tacos, smoking indoors, TEXT PORN, and eating the last pint of chubby hubby when he KNOWS i was saving that shit to eat during the law and order marathon on sunday. dealbreakers i do not understand: pretty much anything else. and i don't mean, "i have no idea why you wouldn't want to sleep with that heavyset girl," i mean, "i don't know how it is at all possible to prepare for someone else's idiosyncrasies." and it's misleading to pretend you can. i think we all need to just write a list titled "shit i would dump you for," and as soon as you're feeling serious about someone you should go to a nice dinner and trade lists. no more than ten things, so shit don't get crazy, and if i think i can adhere to yours, and you to mine, then BAM. relationshipped. um, or not.

are your eyelashes too fat?! HOORAY FOR HEALTH SCARES. i thought i was feeling pretty good until i walked into the goddamned newsstand. could your constant texting be causing finger cancer?! could your pantiliners lead to vaginal tentanus?! how dangerous are the carcinogens in your breakfast cereal?! is that terrifying birthmark on your lower back a sign of the plague?!?!!?! HELP ME. every summer i get whipped into hysteria, convinced that the bazillion moles covering my body, most of which i was born with, are all infected, cancerous barnacles just waiting to leech their way into my vital organs and rob me of my boring life. i sit in the bathroom with a copy of glamour (or self, or cosmo, whatevs) and a magnifying mirror, trying to determine whether the spots, most of them the size of a pin prick, have grown in size or changed in diameter. and in the fall i'm laid out on the bed, one arm wrapped around the back of my head, the other trying to feel my breasts for lumps as i strain to read the tiny magazine print detailing eactly how one must conduct this in-depth gynecological exam. and, of course, by the end of it all i'm hyperventilating because all of my moles are obviously festering boils full of disease. and my boobs are ONE GIANT LUMP of imminent death. not that i ever do anything about it, of course. i self-diagnose my cancer, along with my depression and bacterial vaginosis and latent anorexia, then i forget about it all until next month, when i realize i'm not just tired from working all day, THE MALIGNANT TUMOR IN MY HEAD IS OBVIOUSLY EATING MY BRAIN.

celebrity beards. i write this blog for women and gay men. and lesbians, my favorite, who are like an amazingly wonderful and intoxicating combination of a gay man and a straight woman. anyway, i've gotten a couple salty-ass emails and comments from hetero dudes (i assume) who've obviously taken offense at my outing their idiocy on the internets, and to them i say: WOMEN AND GAY MEN, okay?! oh come on, sirs, i don't really mean that. but i do really mean that i love the homos the most, which is why i'd devote every centerfold to a man in sparkly booty shorts or a bearded lady riding a tractor. seriously though, all of the beauty and fashion columns would be courtesy of snippy gay men. i have two dozen gay boyfriends, and while they all remind how "FA-BU-LOUS, gurl" i am all the goddamned time, they're the first ones to be like, "no, boo, that dress doesn't work on someone with your hips. get the wrap dress like i told you." and somewhere in my crew of lesbians is a bitch who can write some DIY home renovation shit. and of course we'd dish about all of the obvious queens dancing on tiptoe through hollywood while married to fat broads they met in high school. i'm looking at you, hugh brosnan. and pierce jackman. ooh, SNAP.

photoshop lotion. if i could make a list of dream beauty products, photoshop lotion would be number one on that goddamned list. i stole the idea from my friend lena, because it is BRILLIANT, and 100% necessary. it would clear up all of your flaws and dark patches while imparting a healthy, sun-lit glow, plus there would be a built-in face crop tool to edit out all of your extra chins. i would also like a couple pairs of plastic surgery pants. these, of course, would slenderize all of your meaty bits and tighten them up, without the agony and duress of getting into, and keeping on, a spanx. and they'd come with a prescription for vicodin because, well, YOU KNOW. somehow somewhere we've got to get some real-life product reviews, and if that means i just have to buy every new thing and test it out for you then i guess that's what i'll have to do. i simply cannot read another lie about some $500 miracle neck cream and how it's worth not paying my rent to purchase. i want to know what really fucking works on a painful and oozing ingrown hair that makes it nearly impossible to walk across a room without falling. i need to know what conditioner is all hype, or smells like it's for a nine-year-old. i need to know whether or not i'm going to smell like a goat at the end of a work day, soap manufacturers! can you please tell me THAT?! you know what, i'm going to go get some of those cleansing wipes i was snatching about earlier and tell you whether or not my chemically-scented vagina understands just how much i care about her well-being. STAY TUNED.

cat ladies. listen. isn't it about time we abandoned this cruel and outdated stereotype? when will people who love adorable little kittens get the librarian treatment?! i mean, SERIOUSLY. prim know-it-alls with too-tight buns and cat-eyed glasses are sexy, but not a woman who is routinely startled by tumbleweeds of cat hair rolling across the floor in the middle of the night is NOT?! pffft. the stigma is really quite awful, and those of us who share our homes with a feline companion don't deserve to be maligned in this way. i understand that not everyone likes to pick cat hair out of his teeth (and off of his shirt, and pants, and shoes, and hair), but does that mean we all have to get a bad rap? i'm tired of pictures of happy couples smiling their toothpaste smiles as they walk dogs together at dusk! i don't want to see anymore images of men and women flirting (BUT NOT TOO MUCH) and exchanging numbers at the dog park! is there no place feline friends can gather and extol the virtures of our tiny hirsute children? their wily whiskers! their clicking claws! sigh. i know, i know. not sexy at all. but at least i'll have someone to eat my skin when i die alone in my apartment. so take that, dog jerks. CATS ARE SO SMART.