Wednesday, November 23, 2011

my vagina's name is "rap beefs."

if she wants me to, i will totally write your mom's match.com profile. moms fucking love me. i'm not even really sure what it is that i do, but menopausal women fucking swoon over me. maybe it's my intoxicating mix of irresistible charm and borderline inappropriate dirtbaggery? who the hell knows, but mature bitches love my orphan ass. i'm that annoying asshole friend who's sitting in the kitchen wolfing down snackwell's and taster's choice with equal packets like, "omg lois, i would die to hear about the new scrapbook you're working on!" while you stomp around rolling your eyes, mad because she won't put fifty bucks on your cell phone bill or whatever. joyce and i are TIGHT, dude. just last week we went to zumba before having lunch at the walnut room and shit. you mad?! i can't help it if sylvia prefers my company when she goes to see a movie at eleven in the goddamned morning. that bitch likes my jokes. why you salty at ME?! a few weeks ago i got this text from jeff: "my mother asked for your phone number. if you two are planning some sort of intervention i will set your hair on fire." what a melodramatic little pussy that dude is. gross. anyway, jackie called me later that night.

sam: "hey, sexy."
jackie: giggle.
sam: "i can't believe a hot piece like you isn't out on a date this evening."
jackie: "stop, samantha! you're making me blush!" more giggling.
sam: "well, it's not often a beautiful lady calls me after ten on a weekday."
jackie: "is it too late? i justgot in from the office!"
sam: "it's never too late for you, GURL."

and that's basically an example of why i'm the worst motherfucking friend ever, because i will shamelessly flirt with your mother and say suggestive shit to her and make her blush, and then sooner or later she'll be calling me to go to dinner or grab a drink at happy hour or enjoy a leisurely brunch with her lonely ass. she knows you won't; you're too fucking busy banging craigslist dudes and chasing your dealer around town. so then she calls me, and i'm like a smarter, funnier, more grateful version of you who never screamed "i hate you!" during a fight or crashed her brand new car into a light pole. i'm you without the constant bitching and siphon on her bank account. which makes you look like a total fucking asshole. and you know what else? i don't act all weird when there's a hot grandpa at the bar in a smoking jacket making eyes at her over his corncob pipe and monocle. i just get up and wingman for her ass. unlike you, who tries to pretend that the only time she ever had sex in her life was the one drunk night she conceived you. wrong, bitch. YOUR MOM HAS SEX NEEDS.

jackie invited me to have dinner at her fancy grownup apartment the next night, and the second i walked through the door she pounced on me and shouted, "i want you to write my dating profile!" OH MAN. i was tempted to remind jackie that my own attempt at internet solicitation not only had failed to result in any tangible human penis but had also been heartily laughed at by one of my goddamned friends. (i rewrote it, and it's fucking hilarious now, but that is beside the motherfucking point.) but then i remembered that jackie is the type of mom who buys buffalo trace and keeps seven different types of cheese in her spotless refrigerator, so i dropped my bag in the entryway and sighed, "okay, let me have a look."

i have no idea what moms should be asking for when it comes to dudes. what does an old broad want in a gentleman caller? someone to go to church with? someone to walk the mall with every morning? someone who likes eating soup?! every time i try to imagine what she might want my head fills with dudes in tophats and tails on some fred astaire shit. jackie is a pretty fancy motherfucker what with her designer suits and granite countertops and law degrees, and it baffled me that this bitch 1 couldn't find a decent man just milling around the financial district and 2 was willing to take a chance on THE GODDAMNED INTERNET. "aren't there matchmakers and shit for women like you?" i asked. we were sitting at her dining room table, me in my "inside pants" and my "house glasses" and my "weekend underwear," jackie wearing the same $900 pajamas oprah probably wears. she told me that she'd recently joined a book group with other older successful women, many of whom were either widowed or divorced, and several of them had suggested that she try her hand at dating again and that match.com had seemed like the easiest way to transition her way off the bench and back out onto the playing field. noticing for the first time that she'd checked the casual sex box on her profile i looked up in mild surprise. "you know that means they don't have to buy you dinner, right?" we changed it immediately.

1 your vagina deserves a name. jackie emailed me a week ago to report that she'd been on two successful dates with men who did nice things like open her car door and pay for dinner at phil stefani's. i immediately started frothing at the mouth, boiling in a jealous rage. but then i remembered that i'm young enough not to need vaginal suppositories and congratulated her on kicking internet sex's bony goddamned ass. her response was a forward entitled "how to wake your sleeping vagina." inside i found an invitation to join her book group for a discussion on how to start fucking dudes after a lengthy hiatus caused by death or divorce. at the end she'd added, "i read your blog, darling. you could obviously use the help. i'll send a car for you. PLEASE wear pants with a zipper. and maybe some sophisticated lipstick? love, jackie." and this is why i murdered my own fucking mother.

in honor of the occasion i wore tasteful zippered slacks from talbots and a j.jill cardigan set your grandmother lent me, and i put my grownup makeup on, which i get at bobbi brown. i think i saw your aunt getting her winter palette done the last time i was at bloomingdale's picking out a muted shade of barf. jackie sent a car for me (RICH OLD BROADS ARE THE BEST, omg) and i tried to joke with the driver but i think he thought i was hitting on him and he totally stiff-armed my ass. he dropped me at this nice building on state parkway, and all of the other women were already there, EATING CUCUMBER SANDWICHES I'M NOT KIDDING I WISH I WAS MAKING THIS UP. they were all artificially friendly and talked to me in that bored, distracted way you'd talk to a toddler who is trying to show you the macaroni necklace he made when you're trying desperately to check your philandering husband's email before he returns home from his squash game. "comedy? animals? oh, lovely. that's nice, dear. now return to your cartoons."

the "book" was really a pamphlet, and its "author" was a woman named alice who dressed sort of like a gypsy and smelled like incense. i mean, this goddamned blog is longer than that shit. listen, i like free advice as much as the next person, but could this bitch at least pretend to be credible? photocopied pieces of paper that you folded and heat-sealed? QUIT PLAYING WITH ME, GURL. i skimmed the booklet while trying not to smear sophisticated lipstick all over jackie's homegirl's expensive wineglass, rolling my fucking eyes at every other sentence.

alice told us that to properly reintroduce our vaginas to the world of sex that we needed to christen them with new names. "den of iniquity!" i yelled out. that hippie gently reminded me that i wasn't competing on a game show and should write my possible names on the notepad she'd provided. now this is the kind of shit i can get into. weirdo sex rituals are my fucking favorite. she said that vaginas deserve names that are happy or powerful, and that calling your pussy "sally" doesn't really give her the authoritative moniker she deserves. she told us to make a list of four possible vagina names that sounded mighty and strong and/or involved something that brought joy to our lives. i already call my shit "the fist of fury," which sounds pretty fucking powerful to me, but i figured a name change might do her some good. i glanced over at the enraged look on jackie's face and literally drooled with excitement. i elbowed her and she hesitantly picked up her pen.

my vagina name list:
tiger woods before the hooker scandal when he was still dominating motherfuckers.
adorable kitten videos on youtube.
18/8 stainless steel.
rap beefs.

i've seen 8 mile 247 goddamned times. rap beefs was the obvious goddamned choice. alice said that now that we'd chosen names we had to address our bald eagles like they were separate entities and listen to them, ask them what they want, and treat them with the same respect we would our partners. so when i meet a dude i'm supposed to say, "hey rap beefs, would you like to let this gentleman explore you sexually?" and then i need to tune in and LISTEN TO WHAT THIS BITCH HAS TO SAY. i fucking love it. the other women in the room were blushing and whispering in hushed voices. i decided to go get more wine and asked jackie if i could refill her glass. "no thanks, darling," she whispered. "i can't drink too much around this crowd."

"what about 'sunshine after the rain?'" i loud-talked. "would SHE like another glass of wine?!"

2 you must prepare your temple for worship. i found the snack table and asked rap beefs how many braised beef empanadas she would like for dinner. we decided on four, together. isn't that sweet? WE ARE GETTING ALONG BETTER ALREADY. back in the living room alice was talking about the things a mature woman has to do to get her body ready for sex. thank god i'm young, because these broads were talking about shit i've never fucking thought of. like, did you know your vagina dries out?! like, for real for real. she just stops basting in her own juices, even when you are sexually excited. my jaw hit the fucking floor. i basically spend 80% of my waking hours feeling like i'm sitting in a half-empty children's swimming pool, and it never occurred to me that one day this shit just GOES AWAY. one lady started talking about banging her ex-husband and realizing halfway through that it felt like a "salami wrapped in sandpaper," and it's two motherfucking days later and i still am not over the mental image of that shit.

eventually they turned to me wondering what pains i take when faced with the prospect of having some new sex. after all the stress tests and vagina moisturizer i felt like an asshole saying, "i have to shave, i guess?" but let's talk about it for real for a minute. the morning after i booted the last dude i was banging on a semi-regular basis i nearly wept tears of joy that i would no longer have to set the alarm ten minutes early to balance on one foot with the other in the goddamned sink trying to shave my goddamned legs. GONE were the weekly battles with the beard trimmer, teetering awkwardly on the edge of the tub while trying not to castrate myself with those spinning fucking blades. i could eat sandwiches again! and skip those expensive monthly pedicures! no more sexy and impractical undergarments! life was good again!

monday i went to zumba then came home and greased up the old wahl to attend to the overgrowth in my enchanted forest. i even trimmed my ass hair, which will make my GI doctor's life easier, i suppose. and i stood with my fucking foot in the sink to shave my goddamned legs. i found all of my fancy ruffled, sheer, high-cut panties and those plunge bras that are only meant to be worn for 1/2 an hour at most if you have even a teaspoon more than an A cup. i cleaned my apartment from top to bottom, INCLUDING THE DISGUSTING CEILING FAN, and donated two bags of books. i brushed helen so she'd look presentable to potential stepfathers. i made an appointment to get my eyebrows waxed. i opened the mail. i took the garbage out. i threw out expired bags of frozen peas. i thought about buying food to make my house more appealing to a dude who might like a woman who feeds him, but instead reorganized all of my takeout menus because seriously the grocery store is the fucking WORST.

because dating and banging is never just about the sex. i mean, come on. it's about whether or not dude has handsoap in his bathroom. or if you have a clean glass for him to drink his post-sex water out of. you have to fake like you don't wear holey underwear the color of a dirty band-aid to work sometimes. you have to not buy so many magazines so that you actually have money to meet some dude for drinks. i always joke about being totally goddamned lazy, and trust me i am, but maybe it really isn't laziness. doing all this shit is TOTALLY FUCKING HARD. i have to work fifty hours a week, try to exercise at least six hours during that week, feed the cat, keep my living space clean, pay my important bills, stay updated on current sociopolitical issues, maintain my friendships, stay current on music news and celebrity gossip, make sure i'm wearing what i'm supposed to, read good books, eat at the best new places, support and participate in the arts, be totally hilarious and interesting, and MAKE SURE MY LABIA AREN'T STUBBLED?! not fucking dudes was easy because that meant there were, like, a hundred fewer things i had to goddamned worry about. i went to get an STD screen to make sure i hadn't caught anything off a public toilet seat, and while i was sitting there the nurse was like, "do you need condoms and some dental dams?" HOLY SHIT I HAVE TO DO THAT, TOO?! back in the game for one quarter and already sacked nineteen times. jesus christ.

3 face your fears. i am NOT EQUIPPED for this 21st century dating shit. and i'm basically a teenager when you consider my lack of savings and tendency toward melodramatic hyperbole. the internet is a crazymaker. and you hoes know i'm right. facebook and tweeting and foursquare and tumblr will drive even the most rational bitch OUT OF HER GODDAMNED MIND. dating makes me so sensitive and nervous. i devolve into motherfucking harriet the spy, an insecure chatterbox trying to find the hidden meaning within 160 characters of text. AND IT AIN'T JUST ME. i have an inbox full of "read his status and tell me what you think that means" to fucking prove it. omg if you motherfuckers could read my gchats! 98% of them are me and some other broad trying to translate the poorly-written messages sent by some neanderthal dude. HOLY HELL and when i used to chat with dudes i had to send that shit to amanda to have her make sense of the conversation. i just can't with this shit. and neither can any of the rest of you.

DECIPHERING TEXT MESSAGES IS THE DEVIL. and internet stalking is the devil's handmaiden. i want to go back to the olden days when you didn't have to sit up half the night trying to piece together the relationships of people whose toes you want to suck and their internet friends that you've never met and have no business asking them about. are men doing this? seriously, are you wringing yourselves out trying to discern whether or not we used to fuck that dude who heart emoticons every single status we post? i'm sure you don't even care, but you girls know what i'm talking about. "who the fuck is this asshole who 'likes' everything he says? god, desperate bitch, he's not even funny like that. she's obviously a loser since she comments on EVERYTHING. damn, get a hobby. stupid idiot. i wonder if he thinks she's prettier than me?" and there's no cure, because none of us is going to go cold turkey off our social media addiction. eventually there are going to be asylums all over america filled with strung-out, ashen women scrolling through smartphones while muttering, "is he fucking her? what about her? is my status funny enough? is that his ex-girlfriend?!" under our collective breath. terrifying.

4 put yourself out there. not only is my vagina awake, now this bitch is CRAZY. old women are worried about performance anxiety and breaking a hip during rough play, meanwhile my ass is all, "OMG WHAT AM I MISSING ON FACEBOOK RIGHT NOW?!" i had three glasses of wine during that fear exercise, and i was just on the verge of the mortifying drunk cry. you know the kind, when tears stream down your face at the slightest provocation because you drank two bottles of cheap chianti in a sitting? yeah, that's the one. i don't know, but all of that talk about insecurity and body shame and relationship wounds past was really starting to fuck with my drunk ass. i had to keep blinking like a crazy person to stop myself from bursting out crying. one of the women disclosed her fears about moving on after her husband died because she'd never have sex with anyone else in HER ENTIRE LIFE, and when she tearfully admitted that she'd never had an orgasm a loud, audible sob escaped my mouth and jackie hissed "go to the bathroom and get yourself together" and glared at me. then some other woman cried because she kept getting rejected by her eharmony matches and i came completely undone.

i'm one of those pent-up mean people who are so bitter and angry at life that we can hardly be bothered to compliment someone or share a kind word, and as punishment for being that way when i cry, I CRY. i also take a lot of hormones to keep rap beefs in check, and sometimes they turn me into a blubbering mess. surging and estrogen mixed with all that fucking wine destroyed any ounce of composure i'd had up to that point. jackie was already calling the car service while i sat there sobbing about how that old eharmony dude is such a liar he only matches you with people who suck who don't want to marry you and DID YOU KNOW THEY WON'T MATCH GAY COUPLES?! boo hoo it'll get better, sister. boo fucking hoo. jackie got up to leave with me before alice could tell us about internet dating and joining co-ed sports teams and attending singles mixers. i kept my swollen eyes closed and we locked arms in the elevator.

before we'd left alice suggested that we write letters to our newly baptized vaginas when we got home to prepare them for their journey out into the brave new world. a world full of syphillis exposure and craigslist dudes who want to put their dickheads in your ear. here's mine:

dearest rap beefs,

i'm really sorry that i've introduced you to so many idiots. i know it may appear that i might've done so out of spite but, i'm not sure whether or not you know this, i'm vaguely mentally retarded. and too liberal with the benefit of the doubt. i'm sorry about that time i let a dude stick a roll of pepperoni in you, and i really do feel bad about that moron who kept chewing on you with his teeth. in the future i promise to be better about screening applicants. seriously, no more dudes who are not smart and don't laugh at my jokes.

since we're talking, why do you smell so weird sometimes? is it because i've been eating too much meat? and how come you get inexplicably itchy? is this your way of demanding my attention? are you trying to alert me to my neglect? i swear i'm going to get better about this sort of thing. have you been enjoying the new feminine wash that i occasionally use? those disposable wipes i've been carrying around have made you quite lovely and chemically fresh.

you look good with your new haircut, by the way. i mean, i love it long, but short and sassy REALLY works for you. hope you're having a fantastic day, and please try not to queef next time some hot asshole is banging me sideways. that shit is embarrassing.

love, sam!

ps, jerks: I'M FAMOUS NOW. click here, omg