Tuesday, January 17, 2012

you're just like a sister to me!

issue seven. at the gynecologist a couple weeks ago i learned, from an abandoned magazine left behind in the waiting room, how to turn my bathroom into a mini vacation. did you know that just by purchasing a whimsical toothbrush and throwing a teal mat on the floor that you can transform that tiny room you don't have space to take a relaxing shit in into what feels like a weekend getaway? that a jazzy soap dish and citrus room spray can put you in a beachy state of mind? yeah, ME NEITHER. like most mental patients, everything in my bathroom is white so that i might give all of the butt germs lying around a liberal splash of bleach without fear of non color-safe consequence. more importantly, i also learned that i'm ovulating normally. and i got the warning speech about my old-ass rotten eggs. so if you want to get me pregnant you better hurry up and do so, because there's a good chance that alien hellspawn might see the cold light of day.

january magazines are my absolute favorite. they're so shiny and perfect and filled with the promise of an amazing new year. you know you want to lose some weight, GURL. you know you need a fucking makeover! and you really do believe that shit will come true while standing in line at walgreens clutching your gift receipt waiting to return that jean nate body wash set your clueless cubicle-mate gave you for christmas, you really do believe that this is the year you're going to freshen up that hairstyle and stop wearing sweatpants to dinner. resolutions are nothing but a laundry list of your inherent flaws that starts mocking you two days after you write them, but reinventing yourself (with the aid of a few helpful ladymags) seems like a totally plausible undertaking.

so you buy them. self because, despite the fact that you have the USDA's nutritional guidelines and weight watchers' complicated points system committed to memory, you need yet another step-by-step guide detailing how to eat mini meals and filling snacks to lose that fifteen pounds of mashed potato you put on over the holidays. even though you ALREADY KNOW that four grapes and two peanuts is your morning snack and a sliver of avocado and nine sugarfree jellybeans is supposed to somehow get your ass through an entire afternoon, you still drop five bucks to read about that shit some more. this time, though, you're going to stick with it. and omg SO AM I. this year is going to be the one we actually take our lunches to work and make ziploc bags of tasteless air-popped popcorn and dried apricots every morning to keep in our desk drawers! this year we're measuring peanut butter instead of eating it from the jar! this year we're turning the oven on for the first time in the five years we've lived in this apartment to bake lean pieces of fish!

because if and when we do, that glamour we bought is totally going to come in handy. it's time for a new haircut, and i'm not sure whether or not high-waisted slacks are still in. and since my diet of egg whites, bread crusts, mineral water, and three m+ms at a time has been so successful, i'm going to need some new clothes. do the kids still wear sweaters? how are the models feeling about pants this year? are sleeves still in style? what about orange, are people still rocking orange? is it still okay to wear shoes?! it's exhausting. and by the time i've figured it all out and saved enough pizza money to update my wardrobe the trends have all changed again. which is okay, i guess, because that "half a banana, sip of juice, and three bites of a peach" diet was over by january 10th. BITCHES GOTTA EAT.

you're too awesome for me to want to have sex with you.
what is this obsession magazines have with women becoming really good friends with dudes? one of these days, after i finish working on all the other books i'm halfway finished writing, i am going to write a book called, male friends: worth the heartbreak? this month's cover features none other than the vampire, one of my very best male friends, and the blog debut of my mighty skin beard. "being friends with dudes" is a clear example of things that sound better in your head than they will ever actually be in real life. like "taking a spin class" or "eating a bowl of peas when you have a really bad craving for pizza." once you try to put it into practice you quickly find out that the effort is hardly worth it. especially when you're friends and you don't necessarily want to be. you got guilted into the shit. or you never found the right time to tell him you've had a crush on him for years and that watching him go on dates is like twisting a hunting knife in your heart. more often than not, unless you've decided to put him in the friend zone, the shit sucks.

i know, sister. 1 sometimes you get bro'd and that shit comes right out of nowhere. one minute you're holding hands and staring into the eyes of that sensitive dude who you are convinced is just too shy to make a move on you, and the next he's telling you about what a great friend you are and he'll always have your back and, by the way, does that girl meghan you sit next to in latin american studies have a boyfriend? (what?!) or 2 maybe you've had sex before and, for whatever reason most commonly known as "someone goddamned else," he decides he doesn't want to do that anymore. but you're so cool and smart and great! do you think we could still be friends? ie, do you want to sit on the sidelines and provide emotional support without receiving the benefits of my penis? (WHAT?!) and occasionally 3 there's a dude who keeps hanging around to help you move or fix that weird noise your radiator is making despite the fact that you don't want to have sex with him. and he says he's okay with having been relegated to the friend zone, but we all really know he's just waiting for you to get drunk and forget how much his ear hair grosses you out. (um, this one totally works for me.)

there are, of course, some organic male-female relationships that are strictly platonic. i know, because they always seem to happen to my ass. i make jokes and listen to rap music, so dudes are always asking to be my goddamned friend. that's how the vampire and i started out. he sent me an email and we went to dinner and halfway through the meal this dude was like, "so my girlfriend thinks...." and i was like, YAWN. and now we're buddies. pals, even. and i always say yes when a man offers up his friendship, because i need to get a new air conditioner in a couple months and i do not plan on carrying that shit upstairs myself. and once you get over the implicit soul-crushing rejection you'll find that dudefriends come in handy for a variety of things, especially decoding the behavior of that weirdo in the acid wash jeans who actually wants to fuck you. but it's still a bit of a letdown, you know? there's not a woman alive who SIMPLY CANNOT WAIT to listen to all the problems you're having with that bitch you're sleeping with instead of her. sometimes we want to hear how pretty we look today.

your strategy for surviving male friendship:
1 you have to understand that he doesn't want to sleep with you. will he? absolutely. but does he want to? NO HE DOES NOT. or else he would've already. so stop embarrassing yourself throwing that ass at him all the time. it's gross. if you're going to be a friend you need to actually be this dude's friend. seriously. you have to go into it prepared to offer everything you do to your girlfriends. that shit is hard, and if you can't sit still and provide a compassionate ear and sensible sounding board to a dude you sometimes masturbate to? admit that shit and save yourself some agony.

2 perfect your poker face, babygirl. you need to sit in front of a mirror and put "million dollar baby" on the old television machine and dare yourself to cry. you got it? dry-eyed even at the end when they're in the hospital room?! OKAY THEN. you are now ready to have a platonic lunch across from a hot piece of smoked sausage who is going to regale you with stories of this girl with a banging body who is limber enough to tuck her heels behind her ears. because you're like his sister, except better than his sister because he can talk to you about raunchy sex stuff and ask for advice about girls. and don't try sabotaging that dude because you think it'll give you an advantage. that shit doesn't work. trust me, i've tried.

3 stop trying to bang his friends. i know it's tempting, because he just has so many of them! and they're all so fucking cute! but they know why he isn't banging you, and even if they might think about it, it's unlikely that they ever will. so it just makes you look desperate and shady. it really can be nice to have guy friends, but only when they know they can relax and be friendly to you without your reading into shit. i used to be the worst about this, because it feels really good when someone is nice and showing you attention, but that dude and his friends are off-limits. especially if you don't want to look trashy. or you're going to need a rebuilt carburetor or some furniture moved in the near future.

4 use him as much as humanly possible. if there is a man in your life, he should be carrying your shit around. and driving you places. and escorting you to events. you're not going to torment me with all that moony rhapsodizing about that girl you met last week while i carry cat litter on the bus, my man. YOU ARE PICKING THAT SHIT UP. that's my payment for giving you "the female perspective" or whatever dumb reason you back burnered my ass. i'm not going to another wedding, funeral, block party, or store opening by myself, because it is the job of my manfriend to go to that shit with me and be silent while giving everyone the impression that we might be a couple.

oprah's richer than god, and that's why she gets to be famous and fat. "celebrity diet secrets: how they eat and stay so skeleton-thin!" bitches love that whole "stars are just like us" gag, myself included. nothing brings joy to my heart like a picture of ali larter in a ball cap with no makeup on paying a parking meter! or drake sipping a latte while texting at a red light! ben affleck holding his daughter's hand while crossing the street! stars love starbucks! and break traffic laws!! and try to keep their young children from becoming roadkill!!! omg, CELEBRITIES ARE JUST LIKE ME.

i want to know what lady gaga eats, i really do. and i want to know that halle berry gobbles down rare steaks with butter melting down the sides. i always think to myself, "self, if you weren't such a total pig asshole and could limit yourself to four kale smoothies a day the way vogue says charlize theron does you wouldn't be so fucking ugly." but i probably still would, because that bitch gets to spend an hour meditating and swim five hours a day while i have to boss around people who don't listen to me and take four advil at a time because my boss is causing me to have tension headaches. famous people don't stress eat, ho. that's just us regular folk who need a spoonful of cookie dough just to open the electric bill.

magazines are always trying to pretend that a bitch can eat whatever rihanna had for breakfast and look just like her by dinnertime. sure, i can buy an organic banana and spread some flaxseed oil on a piece of ezekiel bread and eat that while drinking a coconut water while standing in my kitchen, but the minute i walk into work and my paycheck is late and fistfights are breaking out and shit is a mess and people are yelling at me i am going to solve my motherfucking problems with a croissant. you know, the ones with the almond paste inside and the slivered almonds on top? those ones. with a full fat latte. and, maybe in an hour, i'll probably have some cheese.

you could be skinny RIGHT THIS MINUTE if you quit your job, shipped your kids off to boarding school, and devoted your entire day to looking perfect. by all means, let eva longoria work with these animals all goddamned day. let's see what her diet looks like then. two 7-eleven yogurts, nine diet cokes, half a lean cuisine, a couple of those expensive chocolates that pharmaceutical rep dropped off, six excedrin, a spoonful of the peanut butter she hides in the bottom drawer, a turkey sandwich from the deli even though that lean cuisine was supposed to be her whole lunch, and that snickers bar that's supposed to be for emergencies only? yeah, ME TOO.

my vagina stinks. how come i'm the only one who knows when i need to go to the gynecologist? every month there's some sort of "beware down there" cautionary story with a checklist of clues to know when your dirty snatch needs medical attention. i know that if my underwear smells like gyro meat at the end of the day that i need to make an appointment to have my little girl checked out. what are the rest of you doing? self-diagnosing?! you know that doesn't work! you are going to fuck around and get a kidney infection, ho. that burning pee means something! i was in the hospital this weekend because CROHNS DISEASE IS AN ASSHOLE, and all i could think was "thank goodness i didn't let this go." it's not the same, of course, but i never have to flip through a cosmo to see if three out of the five major signs of broken vagina are happening inside my pants. get your pap smeared, girlfriend.

my taco armpits are obviously the result of this natural deodorant i insist upon using. these hippies have won the war, friends. they've got me using tea tree oil on my scalp and rubbing herbs under my arms and catching my period in a piece of natural sea sponge all in an attempt to make up for the years i spent driving a car that couldn't pass an emissions test, i guess. i don't know, if you listen to enough bitches in the parking lot of whole foods they start to get to you after a while. i'm pouring vinegar down the tub drain and cleaning my dishes with baking soda and shit, and i swear on mother earth that if i die of alzheimers or whatever cancer it is i'm trying to avoid by smelling like an ox and standing in my kitchen twice a month mixing borax and fels-naptha to MAKE MY OWN FUCKING LAUNDRY SOAP i am going to claw my way out of the grave and snatch you by your white-person dreadlocks.

gross winter skin. every january i set three reasonable goals for the coming year. this year's included the following: 1 go grocery shopping 2 find someone hot and manly to have sex with and 3 wash my face every night before bed. the month isn't even halfway over and two of these lofty goals have already been achieved, and i would've conquered all three if i didn't seem doomed to falling asleep fully-clothed with all of the lights on every goddamned night only to wake up with mascara sealing my eyes shut.

magazines love talking about the dreaded winter dryness, and the solution is a simple one: butter yourself up like a turkey and bundle up in thick socks and long sleeves. black children are not allowed to walk around with dry skin. one time when i was a kid i was walking through the basement of our church after sunday school on my way to shoot dice in the parking lot before service, and right before I BURST INTO FUCKING FLAMES this old lady named augustine grabbed me by the arm and swatted me hard on the bottom. annoyed, yet strangely sexually aroused, i was all, "goddamn, what was that for?" and she pointed at my knees and said, "girl, you ashy!" i looked down and, eep!, I TOTALLY WAS. which came as an utter shock considering that my mother had just finished her morning routine of slathering me in cocoa butter and bacon grease right before i'd left the house.

it's a crime to be black and ashy, isn't it? this morning on the train this woman was literally spackling her small child with a thick layer of vaseline. the white man next to her looked on, horrified, but the rest of us just nodded in approval. i even asked her to wipe a little bit on the webbing between my forefinger and thumb. (i hate that part! that shit is a dead giveaway that your black ass has not properly moisturized.) my friend michelle uses coconut oil head to toe, and my boy ron swears by olive oil. on his face and everything. my hippie ass uses glycerin and this moisturizer from lush that is basically solidified lard that melts as you rub it in and smells like cloves. the cosmetics industry has declared war on white women, and it's high time you girls fight back: one bottle of palmer's at a time.

fuck expensive creams. during the winter months, i want you broads to buy your beauty products from the black section of the drugstore. you know, that one dusty bottom shelf with all the fake kente cloth prints and little brown people on the packaging. it's okay, we won't bite you as you squeeze past where we're browsing the olive oil hairspray and ambi fade cream to grab some baby oil, GURL. it's so crazy to me, the money you'd spend on bullshit lotions that are 98% water or whatever. get some jojoba oil and rub that shit on your knees and elbows and pat a little around your eyes before you go to bed. you'll wake up looking like a sophomore in high school. have you ever seen an old black lady? we look 42 at 85, and it's not just because chicken is so delicious. moisturize your situation.

computer love.
sexting combines my two most favorite things: talking dirty sex talk and not having to communicate with a real live human being sitting in the same room. also, you can do it at work! or on the bus! while getting a haircut! OR SHOPPING FOR GROCERIES!

sitting in your room by yourself is the best. sometimes it's fun to have someone over and talk to them and see if they laugh at the parts on 30 rock you think are hilarious, but mostly don't you just want to not worry about dozing off in front of a motherfucker and drooling on his shit? this is why phone sex is the best, because it's sexier than actual sex and way less messy. like, i don't have to tell you that helen is taking a shit in the next room during phone sex, but it you're at my house that's the kind of thing that can really destroy the mood. and that asshole shits like clockwork. dude arrives, helen greets him, i take my pants off, helen drops an atom bomb in the other room. HUGE BONERKILLER.

but people don't use the phone to make calls anymore. watch television shows? check. play video games? check check. stream cubano music on pandora all day long? check check check. everything other than dialing a number and having a conversation, unless you count ordering pizza and placing bets with your bookmaker. so the perverts among us have had to evolve and participate in sexting, which is mostly boring. because i don't know what the problem is, but even though they have their cell phones in hand 98% of their waking hours, dudes never fucking text you back right away. so even if you've sent a picture of your tits in the hottest bra you own and you've said written some nasty, slutty shit that would make your mother smh OMG, are you really supposed to wait an hour and a half for the response?! GTFOWTBS.

and i know i'm supposed to keep the romance and mystery alive, redbook, but when is it appropriate to introduce sexting into your relationship? i mean, how many weeks of "i just ate lunch :)" and "what R U doing l8r?" before you can type, "I WANT YOUR BALLS IN MY JAWS jk. no srsly." i have a swoony crush on this hot georgia peach named drew. i text drew all the time. i <3 him and i want to :-* him. but so far i have been very respectful. hard to believe, i know. sooner or later, though, i'm going to send him something disgusting. it's just the natural progression of things, right? plus, it's cute when girls do it, isn't it? he'll want to give me ((())) because i'm such an O:-) or, if i send him some tits, he'll want to, um, whatever the emoticon for making your fingers into an O shape and poking the index finger on your other hand through it over and over again.

the problem is that you run the risk of turning a dude off. remember that dude who sent me some phone porn before he even knew my last name? (yeah, i know: WHICH ONE?) that was awful, and it made me not want to see it in real life. also, you run the even bigger risk of someone facebooking your boobs, and i'm all tattooed and shit and could never believeably deny that the picture was me. or live down the fact that my shower curtain came from the "kids furnishings" section at target. don't make fun of me, that shit is totally cute. LOL