You may not realize this, but Maxim magazine knows you well. Intimately, even. Maxim magazine knows what you like: things that are not in Maxim magazine. What you like to do: posing naked in skimpy lingerie. What you like to have sex with: anything with a swinging dick. And now, how you go to the bathroom when time for Number Two comes around. It's like they're reading our diaries, they understand us ladies so well!
See, girls like frilly puffy rainbows when they're bowelly engaged, and guys like wiping their asses with pinecones in the presence of hardened criminals as long as they're sitting on a germ-infested seat where the entire world can hear their activities.
Here I sit, gazing out the window of my Upper Central West-ish Austin Apartment, wearing a jungle-print romper, sipping an ice-cold Bloody Mary. My hair is wild and blonde and curly, and I fancy myself a bit of a Texan Carrie Bradshaw today. I am thinking thoughtful thoughts about love and fashion, as I am wont to do, but there is something else pressing on my mind. What does a lady do when her dance card, as it were, has been empty for some time? Especially if the single gal in question is not particularly excited about screwing the first (or second, or third, or fourth) cute boy who comes by, in the interest of valuing quality over quantity, but seriously, stock is low at the moment? Does she lose her touch after a period of time?
I couldn't help but wonder: is riding a dick like riding a bike?
Something has been bothering me since I was a teenager. Nagging me. Irritating me. About once a month for the past 13 or 14 years. No, not my period--although it can certainly be a drag. But rather, a question of menstrual accoutrement. Specifically, tampons. Specifically, shiny, colored, plasticky, pearly, frilly ones that cost several dollars more than the store brand.
Isn't your boyfriend fantastic? Is he not the knees of the bees? Does your heart not go pitter-patter with every moment you are in his glorious presence?
Truly, I am happy for you.
But please, sit in the passenger seat. I'm talking to you, women-whose-boyfriends-drive-pick-up-trucks.
When you say "hubby," you make us all look bad. And by "us," I mean cogent, thoughtful human beings with small shreds of dignity.
Saying "hubby" is not similar to talking all sweet-like to your cat. It is not like giving your dog or your car or your favorite pair of shoes a funny nickname. Your husband is a person. He may be your muffinwuffin, your bearman, your hunkaburninlove, and even your "hubby," but when you are talking about him to anyone other than an empty room or your own empty brain, he has a name and/or an actual noun--"husband"--that will suffice.
If only nutty family values people could see: gay marriage is not the bane of the American family. The word "hubby" is a far more insidious threat to our cultural well-being.
Take your stupid, clunky, emo-ass goth shoes off. Stick them in a time machine and ship 'em back to the mid-'90s, where they can enjoy being edgy and threatening. You'll probably also want to throw in your Marilyn Manson records, but I'll allow you to hang on to them in case you want to sell them at CD Warehouse or something. But we have no room for your twenty-buckle S&M boots here in 2009.
Clearly if you're still wearing these heinous clunkers, you missed the memo: tattoos, black eyeliner and a bad attitude stopped being edgy and non-conformist around the time Bill Clinton left office. So you really don't have to abuse your feet and figure by wearing your goth boots any more. I'm not oppressing you by telling you to ditch the shoes--I'm liberating you! You can be sad, angry, morose, whatever and not wear shoes that make you look like a Lego man. It's called "being a thoughtful, emotional human."
From whence does the goth fashion get its timelessness? Walking around my local college campus today, I noticed students wearing the same black-all-over getups favored by kids I went to high school with 7 years ago--and I can assure you that we didn't think it was new, even then. Isn't it time to move on from pasty makeup and neon-dreadlocks? I think so. Ladies of the world, will you join me?
Earlier this summer, I made a difficult decision. It was an unpopular decision. To some, it would be an unthinkable decision. But I am a woman, and I have the right to choose ... not to wear flip-flops if I don't want to.
Yes, it is hot as the dickens outside. And I spent the summer traipsing up, down and across New York City, on sidewalks alternately wet and scorching. Flip-flops would have been a logical footwear choice. They're easy to clean, relatively cool (temperature-wise) and wonderfully refreshing to kick off upon returning to one's apartment.
And yet, flip-flops say, "Meh. I can kind of take or leave this whole 'style' thing." And that is not what I wanted to spend my summer in New York City saying.
And so I stuffed my suitcase with gladiator sandals, Diesel flats and a pair of well-worn cowboy boots in lieu of the easy choice, flip-flops. And I'm so glad I did. Sure, there were days when I wanted to slide on a pair of thongs for a 9 a.m. trip to the liquor store, but really, that's giving up extra hard, twice.
I found that removing flip-flops as a below-ankle option opened up a world of unexpected style decisions. When you can't just default to the idea that there will be nothing remarkable about your shoes and, by extension, your outfit, every ensemble becomes a little more exciting. Cut-offs and a Hanes boyfriend tee with flip-flops? Yawn. Cut-offs and a Hanes boyfriend tee with boots? Yee-haw.
And so ladies of the world, I ask you: commit to a week, a few days, heck ... an hour ... without flip flops, and see what fashion befalls and befits you.
If you've got time to sit around while somebody scrapes your scaly heels and buffs your nails to a fine sheen, you've got time to say the words "manicure" and "pedicure."
Shortening these two words to "mani" and "pedi" is the worst kind of creepy cutesy. There is nothing adorable about getting gunk dug out from beneath your toenails or having a layer of acrylic sanded into your nailbeds. Yes, your hands and feet may look wonderful after the fact, but that's all the more reason to give the procedures their full nomenclatural due.
Maybe it makes you feel like you know a secret language, the saying "mani" and "pedi." And you know, you're right. You do know a secret language: the secret language of people who get so many beauty treatments they can't be bothered to say them all. Is that really the treehouse you wanna park your bike outside?
If you're a grown-ass lady taking your own grown-ass to the nail salon, spit 'em out in their entirety. Manicure. Pedicure. Self-respect.
Why are you being so internationally badass today? Literally and figuratively, the goings-on across oceans are rocking mightily in favor of the females. First up, it's an all-female rock band from Israel called Ashira, comprised of Orthodox Jews who play exclusively for female audiences. This AP story is being passed around like crabs at the Hamptons:
"... guided by a rabbinical injunction that says it is immodest for a man
to listen to a woman's voice in song, they perform only before other
women.The band's members say they are answering a dire need in
the Orthodox Jewish community in Israel, where entertainment options
for women are often limited. Orthodox communities sponsor activities
like women's-only lectures, swims, dancing or traditional music, but
modern day rock is a novelty."
Ashira, kudos to you for finding a way to express yourselves despite what many would see as a major cultural obstacle--what with the not being able to sing in front of 50% of audiences and all. I can only assume that the same rabbinical injunction that prevents you from playing for dudes also prevents you from having a website or putting your videos up on YouTube. Rabbi, can we get an exception, please?
While I'm waiting on an Ashira music video, I'll be listening to the first interview Roxana Saberi has given since she was released from an Iranian jail after being sentenced to 8 years for, ostensibly, buying a bottle of wine. Melissa Block asked Saberi about her experience:
"After I realized that nobody knew where I was, I was very afraid, and
my interrogators threatened me and said, "If you don't confess to being
a U.S. spy, you could be here for many years -- 10 years or 20 years, or
you could even face execution."
And I thought, well, if something
happens to me, my family doesn't know where I am, maybe they would
never find out. And so I made a false confession and I said, "Yes, I'm
a U.S. spy." But because my conscience got the better of me and the God
that I believe in -- the God that I thought had abandoned me when I was
first in prison -- I realized [he] was always with me. And I realized
that he was not pleased with what I had done by making this false
confession. I recanted my confession, knowing full well that I would
jeopardize my freedom."
My god, what guts. Roxana Saberi is the definition of bravery.
I implore you, ladies of the world: do not stop rocking!
Your vaginae are wonderful, magical places of wonderful magic. They can do so many things, from sexing to babies to bleeding profusely! Yay, vaginae! So please don't think what I'm about to ask of you stems in any way from fear or disgust regarding the vagina. But we have really, really got to address this again:
When you give birth, do not update your Facebook status with information regarding the extent of your vaginal dilation.
I know you're the first and only person ever to have a baby and it's so amazing and miraculous. I get it. I also get how birth works, and while I could imagine your little Cabbage Patcher squeezing through your ladyhole, I chose not to. So please don't force me into the visual by invading my Facebook homepage with things like "Kayla is at 8cm!! TIME TO START PUSHING!" Do you even realize how many wacky cat videos I have to watch to get that picture out of my head?
I started seeing bead stands about fifty miles out from the beach, Mexican guys hanging out the backs of pick-ups selling knock-off purses, too. Of course, they got more expensive the closer I got to South Padre Island. Back in Los Fresnos, I could have gotten a dozen for $4. But by Laguna Vista, they wanted $6 and $8! Somehow, it didn't occur to me that I could get them for free.
Well, it did occur to me, but not until I pulled into my campsite alongside 20,000 of my closest 19-year-old friends. Hey, everybody! Haven't seen you guys since I was puking Smirnoff Ice in gutters and listening to Coheed and Cambria. What have you been up to? Keystone Light? A fine choice, my friends. A fine choice. With lime! I do say, sir, you do Iowa State proud. I shall write a letter!
Beads are maybe the saddest thing I can think of when it comes to spring break. And believe you me, there is plenty to find sad about spring break, the air of drunken, horny desperation not being the least of it. In South Padre Island this week, there is absolutely no one who wants to have sex who is not having sex.
Which brings me to this: ladies of the world, do not exchange your breasts for beads! You think I'm going to make the sulky grown-up feminist argument, which is to insist that boys need not be taught, at age 19, that they can do so little as throwing beads at a woman and receive what amounts to sexual favors in return. I will not talk about your false, liberated, Girls Gone Wild consciousness--let Ariel Levy do that. No, my argument is more timely: breasts for beads does not make good economic sense!
It's before 9:00 a.m. here in SoPadre, and there's a Bloody Mary somewhere around here with my name on it, so you'll have to forgive me if I don't dig into this metaphor properly, but go with me. Beads for breasts is like our fair country's current economic crisis. Somebody was all, oh, can I have something for nothing ... say, these multi-colored, shiny beads? And somebody else was all, OH SHINY BEADS! And they gave them houses they couldn't afford and now we're all screwed and nobody even really got laid, they just saw boobs for a minute. Do you see what I'm saying here, people?
Let him buy you an $18 hurricane with a twisty straw. Insist that he share a plate of boneless wings! But do not, under any circumstances, loan anything (read: your boobs) to someone who is not financially secure. How can you tell? Check out his flops. If he's wearing Rainbows instead of rubber, he may qualify for a loan. If he's drinking Corona instead of Natty, it may be an indication of sounder judgment. And finally, remember this: when you get home, those beads will not match anything you own. Nothing goes with shiny, multicolored beads--except maybe chlamydia.
It seems the concepts "ugly" and "ironic" have become confused in Hipster Lore. And while I have been happy to ignore the Hipster Mullet and star tattoos due to the fact that those things are more sad than anything else, I cannot continue to live in a world where pretty girls put on stupid, ugly plastic glasses in the name of Hip.
It was bad enough when you forgot your pants, but slapping some plastic glasses on your face only says "short bus," no matter what Vice tells you. I was especially saddened to see this awful trend immortalized on The Sartorialist today in a photo of a girl from Milan, featuring unrelenting commenter support re: that crap on her face.
There's nothing wrong with vision correction or celebrating your geekiness. However, ugly plastic glasses very likely neither correct your vision nor celebrate your geekiness, they merely make you look like a narcissistic twit who wants to be told how pretty she is despite them. Ladies of the world, ugly plastic glasses are over--if they were ever happening at all--and it's time to find another ubiquitous trend with which to assert your individuality.
The Heartless Dolls are Andrea, Kathleen, Kiala, Merritt, Nicki and a hifalutin array of notable guest contributors from around the web. We dig pop culture and ladythings.
