How W is Coug-ing Her Way Out of a Cooter Sabbatical

Last week I turned 27. Little did I know that would be the year I lost my dignity.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am now officially a coug.

Apparently my body told my brain it's been dried up for too damn long, and out of nowhere, like fucking Teen Wolf or something, I spontaneously sprouted a velour track suit and freckled tits. Which is the literary metaphor for inappropriately touching a 22-year-old in a bathroom. Basically.

So let's back up here a bit. As a rule, I like older dudes. I've been dating guys in their 30s since I was 21. I practically draw the line at a decade age difference. You have to be this old to ride. Clearly this is working out REALLY well for me, as I've had a long list of serious, healthy, nurturing, responsible relationships come out of that...ahem.

Alright, so in reality, I haven't had sex in a year. AN ACTUAL FUCKING YEAR. (Or should I say, non-fucking year.) And I can't believe I'm admitting this in public, or even in public anonymity. Because that hurts your pubes just to think about it. But yeah. In January of 2010 I found out my ex (who remained my best friend) was fucking a functionally retarded mutual acquaintance, while on the side telling me he still loved me. If that's not enough to throw you into a suicidally slutty rage fest, then I don't know what will. Therefore, I dove vag first into online dating, otherwise known as legal prostitution. For the better part of February, March and April, I was pulling ass like a boss. Latin ass. African ass. Rich ass. Freaky ass. Trust me, I was cleaning up.

But even I knew I was about to reach slut overload. So sometime around early May when I met this lovely, polite, kind college professor, I thought I could maybe slow things down a bit and enjoy going to movies and museums and ya know, normal date-y shit. Thennnnn came the sex. How could such a seemingly attractive guy have so much hair on his back? Or have generated enough sweat in 30 seconds to sufficiently shower my face? We awkwardly fumbled around for a good 20 minutes or so before bursting into laughter at how horrifically incompatible we were.

And that was the last time I had sex. Your genitals are crying for me, I know.

Fast forward 12 months, 15 pounds and approximately 65 AAA batteries later...

I walk into my friend's going-away party in my finest skeleton t-shirt and thick black glasses (my standard dick-repellant uniform these days). A few whiskeys in, this incredibly cute (read: dumb) guy starts chatting me up at the bar. He wants to be a rock star (duhhhhhhh) but is mowing lawns and getting his community college associate's degree in the meantime. Hot. He's also the younger brother of my friend's best friend. Hmmm...

The more we all drink, the more we all dance. And the more we dance, the less I care about the consequences of fucking my friend's little brother. The party heads back to my friend's house, and when you're about seven whiskeys down and someone tells you you're pretty...you pull them in a bathroom. It happens.

I have no idea how much we really did in there... or how I managed to get home at 5 am... or just how much of my bank account I parted with for that car from Brooklyn... But I do know I woke up projectile vomiting and getting texts from friends recounting the sounds heard from the living room. I believe one actually used the words "Animal Planet shit." Oops.

But despite my initial mortification, I can't think of a better way for my cooter to get her groove back. Maybe I'll look good in velour.

Bitches Get Stuff Done

Oldie but goodie.

Ummm. Hi. Remember us?

It's okay. We wouldn't either.

Well, it's been nearly a year. Fuck. We've clearly gotten lazier -- even for us. And fatter. Although you can't really tell that part via the blogosphere. But trust us. W's doctor and B's latest bridesmaid dress confirm such facts. The anxiety-induced anorexia appears to have transformed into full-blown macaroni-and-cheese-inflicted depression. Whatever, cellulite is hot for '11.

Other than that... Looking back... Nothing else has really changed.

W still has awkwardly inappropriate run-ins with HOBG at the fridge. B still gets regularly harassed by / infuriated with G (although they haven't dated in...oh yeah...a year). W is still a coffee-lugging, copy-wenching assistant... Oh! Here's something new -- B has a new job! She markets things that keep you from shitting your pants! No really, she must say the word "diarrhea" approximately 47 times a day. And you think we make these things up. B also may or may not have experienced slight penetration from a recent bikini wax...which is the most action either of us have received in months. Real talk.

So what spawned the bitch resurrection? Need we repeat the coffee-lugging and pants-shitting part? We needed some creative outlet. And by creative we mean whining. But that's why we started this thing in the first place. And you're obviously still reading it. So eat our macaroni asses.

Now. Where to start? Given that we have a year of aggression pent up in us, we'll just start listing things in life that have been annoying us lately and see where the next few posts take us...

1. Dear Open Letters in Twitter: You are not clever anymore. Once fashion publicists and illiterate teenagers catch on, your once witty phrasing is retired. Sincerely, Us.

2. Messages on dating sites are just as much a first impression as meeting someone in public. You cannot compare us to a Spice Girl and expect a reply...no matter how many times you've read I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.

3. If you are several years younger than us with better jobs than us, you are never allowed to comment on pop culture. Ever. Say for instance, you're utterly perplexed to why Reese Witherspoon is posing with elephants for Vogue May. Keep it to yourself. You'll just end up embarrassing yourself and pissing us off.

4. The deafening crescendo of our neighbor's new girlfriend's orgasms went from being once a weekend...to once an hour. Have we sufficiently touched upon W's cooter sabbatical?

5. Words of wisdom: Dirty hippie college boyfriends can (and do) eventually clean their shit up. Give them a chance before you toss them aside and they turn out to suddenly have Ph.D.s and rolled-up dress shirts and horn-rim glasses and, ya know, haircuts...and you're the psychotic, sweaty loser with a dead-end job. It happens.

Glad to be back, guys. We promise to keep it up this time, and (god help us) we hope it gets funnier for all our sakes.

Following the Rant

I'll make this brief. But following my recent meltdown a few interesting developments have surfaced. And I figured, why stop there? Let's explore this self-loathing. Let's see where it takes us.

Sooo... The writer who fawned over the 24-year-old Parisian ingénue in Bazaar? The one who is flown around the world to interview society's elite? The one whose career I wish I had? Yeah, that guy. He just put this out into the world: "My #polo dates are having a disagreement: Tom Guinness says Nacho is his real name, and @ByrdieBell thinks its short for something. Anyone?"

If I have to explain why I'm upset, then you don't deserve to know. However, I'm thrilled the mastheads of Vogue, Harper's Bazaar, V and Interview (FOR FUCK'S SAKE!) call him their own. He can make The New York Times best-sellers list, and I can barely afford to feed my dog? Right.

Next.

The ex, the love, the one?

Thanks to the miracles of the internet and the demise of our ability to escape people (I swear to God, Facebook, one day I will ruin you), I found out on Friday he's on a serene tropical vacation. With the girl he was fucking on the side.

The one he took to the New Year's Eve party this year -- before texting me at 10 am the next morning to tell me how much he loves me. The one I thought could only be a meaningless fling, indiscretion, mistake. The reason I cut him out of my life, hoping he would realize how utterly beneath him she was.

Nope, she's the one who after only six months gets to travel halfway across the Pacific with him. Not the one who nurtured and edified him for three years. Not the one who was kept in the dark on a string and pulled out whenever his ego needed stroking. No, no, no. The one who I'm 99 percent sure is tittering off which sunless tanning cream is her, like, omg, fave. She's the one he chose.

**End note: Thank you to the few who have encouraged my need to vent and share. I don't feel less of an asshole, but I do feel relieved.**

Impromptu Rant

Okay, so we conceived this blog to be a centralized vent-station of all things bitchy. And I just realized we never actually do just that. (Well, except for that whole "the skanks our exes date after us" one that got the better of our conscience...) We claim to be entirely unapologetic, yet we're too afraid to speak our minds, to be cathartic, to live through this -- ahem -- anonymous platform.

So what the hell's our problem? Well, it just dawned on me (W) how much I obsess over these posts, and therefore never in fact complete any. I'm bat-shit terrified that they won't be any good, that they won't have perfect sentence structure or the exact comedic effect that I think will somehow magically land me a staff position at SNL... cause that's totally plausible, right?

Fuck. It takes me far longer to write/edit/rewrite/edit (some more) than this dumbass thing is even worth, and it's a sad, sad disgrace for something people find the inspiration to do daily. It's a blog -- isn't that the point? That it's supposed to be fast and free? I don't know if I'm necessarily built for that.

But today? Today, I am in a god-awful-ass shitty mood. And I want to fucking wallow in it.

So if this post isn't beautifully crafted, fine. And if no one reads it, piff. And even if people do actually read it and are like, "What in god's name is this? She's a melodramatic, ungrateful princess," whatever. If you don't like it, don't read it. I'm throwing my shit to the wind and free writing, mother fuckers. Deal with it, potential book editors and make-believe people who actually care enough to criticize. You've been warned.

LifeSucks Realization: Part 1
I am a 26-year-old assistant.

Nope, I didn't get a master's degree or take a couple years to work for the Peace Corps (which was a close second to moving to New York... a decision I still regret). I have four years experience in my field. Good experience. Credentials and contacts that should have me far higher than I am. But instead, I'm back to a position I was toasted I would never have to do again. My former INTERNS have better titles than me. Several of them. At top-tier mags. Time, Conde, Hearst, you name it. I've imparted my wisdom and let them surpass me in kicking ass in the industry.

Yes, I adore my current office environment. I have the most loving, amazing boss you could ask for (I'm not blowing smoke -- she's the best), but as much as I respect her, I'm still making her coffee, rescheduling her doctor's appointments, answering her phone and faxing her children's summer camp forms. Sure, I signed up for this. I knew what I was getting into. But the goddamn recession and a couple of nasty cunts forced me from my last post, hence the drop in title (and salary) to simply get back in the game. And up until a few weeks ago I was relatively okay with it.

Then something cracked. Subconsciously I stopped eating. I started sleeping through my weekends and staring into the subway abyss during my commute. I hit a wall, head on. But I have absolutely nothing to complain about -- I work for a woman people pay to meet, a product grown women positive squeal over, a job "a million girls would kill for." But I can't help being unhappy. It eats me alive to know I'm not as far ahead as I'd like, of not being as successful as I should. And it somehow decided to manifest itself to me this week. Just cause.

So naturally it's all I can think about now. And it's building and seething and making me a crazy person. I thought I'd slit my wrists today when I saw an article in Bazaar praising a 24-year-old Parisian for being so chic, so successful, so trendsetting. Oh, she's from a long line of jewelry tycoons? And she has a closet full of her mother's vintage YSL and Celine? Right. While I (also today) dropped ketchup on a dress my mother sent me from Wal-Mart. No wonder I'm fabulously unemployeable in the fashion industry.

LIfeSucks Realization: Part 2
I just hit the two-week "I don't think he's actually going to call" mark.

Surprise! My love life is a train wreck! You totally didn't see that coming, I know. She's miserable in her job, no one loves her, wah wah wah. Again, I warned you -- this is for me, not you. And if you've never writhed in self-pity, you're either a robot or a liar.

So yeah, dicks. The rebound-from-the-rebound guy (who I only saw a few times but I thought I genuinely hit it off with) gave the classic "I'll call you" goodbye after our last date. Annnnnd cue crickets.

Now, let's get something straight here. I am not the girl to wait by the phone. Ever. But when these scathingly smooth douchebags know how to work a bitch, I can't help it. There's a certain breed of them that knows exactly how to hook me. I end up excusing their superficial flaws because I am "inexplicably" drawn to their personality. They build me up, get the attention they need and drop me without a word otherwise. One after the other after the other. This has happened in more instances than I would like to admit, yet it astounds me every fucking time. How do I not see this coming? Why do I continue to allow this to happen? I am now certain it is my fault in some way.

But in the end I don't actually care that they're not around anymore. Because I never really cared about them to begin with. What I care about is someone breaking me down again. About someone having the upper hand on my emotions again, always. About further emptying the heart that never fully recovered.

I'm in a constant state of trying to bury the ex, the love, the one. I am desperate to get him out of my head. But try as I might, reality sets in, or perhaps delusion, the absurdity -- that all I really ache for is to meet him beneath the Brooklyn Bridge, curl up to Annie Hall (like that perfect New Year's Eve of 2007) and hear him say...



And now I'm sobbing uncontrollably. And frightening my dog. And it's on the internet.

Maybe this whole free writing thing wasn't the best idea...

Life Ate Us: Latin American Edition

Forty-three days later...

Blogging is hard. And life is insane. The bitches would like to formally apologize for their absence. Although they are indeed self-proclaimed inactive douchebags, B and W have had, to their credit, a tumultuous last couple of months. And one unfortunate adventure in particular. Here is an edited version of the shit you missed, so we can all move on with our lives. Okay? Okay.

• B endures a national media meltdown at her job. W is charged with writing nearly an entire magazine in the matter of weeks.

• After many a sleepless nights spent slaving for work, the time for B and W's highly-anticipated and highly-deserved tropical vacation has come.

• B realizes the bitches' destination-of-choice requires a travel visa to enter the country. And they depart in less than a week. Have they applied for one? Please.

• By the grace of baby Jebuz in a t-shirt tuxedo, the visas make it in time, and B and W fly 4,800 miles to an unnamed South American country... only to then get caught in the worst storm the country has seen in half a century.

• After unsurprisingly losing their travel guide book on the plane, hence causing B (the consummate planner) to suffer a minor heart attack, W (the indelible spazz) butters up a stranger in their hostel to let them borrow his. Stranger K turns out to be a perfectly lovely travel companion, albeit slightly man-whoreish... and with the emotional outpouring of a '90s teen pop star.

• During a night out at the local bars, K drunkenly professes his lust for B. Then accidentally admits to having an 18-year-old daughter. Ouch. Mayyybe a dealbreaker.
  

• Also that night, W is held bar-hostage by an overtly aggressive (code word for Latin) native. The more she asserts "tranquilo," the harder he combats "no tranquilo!!" In an effort to later escape from Horny Boy Wonder, B and W practically leap from a moving taxi into the monsoon rain and run for the hostel. Flip-flops in hand, they barrel through the floods when suddenly B steps off a curb of ankle-deep water into -- oh yes -- knee-deep water. As she pauses to drop her head in defeat, none other than an enormous commercial truck drives by, arching water over her entire body.

• B and W realize they have no need for said travel guide book, because the city is in fact paralyzed by the floods. Rather than hang gliding and hiking to waterfalls as originally planned, B and W die a slow death of 90210 reruns, various cheerleader movies and made-for-TV Cruel Intentions sequels.

• The bitches spend the remainder of their trip drowning their sorrows in fried cheese balls, hot ham sandwiches and a plethora of calorie-coma-inducing juices (sadly the highlight of the week).

• The sun miraculously appears on the eighth, and final, day of their vacation. B and W flee the confines of their hostel and hope to make up for lost laying-out time, which naturally inflicts multiple-degree damage on the entirety of their sad, American skin.

• Later that night when walking through the airport at a robotic gait, as to minimize the movement of her sunburn, W feels a wave of dizziness creep on. She enters the international security line and lumbers past the metal detectors in a style only similar to that of Will Ferrell palming the kid in Old School. She sees a bench. She sees a trash can. She projectile vomits all over said bench and trash can.

• B and W power through a miserable overnight flight, complete with torturous vacation-themed movies (read: Couples Retreat) and a lack of sleep (read: inability to move their blistering limbs). But ultimately they arrive safely back in New York.

Life. To be continued.

HOBG: The Introduction

Preface on Interracial Lovin'
Before we launch into Mr. HOBG's story, we would like to begin with a word on cross-cultural relations. (And don't worry, we're working on an entire series of "Adventures in Interracial Dating." It's just too glorious to release so soon. Until then, we tease with HOBG.)

So we're sure you've already suspected, but we use the word "dating" loosely here. Honestly, they don't call it Jungle Fever for nothing. Knowhaimsayin? And while plenty of healthy relationships result from mixed-skin hookin' it, we're fairly certain it never starts with the thought, 'Wow, this person has so many interesting things to say.' At least we're not all that interested in talking.

Now, for those of you who are already offended and reeling with rebuttals involving the words "wild generalizations," we present this universal truth: Black guys love them some ample white bitches, and hyper-educated white dudes die for...well, really any kind of Asian ass. Stereotypical, yes; incorrect, no. Just try and argue us.

We're sure you've ALSO suspected, but we're fairly experienced in this. And no we're not the Asians.

So there's that. B and W openly support a love of the darkness. Not in the trashy-white-girls-trying-too-hard-to-be-ghetto-therefore-exclusively-date-black-guys kind of way but in the super-awkward-white-girls-that-thankfully-realize-black-guys-are-amazing-in-bed-DUHHHH kind of way.

Enter HOBG: Hot Office Black Guy
Again, before you get all politically correct on our ass, please recognize that these are all truths. This man is indeed hot and indeed black. And due to the face that W works for a major media company overrun—like all major media companies these days—with boring white women, the moment she first laid eyes on HOBG in all his Tyrese-but-professional yumminess she declared him Hot Office Black Guy.

W encounters HOBG on pretty much an hourly basis each workday. But rarely if ever does she hold a conversation. Unfortunately she just so happens to sit right next to a main printer in her office, and he just so happens to print entirely too much. EVERY fucking day she nervously pretend to type as a chocolate Adonis clad in turquoise sweaters strides past. It's more than a girl can handle.

First Actual Conversation
It's a typically brutal January morning in New York, yet W gets her ritualistic Dunkin Donuts iced coffee. (Shut up. It's delicious and she would rather suffer arctic hypothermia than start a day without it.) Well, this particular morning, the newbie at DD hasn't quite learned her precise amount of desired milk, so W stops by the office kitchen for a splash more. As she approaches she sees HOBG casually leaned against the counter top, stirring his own coffee. Slowly his clean-shaved head lifts to reveal an abso-fucking-lutely brilliant white smile. W loses any and all bodily fluid at this point.

He lets out a faint chuckle and says, "Iced coffee? Bold."

W pours her milk and half speaks into the refrigerator, "Yeah, I just really like iced coffee." (Trust us, this conversation was in fact as boring in person as it is here.)

"You don't get weird looks on the street?" he continues. (Again, enthralling.)

"Oh sure, all the time." She pauses, then says the following before even remotely thinking ahead of herself, "But sometimes I see someone else with an iced coffee, and we both nod and acknowledge each other. It's like our street cred."

...

WHY WOULD YOU EVER SAY THAT?!?!?!

...

TO A BLACK MAN?!?!?!

Laughter explodes out of HOBG, and he exits the kitchen, shaking his head in amusement. W faints into the refrigerator in embarrassment. And the rest is to be continued later.