September 23, 2010

Vaginas! Vaginas! Everywhere!

I went to a club again. Ugh. I was that 30-year-old I used to make fun of when I was 20. I stuck out, in that black-lit lounge, due to the existence of my self esteem and my non-revealing outfit. I don’t even know how I got in. This was some ‘really cool’ place where you have to know someone who knows the president to get in. The kind of place that delights in turning innocent men away at the door. The kind of place that plays ‘Baby Got Back’ and lines the walls with grody rich men and their bottles. The kind of place that’s ‘so cool’ some people’s egos actually burst when they walk through the door. When they let me right in, I even accidentally said ‘That’s how it’s done, bitch.’ Gross. I went for a birthday party, and it confirmed for me the fact that I will never ever ever step foot in one of these places again. Because I’m just too old. And uncool. And I’d rather spend my nights talking with people who know what it’s like to pay their own rent or have heard of things like politics, Panama, or pants.

I wasn’t always so uncool and interested in men who could talk about more than the alphabet. Let’s take a look at how hip I actually was back when I used to laugh at thirty-year-olds:

One day back at the turn of the century, when I was living off my stash of unused Y2K supplies, I actually requested that someone document this getup. I wanted to remember just how alluring I looked in these stylish high-waisted pleather slacks that tapered lovingly towards the ankle. And of course the classy bikini-ish top with extra expensive wrap strings. Hot hot hot. Lastly, I couldn’t dare forget the mushroom haircut, which I have to brag is not that far from that of Anna Wintour (if the lady is so fashionable, why does she have my Y2K hairdo?).

I’ll admit it. I met truckloads of men wearing this outfit. Men love pleather, let me tell you. The dapper clubgoing man can’t resist a mushroom ‘do atop a boobless bikini top. Worked like a charm, as I met quality man after quality man who would buy me a Red Bull and offer me capfuls of GHB by the bathroom. Ah, those were the days. The days of cutting lines. The days of leaving the house at midnight. The days of going to bed at noon.
They were fun. They were exciting. They are over.
Thank the heavens, they are over.

I realize they are not over for some. I know there are twenty-year-olds out there who feel the same desire I used to feel: to get into hot spots with fake IDs and get phone numbers and try to go on dates with anyone in some sort of circle with any celebrity, even if it means the cousin of the neighbor of that guy, Buddy, from Charles in Charge. Celebrity Adjacent works. I get it. I had different goals then, as the twenty-year-olds of today do.

But there is an epidemic among these clubgoing girls, and I must reach out to them. I must get in touch with their poor souls and tell them that what they’re doing is unnecessary. This epidemic is sweeping Hollywood, and I’m shocked at how little press it’s getting. It’s the plague of the streetwalkers. It’s Anna Wintour’s fault, I assume. Somebody started a trend, and I’m guessing it’s her. Judging by my photo, I don’t exactly follow fashion. But someone… some powerful jerkwad told these young girls they should try their best to look like successful street walkers and then manufactured “dresses” out of napkins.

It’s gross. I have never seen so many almost-labia in my life. These vaginas are barely dressed and able to peek out without notice. GIRLS! I can see your perineum when you dance. Stop it. Just stop it.

Clubgoers, beware! Vaginal fluids are splashing like lazy martinis all over the dance floor and we ALL MUST BE AWARE. These dresses of today are too small to be called dresses. These dresses of today are too small to be called shirts. This is a tragedy! Anna Wintour, please help.

I saw this one in leopard print at the club. I’m guessing she got free drinks. And a venereal disease.

I realize that these ho costumes are just an updated version of my pleather, so I would like to tell these girls from experience: don’t do it. These outfits will only get you dates with drug dealers, men who drive Beamers but live with their parents, and guys who will have sex with you for three months and then disappear (totally guessing on that last one.).

But who am I to teach lessons? Everyone has to learn for herself. My mom told me not to wear pleather, and look where it got me: wearing pleather. So I shall stop acting old. I shall stop judging and preaching. I will be silent and hold onto the hope that by the time I have a daughter who is of age to hit the clubs, Polygamist Sect Skirts will be all the rage. Anna, you have about thirty years to make this happen. Do it.

Oh! Gotta go. Matlock is starting.


Alex@LateEnough September 23, 2010 at 10:52 am

I have a y2k pic of me in a backless silver shirt with not much of a front either. I can't even remember if I wore pants. Today my shirt has all sides. And ice cream sandwich all over it. As it should be.

Lindsay September 23, 2010 at 10:54 am



Jo September 23, 2010 at 11:03 am

I've never ever enjoyed clubs. Seriously, it annoys me that I've never had crazy times wanting to get into those sought after clubs. I've only ever wanted to go home and watch films. Damn social awkwardness. Although, that said, the scummy clubs I did go to, I went to in black PVC trousers and a backless top. Dressed like a slut – didn't even enjoy it. I win.

Chamuca September 23, 2010 at 11:30 am

In 2000, I had those same pants, but in pleather snakeskin. And they were so tight, I couldn't even wear a thong.

That, plus dancing, meant sweaty lady parts. Don't know what the hell I was thinking.

Nicole September 23, 2010 at 11:31 am

I have an old club pic of me in a ridiculously short black dress with fringe at the bottom. Take that guy from Dawson's Creek whose name I don't know who now stars on Fringe!

And this was back in the day before everyone wore thongs (remember when people didn't wear thongs?) so you either wore your full-coverage undies or you free-balled it. Minus the balls. Hopefully.

Ugh. So glad I'm a 33-year-old curmudgeon now. Death to clubs.

Jeff September 23, 2010 at 11:36 am

haha…laughed out loud more than once so i had to leave the comment

Ali September 23, 2010 at 11:56 am

Laurenne! HILARIOUS! Fav line:

Clubgoers, beware! Vaginal fluids are splashing like lazy martinis all over the dance floor and we ALL MUST BE AWARE.

You are so witty and fabulous– thank you for this PSA for all. We needed it.

Hipstercrite September 23, 2010 at 1:15 pm

holy shit.
i don't remember seeing that in LA, but maybe i put blinders on.
oy…i can't shake those images you posted out of my mind now.
just go to the dive bars! they're more fun! like mr. t's bowl. ones you can get shot going into.

Jimmy September 23, 2010 at 1:16 pm

Your head might explode if you ever go to a rave.

It's younger and would make these girls look wholesome, sort of.

Big Mark 243 September 23, 2010 at 1:22 pm

These outfits will only get you dates with drug dealers, men who drive Beamers but live with their parents, and guys who will have sex with you for three months and then disappear (totally guessing on that last one.).

There isn't in guessing on the latter. They may stay longer if you let him sit on your couch and play XBox for a while… may even run the risk of never getting rid of the infestation of him and his Madden playing bros.

laurenne September 23, 2010 at 1:31 pm

@Alex Agreed. Ice cream sandwich stained shirts > slut shirts.

@Lindsay Are you shivering at my mushroom hairdo? I guess you're right.

@Jo Wait, you don't win if you didn't make the slut clothes work to your advantage. If you got some drinks out of it, then I guess you win.

@Chamuca! Agreed! No underwear necessary in these pleathers. AND… mine actually split once on the dance floor. Did you get yours at Hot Topic?

@Nicole Hi! Curmudgeons until the death! YES.

@Jeff You're reading my blog from Albania? Cool.

@Ali thanks! thank you thank you. hope to finally meet you soon.

@Jimmy How do you know about raves? Oh! You're the thirty-year-old rave-goer the twelve-year-olds are laughing about.

@Hipstercrite Hi! Dive Bars are far greater. You're right! I hate myself.

@BigMark Sadly, I wasn't guessing. Waaaa. Hi!

Rahul September 23, 2010 at 2:37 pm

Did no one notice the usage of perineum in this? Bravo, Bravo. I haven't seen that term used since Aught 2 and watching NBC's hit show ER. The Perineum Monologues was the working title.

Never again with the clubs. I hope you're coming over because I just got you a glass of warm milk and a bowl of prunes. Then we can watch Murder She Wrote together and talk about those young whippersnappers at LAX, STK, or something with letters in it.


Jo September 24, 2010 at 8:28 am

Sorry – I was being hyper sarcastic!!

Monica Prelle September 24, 2010 at 12:34 pm

Love your photo!

this free bird September 24, 2010 at 11:52 pm

i had to delete my last comment b/c it was riddled with grammatical errors and i'm old and can't tolerate that stuff anymore.

apparently i can't spell after a certain hour of the day either.


omf this is the!! it's 12:45am friday night and i'm nowhere near villa (am i right? am i? am i?)

y2k stash? BAHAHAHA

vaginal fluids are splashing like lazy martinis all over the dance floor???

honest to God i almost peed right in my pants. and i have granny panties on that are just little hiphuggers but to these poor princesses i think they'd be like wearing mens swim trunks.

at one point i was hanging right off my chair laughing so hard i almost hit the floor.

you've taken me back…but i wore kinda clothes like a l/s ballet body suit under men's levi's, but the neck scooped low (i guess). i couldn't do the ho clothes, but i did babysit for a pimp and his live-in real life ho though. his brother's face got slashed from ear to ear with a beer bottle once.

oh and another time they left their kids with me for 2 days and i almost called cps b/c damn i was 21 years old and not EVEN in the mood to look after some pimp and ho's kids when i had drinks to get after. i was more of a drinker than a box hanger outer. oh that's girls now.

i did have leather pants though. i'm going to have nightmares tonight.

okay too much information.


Please Don't Eat With Your Mouth Open September 25, 2010 at 1:14 am

It's not just LA. Head to London on a Saturday night, particulary the west end and 'bag a celeb' clubs, and you see much of the same.

I wish I had a Y2k photo of myself. Just for comparison.

I have one that's like a 1996 photo of myself, but it's too awful and I can't bear to look at it.

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alonewithcats September 25, 2010 at 1:59 pm

I've never loved a photo so much in all my life. I'm referring to the photo of you. Not the almost-labias. Although those are composed nicely, too. Like, good lighting and angles.

But that one of you? It's as if Skank You knew you'd one day grow up to be Superstar Blogger You, because you're not centered in the photo. And obviously the dead space is where you're going to sign the autographs.

Jersey September 30, 2010 at 5:02 am

this is highly disturbing. and now i am completely reminded as to the reason why i never enter such disturbing places. who would set foot on a floor where vaginal juice was spilled? it's just WRONG.

stopthemadness September 30, 2010 at 11:25 pm

i laughed the fuck OL. nice.

Ashleigh October 7, 2010 at 6:04 am

Y2K!!!! This is hysterical. I'm dying right now…thanks for this public service announcement. I might just print it and post at all the local colleges :)

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