White Girl Problems

by Babe Walker

  She let out a death squeal and hung up.

  I pulled up three hours later, and the little damsel in a DVF skirt and a bra was sitting on the curb with an unlit cigarette hanging out of her mouth. I slowed my car down but didn’t feel like fully stopping. I was super-annoyed because I had to drive all the way to downtown LA, which I file under “NEVER” and Genevieve knew that. As I rolled by, I told her to hop in. Genevieve smelled like she had mistaken toothpaste and mouthwash for Jameson and ice. She also looked like she’d punched someone, which she probably had. I handed her the blouse I’d brought for her (BCBG. My aunt sent it to me for Christmas that year, and it was bringing me down, so I needed to get rid of it).

  “Hey bingey,” I said, smiling.

  “Hey purgey. What the hell took you so long? A blind person could have gotten here faster. I’m literally starving.”

  “Chillax, ecstasy-breath. I’m here now, so where do you want to go?”

  “Wherever. I don’t even care anymore. Thanks for the blouse, it’s actually cute.”

  “Love that you think that. Keep it.”

  I made the executive decision to scrap the whole “us shopping together” idea. Instead, we’d go to Urth Caffé for lunch, I’d drop Gen off at home, and have the rest of the afternoon to myself.

  By the time we got to lunch, Gen had sobered up a bit, and I was a little less annoyed. That was, until she got mad at me for only ordering an iced tea after she ordered an egg white omelet.

  “Why are you eating less than me?”

  One of her favorite questions. I could see a fiery little devil gaze lurking behind her contacts.

  “Um, maybe because I already had a smoothie today, and I’m not drunk-binging at brunch. But that’s just a guess.” This sent Genevieve flying off the edge and spiraling through the turbulent skies of nasty girl realness.

  “Wait a second. I had the worst fucking night of my life last night. Ryan Phillippe kept texting me to come meet him at Spider Club, and when I got there he was wasted, so I had to drink five vodka sodas and do a few bumps to catch up. Then I followed him to some godforsaken warehouse party in the middle of nowhere, and Ryan left to go home and told me I couldn’t come with him because I’m ‘not blond enough,’ which obviously means he thinks I’m fat. Then, you show up three hours after I call you, and you trick me into eating brunch in front of you when you’ve already had a fucking smoothie?! What kind of friend are you?”

  She had a point.

  My gremlin of a brunch date didn’t look at me or say anything for the rest of the meal—she just clinically deconstructed her egg white and veggie omelet, separating the vegetables by color and eating one slice of blackened zucchini with her hands. This was a new low for her, and frankly, I was embarrassed for the both of us.

  “Look, I’m really sorry you’re mad,” I said, but didn’t mean it.

  “You don’t even care.”

  “You know how I feel about you hanging out with douche bags at warehouse parties. It’s not chic and it always ends in greasiness. What do you want from me?”

  Genevieve cocked her head and squinted at me, the tiniest smirk playing on her lips.

  “I want to shop. With you. Right now.”

  Oh God. I fucking knew it.

  “On Melrose.” She smiled, knowing full well what she was setting me up for.

  “Nunca.”

  “Please, Babe. I need summer looks. I need to feel free.”

  I knew exactly what she meant by this. I could tell Genevieve was being “wild” today, which meant she wanted to go East of Fairfax.

  ON GOING SHOPPING ON MELROSE AVENUE: For those of you plebeians who have never had to navigate your way through the perils of LA shopping, be warned that Melrose Avenue is both a blessing and a curse. Melrose west of Fairfax is completely doable. I’m talking Fred Segal, Alexander McQueen, Maxfield, dogs on leashes, Olsen twins, even sidewalks, and potted plants. East of Fairfax is a cesspool of white people with dyed dreads and platformed, gothic extroverts trying to out-nasty Cali hooker types in plaids and cowboy boots. I don’t even know what stores are over there, but they call themselves “vintage,” which is code for “sick.” It’s disgusting. Especially on the weekend.

  I had to take a stand. “Honestly, Genevieve, I can’t go in any vintage stores, because I just had a facial yesterday, and the floating particles of cocaine residue will tarnish my shine. Plus you know I can’t go shopping with you.”

  “Um, need I remind you of what the last fourteen hours of my life have been like?”

  “What about my life, Genevieve? What about me? Have you stopped for a second to think about my needs in this scenario?”

  Gen ate another slice of zucchini with her hands, chewed it up, and slowly spit it into her napkin. Staring at me the entire time.

  “Okay fine!” I relented. “You win. But we’re going to Barneys.”

  Some people (e.g.: Me) become empowered when they shop. Others (e.g.: Genevieve) want an opinion on every single article of clothing and accessory they try on. Genevieve also does this super-annoying thing where she shadows your every move and will try on the exact same stuff as you. I’ve of course only heard rumors about this, because I’ve never actually shopped with her, but I had no desire to find out if they were true. So the minute we walked into Barneys, I led Genevieve over to the sunglasses case.

  “You should really look into Tom Ford’s new eyewear collection. Great for those walk-of-shame dark circles!” Before Gen could respond, I walked briskly over to the shoe section, hoping she would be too mad to follow me.

  I was trying on an insanely high pair of coral YSL tribute platforms when I heard Genevieve standing behind me, smugly tapping her foot on the marble floor.

  “Thanks so much for the sunglasses tip, Babe. I ended up getting these supercute aviators that you actually had on hold. I feel like they’ll really complement my bone structure. You’re the best.”

  “No, Gen. You’re the best. Excuse me?” I said to the shoe man. “I’ll take these,” pointing down to my feet. “And I’ll take those,” pointing to the Jil Sander gladiators Genevieve was eyeing. Her gaze shifted to a pair of Givenchy flats. “And those too. All in size eight. Thanks.”

  I was hoping that this would be the end of our trip, but Genevieve insisted on going to the third-floor women’s CO-OP section, exclaiming she was looking for slutty sundresses to wear on the off chance that she might run into Ryan again in the near future. Don’t even.

  When I shop alone, I set aside a good three hours to put together looks and try them on. Today, I was too exhausted by Genevieve acting like a bitch to trust that I’d be able to accomplish anything further than buying those three pairs of shoes. So while Genevieve tried on all sorts of gross dresses that I couldn’t support, I just sat on a couch in the dressing room, trying to imagine what my hair would look like if I cut half an inch off the bottom.

  Then she came out in this dreadful body-con, bandage-y dress thing that I could practically see her nipples through. There’s a painfully thin line between “I love my body and it’s summer” slutty and “let’s do street drugs together at your parents’ Malibu house” slutty. I was doing my best to keep her in line with the former, without actually saying anything—just, like, using my eyes to display judgment. Gen kept asking me how she looked.

  “You look really nice,” I replied, scrolling through my phonebook and deleting numbers of girls I was over. “No, like, super-nice.”

  “Nice” is the worst review you can give a friend when they ask you how they look. It’s a harsh, harsh word. That’s why I was saying it, because I was really losing my patience. I could hear Genevieve huffing and puffing in her dressing room.

  “I want to know if I look hot. You keep saying I look nice. What the fuck does ‘nice’ even mean? Can’t you put your phone down for six seconds and say I look pretty and thin and support me? You know what looks NICE, Barbara? Your eye makeup!” She slammed the dressing room door.

 
This seemed like lashing out. No one calls me Barbara. No. One. Why did I agree to go shopping with such a freak on a leash? I told her she looked nice again and then removed myself from the negativity by getting up and walking down to the second floor, praying to find solace in a sea of designer ready-to-wear.

  I was in my dressing room on the second floor, humoring myself by trying on a Junya Watanabe dress that I thought would love to meet my new shoes. I had a major movie date look coming together and I was feeling pretty good about it. So good, in fact, that I had almost forgotten about the beast I had abandoned on the third floor. Then I noticed that my phone was blinking incessantly and I had eight new texts from Genevieve.

  Genevieve 3:16PM

  What is your problem?

  Genevieve 3:16PM

  Babe

  Genevieve 3:17PM

  Stop it’s not funny anymore

  Genevieve 3:21PM

  Just say something

  Genevieve 3:21PM

  Babe!!

  Genevieve 3:21PM

  I miss you

  Genevieve 3:22PM

  Whatever

  Genevieve 3:23PM

  I know what you’re trying on and trust me, that dress is heinous.

  Babe 3:24PM

  Actually this dress is so fucking chic I can’t even deal! You have to see it on!!

  Genevieve 3:24PM

  Actually I saw it on someone last night and it made them look 80 lbs heavier than they actually are.

  Genevieve 3:25PM

  And actually it’s actually really trendy. But whatever.

  Babe 3:26PM

  Actually that’s what u think

  Genevieve 3:26PM

  That’s annoying

  Genevieve 3:27PM

  You’ve actually been acting like a spoiled brat

  Genevieve 3:27PM

  Since yesterday and actually I’m so over it

  Babe 3:28PM

  That’s what u think. Where are you? Are u almost ready to go?

  Genevieve 3:28PM

  I’m in the dressing room next to yours. Psycho

  Babe 3:29PM

  You’re the psycho. I’m getting this dress and then I’m leaving

  Babe 3:30PM

  Don’t be mad. I’m sure you actually look really pretty right now

  Genevieve 3:34PM

  Stop

  Babe 3:34PM

  I’m serious

  Genevieve 3:35PM

  So am I. Die.

  Babe 3:35PM

  You don’t mean that. You’d feel so bad if I died in here

  Babe 3:36PM

  I’m sorry u think I’m being a bitch

  Babe 3:36PM

  I know ur just jealous I found the dress before you did

  Babe 3:36PM

  I still love u even though you’re acting like Tara Reid today

  Then a long and terrifying scream/howl emerged from Genevieve’s dressing room.

  Babe 3:37PM

  Do u feel better now?

  Genevieve 3:37PM

  Yes. Sorry I’ve been so crazy today

  Genevieve 3:37PM

  And I’m sorry ur such a bitch to me when I’m being crazy

  Genevieve 3:38PM

  And I just needed to shop

  Babe 3:39PM

  I forgive you. Do you want half a Xanax?

  Genevieve 3:40PM

  I stepped out of my dressing room and into Gen’s. We hugged for .02 seconds and then I gave her half a Xanax.

  “Let’s get you home. If you ever make me shop with you again, I’ll poison you. Just kidding.”

  I wasn’t kidding. I’d totally murder her if we ever went shopping again. I paid for my new dress, then I drove Gen home, then I went back to Barneys to return those hideous gladiator sandals I’d bought as a joke.

  My vagina is bullshit.

  This is difficult to admit, because I’ve always taken pride in my body or whatever, but here’s the truth: my vagina was forged in the depths of Hades and sent to me as a sick joke by Beelzebub himself. It wasn’t a fair representation of who I was as a person, and I wasn’t whole until I had it fixed when I was eighteen. The entire experience really grounded me—now I totally know what people go through when they feel like they were born with the wrong nose, or born obese, or born with a crippling birth defect. I empathize. I mean, my vagina looked like it had Down syndrome.

  I was in middle school when, thanks to one of Genevieve’s infamous slumber parties, I realized that my vagina was all sorts of wrong and had no business being on my body. Gen was feared and respected amongst the girls at Archer, due to the fact that she was really pretty and also a major bitch. Gen also had a killer pool/hot tub scenario as well as a miniature pony, so her house was the place to be, and her sleepovers were a must on the weekends. The problem was they all started and ended the same way: six girls ready to paint each other’s nails and prank-call boys, and then six girls sobbing on the phone to their parents to come pick them up three hours later. It wasn’t Gen’s fault that she had a domineering personality and a penchant for tactical sleepover games, it was more every fifth-grade girl at our school’s fault that they weren’t emotionally equipped to handle these elements.

  On the night of this particular sleepover, Gen and I were the only ones left at her house after she’d organized a Miss America pageant that really only consisted of a swimsuit competition. She’d enlisted me as the judge, and bribed me with Lip Smackers to crown her the winner. She’d gotten her boobs before everyone else in our group of friends, so the rigging of the swimsuit competition seemed totally fair to me, but Gen’s also a lunatic when she doesn’t get her way, so I was going with the flow. Anyways, the swimsuit competition caused a huge fight that ended with Gen calling all the other girls “jealous fat-asses” and telling them to leave. So there we were, in her bedroom, and she and I were changing out of our swimsuits, when she took off her bikini bottoms and I caught a glimpse of her girl parts.

  Genevieve’s vagina was streamlined and chic-looking, whereas mine was more . . . wild and free. I was instantly self-conscious, and really pissed. Up to that point, I’d thought my vagina was the norm. I had no idea that each one had a different tale to tell.

  “Why is your vagina cuter than mine?” I demanded.

  “Why are you looking at my vagina, lesbo?” Gen asked, putting on her pajama bottoms.

  “Shut up, Gen. I’m not a lesbian. I have a boyfriend,” I replied.

  “Devon Sawa is not your boyfriend, Babe. You saw him at a Starbucks. Once. So stop with the lies.”

  “Um, Dev and I made eye contact, psycho. And I could tell he thought I was hot.” I needed to get back on topic. “Your vagina looks different than mine. Why?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I think there are three kinds of vaginas. One kind that’s like this,” she covered her face with her hands, “one kind that’s like this,” she opened her hands and peeked her head out a little, “and one kind that’s like this,” she poked her head out all the way between her hands and made a horrifying, wiggly face. She shrugged. “I guess my vagina’s the first kind.”

  “Oh. What kind is mine?”

  “Let me see it.”

  She got down on her knees in front of me, and I pulled my bathing suit bottoms off to show her.

  “Definitely the third kind,” Gen said. “Holy shit.”

  “Are you lying?”

  “Yes. No. Yes. Maybe.”

  “That’s it. I’m leaving.”

  Despite Gen’s best efforts to say she was kidding, I knew the truth and I was furious. I pulled up my bikini bottoms and walked brusquely over to the bathroom, shut the door, and called Mabinty.

  “Mabinty, I’m at Gen’s and she said my vagina is the third kind and she’s right and I know it’s hideous and I just need to go home and please come get meeeeee,” I wailed.

  “Hold on, child. Mi be right dere.”

  “Thanks,” I sniffed, and hung up.

  Then I pulled a
mirror out of Gen’s drawer, pulled my swimsuit down, and put the mirror between my legs. There it was—a foreign, wildebeest monster, staring right back at me.

  “Fuck you,” I murmured. “How could you betray me like this? Enjoy your time flapping in the breezes of freedom, because one day it will all be over for you. I. Will. Win.”

  By the time I was eighteen, I had Googled “vagina” so many times that Mabinty felt it necessary to bring it to my dad’s attention.

  “Our gyal is a wild an outta-control lesbian,” I overheard her telling him in his study one night.

  “Mabinty, what in God’s bloody name are you talking about?” he asked.

  Mabinty went on, “Babe’s curious about di pussy. She don Google it nine hundred and forty-four times ova di last month. She obsessin’ ova it, and yuh know dat nah healthy. Mi try to talk wid her about it, but she nah listen.”

  She was right. I was obsessed—consumed by the idea of transforming my wanton vagina into a perfect beauty. Not a conversation I was entirely comfortable having with anyone.

  “Babe, get your arse in here!” my dad hollered. “Why are you looking at minges on the web? Are you a lesbian? I thought you wanted me to call Heath Ledger and ask him to take you to prom. Do we need to talk about this? Are you bi-curious?”

  “You guys need to stop freaking,” I said. “I’m not a lesbian. Not at all. I just hate my vagina and I want a labiaplasty.”

  LABIAPLASTY (lay-bee-uh-plaz-tee) 1) plastic surgery of either the labia majora or the labia minora or both (the external folds of skin surrounding the structures of the vulva) in order to reduce the size of elongated labia 2) salvation for those who are born with a vagina that looks like Fergie’s face (Black Eyed Peas Fergie, not Duchess of York Fergie, but maybe both women now that I think about it).