Hiya, homos!Guess where I am??
Guess guess.
OkI'lltellyou. I'm in Ottawa. Ottawa, Canada. The second-coldest city in the entire world.
Now, if you read Effing Dykes with a fine-tooth comb (I know you've been printing out your favorite entries and Mod Podge-ing them over your mirror), you doubtless know that I despise Canada. I really do.
Despising Canada is complicated. It's a whole bunch of emotions tangled up together.
It's my own Special Fury Blend comprised of:
It's my own Special Fury Blend comprised of: 1) scorn for people who wear Tevas with socks
2) boredom (you people have so much land. Something to look at during a 10-hour car ride would not go amiss.)
3) derision for the Canadian accent
4) irritation with French-people-who-aren't-really-French-at-all-'cause-they-live-in-Canada-for-fuck's-sake (and who will also never, never have their own country, do you hear me, Quebecois??), and
5)extreme, blind, completely justifiable, seething envy for socialized healthcare and a gun-less society.
5)extreme, blind, completely justifiable, seething envy for socialized healthcare and a gun-less society.
Smug Canadian asshole bitches.I'm here in Canada for a reason. Remember that weird job I had last year, where I travelled all the effing time? The job I love and hate? The job I swore I would never do again?
I...I signed up for another year.
A lil' bit of masochism never hurt anybody. Except you, Rihanna.
But, lezzies, there's a silver lining to this depressing news!
I travel to a different North American city every day, from now 'till May. A different city every day means educating myself about the habits and styles of dykes across the country. A different city, daily, means a different chance, daily, to slut it up with locals.
I will become a learn'd woman.
I will sniff out every gayelle in every corner of the Northern Hemiphere.
Or at least sometimes I will. On the nights I'm not ordering room service and daring myself to hit "Select" on the Adult Movies menu.
In the spirit of kicking off the working year right... My flight got in early to Ottawa last night, and I decided to find out what Ottawanese lesbians do for a fun evening. Doesn't "Ottawanese" kinda sound like a Japanese beaver? I think so, too.Finding a place to go was difficult. Nobody at the Hilton wanted to give the "aggressive-out-of-town-dyke-stranger-asking-creepy-questions" any names of local gay haunts.
Weird.
The very swishy bell-boy was being coy with me. Undaunted, I pounced on the front desk staff. They didn't know where I should go, either. (There's nothing like being giggled at by pimpled Canadian teens in polyester pleated pants.) Online searches for "lesbian bar Ottawa" turned up nothing.
Well, crap.
Half an hour went by. All the leaning with a drink and "looking cool" was too much for me.
Well, crap. Finally, I decided to go to a place called "Swizzles", because it popped up on a website called Gay Ottawa and because it had such a faggy name. I could just imagine the amount of plastic monkeys the bartender would hang off a lemontini. Oooh, Swizzles!
Swizzles was on Queen Avenue.
Not even kidding.Swizzles was on Queen Avenue.I pushed open the doors.
Alright, Ottawa, I said. You are the motherfuckin' capital of Canada. Let's see some lesbians.
Let me set the scene for you:
Sunday night, 10 pm-ish. There are a couple of gay boys hanging around, and a few nervous straight-looking guys in suits. Typical, typical.
Dim lights, Lady Gaga playing, looks like a beer place. Couple dudes clearly in the middle of mid-life crisis, six or several very average gay men, a tranny, and one lone blond twink wandering about the room in a tight white t-shirt, very much aware that he is the best-looking, tannest, and youngest boy at Swizzles.
No women.
Well, ok, there was one woman, but she was a Sporty Dyke, and I avoid sporty dykes like the plague. This is because sporty dykes like to thump, pound, and sock other people's arms in greeting. It's not okay. Anyone punching me "playfully" better be wearing latex gloves and have a safe word.
Dim lights, Lady Gaga playing, looks like a beer place. Couple dudes clearly in the middle of mid-life crisis, six or several very average gay men, a tranny, and one lone blond twink wandering about the room in a tight white t-shirt, very much aware that he is the best-looking, tannest, and youngest boy at Swizzles.
No women. Well, ok, there was one woman, but she was a Sporty Dyke, and I avoid sporty dykes like the plague. This is because sporty dykes like to thump, pound, and sock other people's arms in greeting. It's not okay. Anyone punching me "playfully" better be wearing latex gloves and have a safe word.
I circled. Waiting for something better to come along, I circled the bar like a buzzard.
Half an hour went by. All the leaning with a drink and "looking cool" was too much for me. I caved.
I had to talk to a lesbian from Ottawa! Otherwise I would fail my mission. There was still the lone sporty dyke at the bar. What I needed was an interview.
Me:(hovering weirdly in front of barstool) Hi! Um, is anybody, um, sitting here?Lesbian From Ottawa: (smirking at the empty bar) It's full up tonight. No, sit down.
Me: I'm Krista. I'm from Chicago. Well, Seattle. And Minneapolis, too.(blushing now) Are you from Ottawa?
Lesbian From Ottawa: Yep. Born and raised. Spent some time in Chicago, though. Came back here and never left. (extends hand) Name's Monica.
Me: Whoa. It is not. Your name is Monica?
Lesbian From Ottawa: Yep.
Me: That is not possible. You're a butch! You need a butch name, like Mon-E-G. Or Monni. Or Monee-Luv. Like a gangsta!
Lesbian From Ottawa: Yep.
Me: That is not possible. You're a butch! You need a butch name, like Mon-E-G. Or Monni. Or Monee-Luv. Like a gangsta!
Lesbian From Ottawa: Ha. I don't have any nicknames.
Me: What about Moan-ica? That'd be fucking cool. Get it? MOAN-ica?
Lesbian From Ottawa: I get it.
Lesbian From Ottawa: I get it.
Me: What's it like being a dyke in Ottawa? What do you guys do for fun around here?
Lesbian From Ottawa: It's pretty much the same as being a lesbian everywhere else, I guess.
Me: I don't believe you, Monni-Baggs. This is Canada. Gays can get married here.
Lesbian From Ottawa: That doesn't mean we're still not outsiders.
Me: Yeah. (Pause) So what is that on your sweatshirt, anyway? A Trojan? Dirty.
Lesbian From Ottawa: It's the symbol for the Ottawa Senators.
Lesbian From Ottawa: It's the symbol for the Ottawa Senators.Me: I do not understand Canadian politics.
Lesbian From Ottawa: No, uh, it's a hockey league.
The evening passed amicably enough. Monica was about 30 years my senior, but she was awfully nice and willing to let me rub my hands all over her buzzed hair.
Simple pleasures.
Ottawa Monica was great. But that's not surprising - most lesbians are great. Thaaaaat's right.
OMG here comes the love ican'tcontrolit....D'yknow, I fucking love lesbians. I really love them. Alllllll of them. I'm like the effing Statue of Liberty - "Give me your dykes! Your cute ones! Your fatties! Give me your butch, your femme, your androgynous misfits!
Every time I see one - in an airport, on a plane, walking down the sidewalk - I feel like my heart is going to burst. My people!
I love lesbians so much I will go to a bar named "Swizzles" to find them.
I love lesbians so much I will go to a bar named "Swizzles" to find them.
In Ottawa.
In Canada.
The worst place in the world.
