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Muff-Diving: A New Definition

Hola, gays!

The world is sunny and bright. I'm still on Christmas vacation. I've had enough food. I've had enough sex. I've even had enough sleep, and this is actually the first time I've left my apartment in three days. All for you!

Before we get started,

A WARNING:

THIS POST HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH LESBIANS.

We can fucking do that tomorrow.

Right now, I've only got one thing on my mind.

Would you look at what Santa left under my tree???!!?!??

What a thinker that Santa is! He knew I wanted a puppy, but he also knew my apartment was too small! What to do?

Santa must have thought and thought and thought.

And then he had it. A bun! A soft lil' beastie! For me!

Her name is Midge.

It's short for Midgeon P. Bundlesworth the Third.

Imogene P. if she's going to tea.

She weighs two pounds and she's four months old.

She's a dwarf bun - she's never gonna get bigger.

And OMG she's an orrrrrrphaaaan!!! Abandoned!! Left on the Humane Society's front steps inna basket!! And she has liddle grey paaaaaws!

Christ in a nightie.

Midgie is a very snuggly bun. Look at her cuddling with my favorite lil' piece. Awwwww. Fuck.

She smells like sweet hay and rainbows and baby jesus.

There has never been an obsession like this.

What does she want? Is she cold? Does she need a new toy? Can bunnies sneeze? Would she like to chew on one of CJ's shoes? Which one? Would she like me to hand-feed her individual dandelion leaves? Migeon? Midgie? Midgemeister? The Midge? What would my baybeh like to do today?

She hops softly around our apartment, following me like a puppy.

And...she fits into Chihuahua clothing sizes.

CALL THE ASPCA!!

We'll talk dykes soon, so just chillll, motherfuckers.

I must leave the coffeeshop now, as we are running out of organic, locally-grown baby carrots.

Midge needs me.

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Never Leave Your Fags Unattended

Good morning, muff-divers.

Do you like airports?

'Cause I love airports.

As soon as I pull up to an airport in my lil' taxi (every day, around 3:30), I immediately relax. Here's a space where I know exactly what to do! Here is a place where I know all the rules. A totally neutral, devoid-of-personality, filled-with-bullshit-"public-art" place to come home to each day.

The airport! Any airport!

They're so exciting!

There's the buzz of activity; the hummmm of thousands of people waddling to Applebees; the thrill of going somewhere - anywhere - else.

• I love watching the anxious families with their "Welcome Home, Darren!" signs at Baggage Claim.
• I love the smug, white, fat business-guys getting shoeshines. They smirk like Cheshire cats from atop their lofty thrones, unaware that diabetes is just a few short years away.
• I love checking out other people's outfits. This usually leads to me thinking either:

A) What the fuck, lady? You knew you were going to be walking the equivalent of 30 city blocks in O'Hare today, why'd you wear the spike heels? or

B) If you don't have an ass worth looking at, why would you draw attention to it by having something written on it in bold letters? (and what does it mean if your ass is "Juicy?" That you don't wipe properly? Turd juicicles?)I love all of it.

The enforced waiting. The gift shop crawl.

The lone guy, running the wrong way (doin' the salmon!) through the throngs of people, running a race against the imminent closure of his flight's doors. I find I want to watch hysterical H1N1 "updates" on the CNN screens.

I want to know exactly the situation between John and Kate Gosselin, and I'm willing to buy another US Weekly, just to find out.

I love airports. Love 'em.

But there's one aspect of airports I love best, and that is....

The Turbo-Butches who work for TSA.

You know what I'm talking about.

The seriously dykey security-checkpoint screeners.

Built like Mack trucks. Wearing uniforms! With badges!

For some reason, shit-tons of dykes work at airports. There's a butch in almost every X-ray line!

This makes my life on the road...a little bit brighter.

Annnnd I have a little secret:

If I'm not pressed for time, I intentionally put on a bulky sweatshirt (not TSA-approved!!) and get into the the line that has the Butch Dyke Screener.

Ahahahaha. This invariably leads to a pat-down.

You're supposed to take your sweatshirt off. But - what if you don't have another shirt on underneath??

That's when you smile sweetly at the TSA Security Butch and say,

"Oh, oops, I don't have anything on under this. I'm sowwry."

(Bambi eyes *plinkplink*)

The TSA Security Butch is then legally obliged to run her muscley hands allllll over you. Mmmm.

Nothing gets me through my day like sexually harassing others without their knowledge or consent.

It's the most funnest if you're dressed kinda gay to begin with.

Sometimes, then, the TSA Security Butch starts flirting with you! Or you just think she's flirting with you! (Either one. Both do the same for your ego.)

Take this Sunday, at Chicago Midway Airport!

In Security Screening Line wearing favorite ironic bulky hoodie with horses on the front)

TSA Security Butch: Ma'am, could you remove the sweatshirt?

Me: Oh, oops, I don't have anything on under this. I'm sowwwy. *plinkplink*

TSA Security Butch: Could you step over here, please. We'll have to do a pat-down.

Me: Darn it!

TSA Security Butch: (patting me gently) Could you spread your arms. So...do you really like horses, or are you just being funny? Your shirt.

Me: It's a little of both. Ooh, that tickles!

TSA Security Butch: Please hold still. (finishes patting) Well, you're all clear. Not hiding anything in there, are ya?

Me: (smug-grinning-so-hard-cannot-speak-coherently)Auggheeheehee. NOoooo. Mkuaubuluah. Noooosecurtitty threat. Goookealmmm..Thannnnks.

If you hate traveling, you should do what I do and you'll like it better.

Swear to God.

I like to imagine the TSA Security Butch has oil on her hands when she does the pat-down.

Happy travels!

I'll Be Homo For Christmas

MWAH-HA HA! PRESENTS! PRESENTS!!!!

Hehehe. I mean, happy holidays, everyone.

Ooooh I just fucking looooove Christmas.

I really do. I listen to carols. I bake cookies. I buy Warm Vanilla Sugar-smelling bubble bath and put on gingerbread-flavored lip gloss. I weep over shitty movies like Polar Express and stare out my window thinking, "Why can't I have the Christmas Spirit in my heart all year?"
It's the most wonderful time of the year.
Time for giving. Time for sharing. Time for family and friends to gather 'round and...GIVE ME PRESENTS!!! WAGUH!!PRESENTSpresentspresentspresentspresentspresents!

I know 'tis better to give than receive, but don't be a superior asshole.

Today on Effing Dykes, we're talking about presents!

Prezzies!!!

What's on your list?

Here's mine. It only has 6 things. I have been very, very good this year, so I am confident Santa will see the logic in granting me everything I asked for.

Let's compare, shall we?

Krista's Wish List 2009-2010

1) A 3M privacy filter for my laptop screen.

You know, one of those plastic thingies you can put over your screen so passerby see nothing but a black screen.

This is necessary for my job survival. I can't tell you how many nosy bitches have looked over my shoulder in the past year and gone, "Ooh, what are you working on so hard out here?" and gotten SMACKED IN THE FACE with something like this:
It's not my fault. I have to find good pictures for y'all, and sometimes, I hafta visit the underbelly of the internet to get 'em. I have a hard life.

*********************************************
2) A puppy.

A Great Dane puppy.

A Great Dane boy-puppy with a black coat and a white tuxedo stripe down his tummy, and white paaaaaws.

He could also be tan-colored.

I shall name him Jacob.

It's weird. I've asked for Jacob for four years running, and every year, there seems to be AN UTTER LACK OF LARGE GIFT-WRAPPED BOXES WITH AIRHOLES under the tree. I don't understand it.

**************************************************

3) A 20-lb sack of gluten-free baking flour from Cooqi in Minneapolis. Homemade cake for everyone! (Plus I like getting sacks of things and pretending I'm a pioneer woman "provisioning" my wagon with "vittles".)

***************************************************

4) The complete set of Golden Girls episodes on DVD. When you don't grow up with a grandmother around, you can do pretty well with TV grandmas. (Especially when they provide glamorous sex-positive role-models. Thanks for improving my life, Blanche, you slut, you.)

I have a recurring dream in which my living room turns into Dorothy's living room and I'm happy as shit. Gorgeous pastel chenille throw blankets everywhere. Soft coral-colored cushions on top of wicker chairs. I bet the whole house smells like Coty Loose Face Powder and Jergen's Lotion.

****************************************************

5) This:

A Delft blue porcelain dildo.

So fancy. So elegant. Just tea, scones, and you, bent over a chair, thank you dear.

A Little Dutch Girl dildo?? Think how many fucking jokes you could make about plugging leaky holes!

************************************************

6) The biggest set of fine-tipped markers that Sharpie makes.

Goddammit Santa. I mean it. This is the year. I even want the flesh tones, so don't think I won't notice.

There. That's my definitive 2009-2010 Wish List.

For sure.

Definitely not going to write another. That's it.

Final version.

Seriously.

What's on your list, homos?

Pizzle My Drizzle

Hey, skanks!

When you live in hotels, you develop a way of living that is very much Alone.

Nobody's watching you! You unpack a certain way. You untuck the bedsheets a certain way. You take your bath in a very particular order.

You spend plenty of time each night on the phone with Room Service, having conversations like this:

Me: I'll have the Pulled Pork Louisiana Medley Sandwich without the bun. And a heaping plate full of whatever kind of steamed vegetable you have today, please.

Room Service: No bun?

Me: No bun. I'm allergic to gluten. It's very boring, and also a tragedy.

Room Service: Huh. Well, then, you can't have the Pulled Pork Medley. It has flour in it. I think. The sauce does.

Me: I think it's gravy that has flour in it. BBQ sauce usually has cornstarch.
Room Service: You sure?
Me: It's cornstarch almost always.


(long pause)

Room Service: What if you get sick or die, though? Because you thought the sauce had cornstarch but it was really flour? I don't know what's in it - the cook's gone for the day. I don't want you to die, now.
Me: I won't die. I'll just get really puffy and look all squinty. And my stomach will hurt.

Room Service: Oh. (Pause) I thought you said you was allergic.
Me: I am.

Room Service: Well, I guess it don't matter, 'cause Kenny says we're all out of the Pulled Pork. And the steamed vegetable is creamed corn, that ok?
Hmph.

When you are constantly on the road, you have plenty of time to devote to bettering yourself. Lots of hobby-time!

There are 19 people, all my age, who have the same job I do, and they all have hobbies.

Adrian knits.
Kirsten does yogic handstands against the walls of her hotel room.

Annie reads every book that's ever been in print.

All good hobbies.

I myself have a few Hotel Room Hobbies, and there's one I'm particularly proud of:

I can pee standing up.

I've been working on it for the past two years.

AWESOME!! GROSS!! AWESOME!!

What's that?
You don't believe me?

Storytime!
Two summers ago, I read a smutty story where this hot girl in the 70s was sitting on a sailboat with a whole bunch of boys. All the boys decided to piss off the side of the boat together. (Boys really do this, even though it's super-gay, and now I know why: it's fucking fun.) The hot girl, feeling left out, announced that she, too, could pee off the side of the boat. No one believed her. So she pulled down her bikini bottoms, faced the water, and proceeded to piss a fine, high arc into the ocean. Everybody was super impressed and fell in love with her.

The End.
Wow. Those boys in the story weren't as impressed as I was.

I wanted to pee standing up!

EMERGENCY GOOGLE!

Turned out it was totally possible.
Again, why was I taught nothing of value in school? My Living on Your Own class at Bay Port High could have squeezed 'Pissing Like A Dude' riiiiiight in between 'Balancing Your Checkbook' and 'Doing Your Own Laundry.'
It was totally possible!
But it took work.
Dedication.
A willingness to get more comfortable with pee than I had ever been. (Although that part wasn't too difficult. I worked nights in a group home for a year in college.) And now, two years into my little experiment (almost exactly the amount of time it takes to toilet-train a small boy), I can safely piss, standing up, with excellent aim, into all toilets. Don't be jealous.
Now, homos, I know you want to be exactly like me, and I commend that wistful aspiration.

Here's how you do it:

1) Face toilet. Put up seat.

2) Pull down pants. And underpants, doy.

3) Reach down and grab your hood. Point it towards the pissoir.

4) Pee like a dude!

Go to the link below for tips and suggestions! I promise it doesn't lead anywhere bad, porn-y, or have illustrations that are NSFW.

http://www.wikihow.com/Urinate-Standing-up-As-a-Female

Finally, might I suggest: Practice in the shower first. For, like, a year or so.

And P.S. This is a great trick for the gross gay bar bathroom.

Only urinals? Watch this, fools.