Toddlers & Tiaras

Hi there, homosexuals! 
Actual letter!

"Dear Effing Dykes,

Did you know your blog is exactly one year old today?  I've been following it since it was only a week old.  You should probably name me its godmother or something.

Love,
Kari M."

Whoa!  Effing Dykes is ONE WHOLE YEAR OLD?

Oh, I can't believe how time flies.  *tear*
If Effing Dykes was a baby, it would be all drooling and waving its fat arms around and stuff.  Thanks, Kari M.!

She's right!  This mess got started on this date, exactly one year ago.  I remember it well....

This time last year, I had gone out to dinner the night before. 
My straight, married friend, "Emily" was asking me insanely boring questions, again, about being a lesbian. (P.S. Emily, you're so interested because you're a big secret dyke.  Everybody already knows. You're welcome, sweetiepie.) 

She didn't let up with the questions.
I was sneaking fries off her plate and trying to picture Emily kissing her husband.
Wasn't working. 

She kept talking. 
Question after question. 
How do you know if a girl is a lesbian?  How do you ask a girl out?  What's it like to kiss a woman?  How do you know what to do in bed?  Can you still be a lesbian if you don't wanna, y'know, go down there?

 And then I couldn't take it anymore.  I put my hand up, like a crossing guard, and said, "Emily, you know what?  I'm going to write a fucking book about lesbians.  Just for you."

I was kidding.  But by the next morning, I wasn't kidding.  I was going to help people and do good!  I would write a book about girlie-gaydar!  It would be for all people not naturally blessed with my Spectacular Gaydar Skillz. 

I would write a book to spare countless lesbians the pain of explaining dyke sex.

I would write a book to give homogirls clues on how to spot their own kind.  So they could get laid.

I would write a book to school straight people in Gay Girls 1001.  'Cause we're tired of being asked the same questions at parties.

I would write a book to save the whole world!!! 

Or, um, a blog.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EFFING DYKES!

It's been fucking fun.

And fun fucking.

Heh.

Cleanliness is Ho-Liness

Purely Hypothetical Situation:

This is Lucy.

You've had a crush on Lucy for, oh, about 3 years. You haven't asked her out because she is really, scarily attractive and therefore perpetually dating someone.
 
You're kindasorta friends with Lucy.  You've actually had conversations.  She lives near you.  You've given her a few rides to yoga class.  You see her at the coffeeshop.  Sometimes you see her at clubs, always holding the hand of her current girlfriend.  It makes you die a little inside.

All your friends know about The Lucy Situation. You are officially not allowed to talk about her anymore.

Well, Lucy just called.  She's locked out.  Can she come over and wait 'till her roommate gets home?

OMIGOD SHITYES THIS IS YOUR BIG CHANCE!!!

She'll be at your house in 10 minutes.
Great!

Oh, wait, fuck. 
FUCK!!!!

Look at your place.  You're a disgusting bachelor slob.  The apartment looks like a tornado hit it 6 months ago and no government funds ever came through.  Omigod, there's shit everywhere.

Lucy is perfect and beautiful and if she sees this place she will never, never go out with you and you'll die aloooonnnne!!!

WHAT DO YOU DO?

You've got 10 minutes.

--------------------------------------------------

Don't panic! Momma's here. Just breathe.
I happen to have a lot of experience with this purely hypothetical situation.

My Credentials:

When I was a baby dyke, I lived with Tawnya. We both danced in the burlesque club every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. We were both messy girls. We both worked full-time jobs, were never home, and when we left for the burlesque show, we left a whirlwind of destruction in our paths. Can you picture this?

Glitter. Feathers. Unmade beds. Loose sequins all over the floor. Dirty dishes. Thongs. Stray pasties. Sewing projects, incense ash, perfume bottles, broken garter belts, plastic bags next to the garbage full of more garbage, empty shampoo bottles, sex toys, vitamins, curling irons in the sink, hairspray-sticky surfaces, ripped fishnets, kitchen table buried under a mountain of crap. Over all of that, an amazing layer of dust. It was overwhelming.

But sometimes we would bring a trick home on short notice. (Tawnya way more often than me. Girlfriend has an ass you could serve beer on.) That's when we would call one another and instigate The Plan. The Plan was a series of clean-up steps we took if we only had a few minutes to make the apartment look good.

You don't have to be neat. 
You just have to look neat. 
Neat enough to trick women into sleeping with you.

If Lucy's coming over in 10 minutes, you have lots of time to make your place look passable.

Here's what you do immediately:

1) Pile all the crusty dishes in the sink and fill the sink with wasteful amounts of bubbles.  Piles of bubbles! Mountains of bubbles! You must cover up those dishes.  Because gross dishes = gross person.
 *Any pots that are too big to fit, put in your oven. Don't forget about them later.*
With the sudsy sink, it'll look like Lucy caught you in the middle of washing up. Roll up your sleeves to further the illusion. Time spent: 2 minutes

2) Flush the toilet and spray perfume in the bathroom.  Ball up toilet paper and rub it around the sink.  Pour lots of mouthwash into the toilet bowl.  (Looks like cleaning chemicals!) Throw all rubbish, makeup, porn!!!!, old bottles, embarrassing Cosmo subscriptions, and hair shit into the bathtub and draw the shower curtain.

NOTE: One of the first things new/uncomfortable-feeling people will do in your apartment is go to the bathroom to make sure they look OK. 
While they're in there, they WILL look in your medicine cabinet, silently. Your job is to make sure they find nothing incriminating.
While Lucy will look in your cabinets, no way would she look in your bathtub, because a) she's normal and would never think of doing that, and b) it would make too much noise with the shower curtain rings. Throw everything you don't want her to see in the bathtub.  Time spent: 2 minutes

The Kitchen and The Bathroom are the most important rooms.  If those are decent, you're a clean girl who just got behind with her chores.  If those rooms are dirty, you're doomed to have your cats slowly eat you after death, starting with the eyeballs.

3) Light incense.  Open as many windows as you can, even if it's freezing. Air the cave out! Time spent: 1 minute

4) Shut the door to your room. If Lucy asks, say it's your roommate's room.  Later, you can say you swapped. Time spent: 5 seconds

5) Arrange the piles of shoes near the front entrance in neat little rows, like a Chinese kindergarten.
Aww, endearing!  You're so cute about details! Time spent: 30 - 60 seconds

6) Run around your living, kitchen, and dining rooms and pick up all books and magazines. Put them into two tidy piles on your coffee table, with the smartest/trendiest books on top. Look how many books you read! You're so cultured! Time spent: 1 minute

7) Gather your clothing in large armfuls off of the floor and chairs. Throw all armfuls into a a big laundry basket and put the detergent next to it, near the dishes in the kitchen. You were just on your way to do laundry! Time spent: 2 minutes

8) Plump and arrange throw pillows in living room neatly. Time spent: 20 seconds

9) Put a sock on each of your hands. Get one wet. Now you have a scrubber and a duster. Use the wet one on the kitchen table. Run the dry one over the coffee table and anything truly, grossy dusty. Time spent: 1 minute

10) OMG Lucy's coming up the driveway!!

Do a last, lightning check of your house. Did you:
a) hide the sex toys?
b) put all the garbage bags in the closet/back hallway?
c) remove all crusty underwear in the bathroom?
d) leave your Valtrex/Prozac/Retin-A/Xanax/Oxycontin bottles anywhere in sight?

Excellent. Your apartment looks almost like you're a regular girl, interested in tidiness and dinner parties. You clearly have your shit together.  You're so fuckable!

You are now ready for The Seduction of Lucy. I leave you to it.

Street Cred for Nerds

Hello homos.

Ready for a shameless plug? 
No.  Not that kind of shameless plug.

Have you noticed the thingy-button clicky-whatzit on the top righthand side of this mess? 
Have ya? Haveya??

Well, look!  Effing Dykes got nominated for a 2010 Bloggie! In the "Best-Kept Secret" category! And I am piss-my-pants excited. 

Best-Kept Secret??  Not even in the GLBT category?  

Heh.  That means the masses might be getting the holy word.

Dykes fucking rule. 

BWAH HA HA!!!

You should do your karmic duty and vote for Effing Dykes as Best-Kept Secret!  Click on the pretty green Bloggies button at the top of this page!  (btw, it took me all afternoon to make that thing, so enjoy the graphic, mofos.)

Make me happy!
Go! GO!

But I'm A Fun Girl

It's Learning Time!

Word of the Day: Vituperative
Pronunciation: vih-too-per-ah-tive
Function: adjective
Meaning: uttering or given to censure : containing or characterized by verbal abuse.


Keep this word in mind, homos.
 Now guess what?

New Orleans is crawling with lesbians.

Holy shit is it ever. I was there for the MLK weekend, and it didn't even cross my mind that there would be dykes there. But it makes sense.

If they're not camping, lesbians love cheesy tourist/drinking destinations where they can buy fuzzy pimp hats or have their name airbrushed onto a t-shirt. Think Wisconsin Dells. Six Flags. Anywhere with fried mini-donuts.
New Orleans was a good time. Made better by the fact that there's a dyke bar there called Rubyfruit Jungle. Totally serious. Right off of Bourbon Street!

I had to go. I dragged Kirsten with me. She didn't want to go - she'd been pleading all night to go to a titty bar. BITCH NO! We were going to see if we could hook up for free first. (then we could totally pay for strippers. I'm just not that good at sitting on my hands in the club. They somehow...wander.)

Inside Rubyfruit Jungle, it was a sea of sporty dykes. They were wearing jerseys and cheering the Saints on toward playoff victory. Everytime the Saints gained yardage, much sporty-dyke shoulder-punching and whooping ensued.
Ew.


But wait! There! Leaning against the wall! A cute boi! Wearing a hoodie and drinking something clear! She was elfin (how I like 'em), messy-haired, and had what Avril Lavinge calls "shit on her wrists." Lots of cuff bracelets.
I had my target.


Never let more than two minutes go by after spotting what you want.


She had already seen me. I smiled. She smiled.
Kirsten rolled her eyes and sluttily ate a cherry out of her drink.

"AAack look at that girl over there OMG she's so cute," I hissed to Kirsten.


She looked over the bar.
"Which one? They're all sporty."


Bah. How could you not see the shining beacon of hotness that was the sulking boi-dyke? I gathered my courage and left Kirsten. She did not understand true magnetic attractiveness.

Me: (hovering near bar stool) Hi. (Sitting down next to adorable boi)

Adorable Boi: Hi.

Me: Wow. You are really cute.

Adorable Boi: (flatly) Thanks.

           (Really, really awkward pause)

Me: Just, um, wanted to tell you that.

Adorable Boi: Lemme guess. You're from out of town.

Me: Ha. Uh, yep. Chicago. Where are you from?

Adorable Boi: Here. (slow-motion points to the floor)

Me: Oh. Wow. Is this, like, the only place in town?

Adorable Boi: Uh-huh. And - lemme guess again - you're only in town for a couple of nights.

Me: (shifting uncomfortably) Well...yeah.

Adorable Boi: (laughs meanly) That's what I thought.

Me: You must get this a lot.

Not-So-Adorable Boi: (nastily) You could say that.

Me: Jesus. You live in a huge party town. Of course dykes in the only dyke bar in the French Quarter on a Saturday night are going to be looking for one-night stands. Let me give that a "duh." If you don't like it, you should move.

NSA Boi: You don't know me. Excuse me for trying to find something a little more long-term.

Me: Excuse me for paying you a compliment and trying to talk to your bitter ass.

NSA Boi: I think your friend's cuter, anyway.

                 OUCH.

Me: (in a vindictive fury now) Yeah? Well, she's straight. You're attracted to straight girls. That's why you're having problems, Bitter. You're attracted to straight girls.  Good luck having a long-term relationship with one of those.

I shoved back the bar stool. I collected Kirsten's cuter ass. We left.

SHOT DOWN!!!

I stalked through the cool mist, past flickering gas lamps. Fuming.
I told Kirsten was that the cute boi was really bitter and looking for a long-term relationship. I didn't tell her that the boi thought she was better-looking. Kirsten was mildly surprised we were leaving so soon, but willing to go, as we had plans to watch Interview with the Vampire in our Westin bathrobes.

We got a ride back to the hotel from a sweet white mule named Mercedes, and the driver was very nice to us. He gave us carrots to feed Mercedes, and I patted her nose and mourned the loss of my innocence. Y'all: That was the meanest rejection of my life. Granted, I said some pretty vicious words (should we say I was...vituperative?) as well, but that boi started it.


When you're a femme lesbian, and you don't have a second head growing out of your right shoulder, it's fairly easy to get dates.
Like shooting fish in a barrel.
Like bow-hunting a deer when you're riding the deer.
It's easy.

There just aren't that many gay girls who dress girly.
There just aren't.
We are a scarcity, and getting rejected out-of-hand like that had never happened to me before.

I called my favorite lil' piece, CJ, to howl.

CJ: Let me get this straight, boo. You're calling me at 3:37 in the morning to complain that some girl in a bar rejected you? On the New Orleans trip I wanted to come on but couldn't 'cause of school?
Me: Exactly. Now tell me how sexy I am.

That mean boi really hurt my feelings.
It was probably good for me.
You know, take me down a notch.

But never fear, skanks, I have recovered. It's Learning Time, and the lesson we can take from this is: we must deal with rejection and move on.

We must never, never stop hitting on women.

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