Bringing Up Baby

What up, sluts?

Today I'm in Pittsburgh, PA. 
Pittsburgh effing rules.
There are lots of butch dykes here.  And now that it's construction season, they're back out on the streets.

Mmmm...metalworking lezzies.....

However, am I out enjoying the bounty of an early diesel-dyke harvest?

No.
No, I am not.

Instead, I am curled up in a fluffy Sheraton down comforter, listening to it rain and giggling myself to fucking death over my new phone app.


It's an app that translates what you say into any language in the world.

I've been saying shit like, "I find you terribly attractive, but I have gonorrhea and must demure tonight" and shrieking with laughter when it comes out in perfect Portuguese.

("Acho que voce e muito atraente, mas eu tenho gonorrhea e nao pode ter sexo hoje a noite.")


Then I copy the text and off it goes to one of my incredibly unfortunate bilingual friends.

I can now say, "That's what your mom said last night" in 62 different languages. 

Let's join hands and break into a chorus of "We Are the World", shall we?

*Sigh*
I need the distraction, faggots.
Somethings's been on my mind a lot, lately.
I'd say for, oh, about the last two years.
But it's really started to bother me this year.


Because this is the year I turned 27.

In my mind, as a kid, I imagined 27 as the magical age where I would have it all together. 


I would look fucking cool.

 I would smoke pencil-thin cigarettes in a Paris that always rained.

                                                                      via fuckyeahangelina
I would cling to the back of my lover's motorbike and laugh over my shoulder. 

I would have a small dog that I cuddled with in pictures. 

I would wear "serious glasses" to listen to authors read from their newest works. 

In short, my life would look like a fun, vaguely-pornographic American Apparel ad. 

I think I settled on 27 years old because that was the age all the glamorous female business-owners were in VOGUE. 

VOGUE was very important in my house.
My mom and I studied that magazine every month, with me on her lap, the second it flopped onto our front stoop in its plastic wrapper.


When I got too big to sit on her lap, we put our heads together at the kitchen table and leafed through the pages.


Mom drank Sanka and educated my ass.

Dolce & Gabbana was for trashy gold-diggers. 
Gucci was for new money and Italians.  
Tommy Hilfiger was a flash in the pan. 
Ralph Lauren did 'prep school' and 'equestrian' beautifully.  
Dior was for ladies. 
Pucci was hideous and always had been. 
Marc Jacobs was acceptable until you were 30. 
Prada was usually right (when they weren't fucking around with minimalism.) 


I basically learned to read with VOGUE. 
I can still remember, at six, thinking, "Why are all these women named Chanel?"

The gorgeous, lanky jewelry designers with boutiques in London were always 27 years old. 

                                                  via raychel
And now I am 27.  And soon I'll be 28.  And then it's only 2 years to 30! 


And I am worried, oppressed, and haunted by one question:


"When are you too old for all this?"


As in, when are you too old to be a fuck-up? 

*When are you too old to think you look fantastic in suspenders? (and be absolutely correct, bitches). 

*When do you have to stop changing jobs every year?

 *When do you stop hanging out with your friends at clubs and start getting interested in fuckery like gardening and Merlot? 

*When are skinny-jeans too young for you? 

 
*When do you have to start dressing your age?  At what age is the dyke haircut silly?

You can see I can't sleep at night. 
Our culture worships the young.  At some point, I will no longer be young. 
What the fuck am I going to do?

AM I GOING TO HAVE TO STOP SAYING "FUCK"????

Because I don't think I can. 
I will not be able to give up shitty hip-hop. 
I may never be able to afford insurance.
I can't find a career I'm interested in.

I am nowhere near grownup status, and yet: I am a grownup.

There are unsettling signs.


Tricks, I already fucking hate going dancing. 
I already get sleepy at 10 p.m. 
And I have coupons for Denny's that I use.


NEXT STOP:  A hot mug of Ensure and a 6 p.m. enema.

Right?  What do you think? 


You're rolling your eyes.
You're going "Honey, you couldn't pay me to be 27 again."

And that's fine.  Lord your wisdom over me.  I'm used to being the youngest.  Baby in the family, baby among my friends, always the youngest.


But holy fuck, there are new babies in town.  New kids were born, and they are now taking over.

Do you know I had a conversation with a girl born in the 90s???
The fetus could talk.
I was like, "Shit, girl, you missed so much."

And don't give me that "you're only as old as you think you are" crap. 
You can't tell me you haven't seen sad people who act/seem/dress too young for their age. 

I like trendy shit. 
I am scared of being one of the sad people.


Chinda says we'll be awesome at any age and would-I-shut-the-fuck-up-about-this-already.
But she's Asian and her opinion doesn't count here.  Asians don't age.  They just go on being hot until they die. (Probably because they're so bored with being hot.)

My Nana says that once you get older, you become invisible. 

I don't want to be invisible!

Nana (who was a real looker, christ almighty) also says that becoming invisible was a blessing.  She just didn't care about stupid shit anymore.

What do you think, homos? 
I know you're scoffing.  But this actually fucking worries me.

Can you help me with my slightly-more-than-a-quarter-life crisis? 

How can we age gracefully?  How can we grow up un-lame?


How can we stay rad?

Dyke Style Update! (aka 'The Balls In Her Mouth')

Tramps!

Does this ever happen to you?

"I always hit on the wrong girls."

"My gaydar sucks.  I had no idea she was the queer one at the table."

"I wish there was something chicks wore that automatically meant they were lesbians."

by fraanzi via deviantart

Fuuuuuuuuck. 

Dykes, this may be your past, but it does not need to be your future. 

There is something girls wear that means they're homos.

And I can't believe we've never talked about it.

Queerettes are advertising themselves all over the damn place - right under your nose! 

via alternatexrealities

And all without obvious rainbow tattoos or gayass t-shirts.

So here it is. 
Simple. 
An alarmingly easy way to tell if the girl you're looking at likes boobies as much as you do. 

I give you...

The ball-ring piercing.

Boom!
You're welcome.

Gay girls are 115.6% more likely than straight girls to have this kind of jewelry in their faces.  S'truth.
 
Here's why the ball-ring piercing is for homos only:

1) Lesbians love love love piercings.  Lip rings, eyebrow-piercings (so 90s!), monroes, nose rings, labrets, septums.  You name it, dykes love it.

via Deanna Templeton

2) More lesbians have obvious piercings than straight girls.  (Maybe because we're used to pain? *tear*) We're already not getting married to boys...fuckit, let's pierce our faces. 
Gramma's already pissed.

                                                                     via hipsterdykes
3) Lesbians like metal-ly shit.  Metal-ly shit that looks like it belongs in a toolbox.  You know, hardware. 
We've talked about this:
http://effingdykes.blogspot.com/2009/03/dyke-style-update.html

4) The ball-ring piercing looks obvious, tough, and a little bit like a tool.  
It says "androgynous."
It says "I'm no stranger to pain - this was nothing."
It says "Fuck you and your sparkly butterfly belly-button piercing."

Sometimes gaydar is just too easy. 

If you see a woman with a piercing like this:

She is likely a homosexual. 
(At least you've got a fighting chance.)


Little metal ball = gay.

Straight girls, take that shit out immediately! 

You are confusing us.


Ball-ring piercings are G-A-Y.

Gay!

Dykes Come Out #2

Bonjour, fags!

I've been doing some deep shut up deep for me thinking lately about all sorts of crap, so I was working on a blog post about it.

It was getting a little long.

I read the whole post over just now and realized:  it's boring.

And fuck boring!  Fuck introspective thinking! 

Birds are chirping.
Foals are trying out their wobbly new knees.
Baby lambies are being born.

It is Spring and I want to be happy.

I bet you do, too.

So, in the spirit of delighting ourselves, let's look at something we've never seen before.

Something really amazing:

A happy Coming Out story.

*WOW!*

It's sunny out! It's warm!

We have to have a happy coming out story!

Who's ready for Dykes Come Out #2???

This story comes from D., a clever girl who has the story I know you wish you had.

(As usual, it's edited, with permission, for space/grammar/pictures/and whatever else I felt like doing to it.)

Thanks for Coming Out, D.!

#2

D. says.....

It was 2002, and I was at the tender age of 14.

My crush was a freckly tomboy. 

She played soccer and let me cut her hair into that little pre-dyke chin-length haircut we all had (you know the one) with the scissors from her pocket knife.

She played trumpet and rubbed my shoulders and I thought I would DIE just laying next to her at sleepovers.

We came out to each other as 'bisexual', and eventually admitted that we were into each other.

via hipsterdykes

She hemmed and hawed about dating me because we were, um, in 8th grade and lived in Texas.

To make her jealous I said I was going to date another boy, who I had no interest in, but even at that age I knew it would work.

The next day, in front of our friends, she got on one knee with a fucking pink plastic rose she stole from her mom's fake flower garden and asked me if I would 'go out with her.'

I squealed, we hugged, and by the end of the day, everyone knew.
No one cared, and when my parents figured it out, they were happy for me.

The epilogue is that, as my first girlfriend, we had a lovely time necking in treehouses and shit and are still great friends to this day.

THE END.

Jesus god, I can't believe this story. 

They should make D.'s Coming Out story into a children's book. 

We'll call it Rainbows and Kitties and Bluebirds:  It's Ok To Be Gay. 

We'll get Madonna to ghost-write it. 
Moms will go crazy trying to get signed copies.

What a perfect story, D.! 
Ask your parents if I can come over for dinner, mmkay?