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?

Last Homo Standing

Good morning, homosexuals!

It is a good morning, indeed. 

I'm 27 today, and I'm in one of my favorite cafes in the whole wide world - Dolores Park Cafe, in San Francisco.

This is the best coffeeshop ever because you're not allowed to work here, apparently, if you're not a fucking hot boi with dark hair.

So far I've counted three just working the front counter.
Delicious.

Momma's makin' it raaaaain at the tip jar.

This coffeeshop is surrounded by windows and overlooks Dolores Park, which is a very gay park in San Francisco.

It's filled with fags walking tiny dogs and lesbians under blankets, trying to fuck in the open air without anybody noticing.
(P.S. all you "great-outdoors"-fuckers: everyone knows what's going on.  If your right hand isn't visible, there's only a very few possibilities for where it could be.)

Dykes walk past the big picture windows here all day long, looking cool and slightly high and more than a little dirty. 

I love San Francisco lesbians.  With my crotch. 
And this is the best place in the city to watch them.

I am never happier than when typing away in this coffeeshop, completely juiced on a horrifying combination of:

1) a gigantic soy latte with a tiny (goddammitIsaidtiny) squirt of vanilla

2) Diet Coke

and

3) some kind of bubbly-water-thing.

I like a lot of beverages.

Right now I'm wearing glasses and my best Seriously-Working-Hard-On-My-Incredibly-Important-Work face, but really I'm watching all the queers out of the corner of my eye.

Peripherals.  You gotta use your peripherals.

I'm in San Francisco because San Francisco fucking rules.  It's my favorite city in the USA.  And I can always come here for a cheap vacation, because of The Curse of Krista. 

What's The Curse of Krista, you ask?


Ha!  As if you didn't know, you filthy slut. 
The Curse of Krista is simply this:

(read this in Mufasa-from-The-Lion-King's-voice)


*If you and I sleep together more than 3 times consecutively, you WILL move to San Francisco within the year.*

My curse be upon you!


It never fucking fails. 


I just got an email this week from an ex-fuck-buddy of mine, inviting me to yet another "Goodbye Minneapolis, Hello San Francisco!!" party.

Another one. 

They're dropping like flies.

It is The Curse of Krista. 
I'm going to be the last lesbian left in the Midwest.


But I don't understand something: 
No matter how much I fuck myself, I do not seem to be affected by my own curse.   

The spider does not stick to her own web.

ANYWAY!  it's cheap for me to come here because I can stay with smug women who all have better jobs and cooler apartments than me, now. 
And - weird! - they seem to be doing better without me. 
I know, right?

Crap. 
I wanna move here. 
I wanna be a dyke in San Francisco.
I wanna sit here and stalk the Dolores Cafe baristas forever. 


My friend Ana Luisa always says that  your location doesn't matter - what makes you happy is you, not where you live.

Shut up, Ana.
She's got to be wrong.
I would be so happy here.
The gayness would make me happy.

It's a proven fact that serotonin levels increase according to the amount of dykes surrounding your immediate area.
For serious.

Not For Consumption

AGGGGH!!!!!!

Have you seen this saying before?

You have?

Well, I hadn't. Apparently, this is an tired, old, jokey-lesbian saying. Gayelles have been kidding around with this for years. I had no idea.

I saw this phrase on a lesbian's t-shirt in Grand Rapids, Michigan last night. I happened to be in a weird, dark, gay diner called Pub 43 (for-no-particular-reason-I-totally-wasn't-trying-to-pick-up-any-old-school-butches-in-an-economically-depressed-area-or-anything.)

The t-shirt offender had her back to me. She was playing pool. A french fry, half-eaten, fell softly out of my astonished mouth.

Do you have any idea how sweet even a tablespoon of honey is??

Christ on a bike.

Unable to tear my eyes away from the horrific t-shirt; unable to stem the tide of images the shirt suggested, I promptly threw up all over my plate and died and then puked again.

Nonononononono. "Dip me in honey and feed me to the lesbians" is ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE.

Do you know why, homosexuals?

Because I only have a few hard-and-fast (yes) rules about sex, and one of the most important is:

Food and Sex Must Never, Ever Happen At the Same Time.

FUCK NO. No whipped cream and strawberries. No eating while fucking. No chocolate sauce dripping off your lover's body. No eating sushi off naked girls. No cucumbers from the garden. No flavored lubes, no edible underpants, no motherfucking licking honey off any part of another human being's body, ever ever ever!

This rule has cost me dearly.

An ex of mine once brought home some chocolate body paint. It had a cute little paintbrush and came with honey dust. Harmless, right?

Maybe for you.

She waggled the brush at me playfully.

"C'mere," she said.

"Um, no thanks," I said.

The Ex was insistent.

I was polite but firm. No way was I playing with that chocolate fuckery.

The Ex called me boring. She called me unspontaneous!

I didn't rise to the bait.

She said that, you know what? We were always having the same fucking fight, and that fight was really about control. I was selfish and only wanted to do things on my agenda. (This is actually true.)

I didn't care. The Ex was hot. In those days, you could call me names as long as you looked nice naked.
She started crying. I went to hug her.

In a flash, she had that paintbrush out; dipped it in the chocolate, and wiped it on my cheek!

BITCH YOU CAN'T EAT ME!! I AM NOT YOUR LITTLE SUCKLING PIG!!

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

We broke up shortly after this little episode.

Now, I know a lot of you are going to disagree with me on this, but c'mon!

Food and sex don't go together.

Eating is a sensual experience. Sex is a sensual experience.
Both at the same time is too many sensual experiences. Greedy!

Plus, if you turn into a food-sex person, you'll start feeding your partner bites at the restaurant table, just to watch her mouth. (Remember when guys used to do that on Elimadate? They'd get the biggest mouthful of fondue and "feed" it to their dumb date. The dates always opened wide to "take the load.")

I know the dyke in the t-shirt at Pub 43 was just trying to announce to the room that she was gay, but everybody already knew that. And now we had nightmare fodder.

She ruined my dinner. My life's ruined, too. Btw.

At least until I forget about this.

And that could take daaaaaaays.