Les Maisons

Holla, velvet-tippers!


What's going on?

Lots of things are going on around here.  


I'm speaking on a queer panel at Loyola University on Thursday night at 7:30.  

[via ohcardigan]

I'm completely excited!
And...really nervous. 


Past events have proven to me that public speaking is not, um, my forte.  

[by cecart]

How 'bout no.


It's actually kind of odd how nervous I get.
  
It doesn't make sense.  
For cryin' out loud, I'm an ex-Mormon.

Mormon children are raised speaking in public.  


On the first Sunday of every month, Mormons hold a testimony meeting.  


Anyone can get up and speak, but particular pleasure (and learning from the innocents!)  is taken from watching children still unsteady on their feet toddle up to the microphone to bear their 'testimonies.' 

While all my church friends were standing in front of the entire congregation from the time they could lisp out, "I know thith churth ith true, I love my mom and dad and thitherth and brotherths, I know Josepth Thmith wath a prophet"...


I was never that kid.  I only went up to the pulpit a few times in living memory. 


My mom, encouraging me to bear my testimony more, told me it would be a funny thing to try and picture everybody naked. 

Church seemed a weird place to picture my Sunday School teacher, Sister J,  without her dress on, but... 


Sister J was sitting in the third row back, smiling at me, wearing a floral denim jumper and a turtleneck. 

I was eight.

I had a good imagination.

I could picture her naked easily, looking at her while giving my testimony.


And then I just kind of...trailed off.

[via eyeh8pie]

As I grew older, the public speaking thing grew more pronounced at school.


Never exactly shy, I would still clench my fists, digging my fingernails into my palms, if I needed to get up and write on the chalkboard, explaining how I got the fraction.

[via lesfemmes]

Things came to a head in the 4th grade.
Every week, we had a spelling bee.


I always memorized my spelling word list in preparation. 


As the spelling bee circle commenced, I would furiously calculate which word would be mine to spell when it was my turn.


Waiting for "dandelion" or "rhythm" to land on me wasn't the problem - I knew perfectly well how to spell the words.


It was knowing that I'd have to speak while everyone was watching me.

[via bikinifetish]

To combat anxiety, I would unconsciously clench my ass cheeks together really hard, then relax each buttock - first one, then the other. 
Then clench! 


Then relaaaaax. 

Juuuust waitin' my turn.  

I used to do this in bed all the time, when trying to fall asleep. 

[via r-v-l]

I would marvel at my god-like ability to command my body to do my least bidding, and ponder why I could easily relax my right buttcheek, when my left one seemed more reluctant.


It's actually hard to do it while standing - you have to really focus.

It must have looked hilarious. 


Now: I was still wearing leggings with puffy-painted sweatshirts every day at this point - I hadn't yet reconciled myself to wearing uncomfortable clothes like jeans.


My nervous, twitching buttcheek dance would have been all too visible.

And finally one week, a girl in my class, Jackie, noticed.  


She nudged Kelly, next to her. Kelly nudged Ricky next to her, and pointed. 


Tittering commenced.

Vacation. V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N. Vacation.

Clench! Relax. 
Clench! Right cheek, relax.  
Left one....relax.


Product. P-R-O-D-U-C-T. Product.
Clench! 


Pretty soon, the whole class was in hysterical giggles. 


Watching me bob, minutely, up and down, silently mouthing along with the spelling bee in my giant glasses.

Mid-ass squeeze, I glanced around the standing circle of my peers.


All eyes were on my thin cotton leggings.

One of the girls, Jackie, couldn't hold it in anymore, and burst out, "Omigod, what are you doing with your butt?"

[by pastel]

Pandemonium ensued.


I became a 'jeans' girl overnight.


So, public speaking, right? Thursday! 
Should be good.

[via joisnotagirlsname]

Also keeping me busy: CJ and I have been having Living Discussions.


We've been tossing around the idea of getting our own apartments.  

[via lesfemmes]

Staying together, but living separately.  
Hopefully within walking distance.


There are two main reasons:


1)  I've never lived by myself. 

[via lesfemmes]

You guys, I'm 28 years old. 
And I've never lived by myself. 
Without a roommate. 


Nothing in the house, apart from books and clothes, is mine.
I don't own a single dish, pot, pan, stick of furniture, or piece of art.
  
I cannot picture how I would decorate a space that is wholly mine, because I have no idea what my taste is when left to my own devices.  

And...I think that's a little odd.

I also cannot imagine what I would do with my time if I came home, every single night, to just myself. 

[by becylouise]

And that's even odder. 


I've always, always had a roommate or a girlfriend for a social crutch. 


What happens when you kick the crutch away?

[by Betty turns blue]

2)  CJ is entering her thesis year at school, and she needs. more. space.  


Her art stuff is taking over everything and making us both crazy.

And she needs more time to do work.


We moved here so she could go to school, and I want to give her license to be as selfish as she wants with her time during her thesis year - free to be in her studio from 6 a.m - midnight, six days a week. 

[via hibutterfly]

And while she's doing schooly things, I want to be selfish with my time.


Get to know myself again.

[via artpixie]

But: that leaves us with moving into separate apartments in the city.


And - who knew? this is a HUGE relationship taboo.  
Friends are creasing their foreheads with concern. 

Apparently, you can move in together, but you cannot move out again without the relationship being over. 


Other faggettes keep telling me that you can't go backwards in a relationship - only forwards.

[via leviconverze]

Do y'allfags think that's true? 
'Cause now I'm worried.
Maybe this isn't such a good idea.

[via gloomy-sunday]

My eloquent friend Nadine and her husband Chris came to stay with us for a night, and we walked to dinner.


Holding onto Nadine's elbow to steady her as she picked her way through the slush in completely inappropriate spike heels, I told her all my troubles.

[Nadine Dubois]

Nadine listened thoughtfully and said, "You know, this is one area in which I think the gays actually have more flexibility than the straights. 
I think that because you already live outside of what society expects you to do, you're more open to exploring alternative living situations."


Alternative living situations.  
I like that. 

[via sapphoria]

In my head, my ideal alternative living situation involves me being very rich, with 2 - 3 face-meltingly hot gay women, all of whom love each other and me equally, with all of us living in a kind of harem in a totally gutted, modern house in San Francisco.  


(It'll look like an issue of Dwell, minus the photos of blond children in stripy tights playing in their Ikea-ed-as-fuck rooms.)

[via sunspot]

If the harem doesn't, for some reason, work out, I want what Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera had: two side-by-side houses, joined by a bridge. 

The Frida situation is kind of what CJ and I are hoping for now.


But - are people right?  


Can you take step back in your relationship?  


Or is this a venture doomed to failure?

I've never talked to any dykes who've done this.  
It would seem that the only thing gayelles are good at is moving in.


Do relationships only have fast forward buttons?

[via wallofbooks]

Has anyone out there ever tried something different?

Locks of Love

[via ohcardigan]

How's it hangin', lady-bangers?


So hot yoga isn't going very well.


Not only is it hot as a Spanx'd crotch at closin' time in there, but there's this particular pose, the bow pose, which is supposed to look like this:

and just really doesn't when I try to do it.


I've spent the last few weeks flopping helplessly on my stomach like a gasping trout, reaching behind me for feet that simply are not there. 


Useless!

This morning, in class, as the instructor, Amy, (who wears incredibly distracting pink booty shorts) commanded all of us to get into the bow pose, I sighed inwardly, cursed, and arranged my belly on the mat. 


I thrust out my chest.
I reached behind me.
My feet were there.
And...I grabbed them.

I didn't even think about it.  I just grabbed them.


And then I realized the momentousness of what had just happened.


I had finally grabbed my fucking feet!! I was improving!

"HOLY SHIT!" I shrieked, dropping both feet so hard they smacked behind me like two wet mackerels.  


The class came to a halt.
Everybody stared at me.

[via hungoverowls]

Sluts, I don't know if you know this, but yoga classes tend to value boring things like "serenity" and "silent reflection."


"Leeeeet's just focus on our breathing," said Amy.

Yesterday, I got dizzy in the heat, and instead of promptly sitting down on my mat and drinking water, I elected to not look like a pussy and "push through it." 

I passed out.

Annnnd on Monday, this humongous gay manbear next to me in class was doing a deep bend from the waist, grabbing his ankles, and he farted.

You guys, he farted so loud.
Totally ripped one.

You're supposed to pretend like nothing happened when someone grunts or cuts one in class, but...I burst out laughing.


Loud, immature, inappropriate gales of laughter. 

[via hellogirls]

I could've ignored a little toot, but come. on.


"Eeeeeverybody just focus on their own reflection in the mirror," said Amy.


They're starting to hate me at Bikram.  

[via tornleggings]

But baby steps.


I will never be good at yoga unless I keep it up.


I will never learn to fold myself into interesting positions unless I give myself license to suck at first.

[by terry b.]

We all have to be beginners at some point.


During class, when it seems like every other girl is immaculate, tightly-muscled, and able to do completely fucking obscene bendy things with her legs, I remind myself: once upon a time, they were crap at this, too.

Once upon a time, those girls couldn't reach behind their asses and grab their feet.  
They've just been practicing.  
They've had years of practice!

What's great is: that's also how gaydar works.

You don't wake up one morning and go:  "Hey! You know what? I think I'm gay! Whooooooa! I can see y'allbitches! There's thousands of dykes right here in my city, under my nose! I had no idea!"


It's not like looking at a Magic Eye. 

You can't just learn a trick and have everything be different.


Being gay does not grace you with instant gaydar. 
It takes years of daily immersion.


As if you were a foreign exchange student in a host country with tits for mountains. 

Like excelling at yoga, and baking perfect, light 'n' fluffy gluten-free scones...


We'll never be good at gaydar if we don't work on it daily.
We just need to practice!

Let's get to it.


Now, an astute reader named Ellen (not the one sleeping with Portia) sent me a lovely letter scolding me for not writing about a totally obvious dyke flirting signal:


The Hair Rumple.


Q: But what is the Hair Rumple?


A: I'm so glad you asked! 


The Hair Rumple is deceptively simple, yet extremely specific. 


We're talking "Advanced Homosexual Wimmyn's Gaydar Theory 1400: A Study in Mating Rituals", here.

In brief, the Rumple occurs when a lesbian takes her hands and messes up her hair on purpose. 

[via tomboyfemme]

Easy, right?


Do the Rumple!


1. Have shortish-to-medium length hair with little to no styling product in it.


2. Be standing near Object of Desire.


3. While speaking to her, look down at feet.


4. Casually run whole hand backwards through hair, making sure there is palm contact on the head.


5. Look up at Object of Desire sheepishly.  Sheepish is key.


6. Run hand forward through hair, making sure to completely mess up everything.


7. Choose between these face settings: 
a) bashful; b) sleepy; c) high/I-just-got-fucked.

[via kathleenm]

The Rumple!


Most often seen on boi-dykes and butches, the Rumple can actually be performed with ease across all lesbian labels, with excellent results.


As astute reader Ellen says, "It's like a puppy doing something cute that it knows is cute but pretends it doesn't."

[via cuteoverload]

Now, hold back your snorts of derision, faggettes.
I already know.

Women play with their hair all the fucking time, it doesn't mean they're lesbians.

OR DOES IT????

Let's think about all the straight girls you know. 
Millions of 'em.
Riding the bus, talking in class, waiting in the checkout line, futzing with their lip gloss in the bathroom mirror at work.

Straight women definitely touch their hair all the damn time. 


Twirling it. 
Running fingers through it. 
Picking at the ends.


Finger-combing, fluffing it up, bending over and tossing up hair to add volume, pulling it into ponytails, tugging on it - you name it.

[via batteredandbruised]

But do most straight women rub their palms all over their heads? 


Their palms?


No. 
Absolutely not. 


If a straight woman was to vigorously rub the palm of her hand back and forth on her head in public, it would cause too much style-wrecking. 


She would fuck up her hair.

(by Emily Tebbetts)

Even if she has "messy" hair, the straight girl's hair is supposed to look messy. 
She's not going to mess it up further with her damn palms - she already styled her hair.  


It's perfectly messy.

[via conorriley]

Now, lesbians just go for it.  
They rub their fingers and palms allllll over their hair.  

[via haylaaadies]

Backwards. Forwards. Backwards again.


Doesn't matter if it fucks things up - the hair looks better rumpled. 

[via cockyshitface]

Dykes can get away with genuinely messy hair. 
It's in the nature of the lesbian haircut. 

[via kizian]

Floppy. 
Shaved. 
Piece-y. 
Nothing in it. Looks its best when it really did just get fucked.

[via lesbianstrike]

And you don't have to be a butch or boi.  
I'm a femme, and I do the Rumple.  
(I actually just did it few seconds ago, trying to impress the barista at Swim.  She ignored me.  I'm ok.)


Even Tawnya does it, and she has a cascading mane of femme-hair. 

[Tawnya. Photo by Emma Freeman]

Tawnya snorted when I told her what this week's blog was about, agreed with the basic idea, and theorized that homogirls running their hands backwards through their hair releases wild pheromones into the air that only those acutely attuned to woman-lovin' can detect.

Mating pheromones. 

Pheromones that fairly shout: "I'm not afraid to stick my whole hand in a bush."

[via maytagmaytag]

Ellen correctly pointed out that: 


Even guys don't really run their hands through their hair that much.  Only after taking off hats, or when wiping manly sweat off their faces.  


Running their hands through their hair for the express purpose of looking sexy would, paradoxically, be too feminine for society to allow. 

Too much like preening.  

Gay girls alone straddle the divide between "I don't give a fuck how my hair looks ," and "Check out my lesbian haircut and how cute it looks when I mess it up." 

[via lea87]

Now: There will always be exceptions, hos.

Straight girls who run their palms through their hair. 

Dykes who never do.

But exceptions are not what we care about here.

[via mondog]

We're focusing on generalities.

The big picture.

Figuring out which girls are broadcasting the gay, quickly and easily, so we can get laid.

Running your hands backwards through your hair tells other gayelles that you're not afraid to get. in. there. and get your hands dirty.

[via wallofbooks]

It's seriously dykey.

around the world

HYPE!HYPE!HYPE!HYPE!HYPE!HYPE!HYPE!HYPE!HYPE!HYPE!HYPE!HYPE!

hey dear, welcome march!! Today was the second day I went to college, and all is not as bad as I thought, very many interesting things will I pass.
Yess .. I majored in fashion design at my college, not want to be a
great designer, I just want to know the wider fashion world.and on the one side i'm happy because I can start my studies, but on the one side ,i feel very sad because i have to long distance relationship with my boyfriend.
he went to germany and I'm in malaysia, can you imagine? how do i survive this relationship, with 7-hour time difference, and very hard to communicate with it,
I really hope I can see him again,though don't know when :(

all these photos taken by diana from "call me diyn". thanks a lot for her :)

Nooooo More Espressoooooo...

Tramps!

We did it! We won!

Effing Dykes won BEST LGBT BLOG in this year's 2011 Bloggie Awards!!!

HOOOOORAAAAAAAY!

LESBIAAAAAAAAANS!

HOOOOORAAAAAAAY!

[via enumerated]

You dykes! You little tramps! 

Thank you all for voting.  For serious.


A real blog is coming soon, I promise. 
Coupla days. 


February has left me sore n' happy. Heh.


In the meantime, let me leave you with this little treasure:

Her name is Omahyra.
I've been keeping her from you.
Have fun googling.

Yay gayelles!! 
I'm so excited!!