first corinthians lower back tattoo

first corinthians lower back tattoo

large angel back tattoo

large angel back tattoo

Kentucky Dirty

Hi sluts!

I'm here in Louisville, Kentucky, where the ladies are a little more…ladyish.

I was expecting this. Most stereotypes have at least a teensy original kernel of truth in them – that’s why they’re funny and/or painful.

And the ladies in the South are delivering on stereotypes. These women are funnily, painfully Southern. They really do have Big Hair. They really do say, “Y’all, come ovah heeyah and get chy’alls books for the seminar from thisheeyah girl.”

They all have acrylic, manicured nails. These are painted in soft shades of rose, coral, pink, or…pink. Every single woman I've seen has these nails.

Even the lesbians.

Today, I’m staying at the Galt House, the fanciest hotel in Louisville, and fuck if I’m not completely underdressed.

Well!

Usually, in whatever city I get sent to for work, the women who attend my seminars go, “Ooh, cute boots!” or, “Ooh, I like your pretty little scarf!” in the morning when they’re checking in, just to have something to say to me.
I’m used to this. I have a nicely swelled ego from all these fake compliments.

So I was not surprised when a Southern Lady, as she was signing in for the seminar, reached across my registration desk and touched me. (Middle-aged women have even hazier boundaries than I do.) She ran her fingers through my hair.

I wasn't concerned - this has actually happened before. I sat still, like a spaniel, waiting for my compliment-treat. The Southern Lady was supposed to say, “Ooh, I just love your choppy haircut.” (Know why it's choppy? Safety scissors and lack of skill.) That's what I was expecting.

What she said, however, was, “You know, sugar, you would be so pretty if you would just do somethin’ with this mop.”

Clearly, the Southern Women in my seminar were different from the ones I met last night.

Last night, as I was walking to dinner, I came across a group of four obvious Southern Lesbians. Short haircuts and sweatshirts in the South = Dykes.

They were sitting in the bar, drinking. They looked like they were having a great time. Delighted, I smiled at them and said hi as I walked by.

The Southern Lesbians either ignored me or didn’t hear me, so I got embarrassed and blushed furiously. I then pretended to take a Very Important Cell Phone Call. (I do this a lot at parties. When I feel really rejected/unconfident, I will pretend it’s an international friend calling, just to let everyone know that not only do I have to take this call, but I have to take it in Italian. Because I am obviously a Very Important Busy International Business Jet-Setter.)

If you ever see me do this, please don’t call me out on it. It’s all I have. I walked back to my room. The Southern Lesbians were still there. Still drinking. I felt braver. They had to be drunk by now.

I wandered over to them and bellied up to the bar. Blatently ignoring them, I loudly ordered a Shirley Temple with extra cherries, because I knew it would get their attention.

LEZFACT: Lesbians cannot stand the sober person at the party.

The Southern Lesbians were all drinking hard liquor. The dyke next to me whooped.

"A Shirley Temple! What are you ordering that for?"

"I've had a few too many tonight," I said. Lies! I had ginger ale with dinner.

"You're still standin'!" she said. "You should have what we're havin'!"
Me: What are you having?

Southern Lesbian: Dead Nazis!

Me: Dead Nazis taste like mouthwash.

(Southern Lesbians cackle.)

Me: Anyway, a Dead Nazi is not a Southern drink. Y'all are supposed to be drinking Wild Turkey. Or mint juleps.

SL: Whaaat? We’re all drinkin’ Dead Nazis. You should get a Dead Nazi.

Me: I’ll get a Dead Nazi if I can ask you all some questions for my blog.

SL(instantly wary): What kinda questions?

Me(in a rush): Well, um, I’m a lesbian, I write a blog about lesbians. And I –

SL: LESBIANS! WHAT?! WHAT DO I KNOW ABOUT LESBIANS?? DO I LOOK LIKE A LESBIAN TO YOU???
Me(terrified): Uh.

SL: HAHAHAHA! ‘Cause I sure am! (all Southern Lesbians guffaw) But we gotta keep it jus' between us! How can you tell?

Me: You’re the only fun ones here.

SL: What’s your question, sweetiepie?(shoves my wallet away) I'm buying.

Me: It’s personal. You don’t have to answer. If you don’t want.

SL: C’mon.

Me: Ok, well, um. What is up with your nails? Everybody’s nails! You all have really long nails here! How do you, you know...

SL:(friends snickering) Heh. Sweetiepie, you don’t need to nevermind long nails. (shows me her nails) We keep ‘em that way because we live here – we're teachers. It ain’t like Chicago. In Kentucky, I guess women are a bit more feminine, and it’s ok to be gay, it’s just not something you talk about with everybody and their mother.
Me: So you get fake nails to fit in? So people don’t kick your ass?
SL: Sure! (orders another Dead Nazi)

Me: No offense, but who are you fooling?

SL: Not you! Clearly!

Me: Mmkay, I'm sorry, but I still don't get it. I have to get more personal than that. How do you, you know, um…doitwiththosenails?

SL:(waggling her fingers with the palms facing me): Gotta use the pads, sweetie. Pads of your fingers.

Me: You are fucking with me. It doesn’t hurt?

SL(grinning): Get enough liquor in ya, nothing hurts.

Me: Holy shit.

SL: Jokin’ honey! Jokin’! God, you're easy!

What great dykes. Two of the four Southern lesbians had two first names; i.e. Mary Jo and Stacey Ann.

They were so funny, and so crass, and so careful to include me. I wanted to stay in the bar with them for the rest of my life. They were going to a convention the next day, but there were big plans to go to another bar when the Galt House bar shut down.

People, these women were fifty fucking years old. They threatened to follow me back to my room to “find out how the Yankees do it.”

Oh, Louisville.

After dinner,

I should be so fun at 50.

Flo Motion

Attention! Very Important News Here Today:

I have a new crush.

It's a celebrity.

OMG PAINFUL UNREQUITED LOVE!!!!
Her name is Flo, and she's the gorgeous bossy/nice/bitchy woman on those fucking Progressive commercials.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, you need to go here immediately to watch her in action:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GrtMM5suUCg&feature=related
How is it possible that I never noticed Flo before??
I've been watching those stupid commercials for over a year without ever really paying attention.

Here's what happened: Last night in my hotel room, in between back-to-back episodes of The Office, a Progressive ad came on. I didn't have to pee. I wasn't changing the channel. I wasn't going to move if I could possibly help it. I was a lazy, receptive audience. She appeared onscreen. The Progressive woman.

Her fiery lips were like scarlet pillows. Her liquid eyeliner was drawn with a heavy hand, giving her a feline appearance. Her slightly-too-light foundation announced to the world, "I'm a pinup girl! I have something naughty on, underneath my starched white nurse-dress!"Her raven hair was restrained by a no-nonsense headband, yet I knew too well how it would tumble about her face, unencumbered, when we made love. Her nametag, stitched above a pert breast, read "Flo."
My heart thudded.

Then Flo opened her beautiful mouth. And she was bossy. And slightly bitchy. And extremely excited. She used "Mom Voice" with all her confused customers, cheerfully helping them and gently putting them in their places.

God, I loved her. I loved her sarcasm. I loved her humor. I loved her icy, flashing eyes. She's like every punk waitress I've ever lusted after.

Flo looks like a badass Seattle MILF. The kind you know has tattoos you can't see. Or a bike punk who runs a restaurant in Minneapolis. She looks like she smokes after sex and knows how to French inhale.
I wished she was my morning barista. I wished she was my 2nd-grade teacher. I wished she was my irritated babysitter telling me to "get the hell out of that tree."

In a 30-second spot, Flo was bringing up all sorts of totally pathetic fantasies for me.
She probably plays bass in a band.

When she left the TV screen, I didn't have the stomach for another episode of The Office. What do I care if Jim and Pam ever get together??(it was a rerun.) I had found true love, and I wanted more!Now, when you are an obsessive-type lesbian with somewhat fuzzy boundaries, you do the obvious thing to a crush: Google her. And then watch, on YouTube, every single commercial for car insurance that she's ever been in. Twice.

Flo's real name is Stephanie Courtney. She's in theater, mostly. She looks boring in person - nothing like the elegant vision that is Flo in the Progressive commercials.

And...she's married.

WHY??????

Flo clearly displays definite markers of femme dykeism: She's direct, cutting, wears lots of red lipstick that's not quite right for her skin tone, and she told me through the TV in a secret message that she wants to meet me in Louisville, KY tonight.

She did.
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You Ottawa Stop In

Hiya, homos!

Guess where I am??

Guess guess.

OkI'lltellyou. I'm in Ottawa. Ottawa, Canada. The second-coldest city in the entire world.

Now, if you read Effing Dykes with a fine-tooth comb (I know you've been printing out your favorite entries and Mod Podge-ing them over your mirror), you doubtless know that I despise Canada.

I really do.

Despising Canada is complicated. It's a whole bunch of emotions tangled up together.
It's my own Special Fury Blend comprised of:

1) scorn for people who wear Tevas with socks

2) boredom (you people have so much land. Something to look at during a 10-hour car ride would not go amiss.)

3) derision for the Canadian accent

4) irritation with French-people-who-aren't-really-French-at-all-'cause-they-live-in-Canada-for-fuck's-sake (and who will also never, never have their own country, do you hear me, Quebecois??), and

5)extreme, blind, completely justifiable, seething envy for socialized healthcare and a gun-less society.

Smug Canadian asshole bitches.

I'm here in Canada for a reason. Remember that weird job I had last year, where I travelled all the effing time? The job I love and hate? The job I swore I would never do again?

I...I signed up for another year.

A lil' bit of masochism never hurt anybody. Except you, Rihanna.

But, lezzies, there's a silver lining to this depressing news!

I travel to a different North American city every day, from now 'till May. A different city every day means educating myself about the habits and styles of dykes across the country. A different city, daily, means a different chance, daily, to slut it up with locals.

I will become a learn'd woman.

I will sniff out every gayelle in every corner of the Northern Hemiphere.

Or at least sometimes I will. On the nights I'm not ordering room service and daring myself to hit "Select" on the Adult Movies menu.

In the spirit of kicking off the working year right... My flight got in early to Ottawa last night, and I decided to find out what Ottawanese lesbians do for a fun evening. Doesn't "Ottawanese" kinda sound like a Japanese beaver? I think so, too.

Finding a place to go was difficult. Nobody at the Hilton wanted to give the "aggressive-out-of-town-dyke-stranger-asking-creepy-questions" any names of local gay haunts.

Weird.

The very swishy bell-boy was being coy with me. Undaunted, I pounced on the front desk staff. They didn't know where I should go, either. (There's nothing like being giggled at by pimpled Canadian teens in polyester pleated pants.) Online searches for "lesbian bar Ottawa" turned up nothing.
Well, crap.

Finally, I decided to go to a place called "Swizzles", because it popped up on a website called Gay Ottawa and because it had such a faggy name. I could just imagine the amount of plastic monkeys the bartender would hang off a lemontini. Oooh, Swizzles!Swizzles was on Queen Avenue.

Not even kidding.

I pushed open the doors.

Alright, Ottawa, I said. You are the motherfuckin' capital of Canada. Let's see some lesbians.

Let me set the scene for you:

Sunday night, 10 pm-ish. There are a couple of gay boys hanging around, and a few nervous straight-looking guys in suits. Typical, typical.

Dim lights, Lady Gaga playing, looks like a beer place. Couple dudes clearly in the middle of mid-life crisis, six or several very average gay men, a tranny, and one lone blond twink wandering about the room in a tight white t-shirt, very much aware that he is the best-looking, tannest, and youngest boy at Swizzles.
No women.
Well, ok, there was one woman, but she was a Sporty Dyke, and I avoid sporty dykes like the plague. This is because sporty dykes like to thump, pound, and sock other people's arms in greeting. It's not okay. Anyone punching me "playfully" better be wearing latex gloves and have a safe word.

I circled. Waiting for something better to come along, I circled the bar like a buzzard.

Half an hour went by. All the leaning with a drink and "looking cool" was too much for me.

I caved.

I had to talk to a lesbian from Ottawa! Otherwise I would fail my mission. There was still the lone sporty dyke at the bar. What I needed was an interview.

Me:(hovering weirdly in front of barstool) Hi! Um, is anybody, um, sitting here?

Lesbian From Ottawa: (smirking at the empty bar) It's full up tonight. No, sit down.

Me: I'm Krista. I'm from Chicago. Well, Seattle. And Minneapolis, too.(blushing now) Are you from Ottawa?

Lesbian From Ottawa: Yep. Born and raised. Spent some time in Chicago, though. Came back here and never left. (extends hand) Name's Monica.

Me: Whoa. It is not. Your name is Monica?

Lesbian From Ottawa: Yep.

Me: That is not possible. You're a butch! You need a butch name, like Mon-E-G. Or Monni. Or Monee-Luv. Like a gangsta!

Lesbian From Ottawa: Ha. I don't have any nicknames.

Me: What about Moan-ica? That'd be fucking cool. Get it? MOAN-ica?

Lesbian From Ottawa: I get it.

Me: What's it like being a dyke in Ottawa? What do you guys do for fun around here?

Lesbian From Ottawa: It's pretty much the same as being a lesbian everywhere else, I guess.

Me: I don't believe you, Monni-Baggs. This is Canada. Gays can get married here.

Lesbian From Ottawa: That doesn't mean we're still not outsiders.

Me: Yeah. (Pause) So what is that on your sweatshirt, anyway? A Trojan? Dirty.
Lesbian From Ottawa: It's the symbol for the Ottawa Senators.

Me: I do not understand Canadian politics.

Lesbian From Ottawa: No, uh, it's a hockey league.

The evening passed amicably enough. Monica was about 30 years my senior, but she was awfully nice and willing to let me rub my hands all over her buzzed hair.

Simple pleasures.

Ottawa Monica was great. But that's not surprising - most lesbians are great. Thaaaaat's right.

OMG here comes the love ican'tcontrolit....D'yknow, I fucking love lesbians. I really love them. Alllllll of them. I'm like the effing Statue of Liberty - "Give me your dykes! Your cute ones! Your fatties! Give me your butch, your femme, your androgynous misfits!

Every time I see one - in an airport, on a plane, walking down the sidewalk - I feel like my heart is going to burst. My people!

I love lesbians so much I will go to a bar named "Swizzles" to find them.

In Ottawa.

In Canada.

The worst place in the world.

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Most Popular Flower Hawaiian Tattoo

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