These things annoy me about the world of lesbos. I have written them down.
- Bad footwear. The lesbian is known for the Birkenstock and the Teva. Both types of sandals that I abhor. I have always preferred a Louboutin or a trendy sneaker. Since we are, in some ways, the opposite of nuns – we should have footwear that reflects this, as opposed to paralleling it. And we should also never say, “footwear”. That is the last time I will ever do so. Maybe.
No.
- Apparently, all I care about is dogs. I used to like people. I used to even hang out with them. Now, I write and take care of 3-4 legged creatures. In my previous Manhattan days – oh, not so long ago – the only dogs that interested me were the ones in Koreatown and they were on the menu. But, alas, I have changed and I love these furry, little, f*cks. Thankfully, I have kept my no-cats gene. Cats is going too far for me. I have this reoccurring vision/ nightmare/ panic attack where I’m found naked from the waist up – yet wearing polyester pants – with kibbles and bits trickled across my headlights. The paramedics find me lying there with a gaggle of cats pecking at my eyes and tender bits. Didn’t think cats could peck, did you? Well, I assure you, they can! At least a dog will try and whimper for help when I fall off the side of a mountain.
- Defending gay. When you’re gay, you’re always put into positions where you have to defend it or announce it. It gets exhausting. For this, wifesy and I have the “cabbie-hubby” rule. Meaning, if you are ever caught in a cab with a faceless, nameless, cab driver and he insists on ranting on and on about your husband and how “ladies are like this” and “I bet your husband thinks this or says only that” – when this occurs, we are allowed to just go with it. In cabs only. Because everyone needs a f*cken break from time to time.
- Shitty lesbo bars. About the only thing worse than lesbian bars is campfire, folk music. You know what I mean by campfire folk music? Little ditties sung with guitars and tambourines re-telling the story of a starving Appalachian family and how they survived on love and the rind of one lone banana. Eck. Lesbo bars can be like that. Usually painted a pepto bismal pink with a forest green trim…Okay, not always, but it feels like that. You walk in, Melissa Etheridge is playing on the jukebox, and three other wanna be lesbos – just out of college – are playing a game of pool. The rest of the bar is empty. Apparently, lesbian bars are ridiculously difficult to run from an economic standpoint because when lesbos meet they nest. When gay guys meet, they go out and meet more gay guys together. They keep doing this until a parade begins. Lesbians, apparently, are less social and more “let’s go home and read to each other”. The lesbian-uhaul-effect has killed the notion that I’ll ever see a decent “ladies only” drinking hole. So, thankfully, the gay boys are still letting us into theirs.
The only known lesbian bar in Thailand. And guess what…it’s CLOSED DOWN.
- I never played softball well. I AM decent at sports, as is the stereotype. However, when it comes to softball, for me, they should call it a “National suck-time” instead of pastime because I’m lame. I can hit. But, then, of course, I get
cock-blockedbox- blocked by that whole other throwing/ catching part.
- Fanny packs and izod golf shirts. This used to be the fashion-onlys for lesbos. (Along with the requisite footwear, see above.) Thankfully, that has changed and we can wear whatever the hell we want. However, I still hope against hope that one day – as a community – we will dress as pirates. I don’t know why I can’t let this go, but I think it would be grand if people said, “Here come the lesbians,” and all you saw were a group of women in leggings, flamboyant hats, ruffled shirts, and high-legged boots sloshing beer around in beer steins and singing. That, to me, is the way to make an impression.
These would be some good looking lesbians.
- Anne Heche. I’ve included this one for wifesy. Every time there’s a mention of Anne Heche on television, wifesy loses her mind. Then she goes on a tirade that sounds something like this, “Frag, Frickin’, Fruargen, Fugen, Anne Heche! Backyard-walking, alien-being, lunatic, nooooo, noooooo!” She hates Anne Heche. As she puts it, “She is the C. U. N.ext T.uesday of the universe.” I know she feels this way because at one time she believed in Anne Heche. Like really believed in her. She believed in her seemingly open and honest Oprah interview where she gushed about coming out and explained how it was the most joyous thing that had ever happened to her. Wifesy thought someone was finally speaking her language. Someone was finally making things alright for her in a f*cked up world. It’s sort of how a lot of people felt about Joe Paterno and Penn State. He was an ideal. Heche was an ideal for wifesy. It seems both ideals were shattered.
- The lack of c*ck. I’m kidding. Mine is in my drawer. Better said – Lots of people think all lesbos need is a good sauerbraten and we’d be “straightened” right out. Then there’s that other faction of people who tell themselves that lesbos either a) don’t like men or b) can’t get them. Let me put that one to rest – wifesy dated the captain of the football team in high school. Sorry, America, but she f*cken did. I dated every Latino between New York and Cuba, plus a few Italians and a black guy because they sort of seemed Latino. I believe we can be “changed” about as much as I believe velcro will replace shoelaces for mentally capable adults. It won’t happen. So, let’s all just get on board. Let this lady-pirate lead the way.
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I’ve been nominated for another blog award. YAY! By the wonderful and talented, Carrie Rubin. There are some creative hoops I had to jump through. In doing so, I talked about even more things that annoy me using every letter of the alphabet. You can read about it here – Awesome Blog Content Award – as well as see the other blogs I have so knighted. Thank you, Carrie!
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Photo creds: Teva, Thai gay bar, Pirates, featured image
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