The end of January fast approacheth.
I'm so relieved.
January is my least favorite month.
Before Christmas, when it snows, I go, "oh isn't this magical" and hum Carol of the Bells to myself and re-read The Dark Is Rising and think about the delicious, slightly creepy magic of the holidays, especially as portrayed in English movies where there's a boys' choir making wispy "ahhhh" noises in the background while snow settles on thatched cottages.
After Christmas, I go, "look at all this fucking slush" and spend time locked in a bathroom stall at work, furiously rubbing the salt stains off my boots using spit and wadded up, greyish toilet paper.
Then I go home, run a hot bath, put on woolly socks, burrow under my blankets, and refuse to move.
|(by Ignacio Dansilio)|
The gym is always packed.
And Chicago is mysteriously unorganized - they have no snow system.
Unlike civilized villages, such as Minneapolis, there are no laws in Chicago about everybody having to shovel the part of the sidewalk that lies in front of their houses.
Nobody shovels, so the snow packs down, freezes, and turns to a thick, bumpy layer of ice.
And so you fall down a lot.
In the grey dawn, silent Ukrainian men stand in their doorways, smoking, and watch you pick yourself up from the pavement, studying your ripped tights with cold appraisal.
January is not even close to spring and it's an extra long month, just for spite.
'Cause February is the winter turning point - it brings Valentine's Day and my birthday and only has 28 days and therefore isn't really even a month at all, and March is the light at the end of the tunnel, when you sniff the air hopefully and think that maybe it's warm enough today so you don't have to wear your hat.
April is spring, and spring means the start of scooter season, which means you officially don't have to get on a bus for half a year.
But you know what?
There is something to celebrate in January. There is!
Effing Dykes is TWO YEARS OLD!!!
Two whole years of talking about lesbians!
And instead of becoming bored by the subject matter, the obsession has only, um, grown.
D'youknow, when this mess got started, I actually worried about running out of stuff to talk about?
That's like entering a cake-eating contest and worrying you might not place.
Anyway! Because being two years old means you can finally eat solid food, CJ and I decided to celebrate by going out for brunch at the Longman Eagle. (Now I know that sounds like a leather bar, you dirty slags, but it's not. The Longman Eagle is one of my favorite restaurants in Chicago. Lots of lesbians eat brunch there, and the chef has his priorities in order - he worships at the shrine of local pork belly.)
As we were getting ready to leave for the restaurant, I noticed that CJ was wearing a bright red shirt.
Now, that would ordinarily be fine, but...
I was wearing a bright red dress.
I stood in the bathroom door.
Me: Hey. We're both wearing red.
CJ: (grabbing keys) Ha, yep. Ready? Got your phone?
Me: You have to change.
CJ: (pulling on boots) Baby, who cares.
Me: I'm wearing red.
CJ: Well, I am, too. Deal.
Me: No. I got dressed first. That's the rule. You have to change.
CJ: (zipping up coat) Who. Cares. We're already late.
Me: We can't be those lesbians! Hold on, I hafta change.
CJ: (shouting down the hall) Baby, no one will even notice! It's already 11!
Me: I just need two minutes!
Homos, while being a lesbian is the greatest and best thing ever because you get to date other women and see what their boobs are like and have bathroom sinks free of stubble-hair-dust and never deal with penises, ever...
there are a few things about being a lesbian that still scare the bejezus out of me.
One of those things is Lesbian Bed Death. We've talked about this.
But there's more than one nightmare out there, tricks.
And this one's called The Merge.
In light of this morning's lil' incident, it's become patently clear that this issue needs to be addressed.
Q: But what is The Merge?
A: I'm so glad you asked!
You already know what The Merge is. You've seen it.
The Merge is when two romantically involved lesbians suddenly start to look like one lesbian.
You know what I'm talking about.
You see them everywhere.
Dykes - about the same height, usually about the same body type- who slept together last night, then got up, put on jeans, a button-down shirt, a black North Face fleece jacket, and went to breakfast.
They didn't mean to do it, but they're dressed the same.
They look like one another. A lot like one another.
Half urban myth, half gayass truth.
It's so common among gayelles that we joke about it.
Ew, you match!
Um, did you guys plan that?
Do you know that you're wearing the same outfit, just different colors?
Ha ha, you guys are twins.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT. It scares me to death.
I mean, I get why it happens.
Your girlfriend is adorable.
She looks great in those skinny jeans.
You've never tried a pair, but hey...you guys are about the same size...
One day, you're throwing on your girlfriend's pajama pants to go let the dog out, and the next day, it's 15 years later and you both have matching bowl haircuts and Tevas on your Alaskan whale-watching cruise.
You know, those weird couples in identical windpants with their matching Cubs hats (except hers is pink, 'cause girls can totally like sports, but only if they're feminized!), jogging along with their fucking chocolate lab.
And gay boys do it as well - you see them walking, hand in hand, in the Castro, wearing tight white t-shirts and matching leather jackets, oblivious to anything but how fierce they both look since they've been working out.
But gay girls are the most guilty, and I'm not sure why.
I always picture two dykes holding up mirrors to one another before they leave the house, going:
"No, you're hot."
"Gawd we turn ourselves on."
We all went to middle school.
We all know the best way to form a little special club all our own and make other people feel weird is to privately decide on a specific thing to wear and bond with each other through the fact that we are excluding everybody else by wearing it.
Women copy one another.
When they're 12.
It's like what your mom told you: Flattery's the best compliment, a.k.a. if Jenny Verhaugh is copying you, it's because you are rocking the hell out of that side ponytail.
Too bad it's horrifying when you grow up.