DeAnne Smith Doesn’t Feel Like A Third Wheel In New Comedy Show “Girl on Girl on Girl”

Intro by Jess Salomon

Falling in love and not losing complete track of the people you don’t have sex with can be tricky. Especially in the early days when leaving the bed to go to the bathroom can feel like long-distance. And even when you do make the time for a cardamom almond latte with your BFF (DeAnne loves those!) all you can think to ask her is, “Is it weird that I miss Eman while she sleeps?” Gross.

So here’s what I did, and feel free to do the same because I happen to think it’s a full proof plan: create scenarios where you can all hang out. Preferably doing something productive where your BFF doesn’t feel like a third wheel trying to have an adult conversation with a two-headed monster. No one should have to endure that. I mean, given the choice between trying to have an adult conversation with two 3-year-olds or a couple that’s in love, I’d choose the 3-year-olds every time, and I don’t like kids.

Ok so one cool thing you could do would be to put on a stand up show together at a swanky place like The Duplex in NYC on November 9th, and call it “Girl on Girl on Girl” so it sounds like you are all into each other sexually. But wait, I hear you. What if you don’t all do standup comedy? Well maybe you’re all fire fighters in which case you can coordinate your firefighting so you can put out a fire together. Or maybe you’re all dentists. Perfect. Find a person you can all shame together for not flossing enough. But wait. What if you don’t all have the same career? Your only hope is to all come to “Girl on Girl on Girl” and laugh a lot because one of those relationships isn’t going to last.

But before you do, please enjoy this very lovely conversation between DeAnne Smith — a comedian who I admired on the scene in Montreal, who is now my BFF — and Eman El-Husseini – my now wife who wasn’t even gay before! Guys, I can’t believe this is my life either.

Eman: From what I recall Jess and you met in a forceful way. Your ex-girlfriend invited her to a party when you weren’t even friends.

DeAnne: Yeah, Sarah invited Jess to our going away party as we were getting ready to tour Australia. It was all of our close friends…plus Jess. I was like “I don’t even know that girl! Why did you invite her?” Sarah said “Oh, I thought you were friends.” Turns out Sarah was right, we just didn’t know it yet.

One of the things I loved about Jess immediately, her talkativeness, you used to run away from. How did you go from knowing Jess casually to being interested in her romantically?

E: I think I would have fallen for her a lot sooner if I heard what she said. She talks a lot but with a very low voice and we were always in very loud places so I literally never heard a word she said for two years. But when I did I thought I’d like to be stuck to this person. Like physically, all the time. I wasn’t even attracted to women before. You have heard her all along? How have you NOT fallen in love with her?

D: I fell friendship-in-love with her! But I was always in and completely focused on (I’m choosing not to say “obsessed with” here) my relationships. That’s the main way Jess and I bonded early on– endlessly discussing our girl drama.

E: I feel like Jess has brought out some minor bisexual feelings in you? Do you agree?

D: Well, she DID take me to the first Magic Mike. I had no idea what we were going to see. About ten minutes in I leaned over and whispered “Uh, I kind of like this.”

For real, though, Jess does a lot for bisexual visibility. She’s been talking openly about it on stage for years, when less people were talking about it. I’d like to think we’re all moving beyond labels, but I still think it’s important to have those kind of conversations in comedy clubs.

When did you start addressing being in a same-sex relationship on stage? How did it feel to you?

E: Once we came out about our relationship, which was when we got engaged, I started talking about it. I’ve always talked about what is happening in my life on stage. I feel my stand up is autobiographical and our relationship has so many political and religious aspects it’s like we are a never ending current event. There was a time when I was worried about alienating straight/mainstream and also Arab audiences but the material won out.

Jess and you are proof that gay ladies can be platonic friends. Do you feel like that is rare?

D: A. I feel like it can be. At least without having had some romantic connection first, even if it’s just a crush or one failed date. I don’t know if there are any real stats on that, but I’m gonna go with anecdotal evidence on this one. You’re rare in the way that you don’t come with any ex baggage!

E: I married my first love like the traditional Muslim woman that I am.

But it’s true I really have low tolerance for people. I get annoyed quickly even with people I cherish so being alone was never a problem for me.

D: Remember when we stayed together in Ottawa years ago and talked relationships all night? I was like “How are you so great at being single?” And you were like “How are you ALWAYS in relationships?”

E: I know we are so different with food and relationships. I’m not very patient with people but when it comes to food, I’m very forgiving. I don’t like ramen. But I still keep trying it just to make sure I’m not missing something. With people it’s one strike …

D: We are so opposite.

E: But we have Jess in common.

By the way, what is the secret to having chemistry on stage with Jess?

D: A. Having zero sexual chemistry, I think. There’s very little to interfere with our comedic chemistry!

E: I’ll just have to live with the sexual chemistry!

“Girl on Girl on Girl” is happening on November 9th at The Duplex (61 Christopher St @ 7Th ave) at 9:30pm. Also on the bill is local superstar Sydnee Washington! Tickets are only $10 in advance or $15 at the door plus a 2 drink minimum. We have 5 pairs of tickets to the first 5 people who email us at Jess@JessSalomon.com. Come for the comedy, stay for all the chemistry!

DeAnne Smith and “Playing” it “Cool”

Listen. People are going to try to tell you to play it cool with girls. I’m not about that. I say go the other way. I say play it hot. Don’t be afraid to be the last one to text. Don’t be afraid to be the first one to text. Did you have a great time on that date? Tell her. Don’t wait. Text her while you’re still out with her. Text her before she gets out of the car. Text her before the date. Pre-text. That’ll make a statement. Text her before she even gives you her number; text her before you meet her. Be original. Be bold.

Appear eager. Put effort in. Show up on the first date wearing a t-shirt with a picture of her cat on it. No. Show up wearing a t-shirt with a doctored photo of your cat and her cat, to demonstrate what it might look like if your cats had kittens together. It doesn’t matter that they’re incompatible sexes for that and spayed and/or neutered accordingly. It’s the thought that counts. And the thought is this: Let’s merge. Let’s get together. Let’s mash up our cats. Really cute things could happen if we took some of what you have and some of what I have and jammed it together either in a photographic simulator program or in real life. We could also jam our genitals together and see what that’s like.

Meet her family. Bring her to meet yours. So what if your family lives in another state or in another country? Pack your bags and get on that plane. Don’t waste time. Are you carrying on your bags? Put liquids, aerosols and gels in containers of 100 ml/100 grams/3.4 oz or less. Think of little things to make the trip go smoothly. Have a stash of ginger candies in case she gets motion sick. Let her know you’ve thought of everything. Let her know she can depend on you, whether it’s on earth or at a cruising altitude of 37,000 feet. When you’re up there, be poetic. Say, “Right now, we’re closer to the moon then we’ll ever be” and kiss her. Don’t be afraid to kiss her. Kiss her square on the mouth, like you’re in a ’40s movie and you’ve had enough of flapping your gums, this ain’t a line, she’s got the prettiest peepers you’ve ever seen, she’s the swellest gal you know and dagnabit, you’ve got the hots for her. Kiss her like you mean it. Kiss her like her mouth is the sweet ocean air and your mouth is a dolphin’s moist blow hole and you need this to not be dead.

Go old school. Bring her flowers. Roses are traditional, but they’re also boring. Get creative. Go for tulips, daffodils, irises. The flower, of course, not the circular structure in the eye responsible for its color. That would be inappropriate and gross. Save that. Giving her irises is a huge commitment. Start with tulips. You don’t need to rush this.

But rush this. She’s not going to be there forever. Don’t be afraid to look uncool. Don’t be afraid to look desperate. Don’t be afraid to look afraid. Let her see the fear in your eyes. Let her see you sweat. Let her smell your adrenaline. Can she smell your adrenaline? Tell her to smell your adrenaline. Say, “Smell my adrenaline.” Lift your arm up, angle your armpit into her face, and let her take a whiff. It doesn’t matter if that’s where adrenaline is or if it even technically has a smell. You have a smell. She’s getting to know you on an animal level. This is natural. This is good. You don’t need to be afraid, unless you are afraid, in which case, that’s fine. You’re you. You’re just human. She’s probably afraid now, too. Suddenly you have a lot in common. Relationships are built on that.

Via huffpost.com

But be uncommon. Be different. Don’t be like other people. Be gentle. Be sweet. Be tender. Stroke her hair, the downy hair on her cheek, right at the jawline, with your pinky finger. Better yet, with a feather. Stroke the hair on her cheek with a dainty wren’s feather you found lying majestically on the moss in an old growth forest or next to a half-eaten french fry in the food court at the mall. Whisper sweet nothings to her. Whisper literally nothing. Make it all meaningless silibants: sssssss-sss-sssss-ss-s-sssssss. Right in her ear, right into her brain. Make her whole head tingle. Whisper until your tongue goes numb and then keep whispering. Don’t stop. Don’t give up. Play it hot. You got thissssssssssss.

DeAnne Smith and Taking Off That Bra, Girl

WELCOME TO BRA WEEK! This week and next, the Autostraddle writers and some special guests will be giving you the scoop on over-the-shoulder-boulder-holders and otherwise-inclined chest-covering situations — fashion, history, feelings and so much more.

I’m gonna get that bra off you so fast, girl. What is that, a strapless half-cup padded Princesse Tam Tam? While you’re registering your surprise that I know that, look in my left hand, because here it is. Bam. That’s right, I’m the Florence Griffith-Joyner of bra removal. I do it so fast, people suspect performance-enhancing drugs are involved. They’re not. I’m the cheetah of bra removal, the peregrine falcon, the sailfish. I unhook that shit so fast, I use my spare time between when I do it and when you notice to research the fastest animals on the planet. Did you know sailfish generally keep their characteristic erectile dorsal fins folded down as they race through the water at up to 110 km/h? I’ll tell you what won’t be folded down after your bra comes off, baby: my erectile dorsal fin.

While you were trying to figure out what I meant just now, I redid your bra, undid it, and redid it again. Oh, and I removed the bras of your best friend, sister, and grandma. Your grandma’s dead? Nope, you just haven’t heard from her in a while because she’s been in shock over how quickly I take bras off. Hers had seven hooks. I undid them all, faster than you can say “channeling and underw–”

Oops, too slow. While you were getting that out, I went back in time and took off your bra three days ago.

You’ve heard of nanoseconds, right? How about DeAnne-o-seconds, because that’s how fast I’m freeing your flappers. You don’t call them flappers? Okay. It’s a good thing your kazonga cage is out of the way, then. We’ll have plenty of time to sensitively discuss how you’d like me to refer to your sweet, sweet sweater melons. Chimichangas? Quinoa cupcakes? Small batch bourbon bonbons? It’s up to you, baby.

I’m faster than the speed of the light when it comes to getting those gum drops out of their packaging. I remove your bra so quickly, I put the “yonic” in tachyonic particle. It doesn’t bother me in the least that tachyonic particles are hypothetical, or that most physicists don’t think they exist because they’re not consistent with the known law of physics. I’ll tell you what, most physicists have not yet experienced the thrill of me taking off their bras. I feel sorry for them. Their big bangers need to breathe.

According to researchers, 80-85% of women are in the wrong bra. According to anagrams, 80-85% of women are in the wrong bar. According to me, 80-85% of women are right where I want them: completely astonished at how swiftly and effortlessly I remove their bras. The other 15-20%? They don’t wear bras, because they already know it’s pointless if I’m around.

I’ve got techniques. I do it with one hand. I do it with no hands. I do it with my feet. I do it with my teeth. I do it with the power of my mind. You know how you took off your bra last night, as soon as you walked in the door, snapping the front clasp through your t-shirt, then sliding the straps off your shoulders and arms, pulling it out your sleeve? Yeah, that was me. It was my idea, and I did it with your hands. That’s how good I am.

Like Muhammad Ali says, “It’s not bragging if you can back it up.” I back it up. Now why don’t you back it up and let me at that bra, girl. You’ll be outta that thing faster than I can point out that there’s a huge difference between my goodhearted sexual objectification of your breasts during consensual sex in order to pleasure us both, and the sexual objectification that results from a capitalist, patriarchal, media-dominated culture, which reduces women to parts and denies them autonomy over their sexuality while claiming ownership over their bodies. What I’m saying is: I’ll take off your bra lickety split, babe. Lightning-fast. Don’t blink or you’ll m–

What’s that? You’ve already taken it off?

Well, can you help me with mine then? This clasp is kind of tricky.

Header by Rory Midhani

Feature image via Shutterstock.com

DeAnne Smith and Internet Addiction Quiz

I think I’m addicted to the internet. But it’s not totally my fault. Like a toxic ex that wants to get back together, the Internet is always there, with no real boundaries. It’s full of promise and danger, just waiting. It wants to help me be my best — “Click here to donate to Autostraddle!” — and it’s happy to encourage me to be my worst– “Hey, wanna image search pterodactyl porn instead of meeting that deadline?” You bet I do, Internet. Why would I ever leave you when you give me everything I never knew I always wanted, including the ability to source that phrase to the 1997 Matthew Perry and Salma Hayek rom-com Fools Rush In. Oh, and this picture of Salma Hayek in a suit.

Online quizzes are super pops* these days, so I made one to help you discover whether you’re addicted to the internet, too. Oh and hey, if you’ve recently shared your result to one of Buzzfeed’s quizzes on Facebook, I imagine you were trying to communicate that you’re quirky-cool like Portland or detail-oriented like Prairie Dawn or a hot bolt of human lightning like Kim Deal. I didn’t really get that, though. Instead, I got that you spend too time on the internet. Way too much.

Don’t feel bad about it, though. We all do. Humans are social creatures; of course we like social networks. And our brains are actually wired to get a rush when we’re foraging around for an important new email, Facebook’s red flag of validation, or a picture of a squirrel in a hat.

How good was that? Good, I know. Tell your brain I said you’re welcome.

Now, take this little quiz to find out how addicted to the internet you are. (Note whether you answer mostly As, Bs, or Cs.)

1. When you type “What” into the search bar, Google is most likely to autofill with:

A.) the hell is doge?
B.) are kittens doing right now?
C.) does sunshine feel like?

2. Which category of Facebook status annoys you the most?

A.) Spiritual weirdness. Ex: “~~~*~~~May your Divine Consciousness vibrate peacefully like a perfect ovum within the sacred Earth-Womb of harmonious invisible mystery Mother Love. Namaste~~~*~~~”
B.) Over-the-top couples. Ex: “Can’t wait til Honeymuffin comes home ’cause I need those melty cuddle-wuddles! Only two more sleeps, babez!!! <3 <3 <3”
C.) Anything from Upworthy. Ex: “This man saying facts over some graphic design is going to blow your TINY, UNINFORMED LITTLE MIND. You’ll never see the color blue THE SAME WAY AGAIN because you’ll be genuinely HIPPOSHIT CRAZY and unable to process primary colors without COLLAPSING INTO A BUCKET OF TEARS.”

3. Which acronym best describes your current mood?

A.) ROFLMAO
B.) FML
C.) N (Netflix)

4. Why do you use Twitter?

A.) To keep up with current news and events.
B.) To ironically follow C-list celebrities.
C.) Because I have a desperate desire for external validation that is briefly satiated by retweets. Is there any other reason?

5. What’s your attention span?

A.) Riese’s long reads
B.) 140 characters or less
C.) Look, a slideshow of the “27 Best Gay Beach Wedding Day Dog Photobombs!”

6. Would you say you spend more time online or offline?

A.) My smartphone doesn’t count, right?
B.) Online.
C.) What do you mean “offline?”

7. What is your favorite online game?

A.) Solitaire.
B.) Any MMORPG.
C.) Passive-aggressively “liking” posts on Facebook.

8. Complete this sentence. Within the first minute of waking up I…

A.) Check my social media accounts.
B.) Wonder what that adorable imp Hannah Hart is up to.
C.) Post a bed selfie. #nomakeup #goodmorning #lazy #zzz #needacaffeinefix #someonebringmecoffee #LOL #pillowtime #lonely #reallylonely #cry4help #nobutreallyifeelsoaloneandafraid

Scoring Time! Did you choose mostly As, Bs, or Cs? Who cares? The point is: you’re addicted to the internet. I mean, you’re here now, aren’t you? You’re internetting right now. And you’re probably going to comment. Go on, do it. After all, to paraphrase Lizz Rubin, we’re all alone here together.

*Short for “super popular.” I made it up. And yes, I was super unpops in high school, thanks for asking.

DeAnne Smith and The Life of Luxury

Are you like me? Are you fed up watching celebrities, politicians and socially awkward computer nerds live a life of luxury while you’re home alone in cat-hair-covered sweatpants, trying to convince yourself that no-brand pasta sauce on rice cakes is kinda like bruschetta? Are you jealous of rich people with their designer clothes and private jets and apparent god-like powers to magically shrink everything from dogs to cupcakes to their own noses? Are you tired of feeling poor and left out and like you love your cat so much that you wish you could get real small and have fur and lie next to it and lick it on the head right between its cute widdle pointy widdle ears? That’s exactly how I feel.

Don’t despair, friends. I’ve got a few tips that will transform your ordinary life into a life of extravagance and luxury. (I can’t help you with that cat fantasy, though.) As an internationally-acclaimed, world traveling comedian (borderline unemployed vagrant), I know a thing or two about how to live the sweet life on a budget.

Let’s start with fashion. There are lots of ways to get the hip look you crave without shelling out big money. Only spoiled, unimaginative brats pay $250 for designer ripped jeans. If you’re willing to think outside the box, you can get them for next to nothing. How? Find a guy in designer ripped jeans and steal his pants. Easy! If you’re lucky, you might get punched in the mouth. Celebrities spend big chunks of cash enhancing their lips with surgery, injections and pacts with the Devil. Now, not only do you have new jeans, you also have that plumped up, kiss-me-quick-before-my-lips-explode look as a bonus! Sexy.

If you have to spend money on clothes, shop wisely. The French fashion house Hermès may sell $14,000 bags, but they also sell $200 hair pins. A quick tag switch and you’ve just saved $13,800. Lest you think this unethical, consider these two points: One, some trust fund socialite will buy a $14,000 hair pin without batting an eye, and two, you’ve just stolen a dude’s pants. Is pulling a harmless prank on an overpriced luxury goods retailer really where you’re going to draw the line? I didn’t think so.

Rich people throw fancy-ass parties full of expensive foods like caviar and champagne. Such luxuries are easy to simulate. Caviar, as far as I can tell, is just tiny black blobs. (I’ve never actually seen caviar in real life; I’m basing this on the scene in “Big” when Tom Hanks is as that party with the big buffet.) It’s easy to make tiny black blobs! Cut up some jelly beans or spray paint some ball bearings. No one will know the difference! And champagne? That’s nothing more than bubbly wine! Get some wine, get some sparkling water, mix them together, and voilà.

Using French is also a great way to feel flashy in your everyday life. Bonjour! Je suis la poulet! Je ne sais pas! Simone-Lucie-Ernestine-Marie Bertrand de Beauvoir!

No matter how well you’re economizing, there will be times when you have to spend money on something that doesn’t seem luxurious. If that’s the case, the right attitude can transform an everyday situation into a swank experience. I recently went to the dentist. Sure, I could have gotten grumbly, walking out of there feeling like I wasted good money I could have better spent on, say, food or rent. The way I like to think of it, however, I strolled into the dentist’s office and got top notch service, thanks to my celebrity status. I left the office with a complimentary cleaning, a complimentary check up, complimentary x-rays, and a complimentary moulded mouth guard. All free. Also, while I was there, I chose to pick up a $500 toothbrush. Who do you know that has a $500 toothbrush? I’ll tell you who: Oprah and no one. And now me.

Another great way to live a life of luxury is to indulge in a day spa. If you can’t afford a full day of treatments, you can recreate sumptuous self-indulgence at home. Do you have a sink and a pile of dirt? Of course you do. Add water, and you’ve got yourself a magnificent mineral-rich mud bath. Your life just went from “eh” to “eh-mazing!”

Remember, as you’re cramming yourself into a muddy sink, sipping on watered-down wine, nursing the fat lip you got from a scrap with some pantsless man, there’s absolutely no reason to feel down. Are you crying? That’s okay! Let it out. Tears are wonderfully moisturizing, one of the best-kept secrets of the facial treatment trade. Tears not only hydrate your face, they give you the red-eye look so many jet-setting celebrities tote these days. And you didn’t have to spend thousands of dollars or go to some overpriced exotic location to get it! So what if you don’t have the four-to-five-figure income that everyone around you seems to have achieved so effortlessly? You have something else. You have insider knowledge on how to squeeze the most luxury out of life. And that, my little salted caramel macchiato bon bons*, is priceless.

What are some of your tricks for living a luxurious life?

*probably super expensive

DeAnne Smith and Hot Yoga

I’ve been going to hot yoga for a few months now. I say this because the best part of going to yoga is telling people that I go to yoga. Oh, me? Yeah, I’m on my way to yoga. Subtext: I’m strong and flexible, and better than you. That’s also the main reason I practice Buddhist meditation. Not just to connect to my heart and let go of my ego, but to feel superior to everyone that isn’t practicing Buddhist meditation. That’s right, bitches, I’m doing it. I’m eliminating my ego. That makes me better than you.

If you practice yoga, you already know what a beautiful experience of mind-body connectivity it is. It’s also a really good way of getting flexible enough to put your vagina right up on someone else’s vagina, with very little leg interference. Like this:

Hot, right? I If you don’t already practice yoga, I’ll illuminate the experience for you. Here is a run down of pretty much every yoga class I ever go to:

Shit. Class starts in seven minutes. This is at least a ten minute walk. I’m going to be late. This lady in front of me needs to step up her game. Lady, if you can’t walk fast get the hell off the sidewalk. Yeah, I know it’s icy. But this is real life, not a god damn rehearsal for play called Old Lady Minces Down the Sidewalk. Move move move move move.

That’s it. I’m going to be late. God damn it. They won’t let me in. I should have given myself more time. I’m going to be late. Why do I always do this? Oh, right. Because I’m a horrible person.

Yoga will be good for this, all the thinking and self-recrimination. It will help me relax. Will it help me relax? I want to relax. I want to learn how to go with the flow.

“Go with the flow?” Who am I? I don’t talk that like. I don’t want to talk like that. I don’t even want to think like that. Unless I’m high. Or on a surfboard. Or both.

Oh my god, how immediately would I die if I was high and on a surfboard? So immediately.

Being eaten by sharks would be the worst.

No. You know what would be worse? If the sharks betrayed you emotionally, and then ate you.

Okay, just be cool when you walk into the studio. Maybe you’re late. But be cool. They want calm people at yoga, not neurotic basket cases rushing in off the street. Do sharks give live birth? Also, fix your hair. There’s probably something wrong with your hair.

Am I too late? Are they still letting people in? They’re still letting people in! I timed this perfectly. Maybe I’m not a horrible person.

Oh my god, I’m a horrible person. I can’t deal with this locker room. Where am I supposed to look? Everyone is so hot. Everyone is so hot and so not fully clothed. Just let them be hot, DeAnne. They’re not being hot FOR YOU. Just let them be hot. They’re just super hot hot yoga girls.

Thank god I don’t get visible erections.

I wonder if sharks get erections.

My erections are on the inside.

Starfish are weird.

Don’t be creepy about this, DeAnne. Yes, so people aren’t wearing shirts. This is a changing room. They are changing. We are all adults here. We are all hot, shirtless adult human women. Don’t look at anyone. Don’t make eye contact. Oh god. Okay, maybe don’t look down either, because Jesus Christ, that’s an ass. That is a sweet yoga ass. Oh my god, the things I would…okay, get a hold of yourself. Just relax. Relax. You can do this. Don’t smile. Jesus. Don’t smirk. That’s worse. OH MY GOD. Are you for real biting your lip, like a dude from a sexist 80s movie? Do NOT bite your lip. Whatever you do, do NOT put a finger in your mouth to keep from biting your lip. You are the creepiest person alive. Get out of this changing room. Now.

Okay, in the studio. Here we go. What? Why does the yoga instructor have to be hot, too? Of course she’s hot. That’s the deal. That’s the deal with yoga. She’s hot and she’s going to boss you around for an hour. Try not to be into it. Don’t make this weird.

Wait, she’s going to tell when to breathe? This is bullshit. I breathe when I want to breathe. This is bullshit.

Oh, okay, she has a point. This isn’t actually so bad.

Yeah, I can do this.

No. Nope. This is stupid. Downward dog is not where I “recharge.” This is not where I find my “power center.” I recharge curled up in a plush red papasan chair eating tortilla chips and watching Netflix. That’s my power center. Not in this fucked-up V shape.

My hamstrings are burning. That girl behind me is hot. I’d like to downward dog her.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop being creepy.

Connect to the moment.

How much time have I wasted in life, perving on girls? I have a perfectly good vagina. I don’t need another one in my life. I don’t need to spend so much time thinking about girls, trying to get girls. Why can’t I just stay home with my own vagina? Why can’t I just stay home with my own vagina and a mirror? Just stay home and masturbate. That’s a thing I could do. It makes sense. I like girls. I am one. See, that works. That’s a perfect feedback loop right there.

What’s a feedback loop? It’s an electronic engineering thing. No, it’s a computer science thing. Is it a psychology thing? I should know more than I know.

I mean, I’d need wig. If I were gonna stay home and masturbate. Not just a mirror.

Definitely a wig. At least. And I’d take off my glasses. Maybe I’d wear a dress. That could work.

That would never work.

“Reach beyond your fingertips and look beyond your eyes?” What does that even mean? Am I in a yoga class or have I just dropped acid inside a Tame Impala song?

This is a ridiculous amount of sweat. I know this is hot yoga and everything, but how is there even this much sweat in me? How is this possible? This seems unsafe. Is this normal? Maybe I’m peeing. Am I peeing? How can there be this much sweat in a person? I think it’s pee. It’s pee. It has to be. I’m peeing out of my face.

This feels horrible.

Actually, this feels good. This is cleansing.

This is the worst thing ever. I am peeing out of my face. I’m going to die.

Fine. I get it, girl behind me. You’re super flexible. Oooh, look at your open hip joints! Stop showing off. We’re all going to die.

The yoga instructor’s touching me. She’s right behind me, touching me.

Don’t fart. Don’t fart now. Her face is right there. Don’t fart.

I actually am impressed by those open hip joints, though.

Toppling tree? Let’s do it. I love toppling tree. That person in front of me better not wobble, though. If they wobble, I’ll wobble. Don’t wobble. I’m trying to open up my heart here, asshole. Don’t wobble.

I bet that girl with the open hip joints is amazing in bed.

Bring your mind back to the present, DeAnne. You’re the worst.

Just be. Don’t admonish yourself. Just be.

Okay, telling yourself to be in the present is not the same as being in the present. Just be in the present.

Just be in the present.

Just be in the present.

Sweet! I’m doing it! Yoga’s working! I’m totally in the present! I’m totally at one with this moment, shutting off my overactive mi…oh shit. Never mind.

Whoa, the yoga instructor’s gonna touch me again?

Uh, pretty sure she wants me.

Wait, that was the last pose? Class is over? I did it! Namaste indeed. I recognize the light in you, too! It’s over. It’s over. Yoga can be hell to get through when it’s happening but awesome once it’s over. You just need to stay focused and know that the end is near. In that way, it’s not unlike oral sex when your neck is at an odd angle. Just stay focused. It will be worth it in the end. You can endure this.

Savasana pose. I love this one. Just lie there. Just lie there and feel superior because it’s over and you did it again, you little champ.

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…What?

No! No, I didn’t just fall asleep.

Unrelatedly, what time is it?

Off to the changing room. Oh Jesus, the changing room! Yoga is the best.

So, that’s my experience of yoga. What about you? Are you into it? Am I the only one that puts the nas-tay in namaste? I probably am. I’m a horrible person. But I do yoga. So I’m also better than you.

DeAnne Smith and Um, A Cat

As much as I don’t want to be a lesbian cliché¹, Autostraddle, I’m going to have to talk to you about cats for a minute. Rather, one cat in particular.

She’s napping on my yoga mat as I write this, curled up into an adorable little gray and white ball of pure furriness. I’d like there to be a joke here, or at least some kind of memorable phrasing, but I can’t think about jokes or crafting memorable phrases right now because when this cat is here my life is wholly and totally complete and I don’t need to pander to strangers on the internet for acceptance and validation. All I can think about is her, how cute she is, how much I already love her, how I can love her more, how I can make her love me and almond butter. Almond butter has nothing to do with this situation but it’s pretty much always floating around in the background of my thoughts, like a delicious, delicious, nutritious and protein-y ghost.

“Delicious, delicious, nutritious and protein-y ghost” hardly even makes sense as a concept or visual image² and is probably the most meaningless set of words I’ve ever strung together but I already told you guys, I DON’T CARE ABOUT ANYTHING AT ALL IN THE WORLD EXCEPT THIS CAT AND OUR LOVE RIGHT NOW.

It all started a few weeks ago, when she pawed at my window³. Despite the chilly Montreal air, I started leaving the window open on the off chance she might want to wander in. Once in a while she did, but she’d always get freaked out and bolt. Then, one magical day last week, she came in, rubbed up against me, and didn’t leave.

“She came in, rubbed up against me, and didn’t leave.” I’ve started many a relationship the same way. I think that’s why I love this cat so much. I know what it’s like. I’ve spent a lot of time prowling around girls’ houses, looking underfed and extremely pet-able. When a girl finally relents and opens the window, I dash off. Not so fast, little lady! I’m an independent creature. I’ve got whole streets out here to roam around in. You don’t know me! Maybe I got two, three, ten other houses I go to. I’ll come back when I damn well feel like it. But P.S. if you really love me, you’ll leave the window open and risk all of your stuff being stolen and/or freezing yourself to death. Deal? Oh, and if and when I do come back, get ready for my ass in your face when you least expect it. That’s how I roll.

I’m sure the above paragraph is some kind of poignant metaphor about the ways in which I begin and, perhaps, ultimately doom relationships. If the cat wasn’t here right this minute purring like a widdleteenytinygrumblewumble and embodying everything that is right and good with the universe, maybe I could think clearly enough to more fully draw it out but I can’t because I can’t think about anything except this cat and how now she’s stretched out on the yoga mat like she actually knows how to do yoga

and the fact that “Come to my Window” is now stuck in my head and that I wouldn’t put it past Melissa Etheridge to presciently write a song about me and this cat 19 years before our love manifested because no doubt she has secret lesbian powers and as much as I’m a lesbian cliché, Melissa Etheridge is cliché O.G. but it doesn’t matter because once upon a time she gave us and all of humanity this amazing video with an insane Juliette Lewis scrawling on the walls

being hot and intense and kinda scary which I, for one, am totally into and what does that say about me and the kind of chicks I’m attracted to and even though I love this cat can I really commit to it and give it the love and attention it deserves or as soon as it’s coming around regularly will I feel like wait a minute, I’m pretty screwed up and if this cat wants to hang around me, there must be something really wrong with it and I could probably do better, and is buying all this cat food and kitty litter just another example of me putting someone else’s needs above my own and how much sacrificing of time and energy and resources is necessary in a healthy relationship and does it even feel like a “sacrifice” if it’s meant to be and what if I get bored ’cause I usually get bored and hey, that other kitten I’ve had my eye on is pretty cute and I’m more comfortable with instability anyway than a solid, predictable thing I can rely on and maybe I should see if I can entice that kitten to start crawling in my window because that would be a fun challenge and if I succeed in snagging that kitten I’m probably actually really a loveable human and how about the fact that I’m writing all of this on a borrowed laptop, because a few days ago the cat spilled a full mug of coffee on mine but I hardly even cared because within 20 minutes of the cat spilling coffee on my laptop, I was already Googling cat towers on my phone and am I in a codependent relationship with this cat or does actual love feel that way sometimes and what ever happened to Melissa Etheridge’s ex with that strangely compelling but totally nuts blog and oh my gosh how good is almond butter and when can I eat it again and what am I gonna put it on. Probably toast. Yeah, definitely toast.

So I’m sorry to be cliché, Autostraddle, but I just had to talk to you about cats for a minute. Well, one cat in particular.

How about you? Have you ever felt the same way about, um, a cat?

¹ But who am I kidding? I’m a gluten-free, vegan, sideways haircut-having, flannel-wearing, bowtie-rocking, hummus-loving, feelings-processing, ukulele-playing queer currently looking at copies of “Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom,” and “The Women’s Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets” on my bookshelf. The only way I could be more cliché would be if I had poor boundaries with my ex and was wearing a pair of her underwear right now. Which, um, I’m so totally not or anything. …What?

² Also “visual image” is totally redundant. As is this aside.

³ I live in a semi-basement apartment so my windows are sidewalk-level. Upsides include cats pawing at my windows and relatively cheap rent. Downsides include everything else. (Unless you hate direct sunlight and love dead lily plants, in which case my semi-basement apartment is all upsides!)

DeAnne Smith and the Sweet, Sweet Sleep

Good morning, Autostrudels!

I’m writing you from my kitchen table (orange, kick-ass and vintage ’50s, thanks for asking), drinking coffee, shaking off dreams, and wiping sleep from my still-tiny eyes. It’s twelve thirty p.m.

Yeah, that’s right. I’m a night owl. And I’m tired of being ashamed of it!^* It’s a good thing. Waking up at noon is just one of the many perks of being self-employed, working mostly at night, and not having too much pesky ambition. Oh yeah, and it also means I’m smart! Night owls tend to have higher IQs. People with higher IQs also tend to drink more. That’s not really relevant, but I wanted to let you know that if you, like me, woke up hungover at noon last Wednesday, it’s not because you’re lazy and self-indulgent. It’s because you’re a genius! A freaking genius!

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“Society” at “large” tends to view night owls as lazy, indolent, slothful, shiftless, negligent, slack, lax, lackadaisical and far too reliant on online thesauruses. There’s that saying: “The early bird gets the worm.” And yeah, I get it. The early bird probably does get the worm. But so does the midnight tequila drinker. I’m just saying, there are more fun ways of getting worms, if worms are what you’re after. You can probably also go to one of those gas stations/bait shops along rural highways and pick up a styrofoam container of worms for, like, $3.99. Or you could mail order worms here. Or you could look deep into yourself and question why you have such an irrational and insatiable need for worms in the first place.**

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To say I’m not a morning person would be understating it. I flat out refuse to do anything in the single digits. What’s that, hotel I’m staying in? There’s free breakfast from 7 to 10 a.m.? I’m sorry, I stopped listening as soon as your mouth started shaping the first syllable of “seven.” You might as well tell me free breakfast is served between the 16th and 17th centuries***, because it’s just as likely I’ll turn up there.

If I have to be up in the single digits, I react to morning like I’m visiting a foreign land. I stumble around lost and fascinated, completely perplexed by things morning natives take for granted. This is interesting, all this breakfast and achievement. And what’s this called again? “Early morning sunlight?” No, I’ve never seen that before. I had no idea it could do that. The light I’m most familiar with is the glow of Gawker on my computer at 2 a.m. Painters don’t tend to depict that one quite as often.

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I may have inherited night owlness from my mom (orange, kick-ass and vintage ’50s, thanks for asking). And with my nocturnal ways, comes a love of sleep so pure it rivals Tim Tebow. (That’s a virgin joke, you guys.) I get psyched when it’s time to go to bed. I suit up. I get into my jams, chuck in my mouth guard****, pop in some ear plugs, pull down my eye mask and sleep like it’s a sport and I’m about to win. If I could sleep competitively, I would. As it is, sometimes I wake up shouting, “In your FACE, suckers!” to no one in particular.

Maybe one of the reasons I love sleeping in so much is my t-shirt sheets. Do you have t-shirt sheets? The answers are either “Yes, of course” or “No, I haven’t yet figured out how to life a full and amazing life.” T-shirt sheets are the best. The only way t-shirt sheets could be more comforting is if they whispered, “You’re making the right choices in life.” When I hit the snooze alarm, it feels like they do.

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There is nothing like the feeling of hitting that snooze alarm in the morning. There’s also probably nothing like the feeling of owning your own home, but only one of these things I can immediately accomplish. I can’t get a mortgage together, but I can get nine more minutes of glorious sleep. I don’t mind. I’ll own real estate in my dreams. For nine more minutes, I’m living in a pancake castle with mom and that guy from the Old Spice commercials who’s also kinda my mom. It’s weird, but I like it.

What’s your deal, Autostrudels? Are you night owls, morning larks, or somewhere in between? Let’s fight it out in the comment thread!

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* Actually, I’ve never really been ashamed of it. Except when I realize the comments I leave on my high school friends’ Facebook photos are time-stamped 3:42 a.m. Yeah, congratulations on your Ph.D. and new baby. I’m also doing super important stuff.

** Unless it’s for vermicomposting, which makes you sound kind of hot and German, and is also a good topic to kick off a conversation with that cute girl selling gluten free, organic quinoa brownies at your local farmer’s market. “Those brownies look so rich and moist. Much like my vermicompost.” THEN YOU MAKE OUT.

*** If I was going to the 16th and 17th centuries, I’d totally make friends with kick-ass Italian painter Artemisia Gentileschi. Don’t know who she is? Not a problem; that’s what the internet is for! Especially if you have work to do that you’re procrastinating by reading Autostraddle. Procrastinate the procrastination by getting to know Artemesia. Also, you’re welcome for your new cat’s name.

**** My dentist told me the mouth guard would “cut down on the night time grinding.” It was all I could do not to elbow him in the rib, wink, and say, “Heh, in more ways than one, doc.”

DeAnne Smith and That Pesky Time Thing

Hey, Autostraddlers, what’s up? I’ve missed you. I really have. I actually meant to have written this for you a few weeks ago, but you should know something about me. I’m late, Autostraddlers. I’m the type of person who is always late. My friends know this. My family knows this. The guy at library returns counter knows this. Whether it’s self-imposed deadlines, dinner dates or my menstrual cycle¹, you can count on me to be at least five minutes to weeks late.

The worst part is, I never have any real excuse for it. Sometimes I wish I was ethnic just so I could claim to be on “Mexican time,” or “Indian time,” or “Jamaican time.” That makes it sound cool. Every non-white friend I have uses their ethnicity as an excuse for being late. If only being on “white time” was a thing. That would be amazing. “Gee willikers, I’m sorry I’m late! I must be on white people time. You know, I’m just so busy…buying organic produce and inadvertently oppressing other cultures. It’s a jam-packed day! I’ve got to turn a blind eye to third world genocide later. My my, it’s a big day being white!” Nope. It doesn’t quite work.

(Before you get all poclitical² on me, Autostraddle, I’m not saying that all white people are like that. Some of us are. The only sweeping generalization I’m comfortable making about white people is that, for some reason, we all go mental for Toblerone. I don’t know what it is about chocolatey nougat in the shape of a triangle, but we love that shit. Also, I’m not saying that I really want to be ethnic. I like being white just fine, what with all the opportunities, representation in the media, and the never getting-arrested-for-no-reason. It’s a pretty sweet deal, overall.)

Now, some of you may be thinking that I already have a built-in excuse for being late. I can just claim to be on “lesbian time,” right? The problem is, I’ve never really understood the concept of “lesbian time.” What is it? Are we late because we’re too busy going down on each other? Are we late because it seemed to take us until the debut of  The L Word to realize we were allowed to wear things other than ill-fitting corduroy and vegan sandals? Are we late because we’re spending too much time doing the journaling exercises presented in the self-help classic CoDependent No More? (Okay, maybe that last one is just me.)

Usually I’m late because I’ve slept in. I’ve been known to set my alarm to go off ten minutes before I have to be somewhere, completely and utterly forgetting about the concept of “travel time.” “I have to be there at eight,” I think. “I’ll leave at eight!”

Why can't we ALL be Time Traveling Lesbians

A few things happen when I realize I’m going to be late. First, there is the rapid shedding of morning routine. I start thinking, “I don’t need breakfast; I can grab something in transit. Showering? That’s for divas. Sure, I’m in a pajama shirt, but it’s almost like a regular t-shirt a person would wear in life. I could be that person. I am that person! So what if my hair’s sticking up? People have hair like this. I’ll tie my shoes in the elevator. Teeth-brushing? Please! I’ll chuck some gum in there. Pants? They’re half way up, man! I’ll do the rest outside. Hey, this creased sheet print on my cheek actually looks kind of cool.”

Then, a series of physics-defying rationalizations goes through my head. “Okay, so if there’s no traffic and no red lights, I can make this on time. Yeah, I just have to hurry, and I can totally make it. If there’s no traffic, no red lights, and I roll out of the cab while it’s still moving, I’ll be there on time. Yes. This is totally do-able, especially if the space-time continuum collapses. Or if there’s a traversable worm hole. For sure. I’ll totally be on time. I’ll just slip through the worm hole. Perfect plan. Maybe I’ll just be ten minutes late. What’s a mere fifteen minutes? It’s not a big deal. Who gets upset about twenty little minutes? It’ll be fine.”

also late for a very important date

What is time anyway? I mean, how can I be late, if it’s always just the time it is. It’s the time it is, and I’m where I am. I’m here now, and that should be enough. Seriously, are you going to be mad at me for showing up ten minutes late? Look at me, I’m helpless and adorable! You should be relieved I showed up at all. I know I am.

Go ahead, ask me why I'm late. via noahware.blogspot.com

How do I continually get away with this ridiculous behavior? Well, I’ve learned some tricks. The key to being late is to act slightly annoyed and frantic when you arrive. Show up sweating, looking a bit disheveled. Bonus points if you’re missing half a collar, with a twig or two stuck in your hair. What you need to do is subtly suggest to everyone already there, that your life is more hectic than their lives. Yeah yeah, they were on time, but only because they don’t have to deal with the huge and important things you have to deal with. The goal is to prevent anyone from asking you why you’re late. You need to have an attitude that stops the inquiry before it even starts. The question on people’s minds shouldn’t be, “Why are you late?”, the question should suddenly be, “Hey, why did we schedule this thing so god damn early? That was inconvenient!”

A friend once told me that being habitually late is a way to compensate for a fear of abandonment. I guess the idea is that when you’re late, you can guarantee that the other person will already be there. You don’t have to wait for anyone. You don’t have to confront your fear of being alone. It sounded like a bunch of ridiculous, psycho-babble mumbo jumbo to me. But I let her keep telling me about it anyway, because I didn’t want her to leave.

That reminds me, I should get going. I probably won’t ever get to the bottom of my problem with being late. I’ve actually got a thing to go to now, and I’m running early. Check that out! I have seven whole minutes before I need to be out the door, and I’m all ready to go. Hey, I think now’s a perfect time for me to rearrange all my books alphabetically by genre, sub-genre, and major theme. This is great! I’ve got heaps of time. I think I’ll start up that worm compost bin. Maybe I’ll hem these pants. I know! I’ll make stew!

kstew

¹ OMG J/K LOL!! One of the best parts of doing it with chicks is never having to worry about bringing unwanted, un-planned-for humans onto the planet. AM I RITE, LAYDEES?!

² I just invented this term for “political lesbian.” Poclitical. I think it works. Let’s keep it.

DeAnne Smith and The Hook Up

Hey Autostraddle, I thought we should talk about true and everlasting love. Oops, I mean random hook ups. As an overly emotional queer, I sometimes get those two things mixed up.

So, do you guys do the random hook up thing? Do you pick chicks up and go home with them? I don’t. I’m not good at it. Despite what you may think about my awesomeness, I don’t have enough confidence to just stroll up to chicks and make it happen. (Maybe part of my problem is that I think of it as “strolling up to chicks and making it happen.”) Usually, if I see someone I like, what I’ll do is, I’ll use my awkward charm to slowly make her love me over the course of many weeks. Then, only after I’m certain she really likes me, will I make my move. Later, after I’m sure she really really likes me, I’ll freak out and become emotionally unavailable. Hello, ladies!

A few weeks ago, though, I found myself feeling unusually confident and in the mood to hook up. It probably helped that I was actively looking for distractions and wearing a very dapper vest. I was ready to try something new, not to be such a lesbian with a million feelings about everything. I just wanted to have some meaningless sex with a pretty stranger.

I’ll cut to the chase here. I ended up back at a girl’s place at 4:00 a.m. Despite the fact that random hook ups are not my forte¹, I was pretty sure it was on. People only go back to each others’ houses at 4:00 in the morning if there’s going to be sex, right? Of course, it was also possible it could just end in frustrating lesbian foreplay. You know what I mean, just hours of drinking tea, reading tarot cards, and learning each other’s moon signs. I was hoping for sex.

Via emmy-caroline.tumblr.com

She started clearing stuff out of her bed, which I took as a good sign. At the time, I conveniently overlooked the fact that she had to clear stuff out of her bed at all. Who keeps stuff in their bed? I mean, I do². But I wouldn’t want to hook up with me.

She came out of the bedroom holding a hammer. Because I’m a comic, I said, “Are you threatening me with a hammer? I hardly even know you and it looks like you’re threatening me with a hammer.” She laughed, and I mentally gave myself a point for being funny and charming. “That worked,” I thought. “I’m gonna take this joke to the next level.” I went into the kitchen to get a knife.

The thing is, guys, because it was a joke, I couldn’t just get a regular knife. I had to pick out the biggest, scariest-looking knife in the kitchen, because that knife is the funniest knife. The regular knife or the steak knife, those knives aren’t punchlines. Those knives are non-committal knives. I don’t know a lot about prop comedy, but I know this. So, I came back into the hallway, gripping a gigantic knife. Then, I stared menacingly at the girl.

Now, in my mind (and maybe I should mention that I was high), I thought it would be hilarious. I think my best case scenario was that she’d see the knife and be like, “Are you threatening me with a knife?” and then we’d laugh and make out and get married. I’m not really sure how these things work, but I thought it was going somewhere good. The problem is, she didn’t see the knife at first. Ten seconds went by, then twenty, then thirty, then forty, and I very quickly switched from being a cute and funny potential one night stand to a genuine creep, standing in a pretty girl’s hallway, staring at her and holding a knife.

“Um so…I was trying to make a joke,” I confessed in a small voice, indicating the knife. “Because of the hammer, so I got a knife, and…” It was a humiliating to have to explain the so-called joke. In an instant, I lost any of the cool I thought I had. I was a weirdo, and we were totally not on the same wavelength at all. She was probably going to kick me out. No, she was probably going to call the police. I was going to jail. I was definitely going to jail. I was going to rot away in a cold and lonely cell for the rest of my life, forced to eat all sorts of extremely non-vegan food and play cards with women called “Barb” and “Rats.”

But then she said, “Oh, that’s funny! You know what would be funnier, though? You should throw the knife.”

via plastikitty.com

Guys, I’m going to share something with you. Now, I don’t think this is necessarily a good thing, and I’m not proud of it, but it’s true. If a pretty girl tells me to do something, I do it. If the pretty girl seems slightly crazy, or impulsive, I’m that much more into it. (It’s all I can do right now not to make a Lindsay Lohan reference.) The second she told me to throw the knife, it’s as though there was a little chihuahua in my brain, desperate to prove itself a big dog, jumping up and down, going, “Yeah, I’ll throw the knife. You want me to throw the knife? I can throw a knife. I love throwing knives. All I do is throw knives. I don’t give a shit. I’ve already proven myself to be the type of person who brings a knife to a hammer fight. You want me to throw the knife? I will throw the knife.”

And I did. I squeezed the handle, raised my arm, and plunged that fucker directly into the wooden floor. It was beautiful. It was like I’d been throwing knives my whole life. When it stuck, the handle moved back and forth, mesmerizing us both. If it could have made a noise it would have sounded like “boing-oing-oing” or maybe a softly whispered “Someone’s getting laid tonight.” Time stopped. Worlds collided. She looked at the handle, I looked at the handle, and we fell in love.

Or at least I thought we did. I mean, I don’t know if you guys are into, like, “boundaries” in your relationships or whatever, but the fact that we had gone to her house for some kind of a one night stand and we were now throwing knives in the house was amazing to me. Here was someone equally impulsive, willing to take ridiculous risks and with a similarly warped sense of humor. In my hazy 4 a.m. mind, I thought for a minute she might be my actual soulmate. It was love at first knife.

Now, I don’t have enough time to let you in on my entire thought process in the course of this evening, but trust that I want to, Autostraddle. I’m a lesbian, and a particularly wordy one at that. I feel like I’m letting you down somehow if I don’t at least attempt to articulate every nuance of every thought of every feeling I’ve ever had about everything. But let’s just say, after this knife-throwing incident, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. There was a moment when my coolness was in jeopardy, but not now. Here I was, a super cool and dangerous somewhat mysterious stranger planning my next incredibly smooth move. What could possibly go wrong?

Um. A lot, it turns out.

See, she forgot that we had left the knife there (despite the fact that we kept walking by it, like, “Oh, that was so funny!”) and later went running down the hallway (I’d like to think because she was so eager to get to the sex part of the night with me). She kicked the knife, almost lost a huge chunk of her big toe, fractured the bone and ended up needing five stitches. The night went from sexy to CSI scene in an instant.

Despite my best intentions, I aimed for a one night stand and ended up with another meaningful lesbian connection. I thought I was in the mood to have some insignificant sex, but what I got instead was trauma-bonding and a trip to the ER that lasted until 9 a.m.

Actually, I recommend it. Next time you want to hook up with a girl, if you think you might really like her, try stabbing her in the foot. If you can still get her number after that, you’re on to something. And the next thing you know, you’ll be learning each other’s moon signs.

I’ll invite you guys to the wedding.

¹ I attempted one in 1999. Instead of a one night stand, we had an on-going, long-distance affair-type thing for nearly two years.

² Mostly balled-up little sock bombs, pajama pants, and books. Oh, and if I have my period, a box of tissues and cookie crumbs.

DeAnne Smith and The Feelings

Hey, Autostrudels, I want to get real with you. I think you’re pretty awesome.

I know you think I’m pretty awesome, too. And I am. Usually. But sometimes, I am also just a woman in her thirties sitting alone on a pudding-stained couch Googling “commitment phobia.” That doesn’t always feel awesome. Except for the eating-the-pudding part. That’s always awesome, even if sometimes my enthusiasm for it ruins the couch.*

I’ve been going through some shit, Autostraddle. It’s been an intense little while, for all kinds of reasons, both personal and political. Wait. I’m sorry. I said I wanted to get real with you, and I’m not being real right now. It’s really only been an intense little while for personal reasons, but I don’t want to sound shallow and self-focused. I mean, there’s a lot going on in the world at the moment! Why should I be so obsessed with my own tiny piece of it? Big things are afoot. Wall Street is being occupied, Lindsay Lohan is in handcuffs, and Libya…well…something huge is happening there.

Listen, I feel really guilty for not knowing more about what’s going on with Libya. The sad fact of my life is that I would know a heck of a lot more about Libya if I had slept with Libya, or wanted to sleep with Libya. If Libya had a Facebook page and was a cute girl I was interested in, I’d be all over it. I’d know Libya’s astrological sign and former high school, and whether or not Libya had recently posted on the pages of any of the friends we have in common. “Libya commented on Gadhafi’s post on Dictatorship’s wall: “Oh no U di’nt!” (Um, I think I ended up implying in that increasingly confusing metaphor that I would be Facebook friends with Gadhafi and Dictatorship. I so wouldn’t, you guys. You know what I mean.)

Anyway, “things” have been “crazy.” (I’m trying really hard here to make you feel included in my life, yet not give you too many personal details. It’s a fine line, Internet. An extremely fine line. Perhaps even finer than Bruce Willis’s fine line in the Fifth Element: “Look lady, I only speak two languages. English and bad English.”) And although my uncharacteristic urge to re-watch the stylish but ultimately senseless Fifth Element should have been a clue (Mmm Milla Jovovich), I didn’t realize just how emotionally overwhelmed I actually had been until I was at my friend PK’s house.

via themetapicture.com

PK was talking to me about a date she had been on when I felt myself getting teary. Nothing was immediately wrong. In fact, things were really right. We had just eaten Thanksgiving dinner, I’d spent twenty minutes thumb-wrestling a 7-year-old and we were getting ready to watch comedy, which is my favorite thing in the universe. So why was I about to cry? I mean, sure, that 7-year-old kicked my butt (damn those tiny, wily thumbs!) and Thanksgiving is a holiday that pretends to be about pie and friendship but is basically a holiday shamelessly celebrating genocide and American imperialist lies, but that wasn’t it.

“If you keep talking, I’m going to cry,” I announced to PK, as calmly and rationally as I could, in a tone that suggested we needed to defuse a bomb. I didn’t know exactly why I was about to cry, but I knew that silence was the key to me not crying. If PK could just stop talking, maybe I wouldn’t cry. If time could stop for, like, three seconds, maybe I wouldn’t cry. If I could stop thinking and if everything would just be quiet for a minute, maybe…

But PK didn’t stop talking. Instead, she said, “That’s okay. Go ahead. Cry.” (Because PK is great and a really good person to cry in front of, which you’d figure out for yourself if you read her blog.)

And holy shit, Autostraddle, cry I did! I cried and cried and cried. I cried like a tween who’s just been told that Glee’s been cancelled. I cried like that 3-year-old who’s obsessed with Justin Bieber. I cried like I was slicing an onion, listening to a mash-up of Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” and Ani Difranco’s “Grey” while watching a thin, lonely polar bear drifting away on an iceberg, eating my last pudding cup.

“It’s okay,” PK said. “It’s okay to cry.”

Um, I’m sorry, what? It’s okay to cry? Is it okay to cry?! BUT I’M A COMEDIAN! THIS FEELS WEIRD! WHY IS IT RAINING FROM MY FACE? I DON’T LIKE WEATHER COMING OUT MY EYES.

I’d like to think “It’s okay to cry” won’t be news to most of you. But it was kinda news to me, so that why I’m sharing. (I’m also sharing because I’m a lesbian and that’s what we do, right? We share, especially when it’s our feelings, quinoa recipes, or yeast infections.) It’s not only okay to cry, apparently it turns out that it’s so okay to cry, there’s an entire vintage ’70s children’s song about it, complete with unflattering camera angles, fake guitar-playing, and a montage of sad adults.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go drink some water. Or, as I like to call it, tear juice. It’s okay to cry!

*Worth it

DeAnne Smith and The Dating Game

[featured image via SFBC “Love on Wheels”]

Hi guys! I know it’s been a while. I’ve been thinking about you a lot though, Autostrudel, and I’ve done a couple of cool things for you while I was away. One, I kind of kick-started this blog and two, I made plans to COME TO YOUR NORTH AMERICAN TOWN* really soon. Maybe even the day you’re reading this. So I hope we’re still cool and stuff and you forgive me my silence these past couple of months.

I thought I’d do something else for you lesmos. I’ve gathered from the kind of questions you leave for folks on the Tumblr and the Formspring and the whatnot, that there’s a lot of confusion in the world of girl-centric dating. I figured, well, since I’m such an expert at all things love and relationship related (Sarcasm!), I should share some of that wisdom with the less fortunate. Since I am such an experienced dater (Read: I dive head-first into serial monogamy with the first person to show the faintest interest in me), I figured it would only be right for me to impart some of the knowledge I’ve gleaned over the years.

I mean, since I am so awesome at negotiating that tender first-kiss moment (I once actually said this exact thing to someone before rushing out of their car: “Um, yeah, so I guess this is the time where, like, we would have our first kiss. I’m pretty sure I just ruined it, though, by saying that, so I won’t kiss you this time, now, but next time definitely. So, yeah, I hope we have a second date. I will kiss you on that one for sure. Okay. Bye.”), I am going to help you queers get your date on.

The first step is knowing whether or not you are actually on a date. For me, this is the hardest part. If someone asks me to do something and that someone is cute, I am almost never sure if it’s a friend-date or a date-date. I’m never sure if when someone uses the word “date,” they just mean “date” or they mean “date-date” or they mean “date-date-date” or they mean the edible sweet fruit of the date palm. (Mmm…)

which one best describes your situation?

I don’t know about you, but when someone asks me out, this inner monologue is immediately triggered:

Whoa, did she just ask me out? I think she did. I mean, that was flirting. Right? She touched me a lot. Still, maybe it’s not a real date, but a thing that we’re doing as friends. Some people are just touchy. I should do more push-ups. Maybe she was just being friendly. Why are my arms so skinny? People can be friendly. Fuck, she’s so cute. Am I getting enough iron? Cute people can be friendly. OH MY GOD, does she want to kiss me? I need a new wardrobe. Why have I never done push-ups? I should own suspenders. Is it too late to completely change the shape of my arms? How does a person make English language talk with a human girl? God, I hope there’s kissing.

I try to remind myself not to panic. Panicking never helps. Dating is not unlike untangling a harness. It can be frustrating, confusing, and sometimes ego-crushing, but it’s almost always worth it in the end. “In the end,” if you know what I mean! (No, guys. Don’t encourage that sort of thing. Seriously, guys. Grow up.)

If you and your lady have made a plan old school style (i.e. without the help of OK Cupid), I’ve compiled some handy questions you can use to help clarify whether or not your plan qualifies as a date.

1. What exactly was said?

“Let’s go to the screen-printing workshop Thursday at 9:30” is a heck of a lot more promising than “Maybe we’ll run into each other at the party.” The higher the number of specific details pre-date, the better. A super high number of specific details pre-date, especially if those details involve lube preferences and safe words, probably mean you are negotiating an S&M play date. Please see another article.

2. Where are you going?

Places in which queer lesbian gay people naturally congregate, i.e., open mics, farmer’s markets, soccer games and in front of television sets displaying The Real L-word, do not the best date destinations make. Avoid embarrassing assumptions by making sure that you and cute-girl-of-your-choice have not simply bumped into each other by chance. Few people are open to make-out sessions at the end of an organic pepper purchase. (But those that are: Total keepers!)

Dinner usually spells real date, especially if she pays for yours or lets you pay for hers. But is dinner attended by her housemates while they argue over whose turn it is to empty the cat litter? Could dinner best be described by a combination of the words “pot” and “luck”? If you answer yes to either of these questions, it’s probably not a date. If you can answer yes to both of them, it’s most definitely not a date. Also, you might be living in the ’70s.

not a date

3. What’s she wearing?

If one of you puts on perfume, it counts as a date. The same goes for changing from your usual faded jeans to the good faded jeans or otherwise getting fancied up, whatever that means in your world. (In my world, it means using a cleaning cloth to get smudges off my glasses. Ooo, dapper!) Putting in extra gel, putting on extra lipstick, or packing an extra-firm dildo are all tell-tale date signs.

A fleece vest could mean it’s a date if —and only if—you’re within ten feet of a maple tree. And one of you is Canadian. And you intend to tap the tree. And lick fresh syrup from each other’s flesh. Slowly. Real slowly. No, slower. Yeeeeah, that’s it.

4. Is there physical contact?

Brushing hands, arms, and thighs are all good signs. Unless one of you is in a WNBA uniform. (See: 3. What’s she wearing?)

Okay! Are you feeling ready to test your date-assessing skills? Decipher the following scenario, plucked from my very own real life:

I’m dressed up (smudge-free glasses!) in a popular coffee shop in the gay district with a cute girl who I knew would be there. She’s clearly made an effort in the appearance department, wearing a crisp button-up shirt and black pants. The cute girl makes eye contact, smiles and seems very interested in what I’m about to say.

So, what do you think, Autostrudels? Is it a genuine date?

NOPE! I’m stalking the coffee shop girl. (Or, as I like to think of it, “dating” her for four months now, taking it pretty slowly…)

Best of luck out there, lovers!

BEST.DATE.EVER.

*If your town is Ottawa, Toronto, New York freakin’ City, Boston, or Burlington. Would you like more details? Find all relevant details here!

DeAnne Smith and the Truth About the Beach

Summer is almost upon us and I’ve recently discovered something about myself, Autostraddlers. It’s not easy for me to tell you this. I fear that once it’s out, you won’t like me as much as you do right now. You certainly won’t admire me. It’s possible that I’ll lose what respect you might have for me. Are you ready? Take a deep breath, everyone.

I’m kind of attracted to Scotty McCreery from American Idol.

But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. (And anyway, it’s not my fault “Scotty the hottie” has recently come into my world and made it all adorable and dreamy. Blame TV. Blame his bass voice. Blame my penchant for the perfect, predictable and wholesome rhymes of contemporary country music.) What I wanted to tell you is that I’ve discovered (or rather learned to accept) that, despite the fact that I’d really like to be, I am not a beach person. It’s a painful realization.

It was on the way to the beach, as I found myself worrying about whether or not I had enough sunscreen and/or whether or not the sunscreen I had was mild enough that it wouldn’t irritate my skin and/or whether or not I had packed enough snacks and/or whether or not I could refill my water bottle and/or whether or not there would be sufficient shade and/or whether or not I would want an extra towel so that I’d have one to dry off on and one to lay on, that I had to admit to myself that I am not a laid-back, beachy type of person. I’d like to think I am, but I’m not. How could I be? I don’t even own a pair of sunglasses. When it’s sunny, what I do is, I take off my regular glasses, then I squint and occasionally complain.

I like the beach (I really do!) but I’m not good at it. I do not enjoy being hot. I do not enjoy getting sunburn. I do not enjoy the feeling of sand in any of my many orifices. I do not enjoy being tossed around by large waves, or seeing old men in Speedos, or worrying about crabs. What I do enjoy is reading in the shade, and that’s how I end up spending most of my time at the beach. Truthfully, I could put an ocean sounds CD on in a library and have pretty much the same day I’d have at the beach¹, including the worrying about crabs.

Beach people, by nature, are easy-going. No one has ever referred to me as “easy-going.” Not once have I been leaning back, smoking a joint, listening to some classic Steve Miller Band and thinking, “Yeah, man. I relate to this shit.” Never in my life have I played frisbee or fallen asleep in a hammock or had the inclination to utter, “s’all good.” When plans change, I don’t just smile and go with the flow, what I do is, I take off my regular glasses, then I squint and occasionally complain.

Adjectives people have used to describe me are “anxious” and “moody” and “neurotic.” But so what? Those are fun qualities to have at the beach, aren’t they? Sure they are, if you like being at the beach and thinking about rip tides, skin cancer, the painful stings of box jellyfish, and the long term negative effects of oil spills on fragile marine ecosystems. That’s fun, right? Just don’t forget the 50+ sunblock and the huge beach umbrella. Have I mentioned that I burn easily? Because I do. Half an hour in the sun and I’m more burned than Tegan and Sara songs on a young lesbian’s mix CD.

The one thing I can get down with about the beach is what it does to my hair, and since most of what I worry about in life is the state of my hair², it’s a welcome perk. My hair responds well to that magical saltwater/seabreeze combo. After a day at the beach, my hair has the look of hair that’s on the head of someone who’s recently had amazingly satisfying sex. Great sex. Sexy sex. It’s all tousled and unruly yet invitingly soft. Actually, after a day at the beach, I look exactly like this:

Should I apologize for introducing you to sexy lesbian Lincoln? I don’t want to. I’m not sorry.

I’d love to be the gal that slaps on a tank top and flip-flops down to the shore, body board balancing atop tan and muscular shoulder. Unfortunately, that is not who I am. I only wear tank tops indoors, flip-flops hurt my sensitive widdle toes, I’ve never body boarded in my life and my shoulders are pale and poky, like anemic triangles or Kristen Stewart’s ears. Years ago, I would have felt like admitting all this was limiting. Today, I feel like it’s liberating. Do you hear that, world? I am not a beach person!

Oh god. I hope you still like me.

But if you don’t, I suppose I can always seek solace in the rich honeyed tones of Scottie the hottie.

¹Minus, of course, the peepin’ on bikini-clad girls. But plus the peepin’ on cardigan-clad girls, so it all evens out.

²All of my worries in life can be broken down accordingly: 62% Is my hair okay? 12% World hunger 10% Spiders 7% Is there dairy in that? 5% Do they like me? 3% U.S. red states 1% My own mortality

DeAnne Smith and That Airy Fairy Stuff

You know the feeling when you’re feeling a lot of feelings, feeling kind of overwhelmed by your feelings? I had that feeling recently. The feeling was compounded by the fact that I misplaced my feelings journal, which meant that I had no official place to write about my feelings, thus making it more difficult for me to really ascertain that I was indeed feeling what I thought I was feeling. I also started feeling weird about even having a feelings journal, feeling like a grotesque, overgrown version of my 13-year-old self. But then I remembered that if I didn’t have a feelings journal, I’d have no place to put my sparkly lion stickers. That’s not a good feeling. If there’s one feeling I’m certain I’m feeling, it’s that sparkly lion stickers should always have a home.

Sorry. Where was I? I mean, aside from feeling perversely proud of the fact that 13.5% of that paragraph is comprised of the word “feelings,” thus making it among the most lesbian things you will ever see. Except, perhaps, for this tattoo of a winking beaver holding a rainbow flag (complete with unshaven hair poking through the skin).

Whenever I have a lot of feelings, which is often, I think of this sign, courtesy of our ol’ friends at the WBC:

The sign that I’m referring to is, of course, “God Hates Your Feelings.” I’ve spent the last half hour trying to articulate why I find it so hilarious.¹ I can’t, which I think only reinforces its comedic genius. You can’t intellectualize pure comedy, man! “God Hates Your Feelings” is a phrase right up there with “I CAN HAS CHEEZBURGER?”

As a consolation for introducing you to the “God Hates Your Feelings” sign, I’ll share a tip. I’ve discovered that a well-timed “God hates your feelings” can be a wonderful tension breaker in an otherwise overly serious, deep and meaningful conversation with a friend. (“Should I go back to school? I’m so confused. I don’t know what to do.” “Whatever you do, remember: God hates your feelings.”)

So, what did I decide to do with all these feelings I was feeling? Quiz time! I:

a.) sat quietly and listened to what they were telling me
b.) went to therapy
c.) made a 45 minute appointment with someone called “Psychic Sarah”

I think we all know that the rational, healthy decision here is (c). It’s obvious that Psychic Sarah is serious and professional about what she does, as evidenced by this picture of her bike.

In addition to the bike, two things drew me to Psychic Sarah. One, her advertising postcard contains pleasing graphic design and none of the wrong fonts (i.e., comic sans, handwriting, papyrus). And perhaps more importantly, her name is Sarah. I’ve had a weakness for the name Sarah since I was seventeen and I got my first girlfriend.² Here’s another tip for you: if you can’t remember someone’s name, and she is between the ages of 25 to 35, guess “Sarah.” You will be right more often than not.

What I was hoping for from Psychic Sarah was a mystical encounter that would blow my mind and solve my life.³ What I got from Psychic Sarah was something slightly different.

Before we began, Psychic Sarah asked me to meditate with her. I did. Sitting there in her dimly lit room, my nostrils filled with incense, I realized that I didn’t feel at all uncomfortable meditating with her, which in turn immediately made me feel very uncomfortable. What kind of person doesn’t feel at least a little uncomfortable meditating face-to-face with a stranger that’s about to read her tarot cards? I’ll answer that for you: a crazy person. Am I becoming a crazy person? Well, thanks to the fact that I travel a lot and have an inordinate amount of dietary restrictions, I know that I have already become the kind of person who eats on the bus. More specifically, I’ve become a woman who eats tuna on the bus. To be perfectly honest, I’ve become a woman in her thirties who eats tuna from a can on the bus. That’s me. That is who I am. Now I can add that I am also a woman who meditates with her psychic. If only I knew how to knit sweaters for cats.

God damn it, where is my feelings journal when I need it?

Psychic Sarah said I was entering a very magical time. “Magical, but grounded,” she said. “The important thing is that it’s grounded. I’m not into that airy-fairy stuff.” Maybe that should have been reassuring but it wasn’t. Hearing that your psychic, the woman wearing a crystal necklace and reading your tarot cards, isn’t “into that airy-fairy stuff” is kind of like hearing that your physician doesn’t “get down with that medical mumbo jumbo.” It’s weird.

I think Psychic Sarah was right, though. Two days after we met– just two days!– where should I find myself? Smack dab in the middle of a human pyramid with eight other lesbians.

If that’s not magical but grounded, I don’t know what is. Now, I just need Psychic Sarah to tell me where my feelings journal is, and I’ll be all set.

How about you guys? Let’s hear tales of your other-worldly experiences.

¹ I think it has something to do with the nebulous nature of all of those terms: god, hate, feelings. Crammed together like that, open to all kinds of interpretation, it’s like a Dada-ist poem. It was the same way when I first saw the “God Hates Fags” protest signs. I didn’t understand them at first. There were about ten glorious, innocent seconds when I read one of those signs and thought, “Wow…those are some really passionate anti-smokers. I didn’t know that Christians cared so much about lung health.”

² At the risk of sounding crazy, I won’t tell you that the first three girls I ever kissed were all named Sarah. Or that almost a third of my sexual partners have been named Sarah. So what?

³  For the record, “a mystical encounter that will blow my mind and solve my life” is also what I’m looking for in oral sex.

DeAnne Smith and the Unfashionable Utopia of Yore

Um. Okay. I’ve been staring at my computer screen for forty-five minutes trying to figure out how to start this. In that time, I’ve also eaten a bowl of muesli, looked up the town of Yamba on Googlemaps and thought a lot about my feelings. None of those things, though, have brought me any closer to knowing how to broach this subject. It’s a tender one. What if I’m unintentionally offensive and Laneia has to edit me? I feel kinda sad when that happens.

Maybe I should start like this: We are all beautiful snowflakes.Each and every one of us is special and unique and miraculous and different. Some of us snowflakes will stick to the ground, some will turn into men, and some will get peed on. All of us snowflakes have different journeys and all of those journeys are right.

I don’t want to crush any of you beautiful snowflakes. I say this with kindness and gentleness. I really love you all. But um, if you’re one of those beautiful snowflakes that’s hip and fashionable, could you cut that out, please? I’m saying it nicely. I know I’m being totally selfish here, but I don’t like it. I want you to stop. Please stop.

I know, I know, you have plenty of support for your fashionable and stylishways. And if it weren’t for you, mainstream culture wouldn’t know what to do with us dykes. It’s just that I can’t keep up with the pressure. I resent feeling like I have to. I want to go back to the time when simply calling myself a lesbian meant I was excused from being stylish. Oh, that was a glorious time! Imagine, if you will, a time filled with turtlenecks and center-parts and brown corduroy overalls. Manicures? Pedicures? Cute underwear? We didn’t even know what those things were!

Fashionable lesbians have ruined everything. Wait, does that sound harsh? I don’t want to hurt your feelings. Let me communicate with I-statements, like I learned in therapy. I feel like fashionable lesbians have ruined everything. I mean, if I’m going to be perfectly honest about this, sixty percent of the reason I even turned gay was because I thought I’d only have to own two pairs of shoes. That’s the version of gay I signed up for. I figured I’d get some boots and some Birkenstocks and I’d be set for life.

Being unfashionable was the major selling point of lesbianism for me. Quite frankly, the sex-with-ladies part was an added bonus.

It used to be okay to be gay and unfashionable. It was accepted. It was celebrated. Some of you young’uns won’t believe this, but there was a time when, as a proud lesbian woman, you could leave your house in white tennis shoes, a fleece sweater vest, and an oversized fanny pack and STILL PICK UP WOMEN. No one faulted you for your lack of fashion; no one cared. When I came out lo’ those many years ago, the only accessory a girl needed to have was a Swiss Army knife. If you felt like getting fancy, you might upgrade to a Leatherman and one of those belt holder things. They were simpler times. Wrist cuffs? Artistic plastic rings? Handbags? We didn’t even know how to pronounce those words!

There used to be one way to be a lesbian. If you were a lesbian, you were unfashionable. You didn’t question it. You loved flannel because your foremothers loved flannel. You didn’t love it in a retroironic hipster bullshit kind of way. You genuinely fucking loved flannel. No, it didn’t fit right. It never fit right. But you loved it, because it was the one material that could be a shirt, sheets, pajamas or a hand-sewn menstrual pad. It was comforting and it was versatile. You trusted flannel. You built a life around it. Form-fitting? Girly? Hip? No one would have ever accused flannel of being those things! No one would have accused flannel of being anything because we didn’t even have adjectives in those days! The only adjective we knew was “comfort!” We didn’t even know how to correctly turn nouns into adjectives! Those were simpler times, I tell you, simpler times!

shout out

If I knew it was gonna turn out like this and I’d be forced to start caring about fashion if I wanted to stay in the game, I would have just stayed straight. Seriously. I would have stayed straight and joined Greenpeace or moved to central Oregon or started an organic winery or done whatever I god damn needed to do to justify wearing the outdoorsy, functional clothing I enjoy. It was never supposed to be like this. We’ve gone too far, lesbians. Too far.

You young, hip girls have ruined the unfashionable utopia of yore. And what’s worse, you don’t even realize how easy you have it these days, with your clothing choices and your celebrities and the fact that mainstream culture almost kind of acknowledges your existence. When I came out, we didn’t have a Ruby Rose or a Samantha Ronson or a freaking Ellen Page. We had to make do with a closeted Jodie Foster, the movie Fried Green Tomatoes and fantasies about Darlene from Roseanne. That’s all we had! And it was good enough for us!

Clearly, I’m too emotional to wrap this up neatly. I’ll leave it to you to discuss in the comments. Meanwhile, I’ll be over here, strapped into my Birkenstocks, using my Swiss Army knife to clean my exposed toenails and hoping you guys still like me. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, dear readers. I really don’t. BUT I HAVE FEELINGS TOO.

DeAnne Smith Waxes On

Hi. It’s been a while, Autostrudel¹! How have you been? Me, I’ve been busy getting a new show together, traveling to the other side of the planet, and paying a young woman to smear hot wax on body with wooden sticks, ripping my hair out by the roots while she talks about Elvis. You know, the usual.

Hey, before you get all excited, it was just the legs, okay? I’m not even going to talk about the other kind of waxing, especially now that my mom knows how to Google (Hi, Mom!). Out of respect to my mom, who could very well be reading this article right now (Hi, Mom!), I’m not even going to tell you how I feel about the other kind of waxing. (What kind? I don’t even know what they’re talking about! Hi, Mom!) I will say, however, that while I have never moved to Brazil, I do enjoy visiting that fine country. Heh? Yeah? Please indicate with a knowingly raised eyebrow (unless you’re my Mom. Hi, Mom!) that you know what I mean².

If you are my Mom, please enjoy this wholesome picture of a quilt:

I have to say, the waxing thing is still a little weird for me. I’m not the type of person who unthinkingly subscribes to the Western cultural fetish for hairlessness, especially as it applies to artificially recreated prepubescence. I am the type of person, however, who, in her twenties, not only uttered that exact sentence aloud, but who uttered it aloud while naked with pretty girls. That’s right, ladies! Do you like achingly earnest psuedo-intellectualism coupled with a serious amount of body hair? Then I’m your gal! Not only am I hirsute, but I can use it in a sentence. I just did. Check that out. Aww yeah. Raise yo’ hands in the air like you just don’t care!

I would like to take a moment, if I could, to formally apologize to any of the girls I slept with in my twenties. I know I was annoyingly over-politicized. And to Jodie in particular, I’m sorry you had to know me in my serious vegan years, when I would passionately argue that a chicken’s life is as valuable as a human baby’s. To girls I slept with in my twenties, I’m sorry. (Also, you’re welcome. Because let’s be honest, that was a drunken and flexible decade.)

I would like to take another moment, if I could, to formally apologize to my Mom (Hi, Mom!), who’s presumably still reading this. I’m sorry you had to read about all the hot girls I had sex with in my twenties. (Also, you’re welcome.)

And I would like to take yet another moment, if I could, to formally apologize to anyone I have ever had to apologize to. I find it really difficult to apologize without implying that, whatever my transgression, you should probably be grateful to me for something else. So, I’m sorry. And you’re welcome.

Back to waxing!

I figured I’d go all out and get my wax on, since I’ve recently transported to Australian summer from Canadian winter and I have no need for the ol’ protective leg coat. Sure, I could shave, but why do for myself what I could pay a stranger to do for me while they watch me cry? That’s my motto when it comes to leg hair, and that’s my motto when it comes to therapy. Either way, I just lie back on that little clinical couch and get into it. “Come on! Rip it out! I like it when it hurts! More wax!” (At the moment, I can only afford subsidized community therapy. But they assure me it’s just like regular therapy. We do all the usual stuff, like talk therapy and wax treatments. And you can hardly even feel the leeches.)

This probably comes as no surprise to those of you who are waxing pros, but there were two things about the experience that I was thoroughly unprepared for. One, the pain. Two, the intimacy. I know I should have anticipated both of those things, but they caught me off guard and left me somewhat unsettled. It was much like how I feel listening to Jennifer Aniston talk about her love life. Ah. Okay. Too much pain. Too much intimacy. Make it stop. Can somebody make it stop? This doesn’t feel good.

I’m sure that those of you who have moved to Brazil (wink, wink) aren’t interested in hearing about what I think was painful, so I won’t go on about it. I’ll just say that on a scale of “ouch” to “holy fuck why fuck why,” the pain was somewhere between getting a tattoo on a fleshy body part and learning that there is no Santa Claus.

And I didn’t realize how intimate it would feel having someone use a tiny stick to smear a tiny bit of wax on the tiny top of my tiny toe and rip out the tiny little hairs there. I didn’t even know I HAD toe hairs until this stranger removed them. Could there be a more profound shared human experience? This stranger, this beautiful creature, this angel, she looked at me and she saw me in a way that I don’t even see myself. It’s as if she gazed deep into the most guarded secrets of my eternal soul and whispered, “Hello, you. I know your toes sprout hair and I accept that. We’re all on this universal journey together. Namaste.” Riiiiiiiiiiiiiip! According to some cultures, we’re married now.

I’ve joined the ranks of the freshly waxed. And it’s pretty awesome. I feel sexy. I mean, yeah, my eyes are swollen from crying, my fingers are cramped from involuntary clenching, and I have painful red blotches on my legs that make me look like I’m having an allergic reaction to my own self. Mmm. Seductive.

¹ This is how I refer to Autostraddle in my head. It’s a pet name that also puts me in mind of deliciously gooey breakfast treats. I think we all win.

² Please tell me you know what I mean. Don’t make me say any more than I already have. Seriously, my Mom Googles me, like, every week now and it freaks me out. The internet is riddled with Mom-unfriendly things I have written, said, or posed in photographs next to and I certainly don’t need to have it on record that I appreciate and enjoy when my potential sexual partners remove hair from their genital regions. Those types of things are best left to clever innuendo, i.e. the above example in which I mentioned Brazil. It would be unnecessarily crude for me to actually type out in easily understandable English words that I appreciate and enjoy when my potential sexual partners remove hair from their genital regions. I refuse to do that.

DeAnne Smith and the Seasonal Affective Disorder Quiz

Hi there. It’s me, DeAnne Smith. You may know me as a new and hilarious contributor to Autostraddle, or as a highly successful international stand up comedian, or as a friendly firecracker of enthusiasm and fun, or as the person sitting behind you on the bus, softly crying to herself. Yes, I am all of those things. And I am here today to talk to you about an issue very close to my heart: seasonal affective disorder.

Seasonal affective disorder, also kno…

Oh, I’m sorry. I drifted off there for a minute. What was I doing? Oh, just contemplating all the bad choices I’ve made in my life as I simultaneously felt the vitamin D drain out of my body in inverse proportion to the growing sense that I’ll never truly love or be loved. But moving on!

Seasonal affective disorder, also known as the “winter blues,” strikes between 2 to 10% of the population and accounts for 73% of Snuggie purchases. According to Wikipedia, symptoms of SAD (Isn’t that just the most apt and adorable acronym ever?) include difficulty waking up in the morning, difficulty concentrating on completing tasks, and a craving for carbohydrates. Because I believe sleeping in, spacing out, and totally fucking loving toast could also apply to college students, pot smokers, old people and pretty much anyone in the world worth knowing at all, I’ve made a slightly more realistic quiz for you to complete in order to know if you suffer from SAD. I’m calling it The SAD Quiz.

Don’t forget to jot down your answers for scoring!

THE SAD QUIZ

1. When the sun sets, I am usually:

a.) Whistling as I work. I love work! And whistling! And strawberry ice cream and chipmunks and buttons and eskimo kisses!

b.) Watching Oprah give away 600 thread count, organic, cotton sheet sets to South African orphans.

c.) Crying, curled up in a fetal position.

2. In Winter, I especially like to:

a.) Ski, girlfriend! Give me a brisk day and a snowy mountain and I’m in heaven! Eat, sleep, ski, repeat!

b.) Watch hockey, snowboarding, and an entire season’s worth of Glee episodes in one sitting.

c.) Cry, curled up in a fetal position in a bed I haven’t left all day.

via soberbabyyy

3. Most of my friends would say I am:

a.) Super fun, a super duper nice person, and amazing at Ultimate Frisbee! My fwiends awe da best! I wuv dem!!

b.) In control. Robin, Dr. Phil’s wife, says we can all make deliberate choices that lead to richer, happier, and more meaningful lives.

c.) Crying, curled up in a fetal position in a bed I haven’t left all day, which is filled with used tissues.

4. One thing that really gets on my nerves is:

a.) Mean people. Boo on meanies! Meanies send me straight to Frown Town!

b.) Commercials.

c.) Crying, curled up in a fetal position in a bed I haven’t left all day, which is filled with used tissues and an ever increasing amount of Blazin’ Buffalo & Ranch Dorito crumbs.

5. Waking up in the morning, I think:

a.) Wow, God sure did make another blue-ribbon winner of a hum-dingingly glorious day! Yippee for everything! I feel like the mayor of Smile City!

b.) Did I already miss The View?

c.) …about how I’m still crying, curled up in a fetal position in a bed I haven’t left in five days, which is filled with used tissues, an ever increasing amount of Blazin’ Buffalo & Ranch Dorito crumbs, and an unshakable sense that I’m an ultimately useless, random collection of molecules destined to live out a meaningless existence only to find myself at the end of it–having never even had so much as one truly decent hair cut– unloved, unaccomplished and deeply and utterly alone.

YOUR SCORE

Mostly (a)s: You can fuck yourself.

Mostly (b)s: Congrats. You’re slugging through.

Mostly (c)s: Hey, do you get that cold, empty feeling in your chest? Like no amount of Blazin’ Buffalo & Ranch Doritos or praise or human touch will ever be enough? Only a few more months to go!

Hope that was helpful, guys!

(Incidentally, there are handy informational websites to help the SAD-afflicted in the U.S., U.K., and Canada. If you live in Australia, I’m pretty sure the website you’re directed to just tells you to harden the fuck up.)

DeAnne Smith and the New Zodiac F.A.Q.

Greetings, starshine.

If you’re like me, you’ve heard the internet kerfuffle about the new zodiac and you’re somewhat confused. Not that it matters or anything, but you’re probably wondering how this shift affects you. I mean, you don’t really believe in that stuff anyway but sure, yeah, you’re a person, you’ve flipped through a few Linda Goodman books in your time and maybe, in a moment of weakness, you’ve Googled the astrological compatibility of you and that girl you’ve talked to a few times and think maybe you could see yourself with. It’s just antiquated silliness, but you’re like, vaguely aware of your moon sign and your ascendent and your house and the astrological sign of your cat. But it’s not like any of that is really real. No big deal.

Personally, I’m not fussed about the new zodiac. Sure, I used to be on the cusp of Cancer and Leo, and I considered myself a very special type of person called a “Cleo.” So what if a few different friends who dabble in astrology told me I had the sensitivity and insightfulness of Cancer combined with the confidence and magnetism of Leo? It doesn’t matter. It’s all hogwash.

In the new zodiac, I’m thrown firmly back into Cancer and that’s fine. Now I’m a sensitive, moody, clingy, emotionally unstable home-maker type. I don’t mind that I’m part of a group that’s named after abnormal, malignant cell growth and also known as “crabs,” which happens to be the same word as those parasitic insects that feast on human genitals. Who cares? It’s not like it’s real. There’s no reason to have a tiny existential crisis about it and do a lot of internet research and ultimately conclude that, thank God, it’s fine because Rob Brezsny said so. (There’s even less reason to have an even tinier, parenthetical existential crisis about whether or not you’ve applied the term “existential crisis” correctly, which reminds you that if hard-pressed, you’re also not exactly 100% sure how to define “irony,” which you suspect is ironic in itself but — perhaps ironically– will never know for certain.)

So, like I said, we’re all intelligent, rational people here. And it’s not like it actually matters but, if you’re curious or something, here’s a quick F.A.Q. about this new-fangled zodiacs.

Q: What’s the deal?

A: A community college professor, Parke Kunkle, gave a newspaper interview in which he talked about the Sidereal Zodiac (which is based on constellations) and that fact that, thanks to a wobbly axis, the Earth’s constellations aren’t in quite the same place as they used to be. They’ve shifted the signs around and added a thirteenth one to square it up.

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Q: Seriously? That’s insane! Is that true?

A: As far as I can tell. However, it is based on information that’s over 2,000 years old, so it’s not exactly news.

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Q: No, I mean is that guy’s name really Parke Kunkle?

A: Yes. Yes, it is.

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Q: What’s the new sign they’ve added to the zodiac?

A: Ophiuchus.

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Q: What’s its symbol?

A: A half-naked man with a snake between his legs.

Q: Hot.

A: …

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Q: But why are they doing this? Why are they doing this to us?!

A: I don’t know. I think it also has something to do with magnetic fields or the moon’s gravity or something.

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Q: The moon has gravity?

A: Of course. What do you think causes the ups and downs of ocean tides and your girlfriend’s moods and/or sex drive?

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Q: Natalie Portman.

A: …

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Q: …

A: Pardon me?

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Q: I thought Natalie Portman caused the ups and downs of my girlfriend’s moods and sex drive.

A: …

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Q: Back to the tides. How does the moon affect ocean tides?

A: Let’s use a metaphor. Let’s say Lindsay Lohan is the moon, and Samantha Ronson is Earth. The moon is super attracted to Earth, so it tries to pull at anything on Earth in order to bring it closer. It’s like if the moon was always @-reply tweeting Earth, writing inside-joke kind of things and obviously trying to get a response from it even though Earth never @-replies the moon.

Sometimes, in desperation, the moon @-replies truly crazy and twisted things to Earth, then later deletes them. But instead of @-replies, it’s gravity and instead of Twitter, it’s the cold emptiness of space.

So the moon tries and tries, but Earth itself can’t be pulled closer. The water on Earth can, however.

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Q: What does water become in this metaphor?

A: I’m not sure. Maybe questionable life choices.

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Q: Anything else?

A: Well, everyone wishes they could reach the moon and give it a hug because it’s so beautiful and it has so much potential and it was so good in Mean Girls but it’s too far away, surrounded by shiny stars that are dead inside.

Q: Yeah.

A: Yeah.

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Q: Is this new zodiac thing a sign of the apocalypse?

A: No. The fact that Sarah Palin is now quoting Dr. Martin Luther King is a sign of the apocalypse.

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Q: I thought I was a Gemini but according to the new zodiac, I’m a Taurus. Do I have to change? I’m not changing my sign!

A: That stubbornness is so Taurus.

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Q: I was an Aries, but now I’m a Pisces. What am I supposed to do with my ram tattoo?

A: If you weren’t so impulsive, Aries, you wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.

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Q: I’m still a Pisces. So, that’s good, right? Would you say that’s a good thing? What do you think?

A: Sure, if you’re into codependence and being overemotional and gullible.

Q: So it’s a good thing then?

A: Yes, Pisces. Yes.

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Q: I’m a Leo.

A: Do you have a question?

Q: No, I’m just really proud of being a Leo.

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Q: This is all fine and good, but WWRMD?

Q: Is Rachel Maddow changing her sign?

Q: If Rachel Maddow thinks something is cool does she actually use the phrase “awesome times ten thirteen hundred?”

A:

Q: I used to pick people up with the old classic, “Hey, baby, what’s your sign?” What am I going to use now?

A: Try the new classic, “Hey, baby, I’d like to Parke in your Kunkle.”

Q: …

A: …

Q: Did you actually just write that?

A: Yes. Yes, I did.

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Q: Shouldn’t the signs stay as they are?

A: I’m going to hand this one over to “Ashley,” commenting expertly in an internet forum:

Ashley: this is so retarted whos the moron that came up with this do u know the billions of people that r gonna be like w*f? the signs should stay as they are why should things change cause of the earths movement idiots as far as im concerned im still a proud stubborn great lover aries lol yeyyya!

And, for a balanced perspective, let’s hear from “Kaitlyn,” also commenting in the same forum:

Kaitlyn: GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!!!

Q: …

A: …

DeAnne Smith and the Backscatter Booty Shake

I’ve been doing a lot of traveling lately. Does anyone know why airports always have suitcase stores? Call me over prepared, but if there’s one thing I usually bring to the airport, it’s a suitcase. I have yet to walk into the airport clutching a cumbersome pile of belongings in my hands, check-in, get past security, see the suitcase store and think, “Hey! One of those would really come in handy about now!”

I don’t understand them, but that doesn’t mean I don’t thoroughly enjoy them. For me, the suitcase store is the best part of being at the airport. I can easily whittle away 45 minutes checking out various bags’ compartments, imagining what I would put in those compartments, and singing Phil Collins lyrics in my head. I guess that last one isn’t strictly related to being in a suitcase store, but it’s still true.

Surely I’m not alone in this. You fetishize bags, right? And ones that are practical and sturdy and have lots of little hiding places make you feel, like, um, excited? And you get tiny involuntary spasms when you see concealable zipper pulls? And you agree that Phil Collins rocks? I feel so good if I just say the word. Su-su-sudio! Oh-oo-oo!

When I can justify buying a third black bag that’s remarkably similar to the two I already own, this is the one I’ll get.

It’s even better in 3-D, where you can drool over the high-tensile stainless steel wire and internal slip pockets. Mmm, and what’s that, a pen holder? Yeah, yeah, that’s how I like it. Mmm, and a key clip? Yeah, you know me, you know I got keys that need some clippin’. Oh, and what’s that? Is that what they call a “snatchproof shoulder strap?” Shh, baby, shh. We don’t need words now. Shh.

The only thing that puts a damper on my airport experience is getting through security. Every time, it’s the same tedious routine: take out my computer, take off my belt, take off my shoes, have a brief panic attack over whether or not there are any drugs in my pockets, remember that I don’t do drugs. Security simultaneously bores me and puts me on edge, like an episode of Hoarders.

Recently, when I went through LAX, I was confronted with the backscatter body scan machine for the first time. What they want you to do is stand between two huge blue boxes so something known as “ionizing radiation” can take this sort of picture:

While I do appreciate the booty-shaking dance position they ask one to adopt (Do the Backscatter, girl!), something about it just doesn’t feel quite right to me. Sure, various government agencies say there’s no known health risk to exposure to ionizing radiation, but we’ve been lied to for years about stuff that wasn’t supposed to be harmful, whether it’s cigarette smoke or lead paint or Katy Perry. I’m trusting my gut on this one. While I’m not totally sure what “ionizing radiation” means, it definitely has the rhythm and syllable count of something carcinogenic, just like Katy Perry’s lyric, “Once you party with uh-us, you’ll be falling in luh-ove.” I can’t prove it, but I’m pretty sure every time I’m exposed to “California Gurls,” a full minute is shaved off my life span.

The whole backscatter body scan is also pretty invasive. I mean, for other people. I actually wouldn’t mind some stranger at airport security peeping my goods. I’m not extroverted enough to whip off my shirt in public, but I do secretly wish I had more occasions to do so. The fact of the matter is, I have amazing breasts. I do. And they don’t often get the appreciation, recognition or gentle fondling they deserve. Usually, I regard them with indifference at best, because they can make it difficult for me to fit properly into the button-up, man-style shirts I so enjoy. And a lot of times, I would prefer my tie to hang totally and completely straight down, and not do that weird little bump thing that happens when girls with breasts wear ties. Much like a tender baby lamb, I have been both blessed and cursed with a great rack. And also like a tender baby lamb, my rack is delicious when slathered in some barbeque sauce.

(Yes, I realize this is the second time here at Autostraddle that I’ve alluded to myself without a shirt on. No, I don’t know what this means about the inner workings of my sexual psyche. And no, I am not completely certain that the phrase “sexual psyche” even means anything. And yes, I was serious about loving Phil Collins. And no, I don’t care if that makes me uncool. And yes, I am lying about not caring if it makes me uncool. And no, I don’t think this rhetorical device has run its course. And yes, I am doing one last one. There.)

Basically, for various reasons, I don’t think TSA is ready for this jelly. So, I opted for the pat-down, which is the only way out of the body scan. And you know what a little Google research taught me? Apparently only 21% of Americans opt for the pat-down. Twenty-one percent. That puts me in the same percentage of Americans who believe in witches or who don’t use the internet. You know what there’s more of than me, in my measly 21%? Americans who believe God created humans less than 10,000 years ago! There’s 40% of those. Yup, America is chock-full of people who believe Jesus rode a T-Rex and who want to put on strip shows for government machines. Oh, America. You so crazy!

More folks should go for the pat-down, in my opinion. It’s a girl, in uniform, who wants to put her hands on you. (I rest my case.) Actually, she’s getting paid to put her hands on you. And before she does, she says things like, “Now I’m going to run my hands along the outside of your body,” or “Now I’m just going to swipe this area.” It’s like she’s asking permission, which is hot in a communication and consent kinda way, but it’s also like she doesn’t care if she has your permission, which is hot in a sexual-fantasies-of-the-dominant-TSA-chick kinda way. I like to think of it as less of a “pat-down” and more of a “free mini-massage.” Thank you, T&A! I mean, TSA.

This is what it’s like, but sexier (at least in my head).

And you know what was going through my head the whole time the uniformed girl was oh-so-professionally patting me down? This little lyric, a la Phil Collins: “Now she don’t even know my name, but I think she likes me just the same…Su-su-sudio! Oh-oo-oo!” The TSA can force me to get a pat-down, but it’s my choice whether or not to enjoy it. In fact, the only way my time at the airport could have been sexier would be if I had a bag with concealable zipper pulls and a snatchproof shoulder strap. Aww yeah.

DeAnne Smith is a hilarious and famous lesbian with a website and a twitter account.

DeAnne Smith and the Lesbian Invasion

Normally, I don’t mind being a “typical” lesbian. In fact, I enjoy it. The no-nonsense wardrobe, the no-nonsense hair, the no-nonsense fear of impending carpal tunnel syndrome. I like being your everyday, run-of-the-mill queer. I like the fact that every item of clothing I own is either black or plaid. I like having short nails. I like pretending to understand Tegan and Sara lyrics. Oh, and the whole sex-with-girls thing ain’t half bad either. (C’mon, wrists, we can get through this!)

'snice, park slope via yelp

There are certain places, though, where being a lesbian just feels a little too cliché. My current haunt, King St. in Sydney, is one of those places. As is Mile End in Montreal, or Park Slope in New York or any vegan cafe in any city anywhere.

Hey, and please don’t get sensitive and misunderstand what I’m saying here. Don’t take it personally. Because if you take it personally, I’ll need to explain myself and the more you look at me like that the more defensive and flustered I get and now I’ve chosen the wrong words and yeah, I said that, but I didn’t mean it LIKE THAT. And now we’re caught up in this processing cycle, where whatever I say to try to clarify my point of view only seems to make you more and more hurt and I don’t understand why and for some reason you can’t hear what I’m saying, and now we’ve moved on from processing to actually processing the processing, and why is this happening and how can we fix it but then we realize we’re getting our periods and oh, of course, it all makes sense now and oh, how we’ll laugh and laugh and laugh. (After we’re done crying.)

So, you know what I’m saying, right?

I like being on King Street and in vegan cafes, as much as any self-respecting lesbo likes hot girls and substitute soy options. (Which is to say, A LOT.) But when I’m surrounded by a bunch of lesbians that look like lesbians that look like me, I feel kinda weird. I’m forced to confront a nebulous mess of emotions, contradictions and tingling sensations that are best described as– say it with me– “Feelings.”

I think my girlfriend sums up the strange feeling of unease that comes with being on King St. when she says, “It’s weird being, like, the fourth lesbian couple to walk into a restaurant.” I agree, but I can’t quite articulate why. (Which doesn’t mean I won’t spend the rest of this entry trying to.) One would think that being surrounded by “my kind” would make me feel relaxed and at home and like one of the gang. Instead, sometimes when I see another and another and yet another androgynous girl with sweepy bangs, funky glasses, a chunky watch and a graphic t-shirt, it just makes me feel like a cheap carbon copy, an inferior version of my own self. I feel like nutritional yeast flakes to actual cheese, Elizabeth Keener to Catherine Keener.

I worry that it comes down to internalized homophobia. Luckily for me, I’m somewhat distracted from worrying by the fact that I just had an opportunity to use one of my favorite phrases in the world: internalized homophobia. I love saying “internalized homophobia,” because I feel like it makes me sound academic and intelligent and feminist and like someone who would be really good at Scrabble and a certain kind of intuitive lovemaking. Any time there’s a chance to work “internalized homophobia” or “excoriate” or “paradigm” into a conversation, I’m there.

What was I saying? I’m cognizant enough of my own internalized homophobia to be wary of any subconscious tendency to excoriate the modern urban lesbian paradigm. (Helloooo, ladies!) I like us, and I like that we have so much in common, at least superficially, just because we all like mackin’ on other chicks. In some ways, it’s reassuring to see someone rocking the same style and feel a part of a larger community, a family, a massive sticky swarm of pulsating gayness oozing languidly into every crevice of the city.

But it’s still weird. The other night, my girlfriend and I were, in fact, the fourth lesbian couple to walk into the restaurant. Maybe my self-consciousness results from my projection of other people’s reactions. I imagine it goes something like this: With the first lesbian couple, it’s like, “Oh, that’s cute. How neat.” With the second lesbian couple, it’s like, “Wow, this is getting interesting.” With the third lesbian couple, it’s like, “Okay, guys, we get it!” With the fourth, it’s, “Seriously?! What the hell is happening? What is this?” In fact, I think it’s comparable to my reaction to watching “Solid Potato Salad” by the Ross sisters, which follows the same exact emotional progression from “Hey, this is cute” to “SRSLY WTF.”

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So, ladies, I ask you, WTF? Help me make sense of this. Answers to any and/or all of the following questions are welcome.

Have you ever felt kind of cliché in a lesbo-heavy ‘hood? How do you deal with it? Do you even know what I mean? Is that how straight girls feel all the time? What’s your favorite academic-sounding word? How can I avoid carpal tunnel syndrome? How come people nowadays don’t harmonize with their sisters and wear matching outfits and yell out “hoy hoy” in the middle of songs?

And, most importantly of all, what ever happened to the the 3-person, face-to-crotch cartwheel? It looks like a really efficient form of transportation.

DeAnne Smith is a hilarious and famous lesbian with a website and a twitter account.
Feature image via Maro Hagopian, living f*cking legend for real. Educate yourself.