The last day of Pride Month

Since I haven’t written in a while and it’s the last day of Pride , I thought I’d have a little fun by giving you all a sneak peek into my lifestyle. I am going to preface my writing by saying that this post is not fact, nor am I trying to sway anyone’s opinion. This post is for funcicles, so don’t be a hardass and have a nice, hardy chuckle from it.

 I’ve done some research on other blogs to find how other people defined the many labels of lesbianism and this is what I found:

To begin, let us look at the term ‘lesbian’. This refers to a sexual and romantic desire between two female-identifying individuals. She is not always a man-hating, short haircut wearing, feminist, though some have personal views that perceive them as such. She does not have to ‘look gay’ to be a lesbian; if she says she’s gay, she is. She cannot be ‘turned’ straight by a man, nor will she appreciate the offer from you to do so; you will get scolded… or punched in the throat.

‘Dyke’ is another term used to describe a female homosexual individual. This term can be offensive to some, but is usually only used by others within the LGBTQIA community.

          Note: dyke with a ‘y’ is a lesbian. Dike with an ‘i’ is the damming of water.

“Lipstick/Femme” lesbians are individuals who look characteristically feminine and girly. They can prefer makeup and dresses and usually have always perfect medium to long hair. Most of the time they don’t like getting dirty and they always like to get ready before going out.

“Butch” lesbians exude a more masculine persona. She usually has shorter hair and is pretty low maintenance. They like team sports and wear baggier clothing. A ‘butch’ lesbian is what most people associate with the female homosexual individual.

 

 “Soft Butch/ Chapstick” lesbians show some feminine characteristics, but have more of an androgynous appearance. Their hair is typically medium to short in length and is styled into a ‘messy’ look and can usually be spotted in jeans and a plain t-shirt or a button-up and loose tie. 

 

            The term ‘Chapstick’ lesbian was coined by Ellen.

 

“Boi” lesbians have feminine features but have done away with most of their feminine characteristics, leaving them with a boyish appearance. This term is also used to describe a gender-queer individual who presents him/herself as male

“Sporty Dyke” refers to a lesbian who is super into sports, (softball... cough cough..) They almost always have a ponytail, wear school sports teams t-shirts and are very strict about keeping their bodies toned and fit by exercising on a regular basis.

A ‘Baby dyke’ is a lesbian who is young,  or who has recently come out and has many different characteristics between the different types of lesbians, as she is just coming into her own. They are usually identifiable by the excessive amounts of rainbow/pride swag that they display.

 

 Gold Star- Lesbian who has never been with a male -identifying individual

Then there are terms like, ‘L.U.G’ (lesbian until graduation) and ‘hasbian’ which are pretty self-explanatory. Those two groups of women really grind my gears, but that’s a story for another time.

Enjoy 

 

Three Wishes

If you were to be granted three wishes what would you wish for? There are three rules of magic: you can't bring back someone from the dead, you can't change the past, and you can't make someone love you. Those rules suck; they basically say that you can’t fix a broken heart. What good are wishes if you want anything besides materialistic objects? Do quantifiable objects truly make you happy if you don’t have the ones you love to share them with?

So, basically, I’m writing today to answer my own question: If you can't wish it, how do you make someone love you?

The response I received the last time I asked was the most poetic and raw answer I could have asked for. The individual started it plain and simple; if you want someone to fall in love with you, find out what they like. Learn about those things and talk about them, ask questions to look further into their passions and then use those as building blocks. Send them just because texts (like the "old school" notes we passed around in school). Take the time to talk. Talk on the phone, talk in person, just talk. Wish them a good morning or good night. As things get more solid, show a side of you that not very many people see and make sure, even at your busiest moment, there is always at least three seconds to make time for a midafternoon reminder to smile. Go places that mean something to that person, be open to their dreams and aspirations. Make a home cooked meal - especially if you can't cook; it shows you put forth the effort. Always take the opportunity to laugh... Yes, even at your horrible cooking.

Do the little things, because the little things are the big things.

That last line is my favorite. It seems so simple when written in plain text. That being said, thank you, person who enlightened us all, for your words. Now, if I only took this advice myself…

My Identity Crisis of Summer 2013

Since June is Pride Month, I’m going to write about my identity crisis of summer 2013.

There are many ‘types’ or classifications that come to mind when you think of homosexual females, and that’s where my mind dwelled for a while during that summer. The most common classifiers: Dyke, Lipstick, Femme, Butch, have about 20 different subcategories between the four. (Maybe I’ll post about the endless list and definitions of the inbetweeners one day) Lots of people say they don’t want to be labeled, that they love who they love and don’t need a word to describe that. Welp, I like labels. They give me a clear picture of what’s in front of me.

I decided that I identify as Femme, and that’s where my problem began. How the beep am I going to meet someone if I don’t appear a certain way? Lezbehonest here, most lesbians have a telltale sign that you can pick out pretty quickly: clothing choices: baggier jeans or gym pants, plain t-shirts, hooped lip rings or eyebrow piercings, slicked back ponytails or short hair, white watches (that’s a theory of my own. Straight individuals- don’t stop wearing yours in fear of catching the gay). Others are sneaky and can only be identified when you join our secret club (handshake included). It might be the gate of her walk, the style of her not slicked back hair, the choice of accessories like wallets, belts, or shoes; subtle similarities that you can find amongst us that only the trained eye can spot.

And then there are gays like me, who look ‘too straight’. I don’t have piercings other than my ears. I wear only eye makeup regularly. I wear regular work clothes during the day and my ‘never seen yoga’ yoga pants at night or on the weekends. I wear my long hair in either a bun or down and curled. I carry bags and I don’t think I have the lesbian swag that some of us do. So, again, this is where my distinctiveness is hidden.

I’ve heard things like, ‘you’re too pretty to be gay”, ‘you just haven’t found the right guy yet’, and ‘you don’t even look gay, you don’t have to lie about not wanting to go out with me’. Really, though? These make me face-palm. Every. Time. This is why I don’t like going out. I don’t like getting hit on by guys because it’s awkward. I don’t want to waste your time, and I sure as hell don’t want you to waste my time. I don’t like the pretentious asswipes that don’t take no for an answer. I just haven’t found the right guy yet? Maybe you haven’t found the right guy yet... how about that? Oh, you don’t like guys like that? Neither do I, BYEEE. And then I’m a bitch for turning them down, watch out... might get shot for that one of these days.

So, without a blinking light over my body or a tattoo across my forehead, how am I supposed to put myself out there to get noticed by the right people? I can always catfish online, or pick someone up at a gay bar, but is that really where I want to meet someone I might have a future with? After being handed my orientation on a silver platter at an all-girls college, the real world does not make finding someone as easy as it was before. I guess that leaves me waiting for the right time, or whatever. If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.

And that was my identity crisis of last summer.

 

The Reason it All Started...

I’d like to share with all of you my obsession with painting my nails. I’m ready to anecdote this biznitch!

It all started when I graduated college. Without my friends as neighbors any longer, I actually had to make an effort to see people, so I did. I headed back up to my alma mater where a few friends were staying and I was pressured into doing ‘fun things’ because I was ‘boring’…. yes, they coined the name ’No Fun Cassie’. Instead of watching them longboard, I was urged to actually participate and who would have thunkit, I was actually pretty fantastic; that is, until magic happened and in some weird yet graceful turns in opposition of each other resulted in a shattered right foot. I was told that the way it happened looked like I intentionally laid on my back in the fetal position gasping air into my clenched muscles. I guess years of dance really do produce muscle memory…

After spending two nights feeling bruised and swollen but ultimately fine, I landed in the ER after being verbally assaulted by a neighbor of 6 years that I had never before spoken to about foot injuries. After crawling up the stairs back to my mother and sister, I regurgitated my experiences, including the infuriated neighbor. She looks at me, puts her head in her hands, and sighs, ‘well, we’re going now then. I’m not spending my entire night in the ER.”

And to the hospital we went!! I shoved my 300% enlarged foot into the check-in lady’s face and she put me right into a room. (I guess if you really want a room in the ER, just bring in an enlarged body part and you’re golden!) They wheeled me into the radiation room and the technician allowed me to view my foot before the film was printed. Turns out I had shattered my three middle metatarsals in my right foot. The tiny Russian nurse came in and told me I was too puffy for a cast so she proceeded to splint me up, and when I say ‘she’ I mean my mom. The nurse handed my mother the splint and told her to mold it to my foot and she walked away. What? Just because she was in scrubs doesn’t mean she should be setting splints. Regardless, we ventured home on crutches and I was told to R.I.C.E.

 After a week stuck on my back, literally, I went to the Dr. to get casted and it was really really fun. I get home and sleep and out of nowhere come the stabbiest pains now that my bones are in place again. After the cast was put on all fun was over. I was Rapunzel, locked up high, without anyone to keep me company. My mom and sister both work so I was alone for 8 weeks. I got really low to the point where the only thing that I could do that would take my mind of the mind-numbing boredom was to paint my nails. I painted them every morning just to pick it all off over night, just to paint them again the following morning, and from that monotony came my sick obsession to always have my nails done.

Anecdote finished…

Since then, I’ve gotten my daily painting down to once a week. I spend most Sunday nights paining my nails a new color for the days ahead.  I seem to always find a color I don’t have and absolutely need (because everyone needs obscene amounts of nail color, duh.) while I’m out anywhere.  My collection is gargantuan and it continues to grow. I’m considering getting a rack soon to see them all. Marshalls is always great to get discounted off season colors, FYI.

I guess this post wasn’t really about nail polish, but my fragmented appendage. Oh well. Thanks for reading!

Way Back Wednesday... Right Now Wednesday...

I was trolling the interwebs the other night and I tumbled across this journal entry (if that’s what we want to call it?) and I thought I’d share. Depression is a very private illness. I’ve heard some people equate the struggle with the personal struggle with cancer; other people know it’s there, but they can’t really understand the fight like you do.

“Depression does not always mean

Beautiful girls shattering at the wrists

A glorified, heroic battle for your sanity

Or mothers that never got the chance to say good-bye

 
Sometimes depression means

Not getting out of bed for three days

Because your feet refuse to believe

That they will not shatter upon impact with the floor

 
Sometimes depression means

That summoning the willpower

To go downstairs and do the laundry

Is the most impressive thing you accomplish that week

 
Sometimes depression means

Lying on the floor staring at the ceiling for hours

Because you cannot convince your body

That it is capable of movement

 
Sometimes depression means

Not being able to write for weeks

Because the only words you have to offer the world

Are trapped and drowning and I swear to God I’m trying

 
Sometimes depression means

That every single bone in your body aches

But you have to keep going through the motions

Because you are not allowed to call in to work depressed

 
Sometimes depression means

Ignoring every phone call for an entire month

Because yes, they have the right number

But you’re not the person they’re looking for, not anymore”

 
by “Alexandra” Tilton, NH (Teen Ink: November 2013 Issue)

I’ve had a handful of really bad lows over the years and I find it hard for people to understand me when I don’t even understand myself. I’ve been called lazy and a liar, people have told me that I used depression as an excuse not to do things. I was dubbed ‘No Fun Cassie’ in college because there were a lot of things that I really couldn’t do, but everyone thought I was just being boring. It’s rough, but it’s nice to know that those are the people I broke ties with in order to better myself.

To end on a high, it’s really nice out and I can’t wait to eat at our new picnic table at work for lunch. WOOP!

Cheers!

Foot in Mouth

Do you ever find yourself looking back at past actions and think, “Wow, why did I think that was a good idea? What was going through my brain to think, ‘yeah, let’s do that’?”

I’ve had plenty of those moments lately now that I’m thinking clearer than I have been. Let me share my awkwardness with you all:

• I’m not wearing a sweater to work today because I don’t want to—Freezing.
• Get to the car to go to the gym, realize I forgot to put on deodorant, leave without it—Bad idea.
• One contact feels funny, drive with it anyway—End up ripping it out in a fit of rage, half blind driving.
• Feeling super sad, decide that lying face down on the dock will make it better—WTF?! (It didn’t)
• Texting something important to someone, end up fighting—total face-palm. Keep your fingers shut.

To add to my list of strange behaviors, my sister lovingly pointed out that when I’m asked a question, instead of answering, I blankly stare at questioner while I process my answer. “Would you like another glass of water?” O__________O ‘Sure, thank you.’ (I’ve never typed out one of those faces before, nor do I plan to again)

Thinking about my actions makes my eyes flutter and roll back into my head at my brain like I’ll find the answer to why I do such stupid things. Hindsight is always 20/20. And my idiotic actions and blank stares at inquiring individuals aren’t really a big deal. The big mistakes are the ones that make you crazy with regret and wish that you had stayed home that day.

That being said, I’d like to make a public (private) apology by saying that I wish I had lain face down on a dock that day instead of doing stupid things and I wish that I had stared blankly at you before that venom was spewed from my tongue. There are a solid amount of face-palms that I have every day regarding a slew of different instances and individuals, but the most painful are the ones regarding you. So, I sit here with my fluttering eye roll and humbly apologize for my foolish actions and words. I really think things would be different right now had I been thinking clearly and appreciated what was in front of me.

I don’t even know if said individual knows my words on here even exist, but I’d hope that person will somehow acknowledge that this was seen.

What did we learn today? Think about what you’re doing and how it will affect others before doing it, and stare blankly at people until you’re ready to speak with nice words.

You. Are. Welcome.