Huff, “I will not be ghettoized,” then hang up quickly; if you leave now you can make it to the realtor’s office before it closes.

Tell your realtor that you want to live, “You know, where the dykes are.”

Worry that your realtor now thinks you are a sexual deviant.

Notice he is wearing daisy dukes and leather suspenders. You probably have nothing to worry about.

Cruise through Andersonville in his Audi, whooping and hollering every time you see a lesbian on the street.

Quickly become tired of whooping and hollering; everyone you see on the street is a lesbian.

Oops, not him. He’s a fifteen-year-old boy.

Worry that your realtor now thinks you are a sexual deviant.

Notice the NAMBLA sticker on the back of his car. You probably have nothing to worry about. The fifteen-year-old boy on the other hand…

Fall in love with an apartment, the faded but opulent lobby of which reminds you of a down-on-her-luck showgirl from the 1940’s.

You’ve always wanted to live in a down-on-her-luck showgirl from the 1940’s; move in.

2) Making Yourself at Home or Why is this Blockbuster Different than All Other Blockbusters?

Open an account at your Friendly Neighborhood Video Rental Chain Store.

Let your mouth fall open in wonder as you take in the sheer quantity of lesbian titles this location stocks.

Recall that at the Friendly Neighborhood Video Rental Chain Store in Los Angeles you could barely find a copy of Fried Green Tomatoes (the most neutered of all lesbian movies), yet down the block in a popular gay male pick-up spot there was a city authorized street sign that said “No Cruising.”

Consider the issue of Lesbian Invisibility vs. gay Male Targeted Municipally Mandated Discrimination. (The second has far more words, but that’s not the point.) Is it better to be ignored or singled out for persecution? 

Recognize that this is a deep and serious question, deserving hours of intense reflection, possibly culminating in a scholarly essay.

Prepare to spend your evening chained to your desk  -- and not in the fun way.

Get distracted when you notice a copy of High Art on the shelf opposite you.

Whoop and holler.

Fuck scholarship. Rent the DVD, buy a jumbo box of Good N’ Plenty and give Fred a call.

Don’t fuck Fred though. You can do better.

3) Blending In or Long Haired Girls Are Lesbians Too You Know

Look around and wonder why all the lesbians appear to be dressed for some sort of combination funeral/camping trip.

Slowly grasp that in order to be identifiable as a lesbian you will have to retire the vividly colored heels, chandelier earrings, and sequin-encrusted shirts that currently make up the majority of your wardrobe and which were perfectly acceptable back in Los Angeles.

Remember how in seventh grade when everyone else was wearing Gap t-shirts and white Keds you insisted on wearing fishnet stockings, and neon tube tops. You stoically weathered your classmates’ withering comments until one day you wore leopard print leggings to gym class and despite the fact that you’d never even kissed a boy, that bitch Katie Tesch called you a slut. It was on that fateful day that you had an epiphany that has influenced your fashion choices ever since: It’s better to fit in and be unhappy than to express yourself and feel fulfilled.

Dejectedly trade your vibrant LA items for dark jeans, black, navy or grey hoodies, black boots and a dark denim jacket.

Where once you were a vivacious West Coast Bird-of-paradise you are now a dowdy Midwestern pigeon. Fall into a severe depression.

4) Supporting Yourself or What do you Mean, You Don’t Allow Starbucks Cups in your Indie Establishment?

Land a coveted job at the local feminist bookstore. Every lesbian within a twenty-mile radius wanted it, but you got it.

Buy some cough drops; your throat is sore from all of that whooping and hollering.

Week One: Your job consists of selling books by your favorite female authors to hot lesbians while listening to the Indigo Girls. What could be better?

Week Two: Seriously? It’s “frowned upon” to recommend books by male authors? Barbara Kingsglover? But the book is for an eighteen-year-old boy; ya want him to turn out queer or something?

Week Three: So much for a utopian lesbian/feminist re-envisioning of culture and commerce, these customers are cranky. When one asks you why the line she is in is moving so much slower than the line for your register, smile and tell her it’s the cocaine, it makes you speedy.

Week Four: Get fired. Possibly because the store’s meager revenue cannot be stretched to support so many employees and possibly for reading Fight Club on your lunch hour. Whatever. You’ve never been so motherfucking sick of the Indigo Girls in your life.

5) Establishing a Social Network or Why have all of My Friends Felt Each Other Up?

Become close friends with Linda, the ex-girlfriend of Josie, a chick you met online, and with Billi, a girl with whom Linda was briefly and disastrously involved.

Feel needlessly responsible when Claire, a twenty-year old you slept with before moving to Chicago and Josie meet through you and became briefly and disastrously involved.

Get to know Mackenzie, a hot twenty-nine year old restaurant manager with whom Linda shared a brief though not disastrous drunken kiss.

Meet Olga, Mackenzie’s summer fling, who was less than amused when Linda briefly attempted to engage the couple in a threesome to disastrous effect.

Run into Jade, Claire’s cousin’s former softball coach who once kissed Josie at Spin before going home with Olga and who now lives upstairs from Linda’s co-worker Kendra who has a thing for Billi. To be brief, this is a disaster!

Become dizzy and have to sit down.

6) Dating in Andersonville or No, I won’t Move in with You. Do You Even Know my Last Name?

Sure you’ve suffered immeasurable damage from the noxious co-dependence addled relationship in which you’ve spent the last three years, but here’s the real issue: you’re twenty-eight years old and you can count the number of people you’ve been with on your inner vaginal lips. (Using your fingers to count is so last year.) You need to get out there and date!

Meet Cory.

Attempt to date her.

Begin to sweat profusely when she asks you where you see yourself in ten years.

Tell her you have enough trouble figuring out where you see yourself in ten minutes. (Although at this point you can pretty clearly see yourself three blocks away -- running fast.)

Meet Betty.

Make out with her in front of Cory.

That takes care of that problem.

Meet Claire.

Attempt to date her.

Break out in hives when it becomes apparent that she wants you to sleep over every night.

Explain that you have a rare skin disease that does not respond well to unfamiliar sheets and therefore you cannot sleep over every night.

Meet Fred.

She’s hot in theory, but in practice she reminds you of a praying mantis.

Meet Evelyn.

She shows up for your first date carrying a purse -- that’s a deal breaker. And when you think about it, even if she’d arrived on a vintage Triumph motorcycle sporting a faux hawk and low slung diesel jeans bulging with an obvious strap on, her name would still be Evelyn.

Meet Maude. (What is it with these women and their names?)

The fact that Maude is becoming a man is intriguing. The fact that she tells you this means she can legally marry you is not.

Resist the urge to take your mother seriously when she recommends that you try sleeping with men because “at least they don’t require a commitment.”

Get a hold of yourself; you’re not that far gone yet. But shake your head knowingly and tell yourself that that’s what Andersonville can do to a person.

 
***

 
There now. That’s better, isn’t it? There’s nothing like an itemized list of directives to relax a person. Now get back on that ladder and hang those picture hooks. But make sure you use the stud finder. There. No, there, on top of the TV Table. You’re welcome. I told you you weren’t alone.

Discuss this article on our message boards!  

 
Sarah Terez Rosenblum spent the last four years of her life in Los Angeles and plans to return even though she hated it.  She will be thirty in two years. Thank God she’ll have received her MFA in Creative Writing by then. That way, even though she’ll still be lacking any real idea of what she wants to do with her life, at least she’ll be massively in debt. You can contact her at This email address is being protected from spam bots, you need Javascript enabled to view it or visit her at myspace.com/raininariver. You can also buy her a pony. She’s always wanted one.