We all know by now that men are from Mars and women are from Venus. Am I the only one who has always been vaguely troubled by women’s alleged  Venusian citizenship? I’m no linguistics expert, but any layperson can see that Venus rhymes with penis. And men are the ones with penises. Therefore, doesn’t it stand to reason that men would be from Venus, and women would be from…I don’t know, maybe Pluto? See, Pluto rhymes with fructose, and you know how woman love them some sugary snacks. Okay, that’s a stretch. Some women really enjoy Fritos. Or cheesy popcorn. Ooh! Or sour cream and onion Sun Chips. God do I have PMS.  Also Pluto doesn’t really rhyme with fructose. It kind of rhymes with prosciutto though. So maybe Italian women are from Pluto. Except that I don’t think Pluto is even a planet anymore. Why exactly was its title revoked? Did nude pictures surface? Did it get another DUI? And if Pluto isn’t a planet, where does that leave women? They say we’re in the post-feminist era, but here it is 2007, and not only do women still make seventy-five cents to a man’s dollar, but now their home planet has been eradicated as well. I don’t know about you, but statistics like that make me want to forcibly impregnate Scott Baio. God do I have PMS. But wait, maybe women should be from Uranus, because even if Uranus doesn’t rhyme with vagina, at least women have anuses. Yeah, that works: Men are from Venus, women are from Uranus.

At any rate, that notorious self-help book, in combination with all major US advertising agencies and your annoying sister-in-law who constantly brings up your brother’s inability to find the butter (“Now isn’t that just like a man?”), have made everyone nauseatingly clear on all of the adorable differences between men and women. But what about the differences between women and women? Sure the topic has been discussed, even joked about. But… not by me. So I’m gonna do it; I’m gonna make humorous generalizations about butches vs. femmes. First however, let’s discuss the historical origins of these words. Man, that sounds boring. Maybe we should all just get ice cream. Except that I’m not really sure how many of you there are or where you live or when you’re actually reading this so that could be hard to coordinate. I guess we’re better off with a history lesson, although I could really go for some butter pecan. God do I have PMS.

The categories of butch and femme have passed in and out of favor over the years. In the 1950’s if one was attracted to a femme and wanted to be taken seriously as half of a lesbian couple, one was forced to identify as butch, and vice versa. Imagine if straight people had to make that choice. Brad and Angelina would be fucked. In the seventies, third wave feminists viewed butch/femme as an imitation of heterosexuality. Since heterosexuality was itself looked at as an undesirable byproduct of a male-dominated society, butch/femme became the passé baby that lesbian/feminists tossed out along with the patriarchy’s dirty bathwater. I’m not sure what happened in the eighties but shoulder pads were definitely involved.

By the 1990’s, younger generations of lesbians began to return to their butch/femme roots. Personally, I hold Chloe Sevigny responsible. Her portrayal of an old school, brooding butch in If These Walls Could Talk Two made butch/femme seem edgy rather than stodgy. The night Showtime aired the show, lesbian sex rates across America skyrocketed (because I say they did, that’s why). This was in spite of Ellen DeGeneres and Sharon Stone’s tepidly awkward depiction of a baby-hungry lesbian duo. Their representation merely begged the questions, why aren’t heterosexual couples ever pictured dancing around in their pajamas, and why does Hollywood insist that lesbians can’t be sexually intimate without giggling? It’s not a slumber party people - it’s sex!

Perhaps late twentieth century lesbians’ increasing comfort with the butch/femme dynamic was a case of life mirroring art or perhaps of art mirroring life or perhaps the two simply rebelled and joined forces to imitate architecture instead. Whatever the reason, by the time the twenty-first century began its slouch toward Bethlehem, the butch/femme polarity had returned to popularity, albeit in a slightly altered form. Today many lesbians prefer the terms top/bottom which, although not technically synonymous with butch/femme, are often used interchangeably and provide a less loaded alternative. Also movement between categories has become more fluid and being a femme no longer involves such strict footwear requirements.  

So that’s the history, now for the humorous generalizations.

How to tell if your lesbian is a butch lesbian:

She pays.
She owns camping chairs.
She actually says things like, “After a hard day's work all I want is an ice cold beer.” Followed by “Mmm. That hit the spot.”
She admires Justin Timberlake.
She never forgave her father for telling her seven years old was too old to go shirtless.
Her favorite food group is brown: potatoes, onion rings, bread—in fact she loves carbs so much that your yeast infection makes her salivate.
Sometimes you feel like you’re dating Bruce Springsteen circa 1984.
She finds the idea that Bette is a top ludicrous even if the show is set in LA.
You had to make room in your closet for her cowboy shirt collection.
When you stroke her fingers you’re pretty sure they actually swell with blood.
She spends more time on her hair than you do.
She spots a celebrity and of course your first question is, “What was she wearing?” She thinks for a minute and says “…pants I think. Yeah, she was definitely wearing pants.” When you press her for the cut and color she looks at you blankly and then asks if you’ve seen her cigarette case.
She tells you that she secretly fantasizes about you getting fucked by “another man.”
She thinks you over-complicate everything.
When she puts on a short sleeved t-shirt, she instinctively rolls the sleeves just high enough so they stop where her biceps are largest.
The best thing to do when she’s mad at you is flash her.
If she doesn’t like to camp, she likes to grill. And if she doesn’t like to grill, she drives a truck. And if she doesn’t drive a truck, she rides a skateboard. And if she doesn’t ride a skateboard, she scoffs at vegetarians. And if she doesn’t scoff at vegetarians, she has a tattoo. And if she doesn’t have a tattoo, she reads Sports Illustrated.

How to tell if your lesbian is a femme lesbian:

She kicks up her heel behind her when you kiss her.
At restaurants she always asks if they allow substitutions.
She gets mad when you don’t realize she’s initiating sex.
When she was twelve she thought “Crystal” was the most beautiful name she’d ever heard.
No matter how many times you assure her that putting things in her pants pockets doesn’t make her look fat, you still end up carrying her lipstick. And her sunglasses. And her wallet.
She apologizes if she neglects to shave her legs for a day.
You never knew there were so many names for the color blue. (Azure…? Periwinkle…?)
De Beers diamond commercials make her cry.
She thinks you oversimplify everything.
She’d choose Shane. Or Max. Or maybe even Bette in a pinch.
She worries that Doc Martens make her look “too dykey.”
She spends more time on her hair than you do.
You think you forgot to buy bread by accident. She says there are no accidents and what exactly aren’t you telling her?
She pays more for underwear than you pay for entire outfits.
She wonders what you get out of penetrating her.
She has a thing for Amy Ray.
When you offer her an obvious solution to a problem, she glares at you and says she’s looking for emotional support.
Her father still calls her "Princess".
She waxes.
If she doesn’t like unicorns, her favorite color is pink. And if her favorite color isn’t pink, Manolo Blahniks make her wet. And if Manolo Blahniks don’t make her wet, she has long hair. And if she doesn’t have long hair, she loves your biceps. And if she doesn’t love your biceps, she’s into astrology.

You think I’m tapped out, but I could go on. I've got stamina. I’m from Uranus. And before you butches get your shorts in a wad and you femmes get your panties in a bunch, let me just say that of course there are fashion-conscious butches and sports-savvy femmes, but this is a humor column. Where’s the humor in challenging stereotypes?  It’s about as funny as when Andy Rooney used to count the number of chips in a bag at the end of 60 Minutes. Not to speak ill of the dead. Side note, Kurt Cobain, Jimmy Stewart and Tammy Faye Messner (formerly Baker) all suck. God do I have PMS. Oh, and I just remembered what happened in the 1980’s: Cindy Crawford gave K.D. Lang a close shave on the cover of Vanity Fair. You want to talk about nationwide lesbian sex surges? That image did more for lesbian sex than the advent of Cyberskin. As for the veracity of butch/femme, I personally believe that contrast exists in all relationships, straight or gay. Just look at Madonna and Guy Ritchie.

 
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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 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.