My high school English teacher, Mrs. Miller, an ill-tempered, painfully thin woman, always told her students that only once we understood why we shouldn’t begin a sentence with the word ‘because’ could we do so. This was the same woman who thought fashion meant wearing different shades of the same color. Since her favorite color was green, she often came to school looking like an aggravated asparagus spear. Mrs. Miller had a penchant for fruit, and would routinely eat three oranges and a banana for lunch. Perhaps she was trying to convince herself she was actually vacationing in the tropics rather than teaching snotty eleventh graders how to diagram a sentence, or perhaps she was worried about scurvy.  Whatever the explanation, her garbage can was always full of peels and even in January, her classroom swarmed with fruit flies. Clearly the woman had issues; however, the power of her edict has not faded. To this day, I try to avoid using the word ‘because’ in any circumstance, just to be on the safe side. I’d like to advise similar caution when it comes to making fun of lesbians.

Just like that devilish conjunction, lesbian-mocking is acceptable only in particular situations. To ridicule lesbians with impunity, first we must understand why we shouldn’t. There are multiple reasons of course, including Reason # 300: Lesbians are minorities and we don’t fuck with minorities unless we are Sarah Silverman and the minorities are Asian; and Reason #8: Many lesbians work out and could probably beat the shit out of us.

I’m not going to dwell on the reasons we shouldn’t mock lesbians, just as Mrs. Miller did not waste time teaching us what was actually wrong with the word ‘because,’ for also like Mrs. Miller, I have more important information to bestow. You see, a more relevant step we must take before freely mocking lesbians is this: We must love lesbians. Not the way Kanye West loves lesbians, but the way a lesbian loves lesbians. No, I’m not referring to cunnilingus. Why does everyone always think I’m referring to cunnilingus? I’m saying that just like Margaret Cho can do her pigeon-English infused impression of her Korean mother but a non-Korean cannot, just like Jerry Seinfeld can riff on Jews and their money, but a non-Jew cannot, just like Chris Rock can use the word ‘Nigger’ and so can Sarah Silverman, you kinda have to be a lesbian in order to deride them. I’m not attempting to indirectly imply that my high school English Lit teacher was a lesbian (although that would totally explain her fashion sense). My motives are more clear-cut. I’m about to say some pretty raw things about the lesbians I know, and before I do, I need to make sure you understand that I am coming from a place of love, only love.

I believe that if one took a random sampling from lesbian peer groups across the nation, one would encounter the same archetypes. I further believe that by studying these specific models one can prepare oneself for unavoidable run-ins with said individuals. I care deeply about my friends and about the Andersonville community of which they are a part; however, in a stunning gesture of altruism, I am willing to sacrifice them on Science’s mighty altar. I encourage you to think of these women as case studies and me as their wire mother. So as I sing for you a brief rendition of that classic ditty, “These are the Dykes in my Neighborhood,” please remember my loving place of origin. No, I’m not referring to my vagina. Why does everyone always think I’m referring to my vagina?

A few columns back I mentioned Linda. You remember Linda. Everybody remembers Linda. I particularly remember Linda because despite the fact that she is one of my closest friends in the city, I routinely feel single-white-femaled by her. In the last year she has slept with my oldest childhood friend, proposed a threesome with myself and my oldest childhood friend, proposed a threesome with myself and my girlfriend, proposed a threesome with myself and my sister, expressed intense interest in meeting my mother, made me swear never to sleep with her no matter how drunk or insistent she becomes, and then suggested that we kiss just to see if we have chemistry. This is because, kind-hearted and loving as she may be, Linda is a Boundary Busting Bisexual. I lesbian-love her to death, but that’s what she is. And she freely admits it. Here’s a routine conversation with Linda: “She was my best friend for years, but we don’t talk anymore. I’m not sure why. Don’t look at me like that; I didn’t sleep with her boyfriend. Wait! Yes I did, but that was years later.”

Linda is a self-described bridge burning triangulater, who is stunningly capable of keeping multiple dishes in the air. Sure, she sometimes forgets a name here and there but only when incredibly drunk and even then it’s charming. I was particularly impressed with Linda’s dexterity a couple weeks back when we were at T’s, the local lesbian bar. By the end of the night her stomach was full of free drinks, and her bra was full of eager phone numbers. Of course half the women in the bar were no longer speaking to her, and she spent the majority of the night deflecting a former one-night stand with delusions of permanency, but that’s just the price a Boundary Busting Bisexual must pay.

A few columns back, I did not mention D. I did not mention her because at that point, she existed only on the periphery of my life. This is no longer the case. D is the Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend, less alliterative than the Boundary Busting Bisexual, but twice as deadly. Remember the joke about the interrupting cow? The one that goes:

A - Knock Knock

B - Who’s there?

A - Interrupting Cow.

B - Interrupting Cow wh-

A - MOOOOOOO!

Well, the Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend is similarly intrusive but has fewer stomachs. I don’t know about you, but I really couldn’t give a fuck what my friends do within the privacy and primacy of their romantic relationships. Even if I did care, I would never express my feelings without an elaborate and explicitly worded invitation, the kind with gold leaf and flourishes. The Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend, however, does not believe in formal invites. What is the point of having thoughts, the Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend wonders, if not to speak them aloud?

In the short time that I have known her, D has quizzed me about my ethnic background, sex life, eating habits, taste in music, career aspirations, homemaking skills, signature scent, past relationships and favorite board game (she was visibly displeased when she found out it was Pictionary). I believe her attention to these negligible details results from her irrational belief that somehow they each powerfully affect her best friend, and by codependent lesbian extension, herself. D has also taken my girlfriend aside to volunteer the following directives:

“You need to keep your phone on at all times. You need to understand that if you turn it off when the two of you are together, it sets an unhealthy precedent. I mean, what if I need to reach you?”

 “You need to leave your girlfriend stranded at the train station because I need you to cat sit on ten minutes notice when I know you are allergic but I don’t care hahahahaha!”

Okay she didn’t say that. I would like to preface what she actually did say by swearing that I am not making this up, but Dave Barry, the mainstream humor columnist, has already cornered the market on that phrase. I’m trying to create my own distinctive lesbian humor columnist version, but so far all I’ve come up with is “Yo, I’m keeping it real, dog,” which sounds less like a lesbian humor columnist, and more like an upsetting white Economics teacher failing to bond with his ‘at risk’ students. Let’s just skip it. Back to D’s most disturbing declaration. D asked my girlfriend what she and I had been up to lately, and my girlfriend, ever the wordsmith said, “Uh…fucking, mostly,” to which D responded:  “Fucking is fine, but sometimes you need to break out the candles and the music, you need to make love to your girlfriend.” Concerned that unbeknownst to her, our sex life was at risk, my girlfriend relayed D’s pronouncement to me: “You know I’m loving you the whole time I’m fucking you, don’t you babe?” she asked, hand cupped under my chin. I assured her that I did. Unconvinced she continued, “Just say the word and you’ll have music and flowers. We can make love any time you want.”

I responded that if I walked in to find the floor littered with rose petals and Sarah McLachlan (the lesbian Barry White) sighing in the background, I would probably develop an instant and painful rash, and furthermore it would probably be contagious. Also I would never stop throwing up. My girlfriend was relieved, “Well good, cause there’s a whole lotta love in my fuck.” Sex-life salvaged, no thanks to Girlfriend’s Interfering Best Friend. She would be a hell of a lot more useful if she actually gave milk. 

Speaking of women I love (isn’t that a James Blunt song?), I reeeeaaallly love me some Phoebe. Funny thing is I’ve never actually met Phoebe. You might justifiably wonder why then, she has my eternal devotion. Phoebe is that exquisite flower that blooms at least once in the life of every lesbian, more than once if the lesbian is truly blessed; Phoebe is the Melodramatic, Attention Starved, Victim Identified, Girlfriend’s Ex-Girlfriend Who Not Only Can’t Take a Hint, She Can’t Take an Announcement over the Loudspeaker. We’ll call her  M.A.S.V.I.,G.E-G.W.N.O.C.T.H.,S.C.T.A.L. for short…uh, shorter.

There are several things I love about Phoebe. First of all, I love her innocence. So charming, like a schoolgirl, really, a delightful alumnus of the Lesbian Training Academy, (or Bryn Mawr as it is more commonly known). A neglectful student, however, one who skipped class the day the lesson plan read: “Pet Names: their Proper Use and Duration.”

Here is what Phoebe missed that day.  Just as dairy products have a sell-by date after which they are no longer good; pet names are similarly time-sensitive. They are only valid within the context of a relationship. After a relationship’s demise, no matter how touching, deeply significant and self-revelatory they were, all pet names must be retired. Their employment at this juncture makes one appear pathetic and out of touch. Pet names are like racehorses. When their career is over, it’s over! Send them to the slaughterhouse; there are hungry dogs out there! Everybody knows this. Everybody but the M.A.S.V.I.,G.E-G.W.N.O.C.T.H.,S.C.T.A.L. Christ, that takes up more space than she’s worth, let’s just call her Phoebe. (Incidentally, Phoebe also missed the seminar entitled, “Oral Sex: If you are a Lesbian you Probably Actually Enjoy it.”)

Here’s another reason I love Phoebe: She is, against all odds and in direct defiance of logic and the natural order of the universe, tenacious beyond belief.  No matter how aggressively we ignore her; she never goes away. She’s a little trooper, is what she is! During the seven months my girlfriend and I have been together she has continued to doggedly text my girlfriend at least once every two weeks. Ah, text messaging, the medium of choice for the passive-aggressive instant gratification junkie.

I trust my girlfriend, and I don’t check up on her, but the fact is, we have the same cell phone. As a result, when I hear a bedside beep at three in the morning, and blindly fumble for its source, I often find myself wondering blearily why someone whose number I don’t recognize is telling me her life is empty without me, she just found out the girl she’s dating is a cocaine addict, and something is wrong with her car.

While I would love to be able to flick open BearieBear’s - I mean my girlfriend’s - cell phone without being confronted by the saccharine remnants of her romantic past, I’m not threatened by Phoebe. I suppose my girlfriend could develop a sudden nostalgia for lectures, manipulation and sexual frustration, but barring that occurrence, Phoebe’s thrashing texts are just a nuisance, and they make me feel embarrassed for her. The other night this one came in: “My girlfriend beat me up sat nite which is why u got a phone call from grams that nite. Wish you were here for me.”

I never realized that twenty-five words could contain that much dysfunction. I’m not going to take time to unpack that sentence; I’m too exhausted from running my nocturnal switchboard. Suffice it to say that if you are being abused by your partner and have decided to text about it, even if you do not have the wherewithal to extract yourself from the situation, at least take the time to spell out the word ‘night’. I realize the letters are inconveniently located, but that’s just the sort of laziness that keeps you in an abusive relationship. I’m not even going to get into the use of the abbreviation ‘u’ in such a dire context. And Jesus Christ, why is Phoebe’s grandmother calling my girlfriend? Furthermore, why does Phoebe refer to her as ‘Grams?’ She’s from Detroit, not the Eastern Seaboard. Also, why is ‘Bear’ Phoebe’s pet name for my girlfriend?’ Did the two of them have North Woods sex fantasies? Was my girlfriend formerly a large, bearded gay man?  These are questions I’d prefer not to ask, but thanks to Phoebe, I just can’t help it. God love you, Phoebe, you are one hell of a M.A.S.V.I.G.E-G.W.N.O.C. T.H.,S.C.T.A.L!

There are other lesbian types of course. There’s Sings While She Works Out Lesbian. I have one of those in my spinning class. I thought it was understood that singing in public to music only you can hear is acceptable only if you are a young, fit black man. Or Sarah Silverman. Apparently I was wrong.

There is also Dancing Glowstick Lesbian. Always in attendance at outdoor music festivals, Dancing Glowstick Lesbian is typified by her undulating dance moves and her presence directly in front of you. Not sure if she is a Dancing Glowstick Lesbian? Ask her if she has ever choreographed a dance to U2’s Mysterious Ways. She is a Dancing Glowstick Lesbian if she has any of the following responses:

1. Absolutely, and my favorite line is,  “On your knees boy!”

2. No, but it was part of the background medley during my last public fire-eating event.

3. I only listen to Sarah McLachlan.

And finally, we have Stuck In The Decade In Which She Came Out Lesbian. You’ve seen her around. Depending on her age, her hairstyle may rhyme with gullet, she may look skeptically at your dark rinse boot-cut jeans and say she prefers stone-washed, or she may merely resemble Jordan Catalano.

Please rest assured that there is more than enough room in my wide-open heart for all of these lesbians. I said heart, people, not vagina. And while there are oodles of types I have neglected to mention (for example: National Public Radio Lesbian, Closeted at Work Lesbian, Allergic to Perfume, Detergent and Cigarette Smoke Lesbian, Hearty Breakfast Lesbian, Leonard Nimoy Lesbian, Pool Table in her Living Room Lesbian, etc. ad nauseum), sadly the final bell is ringing and I am out of time.

As you gather your books and pencils, I offer these final words of wisdom. Robert Frost’s Birches is clearly about masturbation. Or possibly gay sex. Now if you will excuse me, I have plans tonight to take notes while Linda seduces a straight couple and D gives my girlfriend a lecture about the proper use of incense within a monogamous relationship. You’re welcome to join us, it’s BYO-glowstick night at T’s, and I’m almost
certain that Phoebe’s gonna show.

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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 or visit her at myspace.com/raininariver. You can also buy her a pony. She’s always wanted one.