In light of that the DNC is going on, people are totes uptight about stuff, and my head is about to explode due to wedding planning madness, can we please just talk about shit that utterly does not matter? K, thanks. I want to take this moment to bag on a national monument to bad acting and poor project choices: Claire Forlani.

Normally, the Forlani schadenfreude in my household is limited to the family Panda watching Meet Joe Black every single time it comes on TV… So that we may laugh at it. That movie is so bad, it makes us positively giddy. The ‘can’t take a damn thing about this film seriously’ factor is so high, that we can’t even call Brad Pitt’s character “Joe Black”, “The Reaper”, “Death” or whatever. We have to call him “Meet Joe Black.” One of us will get up to go to the bathroom, come back and say, “What have I missed? Is Meet Joe Black on about peanut butter again? That man is positively obsessed!” or “OOH! Is this the part where Meet Joe Black talks all Jamaican for no reason? Fantastic!” The saddest part is, that MJB is probably the best movie Forlani has ever been in, and it’s not like hers was a standout role. She plays “underfed pretty blue-blood girl whose nonthreatening looks and quiet (read: boring) grace cause an undead(?) man to fall for her (like it’s hard or something).” More Forlani bagging and the reasons why to pour yourself a big ole cup of skinny Brit expat h8erade after the jump.

Despite her prominence in MJB, the only time she’s ever been called upon to help carry a movie, most of the time, Forlani’s mousy inoffensiveness is pretty easy to overlook while she’s on screen. The trouble comes with looking at her career as a whole. I mean, really, her IMBD reads like Tori Spelling’s daily positive affirmations. And seeing all her “work” in one place really recalls all of the wooden emoting you spent so much time ignoring: The prettily aloof waitress in Mystery Men. The prettily bitchy girlfriend in Basquiat. The pretty attempt to fill theater seats in Jackie Chan’s The Medallion. The pretty girlfriend Jason London so desperately tries to win back in The Most Dated Movie Since the Village People’s Can’t Stop the Music (aka Mallrats, people). The prettyrexic, unconvincingly depressive Maggie Cassidy character in the utterly unbearable The Last Time I Committed Suicide (seriously, I was only 15 at the time, and well into pointless, depressing, navel-gazing films, but I couldn’t even FINISH this one). The pretty bit-part girlfriend in.. Anti-Trust? GAWW! She was in that stinker? Ugh, and did you guys know it was originally called “Conspiracy.com”? Oh my god, so bad. So bad. Ooh! And look here, she was in a film I’ve never heard of called Going Greek in which she plays a sorority girl (at 30 years of age, people) and IMDB say her scenes were deleted. That’s cold, yo. But, before you start feeling sorry for our gal Claire, I think two of her latest releases have enough pure concentrated douche extract to power-clean your pity glands to an industrial shine.

First, she was recently in a movie called In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Tale. The title of this should really stand alone in it’s ability to make you chuckle at Forlani’s expense. I was originally going to leave it at that, until I explored further. Prepare yourselves. You may want to sit down and make sure you’re not eating or drinking anything right now, so as not to choke to death on your mirth:

This is a period movie movie. Starring Jason Statham, (What Ever Happened to) Leelee Sobieski, Burt Reynolds’ Facelift, and Ray Liotta. Oh. My. God. And, to make matters worse, it’s a full-on, video-game-based Lord of the Rings ripoff! The plot is based around Statham’s character, the oddly monikered Farmer, avenging the plunder of his family at the hands of hybrid animal warriors. Think about that. Animal warriors that, according to Canada.com’s Jay Stone, are “half beasts that look like Orcs in the sense that the seven-year-old who comes to your house at Halloween looks like Batman”. You can’t make this shit up.

But the worst is yet to come. Ever comfortable in her barely-on-screen love-interest role, Forlani has again lent her copious “acting chops” clavicles to another F-list leading man in need: Toby Keith. Yes, you read that right. Claire Forlani is the leading woman in the racist, redneck propaganda film Beer for my Horses. I trust that anyone reading this blog hasn’t seem B4mH, so I’ll give you the low-down on the plot: All-Amurrican po-lice deppitty and brawny heroman Toby Keith and his All-Amurrican good-guy buddy cop friend set out to protect their small, Amurrican Okie town from being overrun by drugs. Their efforts include trying to protect some fertilizer tanks from being turned into meth. Some Mexican drug lords show up and do bad-guy stuff including try to make and sell drugs and, of course, kidnap Forlani. Now, in case any of you are doubting the “Brown Panic” messages this film is attempting to sell, let’s take a look at the lyrics of the song this film is based upon:

Grandpappy told my pappy back in my day, son
A man had to answer for the wicked that he’d done
Take all the rope in Texas
Find a tall oak tree, round up all of them bad boys
Hang them high in the street
For all the people to see
That
Justice is the one thing you should always find
You got to saddle up your boys
You got to draw a hard line
When the gun smoke settles we’ll sing a victory tune
And we’ll all meet back at the local saloon
And we’ll raise up our glasses against evil forces singing
Whiskey for my men, beer for my horses

Yeah. You read that right. It’s a call-to-arms for rednecks to bring lynching back into fashion. Try replacing the words “bad” and “evil” with, say, “black” or “colored”, if you really need the thinly-veiled message spelled out for you. WOW. Not only can I not believe this film was greenlit (written, produced and starring Toby Keith, natch), but I can’t believe otherwise-not-so-bad people like Forlani, Willie Nelson, and Gina Gershon went along with it. I realize times are tough. The economy sucks and we’re all hard-up. But really, Claire, I never thought I’d say this but- you are better than this. You’re fucking British, OK! What the hell are you doing starring in a movie for violence-romanticizing, war-mongering, xenophobic yanks by violence-romanticizing, war-mongering, xenophobic yanks? As much as I hate most of your movies, I can admit, Claire, that you’re not this bad. You’ve got potential. You’ve got your Fiona Apple-ish looks, your name-recognition factor is pretty admirable for someone who chooses such crap roles, I mean the sheer amount of creepy fansites I stumbled across while researching this post has to count for something, eh? And you’re married to Dougray Scott, which is lovely. So please, lady, don’t throw it all away on racist vanity projects. Please fire your agent. And, you know, were I not concerned about making myself sound like an asshole, I’d also suggest a post-agent-firing celebratory cookie or 10. But I’m not that gal. So keep doing what you’re doing, except… not.

Anyway, tell us which actors you love to hate on in the comments!

That cows have an inner compass? Researchers say the cows they observed tend to align themselves in a north-south direction. ~ That giant squid found in New Zealand last year is thought to have been an “overweight breeding machine” rather than a fearsome sea creature. ~ Neanderthals were firecrotches, too. ~ Even in space, hackers can steal your login info.

Every now and again, rarefied gems of such exquisite hipster stupidity come along that beg to be shared with everyone on the internets. See: Cobrasnake, shirts with ironic sayings printed on them, BANGS, auf’d condoms/swapping STDs and good old, trusty old American Apparel! The various blogs and bulletins hipsters post on myspace.com and the like are a veritable goldmine for this sort of thing. A treasure chest full of premium hipster idiocy, trust fund baby spit-up and temper tantrums. Here is where I collect the best of the worst and present them for your (dis)pleasure.

Welcome back to But Enough About You…the hipster overshare portion of the week where my douche is your douche! What a treat this week I have for you, what a special child in our midst. I found me a real, live hipster POET! (Weren’t we just discussing Jack Kerouac? No? Must have been someone else then, sorry.) A rhyming poet, no less.

Without further ado, I give you “a literary gentleman.” You tell me, can you meet his standards? Can you be who he wants you to be? Are you up for his anti-hipster hipsterness, game for such a glottological, psychedelicious, mixed-media-masturbatory high? Can you handle it? We’ll just have to see, won’t we?

Please read on to learn more about the kind of person our dear poet wants to meet:

Who. I want to meet those just a fraction different. They might be like this: Original-ish. Crazy, wild, naked-chinese-fire-drill participants in the middle of a busy intersection, dancing around, rocking out to an i-pod that only half of us can hear but we sing it anyways, puddle stomping, yelling at cabs to get the f*ck out of the way type of people.

Playground, not-quite ready to grow up type, actually playing on the monkey bars without mind of their feet dragging on the ground, still have fire, and life, and adventure and whatever else interesting or entertaining, that have it in their eyes, that it glows, that idea of those that never gave up on never growing up type of people.

Those that I can learn anything from. I played chess with Sam (a bum) in the park for two hours and got him wasted off of wine that I was supposed to bring to a party allthewhile catching hypothermia because well, I wanted a story and something different - I WANT TO MEET THOSE THAT AREN’T AFRAID TO SMILE AND BE AND EAT WAY TOO MANY CUPCAKES OR SNOWCONES OR CHOCOLATE BARS OR WHATEVER ELSE AND CHASE IT WITH A GALLON OF MILK OR VODKA (disclaimer, drinking with me does require a waver from time to time) and get it all over your clothes and not even care because at the end of the day you’ll remember that moment, and well - thats all that matters.

I want to meet the people that drink not because it is a social game that society plays with us because we are at this age that it is just something you do but rather because it is AN ACTION of CONSUPTION that offers a moment of freedom from the F*CKING psychological construct of what society IS while also allowing the state of libation to serve as an excuse to you know, get a lil’ crazy and enjoy the company of others and maybe even you know, DANCE A LITTLE -

I want to meet spiral, star, paisley, anything but square types. Not that I mind square types, they just aren’t nearly as entertaining. Sorry Bob, I will not be able to talk to you about THE time you received your memo at the office, I have people to see, places to be, and a clock that is running. My candle, it burns bright, very very bright.

I want to meet individuals that impress the world not because they want to, but because that is who they are, it is their being. That, that person, that idea, that is who.

CHOICE POEM EXCERPTS FROM HIPSTER POET:

My only hope come ‘morrow being that I wake to experience another,
I find myself here in Paris, writing, being, living and feeling
Joie de vivre, as NY and SF are good friends, with Paris I found my lover
with departure, they’ll be a day i’ll return - most likely in need of healing.

=====

Wing-ed flight here among the night

Black clouds gather & rain they might

Nervous smiles glow, and with my delight

That angelic bird lifted, soared, mid-flight

With hands of art, each with we collect

Times and moments that can we reflect

Wing-ed flight, I found thus suspect

Yet flight found me, and I rose, affect

Once words for me no longer have lift -

At that time my, me, this - will shift

And many a day and many a night

I find I write and write until it’s right.

Mother of God, was that not precious? Wasn’t it? Now, please excuse me while I go and sob into the pages of Antonin Artaud and Kathy Acker. I’ll see you in the comments!

*Contributed by SkinnyBoneJones*

Hey y’all. Myrtlebeachbum here, reporting live from my isolationist bubble deep in the heart of South Carolina, whiskey in hand and kids banished to bed, tears streaming down my face only maybe a little bit. Shooting off at the mouth has apparently gotten me everywhere today because Kadinsky says it’s my turn to put it all out there for BCP readers. I get to have my say on HRC’s speech, yee haw and praise Jaysus. Here goes:
Tonight was Ladies’ Night at the Democratic Convention. What better way to celebrate the 88th anniversary of the nineteenth amendment than by setting aside one night for chicks? And what better chick to cap off that night than Hillary Rodham Clinton?

What an unenviable task she had before her tonight. She had to appease her fervent supporters. She had to convince some of them to pledge their allegiance to her bitter rival without backtracking on the charges she levied against him during the campaign and without appearing insincere to his backers. She had to pay homage to a party that turned its back on her and her husband, both of whom have been tireless workhorses for Democrats. She had to do it with the mainstream media watching, chomping at the bit for her to give them the slightest hint of conflict so they would have something to report about a convention that’s become a scripted, overblown commercial devoid of debate or real news. And of course, being a woman, she had to do it without appearing bitchy or emotional or soft or frigid or bitter or frumpy or old or, well, human. I wouldn’t have tried to pull it off for all the Maker’s Mark in Kentucky, but my girl HRC is a bigger, smarter, more gracious, and better person than I, and she made me fall in love with her all over again tonight by doing the impossible.

She acknowledged her supporters, she connected her message with Obama’s, she reached out to people outside the party, she batted away McCain’s courtship, she reminded everyone of Bill Clinton’s excellent work as president and his continued importance, she passed the torch (temporarily at least) to the Obamas and the Bidens, and she preserved her options for the rest of her political career. She did what she came to the convention to do, and she did it with humor, style (orange suit notwithstanding), sincerity, and eloquence. She did a thousand things at once, she did them well, and she did them in spite of people’s low expectations for her. That’s the way amazing women get things done every day, and I wouldn’t expect anything less from the first woman to make me believe I’d see a female president in my lifetime.

*Contributed by Myrtlebeachbum*

Today, while wandering around downtown Denver, I stumbled upon a raucous group of Hillary Clinton supporters who were soon brawling with Barack Obama supporters. Actually, not Obama supporters — some of them HAD been Clinton supporters but have accepted that she lost and are now backing Obama in the hopes of putting a Democrat in the White House.

Most of the women I talked to in this protest group told me something that stunned me almost into speechlessness: They intended to vote for McCain rather than Obama. But he’s anti-choice, I pointed out. He looks like he’s angling to start another war, this time in Iran, I added. He’s everything Hillary Clinton isn’t, I said. Hillary Clinton wants you to vote for Obama, I added. They could not be swayed — Obama, and his alleged thievery of Clinton’s rightful nomination, was, in their minds, a greater evil than the Republicans.

I must confess this flummoxes me. How can this be? If you hate Obama that much, don’t vote at all. But vote for McCain? Huh? What am I missing? How have people lost the big picture — the Republicans are the enemy here, not other Democrats.

Anyone?

p.s. SinRoo — be gentle with me.

p.p.s. It wasn’t all bad — an extremely hot man in an Armani suit who looked like Tyson soon started heckling them with “You lost, get over it! You lost, get over it!” and it was schwing-worthy.

So continuing on our weekend theme, I’d like to address the pleasant flip side to the fact that too many Americans are eating those huge portions served at so many restaurants and becoming super-sized themselves.

Today I gleefully swung by a Target in suburban Denver. I saw the cutest pearl-gray Isaac Mizrahi dress and a killer pair of pants. I tried on a medium in the dress, my normal size. And it hung off me. So I tried a small. It too was much too big. And so, in disbelief, I returned to the rack and got an extra-small. And it fit perfectly. Certain this was just some weird anomaly or a design flaw with the dress, I continued to try on a Size 8 in the pants, my normal size. You could have slipped two of me in them. I ended up with a 4.

Now listen, people. I am not reporting these developments to boast that I am some lithe little whippet. I am five-foot-four and weigh 135 pounds. I’m sorry, but that’s not an extra-small or a Size 4 on any planet in the world. My daughter is five-six and weighs 110. There is not a thing on Planet Target that would fit her.

You see what’s happening here, don’t you? The food manufacturers/restaurant industries are making people larger, and so clothing retailers, fearful women will get too depressed if they find they’re now wearing Size 14 instead of the 10 they wore before they were super-sized, are making sizes bigger so that people will continue to shop.

I will endeavour to remind myself as I settle in to live here for years that clothing manufacturers are LYING to me. Because if I start to believe the lie, I too will be hoovering massive portions every day, telling myself: “Hey! Why not? You’re an extra-small!”

Today is my first official day as a sort-of American, y’all (see what I did there? We don’t say y’all in Canada!!). That’s right, I crossed the border today, applied for my visa at the port of entry, was granted it by a lovely and sweet American Homeland Security official, and now I am here!! And so I feel no one will take too much offence if I point out a few things.

Let me preface it by saying this: I have loved Americans all my life. I have long railed against my native land’s kneejerk tendency toward anti-Americanism. Many of the most wonderful people I have ever known have been Yanks, including many of the regular readers and contributers of this blog. I haven’t actually known any who fit the internationally held stereotype, which, unfortunately and unfairly, is that of a loud-mouthed, ignorant and belligerent dumbass. All of the Americans I know and love are intelligent, reasonable, thoughtful and incredibly kind and generous.

So that’s why I know no one will take any offence when I point out the following: you fucking people eat too much. It’s a wonder you’re not all obese. Every supermarket is filled with a billion times too many choices — how many breakfast cereals do there need to be, people?? Every restaurant serves portions that are enough for four people, including the high-end ones. I went to a lovely bistro in Denver tonight and holy mother of hell, I was stuffed after the appetizer, which was enough to feed four or five people.

Tell me — why is this? Why?? And how have all of you avoided colossal obesity? How do you resist? Do you honestly believe these are normal portion sizes? Because they are not. If you order a salad at the Cheesecake Factory, I assure you that I would serve a salad of that size for a dinner party of eight. The food industry is fucking with you people! You don’t need to eat more in one meal than many people do in a week! Stop!! Don’t let them win!!! They want to make you fat and sick so that the pharmaceutical companies can cash in on all your food-related illnesses — I truly believe they’re in cahoots!

So stop the madness! It’s not about low-carb or low-sugar or all-watermelon — it’s about portion size. If y’all (!!!) ate the way French and Japanese people ate, there wouldn’t be a nationwide obesity epidemic. It’s not gland problems, people, it’s that you’re consuming more calories than your poor overstuffed bodies can realistically burn off, even if you work out like mad.

That’s all. Other than that, I love you all, I really do. And I am SO HAPPY to be here!

I don’t know what you ladies are doing tomorrow, but I intend to take time out of my flight to Denver to unveil my hooters at some point in public. Errrr … maybe not, since it’s the day I announce to U.S. Customs agents that I am moving to the United States. But the rest of you should, because it’s National TaTas Day!

Thanks for the tip, Paisley!

Welcome Back! It’s come to our attention here at Sugar Walls that some of you are very, very curious about the varying degrees of butch and femme and all of the lovely, tantalizing things in between. Here is the first of a two-part special meant to clarify some of the confusing categories of lesbians out there, written just for you by the femmes of BCP’s Sugar Walls. Next week, look forward to more of the same from the butch perspective!

Simply Femme - A Broad View

(From Lesbians & Dating): A lesbian who dresses in a feminine nature and has a feminine manner. Femmes are said to prefer skirts, flouncy clothes, makeup, and spending inconceivable amounts on their hair. (Not always true). They are the opposites of butch. Origins: This originates from the same time as when the term butch became popular in the 1950’s where lesbians were forced to choose which way they would dress in bars, or the working class lesbian couples chose to dress that way.

SBJ: Flouncy? Excuse me? I’ll try not to nitpick too much here. Yes, femmes complement butches nicely, but that’s not always how it goes down. Let me introduce you to a little thing all lesbians are familiar with: the invisible femme. When we look, for the most part, like straight women, how in God’s name are butches supposed to ID us at Home Depot or Trader Joe’s or (ahem) liquor store? It’s a problem. One must get creative without wearing rainbow socks or wombmoon jewelry. I think I’m getting ahead of myself. Femmes are lesbians, too, the girly ones, the ones who have no desire to physically express masculinity, if they’ve got any (some do!). It doesn’t mean they’re not tough - we often are - but we’re delighted by and revel in our femininity. Once I realized I was gay it actually resulted in a kind of unbridled, even more feminine me. For the first time it was genuinely, guiltlessly fun to be myself!

inchworm: i fall into this category as well (although i think i bust out the t-shirts more than skinny). but just like sbj, i actually felt much more comfortable with being feminine after i came out. in my hetero days of yore i was almost aggressively anti-feminine - i never wore skirts, dresses, or make up, and i intentionally burned everything i had to cook for my family or boyfriend. i was afraid of becoming an excuse or a justification for what women SHOULD be. more than wanting to be anti-femme, i wanted to illustrate to others that i could be whatever i wanted. and growing up in WV (and, to a certain extent, dating men) made me very aware of the fact that people did have certain expectations for wives, girlfriends, and daughters. something about being femmy-femme-femme and wearing dresses and looking pretty and baking cakes while dating a dude in the south made me feel like i was condemning other women to that role whether they enjoyed it or not. eventually, i matured, moved, and came out. i think all three things played a role. but i’m way less concerned about reinforcing unwanted hetero dynamics when i’m dating another woman, butch or no.

angiesyounglover: I suppose I trip and fall into this category. I love dressing like a femme! Heels, makeup, and doing the hair can be fun. But, fortunately, this is not the 1950’s, and we don’t have to choose which way we want to be. For me, this varies day to day. I won’t deny I always come out looking femme, but I don’t spend a lot of time or money on my hair. I cut my layers myself, same with my whispy bang thingers, and I feel perfectly okay with walking out of the house without makeup if situation warrants me no time to apply it. I suppose I could say I put the “Simple” in “Simple Femme.” And yeah, I’m with SBJ, I’m going to pretend like I just didn’t read the word “flouncy.” That’s too Fergie for my taste. But, oh, what category do you fall into if you secretly wish you could pull off the butch look some days of the week? I might be doing the Simple Femme category shame, but, yo, you all know how, when you encounter a butch, you’re eyes are glued, you’re looking them up and down, and you’re like okay, I am attracted (whether gay or not) to them and I’m trying to figure out why…I WANT THAT. I want that kind of enigma. But I don’t have it. So yeah, I would say I’m “Simple Femme with a side of Wannabe-Never-Gonnabe-Butch.” Is that allowed? Fuck it, yes it is.

BAngieB: I usually wear makeup and fix my hair, and I have been known to wear some fancy shoes, but I never wear dresses. I do not flounce or wear anything that flounces. This kinda describes me, but not really. [It does, however, pretty well describe my young lover with her love of eyeliner and her long, flowy hair. Also, she flounces a lot.]

Lipstick Lesbians - Love At First M.A.C.

(From Lesbians & Dating): Another term for femme. However it can also mean feminine women who are attracted to other feminine women. Origins: This is a slang term introduced in the late 1990’s.

SBJ: As I understand it, lipstick lesbians are femmes who like other femmes. Think the L-Word. Think porn. Think straight-man fantasy land. Unfortunately, this kind of girl-on-girl love gets a lot of unwanted, exploitative attention, but there’s nothing wrong with being a lipstick lesbian. It’s just a preference. While I’ve had my fair share of lipstick action, I draw the line at a lipstick lesbian relationship. No. 1: Butches are just too fucking yummy. No. 2: I am selfish, quite frankly, and cannot fathom sharing beauty products, clothes, shoes and prized femme attributes with my partner. Sure, I might steal a gob of M’s American Crew pomade here and there, but a screaming match over who forgot to restock the Clinique Almost Honey? DO NOT WANT. Not to mention collective bathroom time or closet space.

inchworm: i actually didn’t know that lipstick implied femme on femme action. i’ve been in relationships w/ other femmy girls, and, i have to say, the clothing sharing was a plus (this is because my wardrobe is not so extensive. i think my exes were less-than-thrilled with the situation, though). like skinny, though, the butch-femme dynamic is WAY more… fulfilling. more on that dynamic in the pillow princess section.

angiesyounglover: This is the category that makes me want to throw categories in a blender and never turn it off. “Lipstick,”…I get the point of the name, but it just sounds too “Let me film you guys” to me. That, and the fact that I wear lip gloss. But, yes, that is just the unwanted connotations that come with labels. Which is why I hate them. Anyway, I used to think, before I realized I was gay, that these kind of relationships didn’t make sense, didn’t look asthetically pleasing. But now that I’ve had a chance to examine feelings that have been lying dormant since the 7th grade(ish), and nuture them on my own, I can see just how wrong I was. This category is a nice little slap in the face to the assholes who say “Who’s the boy and who’s the girl in the relationship?” HEY, closeminded one, suck it! The point of being a lesbian is: no boys allowed. So yeah. Power to the lipsticks!

BAngieB: Huh. Well, I know of a few women who fit into this category, but I have to say that the term “lipstick lesbian” has been around a lot longer than the definition states, because I remember hearing it in college in the 80’s. Of course, back in those days there were really two categories for us: lipstick lesbian or tomboy/butch.

High Femme - Always With The Excess!

(From Lesbians & Dating): Lesbian who expresses the cultural norm for ultra-femininity - makeup, dresses, heels, hair, nails. May not identify as a lesbian if her desires are exclusively for Stone Butches and FTMs.

SBJ: As far as I know, high femme girls won’t leave the house without a full manicure and pedicure, full face of intense make-up, perfect ass hair, ultra-girly or sexy outfit with meticulously selected accessories, etc. Think Dita Von Teese or others who require a full-on 200% perfect costume in order to make a public appearance. They’re also notorious for being pillow princesses (or “stone femmes”). I could never be a high femme because I simply just don’t give a fuck sometimes, I’m too bossy and hands-on and curious and O Holy Jesus, if I had to be topped 100% of the time I’d claw my own vadge out! Still, I appreciate the time, effort and flawless, almost stage-y grace of a lovely high femme. It’s just impressive.

inchworm: i admire high femmes. i really do. so much work! so much time and effort! as it is i feel like i barely cut it as a femme. only my love for dresses and girly clothing pulls me out of the chapstick lesbian section below. i don’t wear makeup (or, i wear it very rarely), and i tend to prefer flats to heels. i also wear my hair in a pony tail. a lot. especially when it’s dirty. so high femmes are waaaaaay out of my league.

angiesyounglover: Not interested.

BAngieB: I am not familiar with this concept, but it sounds way too high maintenance for me. Also, kinda weirdly “look at me.” I feel that anyone who is that busy getting ready to leave the house doesn’t have time to help me with the pups, which would annoy me.

Pillow Princess - Me, Me, Me, Me, Me!

(From Lesbians & Dating): A lesbian who is unwilling or uninterested in reciprocating sex.

SBJ: These lesbians make me gnaw at my fist with shame and anxiety. I mean, really? Unwilling or uninterested in reciprocating sex?! HELLO! Some of the best parts of being a bloody lesbian! I try not to judge, I really do, but I can’t wrap my head around these girls or the women who love and fuck them. Pillow princesses literally just lay there and let their lover do all the work. Afterwards, I suppose, they say a polite thank you and focus on getting their beauty sleep. It’s like asking me to choose between food and drink. I want both. Lots and lots of both. Did I say both? OK!

inchworm: ah, the sexual dynamic between butches and femmes. so, most straight people (and even other lesbians, especially in newer generations) look at butch-femme couples and think man-woman. around these parts (brooklyn), i’ve even heard younger gay ladies refer to older butch-femme couples as “selling out,” i guess because they assume they’re trying to fit into society as it’s been carved out by hetero couples. this is a huge generalization. first of all, just because a couple seems to reflect some aspects of a hetero relationship does not mean that, for instance, the butch woman is always the top or the femme is always the bottom. or that the butch woman is, say, a poor communicator who never cries (insert other stereotypes about hetero men) and the femme is overly-emotive. yes, sometimes these things ARE true, but it’s good to keep in mind that butch-femme relationships are complex and varied — just like EVERY relationship out there.

that said, in my experience, there is a tendency to associate butch women with tops and femmes with bottoms. and this, my friends, is just fine with me, as long as it’s not ALWAYS this way. i may prefer to take a submissive role most days, but, like SBJ, i would never ever ever want to only recieve. one of my favorite parts of the butch-femme dynamic is that it feels much more flexible to me. when i’ve dated femmy women, it’s always felt a little forced to have them aggressively top me, or play out the elements of “hetero” sex that i really enjoy. and i’m sure there are butch women out there who’ve had femmy partners who’ve been uncomfortable w/ crossing the line into a more toppy role (like these pillow princess). but for me this so-called contradiction of two WOMEN taking on some aspects of hetero roles means that we’ve thrown out all the usual definitions and expectations. anything goes.

angiesyounglover: REALLY not interested. REALLY not me. I think initiation is extremely hot - both giving and receiving. And I’m the kind of person that just can’t sit still and let my girl make me feel good because I just get so excited that I just want to do it to her! What’s more fun than watching your lover experience a mind-blowing orgasm courtesy of you. How much they turn you on, how much you love them - it can all be released and thrown back and then and you get to see them enjoy it! Only an idiot would want to miss out on that. If you’re just going to lie there, I’m kicking you out of lesbian culdesack. Take that shit out of here.

BAngieB: I’m sorry…what? I…what? Don’t reciprocate? What? That is fucked up. SUCH AS.

Low / Sporty / Blue Jean / Chapstick Femme

(From Lesbians & Dating): A femme lesbian who is, perhaps, not quite so stereotypically feminine as a high femme, usually preferring jeans and a blouse or t-shirt to skirts for everyday. Also known as a Blue Jean Femme. A Blue Jean Femme is a lesbian who identifies as femme but prefers jeans and more casual clothing to dresses and skirts. A sport dyke is a lesbian, who more than anything, identifies with being an athlete. She may also dress in a manner that would give the impression she is an athlete, like baseball caps, sweatshirts and jeans. Chapstic Femme: Another term for androgynous or Sporty Lesbian. Origins: Introduced in the late 1990’s to take on all those lipstick lesbians out there!

SBJ: Lots and lots of my femme friends fall into these categories. They’re the flirty gals who think I’m high femme, totally freak out when they see a real high femme, and will wear skirts and dresses on special dates or occasions, but prefer comfy trousers or jeans and all manner of lovely tops - crisp white dress shirts, low-cut camisoles or wifebeaters with fancy bra straps peeking out. M notes (even though it’s TOTES not her turn) that it also sounds like lots of my straight girlfriends. Unlike me, low femmes don’t have the same aversion to balls (sports, you dirty hoors) and often take up softball, kick boxing or soccer, sometimes rocking a more sporty look 24/7. I totally have my low femme days! It’s really cute because when I do bust out an actual t-shirt from time to time, M makes a big fuss over it.

angiesyounglover: I like the sound of this category. It’s like an “in-the-middle” kind of femme. Is this the “hoodie” category? Because, come fall and winter, I LIVE in hoodies. I would say I roll back and forth between this and Simple Femme - though some might say different. Hey, I played the softball, I wear the jeans, and it really doesn’t bother me if I walk out of the door looking slighty boyish OR just not as put together as I would usually be. But knowing me, this probably comes from the above said desire to try and channel something somewhat butch. Yeah, it never happens, but maybe someday.

BAngieB: I think that this is the category that describes most of us, as it is pretty broad. Again, it doesn’t describe me really, because I don’t watch or play sports, and I would never wear a baseball cap because that would mess up my hair. I do, however, have a pair of tomboy shorts, which I wear with a t-shirt and Chucks - it’s pretty butch, but I still totally look like a girl. I think the “invisible femme” description that Skinny mentioned best describes me. Having now read each category, I realize that none of these terms really describe me. I am just me: B. Like so many of us, I hate labels to describe me, but I still use them to describe others. [Can I just say I am looking forward to the butch/tomboy descriptions/ pictures next week? And, you know, each of our three tomboys each fit into different categories, so maybe they should just use pictures of themselves, as they are a cute bunch.]

*****

We hope that was an enlightening little foray into the world of different lezzie looks and lust! As you can see, these identities and the strong feelings that accompany them are fluid and vary from person to person, often depending on their own experiences, and that’s always important to remember. Being respectful of them is often the safest way to keep from inadvertently offending someone or putting them into a category they couldn’t be further from. I’m always fascinated by how much identities change shape and ebb and flow with a person. Finally, trust us, if you’re still a little confused, so are we! Keeping up with all this (what you see here is really only covering about 30% of the lesbian world) can be arduous work!

*Contributed by SkinnyBoneJones, Inchworm, AngiesYoungLover & BangieB*

I’m not going to presume that anyone other than my fellow Buttercups has noticed my non-posting lately, but in case you have noticed I’ll essplain: See, I’m trying to plan my wedding while working 10 hour days, trying to get in shape so I don’t have “bingo arms” in my wedding dress, trying to spend time with my fiance, trying to keep house so I don’t have to live in a Winehouse-level crack sty, all while being leveled with setback after setback. Vendors not showing up for appointments, seriously apocalyptic outdoor temperatures, and a plague being passed around my office due to everyone’s kids going back to the germ-farms that the gov’t tries to pass off as “schools” have all conspired to keep me staggeringly unproductive. But, amid all the chaos there is a solitary ray of light:

My bachelorette weekend! Next weekend, my favorite girls are taking me on a most-expenses-paid (I’m guessing) trip….. Somewhere. Wherever I’m going, it’s somewhere I have to get to by plane. That’s all I know. Literally. BAngieB will drive me to the airport and put me on a plane, and the rest is history. I know the dates I’ll be gone, and can guess a few of the girls in attendance, but other than that- crickets. HOW AMAZING IS THAT? How mysterious! How thrilling! How dramatic! How.. Missing Persons video! (really, this song popped in my head the minute I was informed that I was going on a trip to a top-secret locale).

I’m so stoked, and honestly this trip could not come at a better time for me as my batteries are straight-up drained. Only a weekend of fun could get me through the long trudge till my wedding and honeymoon. But, I guess we could have some fun now gessing where I’ll be headed. Here are my (highly plausible) ideas:

I just want to take this time to let all of my gal pals know how wonderful they are and how “Iiiiiiyyyeee will always looooove yoooooooooousss”, even if you whisk me away to Wisconsin and make me eat my weight in cheese, even if you freeze all my underpants, even if you get me so wasted that I use a potted plant as a toilet, even if you do cliche’ bachelorette party shit like make me wear a veil out on a pub crawl and force me to drink out of a penis-shaped straw. You all rock so hard, that there are no words for how amazing you are. After all, what are words for? (Ooooooh, see? You’re so awesome that you deserve a SECOND Missing Persons video. That is the real deal.)

Tell tales of bachelorette shindigs past in the comments.