How’s it goin’, clit whisperers?
Everything is lovely here.
As I write this, I have a roast going in the Crock-Pot, almond milk yogurt going in the yogurt maker (yes! I am that dyke!), and a bunneh quietly nibbling tiiiiiny little cabbage wraps stuffed with parsley and cilantro.
My apartment is clean.
There are fresh sheets on the bed and the wood floors have been swiffered and the dishes are done and the bathroom sink isn’t all grimy. There’s a new cake of soap in the shower and there are groceries in the fridge.
Three Virgin of Guadalupe candles are flickering on my windowsill.
Dolly Parton is singin’ on the record player.
I’m slowly eating my way through a sack of clementines, eating eaaaaaach lil’ clemmie segment by segment.
Yesterday, I even successfully made my own dairy-free Nutella.
Y’allfags, I (very suddenly) have a lot more time, and it’s both a good and a bad thing.
Good: I have more time to work on Rookie articles and writing projects, more time to hang out with friends and suss out cute queerfolk gatherings and keep my house clean and actually do my laundry!
Bad: I have this time because…CJ took a job in Minneapolis.
And she moved there. A few weeks ago.
Remember when I said I was freaking out about stuff in my life? This was part of the freaking out:/
Now don’t anybody get their boyshorts in a twist; we’re still datin’, and we still see each other pretty often, and this gives me an excuse to go to Minneapolis—the greenest, prettiest, best, dykiest city in Amurrica— more often, but still.
I’m settled in Chicago now. I’m real tired of moving.
CJ is likewise settling into Minneapolis —for the permanent, forseeable future— and she’s really, really tired of moving.
What, um, does that mean?
I can’t really think about it very much right now.
I’m trying not to.
Also, I am suddenly making myself dinner more often than not, and it is not going well.
It turns out that you can only chop onions extremely rapidly and perfectly like they do on Iron Chef if you know some kind of trick.
There was also a whimsical mixup where, when making a curry dish, I used cinnamon powder from an unmarked plastic bag instead of garam masala powder.
**insert trills of gay laughter**
[see? if you have a stuffy nose you can’t tell which one it is, either]
For the most part, though, my cooking mistakes have all been very manageable up until about a week ago.
Then, last Saturday, I accidentally knocked a whole carafe of olive oil down the burner-holes of my stove.
After dancing around with paper towels going, “fuckfuckfuck!” for a few seconds, I ended up getting lazy and just wiping the top of the stove off, forgetting about all the oil inside the stove.
Two days later, I lit the burners.
Visits to your local burn unit aside, living on your own can actually be pretty good.
My time is suddenly all mine.
Everything at my house stays clean when I clean it.
I get to date other people and still have lots of guaranteed alone time.
Things’ll work themselves out.
For now, I’m just trying to adjust to the new situation.
Now! We’ve just changed our clocks, haven’t we, tricks?
The snowdrops and daffodils are poking their shy heads from the new-thawed ground and the little lambs are baaaahing all knock-kneed and the Easter Bunny is about to bring my ass about a thousand discounted Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs the day after Easter, so what does all that mean…?
Why, it’s Spring, the season of new starts and rebirth!
Just as duckies are pecking their way out of their confining shells, every lesbiqueer in the land is sniffing the rich, earthy smell of the soil as it warms in the sun, thinking:
“Gosh, it sure is nice to feel the sunshine again—I can’t wait to get my bike out. Are those birds? God, it’s been so long since I heard birds… I swear to christ I just heard Solange blasting from that car’s open window, fuck yes. Hey, look at that! Buds on the trees!”
and then, for reasons that defy science to this day, jumping directly from those peaceful springtime thoughts to:
“You know, it sure is stupid that I spend almost every night at my girlfriend’s house but I still pay rent on my apartment.”
That is the exact, scientific pattern of the thoughts we ladygays have in late March/early April. (It took researchers years of transcribing and paid brain studies to record this split-second synapse.)
No one knows how we as a people annually make that thought-jump, but make it we do.
As predictable as the seasons themselves, it’s the start of the Annual Dyke Moving Season! Hoooraaaay!
So, today we’re finally talking about one of the most epic and persistent stereotypes about lesbians ever—U-Haul lesbians.
Ohhhh c’mon. Don’t be like that.
I really want to talk about this.
I can’t believe we never have.
I mean, there are articles about U-Haul lesbians and lezzers who make fun of U-Haul lesbians and lots of lesbiqueers who insist that they aren’t U-Haul lesbians, but somehow, U-Haulin’ keeps mysteriously happening to the queers that surround us all.
And what is a U-Haul lesbian?
(asks maybe someone? from another country? who is new to being queer and/or totally removed from queer culture?)
A U-Haul lesbian is a dyke who moves in with her current lover after only dating for a short amount of time.
An alarmingly short amount of time.
An amount of time that makes the dyke-in-question’s friends gasp.
Anywhere from, say, a few weeks to juuust shy of twelve months.
I mean, we’ve all heard the joke, right?
Q: What does a lesbian bring to the second date?
A: A U-Haul.
HA HA HA *barfs*
Not only is this the oldest lesbian joke around…it stings a bit because it has juuuuust the teensiest ring of truth.
People joke about lezzers moving in with each other way too early for a reason—it’s often kind of true.
We do it.
It happens a lot in real life.
And I don’t know about you all, but this is a conversation I have on the regular with friends in newish relationships:
Friend: Soooo guess what?
Friend: Tell me what you think, but I think I’m going to ask Danni/Kym/Jess/current-girlfriend-of-several-months if she wants to move in with me!
Me: I think that’s a horrible idea.
Friend: Uggh I knew you’d say that. I don’t know why I’m even telling you.
Sluts, it’s true. I admit it.
I am a known wet blanket when it comes to supporting my friends who are U-Hauling.
It’s because I can’t with this shit anymore.
I just can’t.
People don’t like when they ask you for your opinion and it doesn’t match theirs, though, so lately I’ve been trying harder to just go “Ooooh hoooommm ahhh” and nod wisely when someone tells me they’re moving in with their new girlfriend.
Otherwise I’ll have no friends left, and then who would I go for tacos with?
But fuckit—this is the internet and no one ever feels repercussions in their real lives from something they said on the internet, right?
So here goes:
DYKES! HEAR ME! Moving in with someone you’ve been dating for less than, say, a year, is a horrible idea.
It’s none of my fucking business what y’allfags do, obviously, but it iiiiiiis, though, because I love you and I want your new relationship to be beautiful and lovely and happy and I want you two to work out.
I want you queermos to kiss each other in selfies and put that shit on facebook.
I want you to post disgustingly cute Instagrams of the heart-shaped pancakes one of you makes the other on Valentine’s Day.
In my heart of hearts, I wish mind-blowing fuck sessions and adorable pillow talk and barfy secret animal nicknames upon you, along with snuggling and movies and brunch and inside jokes and holding hands with your partner while walking on a crisp autumn day.
This is what I hope for you faggettes, and this is why I must rail against U-Haulin’.
But best believe: I get it. I really do.
You love your girl/boifriend, and you’ve been dating for awhile now with practically no problems. Y’all are basically perfect together.
No fights, not much drama, you’re over there all the time anyway, and sorry, but have you seen them? Danni/Kym/Jess/current-lover-of-several-months is sooooo fucking cute, my GOD.
Why wouldn’t you want to go to sleep with them every night and wake up every day with them? Why wouldn’t you revel in the fact that you’re coming home every evening from work to the cutest person in the world, who will help make dinner and then let you pick the Netflix and fuck you senseless and then sleep naked while spooning you?
It’s really hard to find an awesome girlfriend in this town.
You need to lock that shit down.
I know, I know.
But hunnybun. Cutie pie. Darling-of-my-heart: Don’t do it.
Don’t move in with your lovah if you’ve only been dating for three or four or five or seven months.
It will most likely fuck with your relationship and you will probably break up from the stress of it, unless you’re a couple in a million.
And maybe you were meant to break up in the long run anyway, but moving in early makes things a hundred times worse.
A new relationship is not ready for the responsibility and day-to-day work that living together entails.
A new relationship is at the point in the love story where you and your new sweetie get to stare at each other in coffeeshops when you should be working on the computer and fuck each other in cars because you can’t wait to get upstairs and take each other out on elaborately impressive dates and really miss each other when one of you goes home.
Moving in together prematurely ages your relationship.
When you move in together early, you suddenly have to deal with Life Shit like paying bills and rent and whose turn it is to buy milk and cat food. Suddenly, at the same time, you’re also finding things out about your lover that you didn’t know at all or that you maybe find…kind of annoying.
Like maybe she clips her fingernails in the sink but then doesn’t wash them down the drain.
Maybe s/he doesn’t, um, ever do the dishes.
Maybe she has a dog she loves but you’re finding out she’s actually pretty bad about taking care of it, and suddenly, because you feel guilty about the poor dog who never gets let out…it’s basically your dog now.
TOO BAD YOU LIVE TOGETHER NOW, THOUGH, AMIRIGHT?
It’s entirely possible that, given more time to just date, you would have discovered that:
a) some of these things (omg the poor dog!) are dealbreakers, or
b) you love this person enough to work through the annoying things.
We’ll never know which one it would have been now, though, will we?
You are now forced make a decision that actually needed a lot more time—how well do you work with this person? Do you want to move forward or move out?
If you want to move forward in the relationship, you need to work out and deal with the things that are driving you crazy about living with your partner.
And you may not have had enough conflict in your relationship yet to know how to, um, deal with conflict in your relationship.
But if you want to move out…the relationship is most likely gonna be over.
Because you live together, there is no breathing room for not being sure.
You can’t just continue to date your lover, finding things out about them slowly, and making a decision about them after knowing how you two mesh and what you’re getting into.
It’s all in or get off the boat.
And new relationships don’t need that kind of pressure.
They tend to crack under the strain.
I submit this incredibly legitimate study to you as proof:
Every gayelle friend I have ever had who moved in with her girlfriend before they’d been dating for at least a year…is no longer with her girlfriend.
With no exceptions.
(And I know a lot of lesbians.)
You have good reasons for moving in!
You’re sure it will work for you!
You and your girl are so right together, and I’m an overgeneralizing asshole!
You have arguments!
And here they all are, in no particular order!
1) We’re going to move in together after only dating a few months because…
“It’s cheaper to live together! We’ll be saving money.”
Aww, how romantic are you?
Gheys, I get it. The economy is bad. We’re young and/or we have shitty jobs. But if the sole reason you’re moving in with your girlfriend is to save money? Not only is this the most unromantic thing ever, but jesus, haven’t you ever heard of roommates?
Save your relationship. Live with friends.
Or non-creepy strangers from Craigslist roommate ads.
Anyone but your sweet girlfriend of four months.
2) We’re going to move in together after only dating a few months because…
“I’m over there every night anyway, it’s stupid to have my own place too, and I’m sick of living out of a bag.”
Yes. You are dating someone new. That means you will be over at their place a lot. They will be over at yours. This does not make your place useless—it serves a distinct function in that it is your place, a living situation separate from your new lover’s.
The thrill of being in someone’s unfamiliar space is part of dating someone new. Maybe get a toothbrush at your girlfriend’s house and calm down, honeybear?
Traveling back and forth between houses is admittedly inconvenient, but you know what’s more inconvenient?
Breaking up with someone you signed a year-long lease with when you only knew them for five months beforehand.
3) We’re going to move in together after only dating a few months because…
“We love each other soooo much. We’re meant to be.”
This is adorable and sweet and so, so hopeful.
How cute is it that it was love at first sight and you’re totally fated to be with this person you’ve only spent a handful of blissful weeks with?
4) We’re going to move in together after only dating a few months because…
“We’re such good friends, we’d be great roommates even if we ever broke up!”
Nope. No, you’re not. And no, you wouldn’t be.
If you and your new lover were friends to begin with, or consider yourselves friends and lovers, then the process of breaking up and moving out should (fairly neatly) take care of that.
Even if you two can somehow manage to continue living together after breaking up, it will be awkward. as. fuck. for the next few months.
Actually, the only reason I can possibly think of that could possibly be a winning argument for moving in early with someone is:
5) “It’s an emergency.”
Things happen, mos.
Girlfriends of six months that you’re completely in love with suddenly lose their jobs and have no savings.
Your new girlfriend’s dad gets sick and the only way she can afford to keep flying back and forth to take care of her dad is if she gets rid of her apartment.
You get sick, really sick, and your lover of seven months moves in to help take care of you because you can’t move back in with your parents.
Of course things happen. And sometimes moving in together is the best of the few possible solutions. But in that case, you’re only doin’ it because you have to, and you do it with your eyes open, knowing that it could strain your relaysh.
Now, I’m sure there are some of you faggettes out there who moved in together prematurely, and it worked out fiiiine. (There have to be, or else why would dykes keep U-Hauling alive, the fine and thriving tradition that it is today?)
It must have worked out for someone somewhere.
But—at the risk of sounding like a True Love Waits teen purity rally—what, gayelles, is so wrong with just dating?
Getting to know someone thoroughly before jumping whole-hog into Living Together?
It can only help a relationship for both people to know exactly what they’re getting into.
And think about how exciting it will be to move in together when you do decide to do it.
There’s nothing like that first walk through IKEA, friends.
Lesbiqueers. Mine is not the only opinion out there.
U-Hauling: Anyone got something to say?
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Krista Burton is brand-new to Chicago. An ex-Mormon from Minneapolis, she writes a blog called Effing Dykes (www.effingdykes.blogspot.com), which is about activating your lesbian gaydar. She spends most of her time staring longingly at enormous dogs, riding her shiny orange scooter around town, and trying to bake gluten-free cake that doesn’t taste like gluten-free cake. She’s a staff writer at Groupon, and loves girls, inappropriate footwear, and hip-hop songs with filthy lyrics.