Let’s be a lesbian house

I'm one of the Subarus. Not one of the running ones. The one in the yard, on blocks. For parts.

I am the random used and bloody tampons, blown out of the overflowing trashcans, suspended against the chain link fence.

The local raccoons love me! 🦝

I’m the collection of exotic dildos hidden in the box under the bed.

R3 “That one's made out of teak, we got it in Bali. Our last trip 13 years ago.”

I’m the B.O. that has imbedded its self in all surfaces of the house. I’m also the Dollar Store cans of air freshener in the scent of Pinewood. Together, we make the house smell like a dirty lumberjack AKA Patty

I’m the shelves of CDs by kdlang and the Indigo Girls.

I'm the CPAP equipment on Nan's side of the bed.

I'm the Georgia O'Keefe prints in the living room. Extra vulvas, please.

I'm the pantry with plentiful amounts of dried dates to chop up, and organic coconut oil in which to hand form them into rolls.

I'm the Jamie Oliver cookbook collection.

I'm the pile of well-worn shoes in the foyer: Birkenstocks, Crocs, Salomon hiking boots, and black Converse All-Stars.

I’m the “Duck your head! Now, step over the base!” Loom monopolizing the entryway.

I’m waiting for the next skein of wool Marcie has shorn, carded, and spun.

Regardless of the natural dye, the cloth will be taupe or moss green - with embedded bits of kitty litter and gravel.

I'm the elasticated jeans and kaftan sized shirts.

I’m the DVD collection: Monster, Boys Don’t Cry, But I’m a Cheerleader, Kissing Jessica Stein, Ellen’s standup specials, and all of Ben Affleck’s movies.

I’m the absence of penised persons.

I’m the Let’s Be DL threads about lesbians usually appearing for Thanksgiving and Christmas but this year repurposed for Easter/Passover time. They still have the same responses.

I am a stunning accessory that hasn’t been used in an official capacity for years.

I'm the drawer full of Hillary regalia and memorabilia. I can't bare to part with it. Maybe next time.

I’m the umbrella stand in the front entryway. I contain no umbrellas, only canes.

I'm the cookbook on the counter, open to a recipe for nutloaf.

I'm a guy who thinks they're gonna get some kinky scene, but got his fucking ass kicked. 🤣

I'm the cat hair in the bread pudding.

I'm all the laptop stickers.

I'm the Black Lives Matter banner in the living room.

I'm the rules about bringing cilantro anywhere near the kitchen. Disobey me at your peril.

I'm the peanut allergy signs.

[quote] I'm the rules about bringing cilantro anywhere near the kitchen.

Some people don’t like the taste of cilantro.

I am the question whether any lesbian post on “Let’s be a Lesbian…” threads.

I'm Chlöe and my shenis is valid!!!! No one puts their tampons in the bathroom trash anymore since they caught me achieving gender euphoria with them and it is a HATE CRIME. LISTEN TO TRANS WOMEN.

You've never been funny a day in your life, r29

I'm the acoustic guitar propped in a corner of the living room.

Someone's learned three chords and thinks they can play everything!

I’m the Six Chix comic strips taped to the refrigerator.

I’m the Scrabble dictionary, worn and dogeared because the rules of Scrabble have been violated consistently for years.

I'm the 'Ask Me My Pronouns' buttons sitting in the Tupperware container on the counter.

I’m the Subaru Forester in lesbian green.

I’m the giant dreamcatcher hanging over the bed. I catch more dust and spiderwebs than dreams these days.

I'm the hooded sweatshirts.

I'm the forever- behaviorally- damaged- beyond- repair rescue dog curled up in the corner. I back viciously and even snap at passersby during walkies.

"NO, ARTEMIS! Really, she never does this..."

I'm the books piled on the side of the kitchen counter titled 'Being a Single Foster Parent' and 'A Single Woman's Guide to Adopting'.

We’re the bottle of bourbon and box of cigars. Always stored next to the Mr. Coffee 12-cups drip brewer on the kitchen counter.

I'm the Amazon vest.

I’m the four cats who lounge around the herb dehydrator emitting tiny cat farts as everyone breathes the nip deeply.

I'm the Pride Flag hanging over the driveway, off the garage.

I’m the various sized mooncups rinsed and ready to receive their monthly goddess offerings

I'm this comic.

I’m the well worn videos of domestic goddess Nigella Lawson

I’m the streaming filter that hides all movies & TV shows that don’t pass the Bechdel Test.

I'm the Tabac Blonde.

I’m the womyn repeatedly telling the young kids decorating gingerbread men, “They’re gingerbread [italic][bold]people[/bold][/italic]!!!

The kids continue to lick icing of their fingers as they decorate the gingerbread men…

^fuck me - I don’ know what happened to that markdown! 🫣

I'm the disposable razors and shaving foam, purchased from the 'Men's Toiletries' section of the supermarket.

I’m the old, falling apart “Dykes to Watch Out For” paperbacks from the 80s and 90s sitting high on a shelf. They will never, ever be given away.

I’m the vinyl copy of Alix Dobkins “Lavender Jane Loves Women” that has been gathering dust since 1973, next to the Holly Near records.

I'm the University of Phoenix diploma hanging on the wall.

I’m the same five songs by Nina Simone played repeatedly on booze-laden Sunday afternoons - all featured in “Point Of No Return”.

I kept my VCR so I could play Silkwood whenever the urge struck.

I'm the fury when they hear "ladies" uttered on the tube.

I'm the veggie tacos recipe the Jamie Oliver cookbook will automatically open at if someone drops the book.

I'm the free futon from Craigslist. One womyn's junk is another womyn's treasure.

Why do lesbians like Jamie Oliver? I’ve not heard that stereotype before

R60 Probably because his recipes were basic and he had a roll-up-your-sleeves enthusiasm they liked. His restaurants were always popular with lesbians.

Jamie loves cats.

I'm the 7 foster fails.

R53 you made me belly laugh. No offense, but you must be 80!

I'm the Holly Hobbie doll with the spiked hair.

R53 = Terry Castle?

66 comments in and no mention of the oversized plaid shirts. You guys are lagging.

I'm the Eileen Gray and Corbusier furniture and the Dior makeup in the lipstick lesbian's Lenox cottage, inherited from her socialite grandmother through a skip generation trust.

I'm the Subaru hidden away in the detached garage at R68s Lenox cottage.

I’m the 45 of “Lavender Blue” by Burl Ives that plays every Sunday morning after the Rotweillers have their nails trimmed.

I'm the smutty "Girl and Cat" Balthus painting, one of the last in private collections, which lives 9 months a year in Freeport storage but summers in the dining room of the villa in Marbella, to get a rise out of Inge Rinkhoff.

I'm the daisy still pressed in the pages of a first edition of Djuna Barnes' Nightwood, along with a love note from a sophomore to a senior at Vassar college, 1937.

I’m the meticulous tuck-pointing on the exterior brick.

Somebody has a powerful coping mechanism.

I'm the money we save using our vintage Flowbee*

I’m the set of De Walt power tools - an engagement gift from the gals at the pool hall

Wow, this thread is suddenly picking up and getting funny. I think real lesbians have joined in.

I'm the air of menace.

I’m the Cunning Linguist t-shirt, bumper sticker and coaster.

I’m the free bread pudding, taken up in a cloth purse like what a child might have

I’m the fresh cucumber in the fridge. Replaced every 2 weeks and never eaten.

I’m the complete set of Pink Martini CD’s.

I’m the fist size hole in the drywall.

I'm the Suave 2 in 1 shampoo and conditioner.

I'm an application form for the 2022 Anne Lister Research Summit (incomplete), tucked inside a well-worn copy of "The Argonauts"

I'm the 27 medicines our rescue animals are on.

I'm the nervous tics of the African American foster kids. Any noise we make will aggravate our 'moms'.

These White women sure get mean and angry very quickly.

I am the Olivia travel t-shirts and flip-flops.

(Love you R79)

I’m the faded VHS copy of “Desert Hearts” which was never upgraded to DVD or Blu Ray.

R64, close. I’m 52! But I did work study at an LBG resource center at UMASS/Amherst in the early 90s and learned a lot.

I’m the signed picture of Kate Clinton in the guest room.

I'm the Justin Bieber Version 1.0 wardrobe of skinny jeans (plus size), Converse™, and waistcoats. I also have an electric shaver to do my own Biebs bowl cut!

I'm the leftover bread pudding and nut loaf. From Thanksgiving 2023.

R53 I bought this record from some Oakland lesbians at their yard sale a few years ago.

I'm the kombucha scoby.

I'm the coconut oil

Pictures of the gorgeous smiling masculine jock son from age 10 to 22. Praise Aphrodite, he got a full ride scholarship to play soccer at Notre Dame because we'd never pay for such toxic patriarchal totemism. And besides, Lainy's upscale Wikka & Reiki storefront on the Ithaca Commons had drained his college fund.

I’m David Crosby’s spunk in a turkey baster.

I’m the old photo albums chronicling our MichFest journeys from the 70s to the the oughts. We did not have many pix from the year everybody got shigella.

I'm a lesbian and I relate to none of these, although the 2 n 1 shampoo/conditioner seems accurate based on the hair I've seen on dating apps. I'll never understand lesbians who don't know how to use conditioner.

I'm the heavy-duty chin-up bar at the top of the doorway.

I’m the handsome faces

I'm the landline.

r100 knows not a single lesbian. Or woman, for that matter.

I'm the eight spider plants.

I’m the animal piss fro all the rescue cats and dogs all over everything. I’m also a giant pile of unwashed laundry in the corner. I get sprayed with Febreze every time a T-shirt get pulled and sniffed and worn.

I’m the DIY bathroom remodel now in its second decade.

I'm the tennis racket collection.

I’m warmth. I’m an emulation of the strength of character and the fellow-feeling for guests that my owners demonstrate. Even when the guests are a bunch of catty Nancy boys.

I’m the effortless masculinity that eludes many gay men.

...and is generally mocked and despised in women?

Butch lesbians are well respected in my experience. Even if they aren’t fuckable to straight guys.

I'm the refurbished, 50 year-old, Electrolux canister vacuum. Linda did all the work on it. Even finding the spare parts.

I'm the placenta of their invitro surrogate baby. Some was planted next to an oak sapling- the rest frozen for consumption on special occasions.

I’m “The Moosewood Cookbook” which hasn’t been cracked open in years.

I'm the bottle of Yellowstone Cologne.

I'm van life.