The Flannel Files is Dyking Out

The Flannel Files has a new obsession (besides Bryce Harper, Captain Marvel and my new Instant Pot).

It’s a podcast called Dyking Out hosted by New York City-based comedians Carolyn Bergier and Sarah York.

You had me at Dyke, Carolyn and Sarah.

On each weekly episode, Carolyn and Sarah invite a guest to “dyke out” with them about a topic relevant to the LGBTQ world. But if you ask them, it’s really just another way to advance the gay agenda.

Dyking Out is smart and fun and bingeable, much like a canister of Pringles. And very, very queer. So, yeah, think gay, rainbow Pringles, which really should be a thing. Call me, Kellogg’s. It’s the perfect podcast to listen to when you’re using your Instant Pot, driving to a dyke march, browsing online for a new pair of sneakers … oh heck, it’s the perfect podcast to listen to when you’re doing pretty much anything.

Please note, Carolyn and Sarah passed our flannel test prior to this interview.

The Flannel Files is riding a streak of good luck these days. The Phillies are 4-1 and I had an opportunity to chat with Carolyn and Sarah about Dyking Out. Here’s what they had to say:

Flannel Files: There are so many podcasts out there today. Why should folks tune into Dyking Out?

Dyking Out: Anyone who wants to take a break from heteronormative content and have a good laugh while learning something new about queer living will get just that out of Dyking Out with us. Also, our guests get to talk about topics that they normally aren’t asked about or don’t get to dive into on other podcasts, so I think we offer up some pretty diverse perspectives and unique content.

FF: In the show’s description, you talk about advancing the “gay agenda.” How do you define gay agenda?

DO: The gay agenda to us is taking the shame that societal norms, religion, and conservatism has instilled in LGBTQIA people and replacing it with joy and pride. We do that by inviting people in the community to share their truth, from struggles to triumphs and everything in between, so that our listeners can hear relatable stories that help them feel less alone or othered.

FF: I heard you scored Rosie O’Donnell as a guest on an upcoming podcast to be recorded during Pride Week. Who else is on your dream guest list?

DO: Our dream guest is really anyone with a perspective different than ours with whom we can have a fun/funny conversation. Some of our favorite episodes have been with people who have very little name recognition. But also Wanda Sykes, Samira Wiley, Ellen Page, Senator Kyrsten Sinema, Abbi Jacobson, Leisha Hailey, Desiree Ahkavan, Lena Waithe, Alanis Morissette, Gillian Anderson … not that this is something we think about constantly.

FF: What are you listening to and watching these days?

DO: Most recently I watched that Queer Eye episode with Jess, the rad lesbian in Kansas City. (I don’t usually watch the show.) I cried a lot. I’ve been listening to Sir Babygirl and also revisiting Tracy Bonham’s “The Burdens of Being Upright.” I just met her at one of Jill Sobule’s shows, and she wants to play our show at Stonewall sometime! Sarah’s re-watching The L Word from the beginning, and also watching anything BUT Buffy The Vampire Slayer.

FF: That episode of Queer Eye is a real tear jerker. I mean, if a butch like me ever cried. So, let’s get really personal. Who’s your celebrity crush?

DO (Carolyn): It’s always changing for me but right now, Gillian Anderson for sure.

DO (Sarah): Kyrsten Sinema

FF: You’re stranded on a desert island. What three things stored in the pockets of your cargo pants keep you sane?

DO (Carolyn): A notebook, a pen and sunscreen

DO (Sarah): A charged cellphone and two power banks to re-charge it.

FF: On The Flannel Files, we talk a lot about lesbian stereotypes. What’s the most stereotypical thing about you?

DO (Carolyn): I’m legit grossed out by 95% of men. The sound of a man snorting back his snot triggers a very unpleasant, visceral reaction in me. I briefly had a male roommate and just hearing the force of his stream when he peed made me cringe.

DO (Sarah): My favorite thing I own is my leather jacket, and I want a motorcycle to complete the aesthetic.

FF: Speaking of stereotypes, who’s the butch and who’s the femme?

DO: When we go to H&M, Sarah shops in the men’s section and I only look at lady suits.

FF: What’s one thing people would be surprised to know about you?

DO (Carolyn): In college, I made out with a lot of men to score free drinks because I hated being at straight bars and that was my way of coping.

DO (Sarah): People are always shocked to learn that I was in a sorority

FF: You’re both from New York City. What are a couple of queer things to do in the Big Apple?

DO: Dyke out with us the last Monday of every month at our stand-up comedy show at Stonewall! Also, there are SO many queer things going on. There’s a happy hour meetup called C U Next Tuesday at 3 Dollar Bill in Brooklyn, there’s Switch N Play, a queer burlesque collective that performs at branded saloon.

* * *

Listen to Dyking Out on iTunes, Stitcher and Spotify and follow on Patreon, Facebook, Instagram and Twitter. You won’t regret it.

* * *

What are you dyking out over these days?

 

‘Don’t,’ said the butch

So, what have we learned from these last two posts?

No. 1: Middle-age butch has trouble with letting go.

No. 2: Never glitter a butch.

No. 3: Or you will never hear the end of it.

No. 4: For realz.

And now for all you math geeks: According to our poll, 38 percent of you said it’s best to never ever glitter a butch.  I’m guessing the femmes out there agreed that butches are magical creatures.  That captured 31 percent of the vote.  Three of you, or 23 percent, suggested, butch or no butch, never let glitter get the best of you because it’s just glitter.  And one of you indicated that butches are big whiny crybabies.

So, yeah, never glitter a butch.

And here are some more things you shouldn’t do:

* Tell her that her tie is pretty.

* Buy her a drink that comes with a side of fruit and an umbrella like a Malibu Bay Breeze.

* Ask her if she is growing out her hair.

* Ask her to hold your purse.

* Try to hold a conversation with her while she’s watching the game.

* Ask her if her name is short for something else.

* Tell her she would look better with a little foundation and blush.

* Ask to borrow her curling iron.

* * *

Your turn.  What’s your best butch don’t?

A slice of butch life

So, I woke up this morning in a really great mood.  Perky , you could say.  Yes, you heard that right.  This butch was feeling perky this morning.

So much so that as I was skipping to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I tripped on the bottom of my flannel nightgown.  I know.  So said.  Butch down!  Butch down!  I cried because it hurt so much!  After 10-15 minutes of open weeping, I went about my morning grooming routine.

After I was perfectly coifed and dressed (Who’s the fairest of them all?), I made a nice cup of chamomile tea.  Drank it in my souvenir mug from the movie The Notebook.

And then it was off to my home office to do some work.  There was a Phillies spring training update on the local sports channel and some show on how drinking beer can actually boost your sex life and make you more attractive to the ladies, but luckily those shows didn’t interest me so I was able to focus on my work.

I know, I know … all work and no play makes butch a dull boy/girl.  I did take a short work break to watch an infomercial on a new line of skin care from France!

I’m waiting to hear from W about when she’s coming home.  It’s Friday, which means salad night for us!

* * *

Well, happy April 3rd to all of my Flannel Files followers.  Unfortunately, this post is two days too late.  Story of my life, folks.

See if you can spot all of the inconsistencies in the above post.  And remember to never take yourself too seriously.

Stuck and unstuck

Sometimes I get stuck.  Not literally stuck like in a turnstile or a revolving door.  Help.  Stuck.  Can’t pass through.

Or actually stuck while trying on a gold glitter tube top.  (I apologize in advance for the image.)  Aaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaah!  Aaaaaaah!  Butch!  Stuck!  In!  Tube!  Top!

But stuck nonetheless.

Other people never seem to have this problem.  They seem to have it all together.

When I get stuck, I do all sorts of things except try to get myself unstuck.

Some things I might do instead of unsticking myself:

• Work.
• Read.
• Nap.
• Check my Twitter feed.  Every five minutes.
• Cook.
• Eat.
• Play with cats.
• Watch marathons of Total Divas.
• Daydream that I am a little known Kardashian.  Butch Kardashian.

When I am stuck:

The only way I know how to get unstuck is to do the thing I’m stuck at.  And that’s the thing I really don’t want to do.

Things I’d rather do than do the stuck thing:

• Eat hot sauce.
• Work.
• Clean.
• Give a speech.  At a Republican convention.
• Listen to country and western music.
• Dance to the song It’s Raining Men.
• Read 50 Shades of Gray for non-comedic purposes.

So, after I’ve done everything else that I can think of, I’ll do the stuck thing.

First, of course, I’ll make a horrible face and make things seem worse than they really are.  I’m a drama butch, after all.

Then I’ll do the stuck thing.

At first taking lots of breaks to do important things like load one glass in the dishwasher, organize paperclips and clean cat hair from out of computer keyboard.

And then going back to doing the stuck thing.

Before I know it, my hair is not on fire.  I am not shrieking.

I am just doing the unstuck thing.

I am unstuck.

When all is right in my world, this is what it looks like.

* * *

What do you when you’re stuck?  How do you get unstuck?

Cat sandwich

My son says our cat Magic is purebred.

W says she’s inbred.

Book review: Freak of Nurture

Have you ever felt like a freak?  Well, lesbian comic/writer Kelli Dunham has, and she’s written about some of her freaky life experiences in a new book appropriately called Freak of Nurture.

Full disclosure #1: Kelli very graciously sent me a free copy of her book to check out.

Full disclosure #2: Kelli and I might have been separated at birth, so I should probably alert you to the possibility that we are long lost sisters or brothers or “um whatever” as Kelli would probably say if she was here right now.

Just like me, Kelli often gets mistaken for a dude, and we’ve both been called “faggot” once in our lives.  However, I have never been mistaken for an errant Boy Scout or Macauley Culkin, which makes Kelli Dunham perhaps the greatest butch in the universe.  (I’m thinking that Kelli and I should pitch our own TV series.  Something like “Two and a Half Bois” or “Mad Sh’men.”) 

And just when I thought that I was the only lesbian who ever thought about bedding Sarah Palin, enter Kelli Dunham.

“Ok, Middle-age butch,” you might be saying.  “We get it.  Kelli Dunham is great because she’s just like you.  But why should we read this book?”

Can you guess which is Kelli?

Well, my Flannel followers, because the book is hysterically funny and brutally honest and poignant and heartbreaking.  Imagine a book penned by someone channeling Ellen Degeneres, Abe Lincoln, Mother Teresa and the Bronte sisters.  All at the same time.

And here’s the thing.  I am a total snob when it come to literature.  I have a degree in English, I make my living as a writer, and I don’t have enough free time to read books that aren’t up to my personal standards.  Freak of Nurture easily passed my test.

Some highlights:

• Being “sir ma’amed.”
• Creating a new gender identity of “um whatever.”
• Teaching a nun how to masturbate.
• Advising readers not to respond to requests to pass the potatoes at the family dinner table with “Yes Mistress,” even if that is your typical response in your own home.

The book has its serious moments, too.  Kelli has lost two partners to cancer, performed volunteer work in Haiti after the 2010 earthquake and spent some time as a nun.  These chapters are raw and heartbreaking, but Kelli manages to find small touches of humor in these moments of devastation.

As Kelli says, “What doesn’t kill us makes us funnier.”  And that, my friends, is the central theme of this beautiful and brilliant book.

You can find out more about the book here, including how to order your very own shiny copy, and link to Kelli’s Freak of Nurture blog.

Cat burglar

We were robbed over the weekend.

Before you worry your pretty little heads, know that no one was hurt.  We’re all safe — me, W, the kids and the cats.

It was the strangest thing.  Perhaps that’s they very nature of a senseless crime.  Strange.  After all, it’s an not an everyday occurrence.  Unless you’re a cop.  Or a criminal, for that matter.

So, what did they take?  I use the word “they,” because I have a sense that there was more than one of them.  A pair, or criminal duo.  Or more likely three or four, which would translate into a full-blown crime team.  I’m fairly certain they had a ringleader, several lackeys, maybe even a couple of thugs.  We can’t be sure.  I mean, who can really say.

They took our Purina Tender Moments Whisker Lickin’s (chicken flavor).  I use the word “took” in an attempt to mitigate the violent nature of this heinous crime.  The scofflaws viciously tore through the vacuum-sealed Whisker Lickin’s package and helped themselves to the tender morsels nestled inside.  The brutal manner in which they violated the package indicates that they were sorely in need of a poultry fix.

WARNING … ACTUAL CRIME SCENE PHOTOS FOLLOW …

 

After closer examination of the evidence, it seems that the perpetrators might have used their teeth to actually tear through the foil-lined package just like some sort of wild animal.  In fact, pieces of the package were missing from the crime scene.  I wonder if the scoundrels took the fragments with them to cover their tracks or actually ingested pieces of the wrapper in their chicken-crazed haste.

The crime occurred while we were out of the house for the day.  Thank God.

The cats were home, though.

We asked them about it.  Did you see anything?  Did you hear anything?  Did you notice anything unusual?

Moon just turned his head and stared blankly out the window.

Magic jumped inside a laundry basket.

It was a terrible case of PTCD (post-traumatic cat disorder).  Perhaps the worst I’ve ever seen.

“Curse you villains!” I shouted, shaking my closed fist wildly at the unidentified assailants.  “What cruel folly is this!”

Moon turned his head the other way.

Magic sat in the laundry basket.

I opened a new pack of Whisker Lickin’s and fed them each three soft, tender pieces to calm their nerves.

Of mice and lesbians (a re-post)

With all of the cat-mouse excitement this weekend (see here), I thought I would re-post one of all my all-time favorite posts, which details a more successful mouse rescue and contains a similar scream from your favorite butch blogger.  Look for it.   

* * *

“Honey, I need a box or a container or something,” W says.

It’s 6:00 in the morning.

The urgency in her voice suggests that she needs to dispose of a body part.  That’s the first thing that pops into my mind at 6 a.m.  I am Italian after all.

Me: What’s the matter?

W: There’s a mouse in the bathtub.

Me: Is it alive or dead?

W: I don’t know.  His eyes are open.  I’m scared.

She gives me that please-protect-me look, which gets this butch’s motor running every time.

Me: Ok, give me a second.

I go downstairs and assemble a makeshift mouse-catching kit.  I grab a plastic shopping bag, a small plastic tub, a plastic cup and an empty granola bar box.

W: Don’t worry about the blood.  I’ll get that later.

Me: Blood?

W: There’s two drops of blood on the bathroom floor.

Me: But you don’t know whether the mouse is alive or dead?

W: No.

This from a nurse.

Me: Well, where did the blood come from?

We don’t live here

It’s not like we live in that hotel from The Shining where blood seeps in through the walls.

W: I don’t know.  I have to get to work.

Me: Ok, ok, ok.

I walk to the tub, stepping over the drops of blood.  There’s a dark gray mouse sitting on top of the drain.  His eyes are open.  He’s not moving.

I steel myself over the tub preparing to grab a mouse — who may be alive or dead or in a cat-induced coma for all I know — with a plastic shopping bag.

W: Come on, I have to take a shower.

Me: Alright, alright.  If this thing moves, I’m going to scream.

I approach the mouse, hand wrapped in plastic bag.  It moves.  I scream.

I am nothing if not predictable.

Me: Oh God, oh God, oh God.

W impatiently leaves the bathroom.

I chase the mouse all over the tub with the plastic cup.  Finally, I get him to scoot inside and cover the top with the plastic bag.

Mouse in cup

He looks fine.  The clear plastic cup allows for a complete medical inspection.

Me: He’s so cute.  Can we keep him?

W: No.

She’s really grumpy in the morning.

Me: I dub you Mordecai.  Where do you think the blood came from?

W: I don’t know.  There’s only two drops.

Me: Only two drops?  That’s a lot of blood.  Have you seen how tiny this mouse is?  The blood is either from Magic …

Magic is our cat who routinely catches, maims and kills mice.  We have assumed that Magic caught Mordecai in some other part of the house, put him in her mouth and then carried him upstairs to her bathtub of horror where she could bat him around and he’d have no way to escape.  She’s like a feline version of Buffalo Bill from The Silence of the Lambs.

Buffalo Bill

Magic

W: I doubt it.

Me: Or, another mouse that’s dead.  Or, Mordecai, and he looks ok.

That’s when W notices that Mordecai is missing his tail.

Me: Maybe, he didn’t have one.

Maybe Mordecai is some exotic tailless mouse like a Manx cat, I think.

W: I think all mice have tails.

She starts singing Three Blind Mice.

W: They all ran after the farmer’s wife, who cut off their tails with a carving knife.

Because this is the definitive source when it comes to rodent anatomy.

Me: Don’t worry, Mordecai, I think it’s a vestigial appendage.

I ask W what I should do with Mordecai.

W: I don’t know.  Put him in the yard.

I worry that Mordecai will find his way back inside and into Magic/Buffalo Bill’s torture chamber again.

W: Either put him in the yard or kill him.

Me: These are his two options?  Either release him in the yard or kill him?

This thing has mob movie written all over it.

Me: So, I can’t drive him to the park?  Mordecai, how would you like to live in a park?

I end up walking Mordecai, who is safely ensconced in his plastic cup, to an old industrial park a block down the street.

Mordecai’s new digs

I decide he will become a hobo mouse.  Mordecai the hobo mouse.  I dump him out of the cup and place a Fruit Loop at his feet.  Mordecai sniffs around and then darts under an abandoned trailer.

I tell W.

W: Did you gave him a bandana and a stick?

Me: No.  Just a Fruit Loop.

W: Did you really?

Me: Yes.  I figured that it was the least that we could do after he survived Magic’s tub of terror.

So much excitement and it’s not even 7 a.m.  I try to calm myself, but adrenaline is coursing through my body.  It’s been a big morning.  A big, bloody, horrific morning.

I kiss W goodbye and tell her to have a good day.

“Keep an eye out for the tail,” she tells me before she leaves.

Good God, will the horror never end?

This is Magic in front of the tub all curled up and smiling post-torture session