It happens all the time; I’m in the supermarket, at the doctor’s office, or swimming laps at the community pool and BAM! A woman is hitting on me. Don’t get me wrong; I have nothing against people being gay. It’s just…why me? Why are they talking to me, asking suggestively where the “bathroom” is? This isn’t a gay bathhouse! What am I doing to ask for this?
The other day, I was at the playground with my kids. That’s right – WITH MY KIDS! You’d think that’s just about the most un-lesbian-like place to be, right? Not that they shouldn’t have kids, but you know what I mean.
Anyways, this woman comes over to the bench to sit next to me. And I mean like RIGHT next to me. Our thighs were almost touching. And she mentions how cute my kids are. HELLO. Dear Lesbians, if you’re gonna hit on me, don’t bring my kids into it, okay?! You can hit on people however you want in your lady bars, but please don’t talk to me, a woman WEARING A WEDDING RING about how cute my kids are just to get into my pants. I see your game and I’m not into it.
Maybe it’s my short haircut (though I specifically asked the hairdresser for “sensible mom,” and not “the lesbian”) or maybe it’s my clear, makeup-free skin. But just because I don’t wear makeup, does not mean I’m DTF (yes, I know your lingo, ladies!). I am NDTF. I am never, ever DTF. I’m a married woman.
Look, I get it – there’s probably not a lot of lesbians in our neighborhood and you probably have to prowl pretty aggressively to find them, but take a look at my sandals. They’re Merrell’s, not Birkenstocks. Look at my car. Minivan. Not Subaru. Do a little legwork if you’re going to follow me into the supermarket and ask me if I think the peaches “seem ripe.” I don’t need that kind of lewd behavior. Again, I’d probably be “into it” if I were a lesbian, but I’m not. I voted for Obama and I support you, but please, for the love of God, stop hitting on me.