Sexuality Happens

I’m not a very spontaneous person, but last Wednesday, I did a very spontaneous thing. I book last minute stand by flights to and from New York so I could go home with Q for Christmas.

I’m Jewish. Christmas has never been a big deal to my family. Perhaps brunch at a nice hotel, or going to see an opening day movie. But then again, holidays have never really been a big deal period.  Latkes for channukah with me, my sister, my mother, and when he was alive, my father.  When I had my bat mitzvah, my uncle, aunt and two of my three cousins attended from Israel, as well as my grandfather and aunt from Florida. My sister’s bat mitvah was the same deal, although a different two cousins.  Right now, my entire family in the world is ten people; my grandfather in FL, my aunt and her partner in Fl, my uncle, aunt and three cousins in Israel, and my mother and sister in CO.  That’s it.

So coming home with Q was…interesting…to say the least. On her father’s side alone, there are 12 or 13 cousins.  Three aunts, three uncles. Grandparents. Great aunts. Grandmother in laws (what?). Dogs. Birds. Etc. We flew in and went straight to her dad’s side’s Christmas Eve dinner. There were at least 25 people at this dinner. Overwhelming to say the least…at to that they are an incredibly enmeshed Italian family on Long Island, and yeah.  A bit crazy.

Christmas day was on her mother’s side.  It was just us two, her sister, her mother, and her two aunts. Plus a visit to Nana after. Much more manageable, but still hard.  Q and two of her cousins are the only three people FROM EITHER SIDE who do not live in New York, or New Jersey. The only ones. Everyone knows everyone’s business (her great aunt on her dad’s side told me she “knew” who I was, because she’d seen me on Q’s facebook!), everyone is giving guilt trips, and mentioning events and people for which I’m completely out of the loop, and poor Q feels overwhelmed, and guilty for not coming home more often, and I feel just…so out of place. People I’ve never met are kissing me on the cheek, I’m making up back stories for what my degree is in, and we’re playing the “do they REALLY understand what it means that we’re partners” game.  Oh yes, add to all this the fact I’m a strict vegetarian (as in no chicken broth in my mashed potatoes, none the less eating little shrimps), and they had less than 24 hours of notice that I was coming.

I’m typing this on the plane on the way home (I actually was supposed to fly out Saturday night. It’s now Monday afternoon).  Everyone has been offering me Zanax (xanax?) all weekend. For anxiety, for family issues, for the high pain problems I’ve been having. Perhaps I should have taken them up on the offer. I am so glad I came – her family IS very nice (some of them actually gave me presents!) and I am in love with her Nana. What a wonderful woman.  It was good to meet all of her family, and I have a better understanding of some of her quirks now.

But I couldn’t do this on any regular basis. I’m exhausted. Q broke down in tears this morning (very rare) because she felt like she was disappointing them by not being home more often, and because she was having Catholic (oh yes, I forgot to mention that part) guilt thrown at her by all sides. I’m so glad they didn’t hate me, or so I think…but I can’t imagine doing this all the time. Q’s sister  lives 20 minutes from everyone, and I see the poor thing being pulled in so many directions, trying to please everyone. It breaks my heart.

I look forward to seeing them again in March, and Christmas next year.  But for once in my life, I’m glad to have a small family that doesn’t put a ton of importance on the holidays.  I’ve been able to get through life so far without popping Xanax and I attribute my distance from and the small size of my family for this.

Give me a day or two, and I’m sure I’ll bounce right back. Let me just say that I have a new level of respect for people in huge families, especially when they live close by.

-Essin’ Em

Below is what I had originally written to go up. But last minute, Q’s father sent me buddy passes to fly back to NY with Q (on stand-by. Let me tell you, my anixiety disorder did NOT like that part) for only $100. So off to New York I went.  And that’s where I am. Voila.

-EE

And I do mean happy holidays.  Regardless of your religion, or spiritual beliefs, or your hate/love of consumerism, I wish you happy holidays.

I am alone in Phoenix. Q is visiting her family in NY. Tickets were over $500, which I can’t afford (and think it’s kind of silly to spend that much money now, when we are planning to visit New York at the end of March for a lot less using Buddy Passes). I’d rather save the extra towards the new car I’m going to need to buy this spring before it gets hot, or towards paying off our massive debt. And I’m going to Denver without her in January (using my Frontier points, so it’s free) without her, so I understand the need to visit your roots. AND I’m not Christian, so it’s not like I’m alone on my holiday.

But I don’t know really anyone here. I have no one to eat Chinese food with and go see Sherlock Holmes with me on Christmas Day (you know, traditional Jew celebration). I don’t have other things to distract me.

So I’m going to make some of my own traditions. Perhaps cooking something special. Cuddling with the kitties while I watch bad shark movies and re-watch Season 1 of Dexter. Who knows? But I shall make my own holidays, and not be limited by Chinese food and movies in the theatres.

Happy Holidays, however your celebrate (or don’t) to one and all!

-Essin’ Em

Someone told me I should have more shocking titles, because it meant that people would actually read my posts.  I’m not sure if this one is shocking enough, or if it’ll change my readership, but it was quite fitting.

I don’t hate “breeders” in that I don’t hate straight people.  If you’re unfamiliar with the term breeders, it refers to straight people, hetero people, people having flesh penis in vagina intercourse.

I hate the TERM breeders.  It’s used mostly (although not exclusively) by LGBTQ people to refer to the “straighties” if you will.  

Don’t get it?  See, it comes from the concept that all straight people want babies. Henceforce, they’re breeders. And clearly, lesbian/gay/queer/etc couples can’t make babies, cause you know it’s impossible, so they don’t breed.

Ugh.  Let’s talk about sterotypes. All straight people want to make teh babies. Riiiight. Which is why contraception and birth control and tube tying is so popular.  Hello! Lots of straight/hetero couples are childless by choice.  They don’t little munchkins.  Yet, they still fall under the “breeders” tag.  On the other hand, lots of queer couples are having kiddos, whether via IVF (in-vitro fertilization) or adoption or using a friend of the couple for sperm or eggs. But noooo, they’re not breeders, not even when they are, in fact, breeding.

Basically, it’s a ridiculously stereotyping term, but it’s somehow “ok” because a minority is using it on the majority (think people of color calling white people “crackers”). Why? Broad generalizing terms that are not claimed by the people you’re using them on (if someone WANTS to identify as a breeder, obviously, I completely respect that) is just not a Samuel Adams. 

And that, my dear readers, is why I hate Breeders.

-Essin’ Em

So I wrote a post back in Augusts about some of the Sex and Kinky Things I Want to Do (although I have accomplished at least two things on that list since I posted it).

Ergo, it’s now time to write some non-sex/kink centric things I’d like to do.

*Take a Mediterranean cruise

*Visit Alaska

*Visit Italy

*Go to an NHL hockey game

*Have a fun weekend getaway with Q

*See Spamalot

*See a show on Broadway

*Live in another country for a least a year

*Get committed under a Chupah

*Own a house with Q.  3+ bedroom

*Get my PhD

*Teach at a college as a professor

*Open my own toy store/book store (and sell cupcakes and maybe Boba tea)

*Find a job that pays well (ish), has insurance, and I enjoy working

*Have a hysterectomy

*Have my next four knee surgeries, so I can walk up stairs, properly

*Go on a Birth Right Israel trip

*Visit Q’s favorite place in Mexico

*Visit Q’s family in NY

*Start hosting a queer play party in Phoenix

*Learn to cook more vegan food for my vegan friends

*Get back to the weight where I feel most comfortable

*Make money doing what I love

*Have a better relationship (if possible) with my mother

*Dye my hair bright red again

*Get a new (or new used) working car…preferably an HHR or Caliber. In silver or white.

*Learn to read music

*Get a huge kitchen with an island!

It’s my half birthday!  I’m offically 23.5! Hurray!

I know people think it’s silly to celebrate half birthdays.  But see, my birthday usually falls right during the middle of Channukah.  So when I was younger, my family decided to start celebrating my half birthday (and my sister’s, whose birthday is in January) in the summer, so that we wouldn’t feel as left out during the holiday season (when it sucks being the ten year old who hears the “this is your birthday slash channukah present” year after year), and would get to celebrate a little in the summer too.

Also, I have so many negative things having happened on/around my real birthday (ending up on crutches, being in the hospital, having my back pack stolen with my meds, glasses, and final paper, a car accident, losing Athena the day after my party last year, etc).  Sometimes, my mother has even forgotten my “real” birthday, because it’s in the middle of finals and the holiday season and all of that.

So it’s stuck. I like to celebrate my half birthday with friends and sometimes my family.  So happy half birthday to me!  I raise my glass and tip it towards all of you.

-Essin’ Em

(If you’re in a healthy place financially, and are feeling generous, my wishlists are posted in the right column. I never *expect* presents, but they’re always incredibly appreciated!)

I published this last year, and having tweaked it slightly, I’m publishing it again.  All of the feelings and sentiment remain the same.

I’m on the right :)

Today, April 23, 2009, is the 10th anniversary of the death of my father. He was one of the most amusing, inspiring, intelligent, wonderful people to ever grace the face of this earth, and that’s not just my biased view. You didn’t see the number of people at his funeral, the number of people who came out of the wood work to tell him goodbye and to tell us how much he had meant to them, the kind words written about him online by people all over the world, and so on. He was a great man.

When I was younger, I remember visiting him in the hospital in my Care Bear outfit (yes, I’ve been a nerd since a very young age). He had cancer (non-hodgkin’s lymphoma) and was occasionally hospitalized for pneumonia, or other infections. He went into remission in the early 90’s. Then, summer 1998, when we were in Europe, he started feeling off again. He was re-diagnosed at the end of the summer. My family didn’t tell me until Feb 1999, because they didn’t want to throw off my skating competition (WHAT THE FUCK) or worry my sister and I. But now I know why he cried at that competition when I put my first place medals around his neck and told him it was all his fault that I’d won. It’s a good thing they told us when they did – my dad ended up in the hospital the next week. It was a hard time – by dad was constantly in chemo, and was in and out of the hospital. I stopped doing my math homework; who carea about algebra when your father was sick? I spent every night after school either at rehearsal for my play, or with my dad at St. Joe’s, getting him ice chips, and joking around about the disgusting food.

At the end of March was my last show at Logan (my middle school). I had a starring role in “The Madwoman of Chillot,” but didn’t think my father in his weak state could go – 3 flights of stairs, and sitting in a folding chair for 3 hours just wasn’t going to happen. My school loved my dad though, and banded together. They were able to help him up the stairs, and put him in the tech directors special high backed rolling arm chair so that he could keep his neck upright (carried up those 3 flights). At the end of the show, they unrolled a banner signed by every single member of the cast and crew that said “We love you Sol!” and dedicated the show to him. By this point, he was bald (I called him Daddy Warbucks), and had lost more than 50 pounds. He was sunken in his chair, but had tears streaming down his face at this show of love. It was an amazing night, and the best performance of my life.

He started getting better, and was put on a list for a stem cell transplant. Every night before he went to bed, I told him how much I loved him…that’s just how we were. Until the morning of Friday, April 23, 1999, when I was woken up by my mother at 10am, which was odd, since it was a school day. She took me into my sister’s room, and told us that he had died in the night. She had woken up when he made a noise, and called 911, and tried to give him CPR, but it hadn’t worked. She was terrified that we would wake up with the ambulance’s sirens, and paramedics running through the house. We didn’t.

That day, I missed school, but they held an all school assembly in memory of my dad. I stayed home, cleaning up the house for the after funeral party. It snowed that day, a lot, given that it was April. I answered the door for the people coming by, took the flowers and arranged them. That night, I went to rehearsal for the ice show, because that’s what my father would have wanted, and I didn’t see any reason to not go.

Saturday, I went to the funeral home with my mother (Jews don’t believe in embalming, so funerals happen fast), and she was a wreck. I helped to plan my father’s funeral, to pick out his casket, to figure out how many police on motorcycles we needed.

We asked for the small, 75 person chapel at my temple. When we arrived on Sunday morning, they had already had to move it, because too many people had already shown up (which was unexpected – we didn’t even publish an obituary with a funeral time). By the time the service started, it was standing room only. I wore a black dress with one of my father’s Hawaii shirts over it. He wore a Hawaiian shirt every day – to work, to skating, to school, etc. So I wore one. I read a poem, and after the service, my mother, sister and I opened the casket, alone. He was wrapped in a traditional Jewish Shroud, but underneath, he was in his $6 goodwill tuxedo he had bought for the father daughter skate, a Hawaiian shirt, and his rainbow suspenders. I left a pig in there with him.

We underestimated how many cops we would need to get to the cemetery. It was ridiculous – we figured just a few friends would come along. Everyone did. It snowed a little as he was buried.

A few weeks later, his doctor called, and told us that his last tests had shown the cancer had spread all over his body – nothing could have stopped it, and nothing could have prevented him dying. Funny you know, because non-hodgkin’s lymphoma is considered a generally non-fatal type of cancer. A week or two after that, we got a message from the hospital – my dad was now at the top of the list for a stem cell transplant, and could he come in the following day? That was hard. As were all the calls from solicitors…especially the one when I said “No, I’m sorry, he’s deceased” and he said “when would be a good time to call back?” I asked him if he believed in reincarnation. What can you do.

My dad was a wonderful man. He was born in Sweden, moved to the US at age 1, and learned to speak Yiddish. English was his second language. He was kicked out of several schools for making mischief after he finished his school work before everyone else. He was in the air force for 3 years, stationed in Germany. He came back and got his bachelor’s in 2.5 years by working the hell out of the system. Then he got a Master’s in geology. After years with the government (BLM) as a geologist, he went back and got another degree as a computer scientist and stayed with the BLM. And did a lot of fancy computer programming stuff that I really don’t get, but he’s been called a pioneer in the field of meta-data analysis, and there is an award out there in his name.

He was a field trip parent for my classes – he had a giant suburban with a CB radio, and would show up for almost every trip. He came in to read stories to my class. Every year, we made latkes for everyone. At our roller skating parties, he’d be out there teaching every kid how to skate. Around Channukah, he’d dress up completely like an Eastern European Jew, and re-enact (with my help of course) “Herschel and the Channukah Goblins.” Everyone knew and loved my dad.

When I took up figure skating, he did too, so that he could stay a little ahead of me, and help me learn things. After a while, I by-passed him in skills, but he kept skating. He even got a few jumps (he took this up at 44 or 45!), and quite a few bruises to prove it (never skate with a pocket knife in your pocket). One year, my sister and I skated to “the Sorcerer’s Apprentice” in an ice show – she was Mickey, and I was the Sorceress. Well, my dad put all on brown, tied some grass skirts around his knees, grabbed some buckets, and he became the brooms. I’m so not kidding. It was hilarious. In the father daughter skates in the ice shows, he had found a $6 tuxedo at goodwill, and wore it with a giant sequin bow tied and matching cummerbund, every year. And every year he’d try to throw some of his cool moves in (a little bunny hop here, some backwards skating there), and every year he’d get yelled at by the ice show director.

We used to see the circus every year, and one time, it was like our personal family at the circus day. My sister and I got picked from the audience to fly in a toy plane from the top of the coliseum, and then my father was picked for a clown skit. It involved “lay-people” tossing plates at each other, that broke when caught, and the audience people were supposed to just look confused and upset. Well, my dad started juggling them, throwing them under his leg, clapping them together, etc. He even followed the main clown around, mocking him (to the amusement of the crowd)…he told us later the clown told him in a heavy Russian accent to “cut it out! This is my show!” Later on, everyone was asking him if he was a plant, because he was that funny.

In 4th grade, I was farther ahead than everyone in my Hebrew class except for one girl. He volunteered to teach, and came in every weekend to teach special lessons to the two of us. Didn’t get paid, and got a lot of crap from me, but he did it, Sunday after Sunday.

When my girl scout troop was without a leader, he stepped up, becoming the only male leader in the Denver area. We learned knot tying, macramé, fire starting, archery, etc. I used to go to the “parent-daughter” girl scout camp weekends, and he’d go with me – usually one of only 4 or 5 dads (so we’d get the nice cabins with plumbing!).

On our own, he taught me to use a bow and arrow, how to play catch, how to carve words into sticks and trees. He made his own fireworks with steel wool. He took me with him to work all the time, not just on the official day. We had matching beanie propeller hats, except his had a little pig, and mine had a frog. He drove me religiously to dance and horseback riding lessons, and we’d listen to NPR on the way. We used to go thrift store and garage sale-ing every weekend spring-fall, and in the winter, we’d go to the lumber store sometimes. He built a two story play house for my sister and I in our back yard…that never got finished because of his death. It’s still there.

When I wanted my hair French braided, he went to a hair styling for kids class with me at Kazoo and Co. He was the only male there, but volunteered to practice for the demos, etc. We used to build hyped up remote control cars together for the critter crunch – trying to demolish our opponent’s cars. When I ever wanted a “new” computer, we’d build it together from spare parts, just the way I wanted it, even if that meant 3 floppy drives (totally pointless by the way). He got me games for DOS from all over the world. In NM, he used to take me shooting with my uncle, and was so proud of me when I turned out to be good at it. Once, we made our own wine…from a jury-rigged distillery we made in our kitchen. He taught me how car engines run, how to use a power drill, and how to waltz and summersault. Even our cats liked him best – always following him around, sleeping with him in his arm chair, leaving mice under his chair.

My father was my everything. He taught me so much, even when I didn’t want to learn (like the one summer he made me fill in a blank multiplication table every day, or the next, when I had a daily long division problem). His crazy shirts, bolo ties, and tucan hats (as well as the rest of his antics) made me realize how important it is to live life to the fullest every day, because you never know what might happen. I even wrote my college essay on him.

He never got to see me do my bat mitzvah, even though I wore his toucan hat during it (which miraculously survived the house fire we had a month after his death). He didn’t get to see me go to high school, to see me win any awards, to see me graduate high school, college or grad school. He never got to see me direct my first play, or sing in a musical. He would have been astonished that I was the President of the Jewish group at CC. He never got to threaten my partners with his .22 like he always promised. He would have LOVED Kinsey and Athena and Kali, and would have played with them more than I do.

That day, not only did I lose a wonderful father, a great friend, a teacher, but the world lost a great man. It’s only now that I realize not only how much he influenced me, and how much he brightened my life, but that he did the same for hundreds of other people. It’s hard now – none of my current close friends ever met my dad, so they don’t know what exactly I’m missing, what piece of me is gone…I reacted differently to his death than most people react when they lose a loved one. We had never left anything unsaid, and I had nothing to feel guilty about. But the farther away I get from him, the more sad I am. I don’t remember anymore exactly what his voice sounds like. I don’t always remember his wry smile. I don’t believe in heaven or hell – I believe that when you die, your body is done, and your spirit goes into those whom you loved. I feel that as life trucks on and on, there is less and less of him in me, and that’s so hard.

Here we are making potato latkes in my middle school

If you feel so inclined, wear a Hawaiian or brightly colored shirt today, in honor of him and his vibrant life. Or please donate to the American Cancer Society.

Thanks…

Essin’ Em

This picture was taken during the Vagina Monologues. I’d somehow found a random piece of foliage (perhaps a filler from someone’s bouquet of flowers?) and decided that it looked perfect in my hair. I totally did the opening part of the show looking just like this. It just worked for me.

My hair is no longer bright red. In looking for a job, I dyed it. I couldn’t get a job at very many places period, and I was afraid that the red might impede my search.

I miss the red. It doesn’t look bad now, not really. It just isn’t me. I like being vibrant and vivacious, and different.  Even my mother, who never seems to agree with most anything I say or do, told me that my hair looked really good red and black.  Whenever my hair is bright, fire engine red, I feel me, I feel safe. Other colors (black, green, blue, purple) are fun, and I love changing it up on occasion, but this red is me. I feel like this should be my natural color, that I’m at my most natural, the most myself when it’s this color.

Right now, I feel muted. I feel like I’m covering me up, like I’m playing a role instead of living as myself in my life (for many reasons, but this is one). I’ve had to dye it before, and I felt the same way then. I know many people get full sleeve tattoos, or facial piercings, and have an amazing “this is me, take it or leave it attitude.” I would love to do that. I’d love to say “fine, I don’t want to work for anyone that wouldn’t hire me because of my hair.”  But I’ve been unemployed (with both “normal” and “bright red” hair) for almost eight months. I’m scared of being evicted. I’m worried about feeding my kitties. I don’t have the luxury of that “fuck you, let me be me” attitude that I wish I did.

So goodbye red hair. You’ll be missed until I can get you back again. And Happy Half Nekkid Thursday to all!

-Essin’ Em

I took this picture for Queer Eye Candy’s month of February’s theme; holding a paper heart. I sent them in, but only towards the end of the month, so I don’t think they’ll make it up. My paper heart says: My heart is full of love and lust and thoughts and kindness and caring and sweetness and wonder and questions and caring and light and …“

There is a line in the Vagina Monologues, in the piece I Was There in the Room. It says that the both the heart, and the vagina are capable of sacrifice.  That they both open to let us in and expand to let us out. It’s very true.

I am half nekkid in this picture, not in the more traditional way, but my heart is naked. I don’t write that much about love and feelings and caring. Usually, my heart is only mentioned when it has been bruised…hurt…mangled. But it also has so much positiveness. Sometimes, I love my friends (and two of my past partners) so much that I feel my heart will burst. I’m so proud of them, so enamored with them, so filled with love for all of these wonderful people.

My heart is huge. Is it. It holds so much. And you know, while it can let things out, I usually decide to keep them.  I finally spoke with J again the other day, and she (using female pronouns now) is getting her shit together. I still feel for her in my heart, and am so proud of her. F came last week, and gave me flowers at my show, telling me I was amazing and truly deserved them. I felt love for her still. I love her still. Not in love, no, and I realize that no, we should not be partners. But to me, love is something that can grow and shrink in intensity, but it never leaves your heart.

I have friends I have seen in three, five, even ten years that I’ve been reconnecting with. It isn’t nearly as hard as one might expect. Why? Because there is still love for them inside me, I just need to rekindle it.

Recently, I had my six-word memoir on Love and Heartbreak published in that book. I’m on page 64 (which is a perfect square. That makes me happy…and nerdy).  What did I say?

“My heart is my strongest muscle.”

Why? Because your heart gets a work out, physically and emotionally.  We equate it with feelings, and emotions, and love, and heartache. We also need it to keep going, to keep living…to pump our blood through our bodies. We give it exercise – both at the gym, and in relationships; with friends, lovers, partners, family. Sometimes, we over work it, we exhaust it. Sometimes we pull this muscle…we do something that hurts it, and we need to give it time to recover. But it doesn’t break. No. My other 6-word thought was “my heart is bruised, not broken.”  We talk of broken hearts, but really, our hearts don’t break. They just need time to recover.  When our hearts are healed and healthy, we rely on them so much, we use them so much, we NEED them. So yes, my heart is my strongest muscle. It does so much for me…and I can only try to give back.

Happy Half Nekkid Thursday! Open your heart.

-Essin’ Em

Shhhhh. I’m going to tell you a secret.

I am a romantic at heart.

No, I still don’t like diamonds. Or gold. Or even rings for that matter. 

I don’t like many of the cliche, traditional things. I hate pink. Steak dinners are pointless for this vegetarian. And if you spray odd sweet smelly stuff on my sheets, I’m much more likely to be turned off than turned on.

But you know what? I’m sitting here, reminiscing about the only time a partner/boyfriend/girlfriend/lover gave me flowers.  They were stargazer lilies (one of my favorite types).

I say I don’t like flowers, that they’re too cliche. But you know what? I fucking love flowers.  I think it’s a defense mechanism. I’ve been in theatre since I was 5. And everyone always got flowers.  And my dad brought me a bouquet once or twice. But I haven’t gotten flowers at a show since he died when I was 13.  So I decided that I didn’t even like flowers, so that after curtain call, when everyone got beautiful bouquets, I won’t be upset that I didn’t.  And this carried over into the rest of my life.  As long as I didn’t expect sweet things, I wouldn’t be disappointed when they didn’t happen. It was like waiting for a cast list to post; if I expected to be cast in the chorus, and I was, great. And then if I got a big part, hurray. It was harder to be disappointed.

My HS boyfriend, while nice, was not romantic. Neither were the people I dated in college. So I convinced myself that all I wanted was support. J bought me those stargazer lilies, and honestly, those kept me going for a good while. F was not romantic, nor did I expect her to be.

It’s hard, because I like sex. I like fucking. I like deep academic discussions. People don’t expect me to want to cuddle (something I’m finally realizing how much I like. Another thing I convinced myself I didn’t like because I was afraid of being rejected over it), because it’s not sex. I like cuddling. I like spooning. I love Love Actually. I love stargazer lilies, black calla lilies, and sterling roses (black roses too, but those are harder to find). I love cute little romantic gestures. Or I think I do.

I guess I feel that I’m hard enough to date as is. I’m a sex blogger/sexuality educator, which people find intimidating. I’m kinky. I’m awkward. I’m disabled. I’m vivacious. I’m chubby. I’m alternative. I’m outspoken.  That’s a lot to ask from a partner, that I feel that I can’t honestly expect someone to be sweet and kind and romantic. I mean, why would anyone want to be with me as is, none the less if I wanted romance sometimes? I try to make up for all my failings, by trying to always be helpful, and available and as wonderful as possible to my partners, and my friends for that matter. But you know what? Right now, this very second, I am sitting here with tears streaming down my face because all I want is some flowers, or someone to genuinely want to be with me, and to be loving and silly and romantic.

Usually, I’m tougher about this, and cover it up well. But this weekend, at the Vagina Monologues, I got to see Kinsey and her partner interact. He brought her flowers, and came to both of the shows.  Apparently, last year he brought her sushi each night. They chatted, and he carried her stuff to the car because she was so exhausted. It was so sweet, and loving, and beautiful. Opening night, every single one of my friends (including those that I had set aside comp tickets for) flaked out and didn’t show.  Forget flowers, I didn’t even have an audience that was there for me…the only person that came who I knew was someone I haven’t seen in 3 years, and didn’t even expect to show.

So I came home and wrote this. I don’t want to always be tough, and I’m sick of trying not to expect or want  anything from anyone. I deserve friends and a partner (partners?) that care about me. People who I can stop sucking it up around, and pretending that I’m just fine sticking it out on my own. People to support me…by coming to my classes, or plays, or derby bouts. Do you know in the 8 months I’ve been in CO, not ONE friend has come to any of my workshops, and only two have come to bouts (one because I bought her a ticket).

So no, I don’t want a prince on a white horse riding off into the sunset. But for once, I’d like to wake up to brunch in bed, instead of me always being the one making tea and pancakes. And I’d like to open the door, or stroll out into the lobby to a bouquet of flowers. No, I’m not perfect…but I’m not so bad that I can’t get some romance every once in a while.

I can be a strong fierce Femme with a softer side.  Strength and sweetness are not mutually exclusive.

That’s all.

-Essin’ Em

EDIT: The second night of the show, both my friend from college, and F both brought me flowers…so I am now feeling very lovely and cared for. I don’t need flowers from a partner, just in general. :)

I trust you all remember my sweet cat Athena, who I lost back in December. She had an undetected heart murmur and despite the vet’s best efforts, and my own selfishness in wanting her with me, I eventually had to tell them to stop trying to revive her, and to let her move on.

I spent most of yesterday at the animal hospital with my new cat Kali. She’d been throwing up whole pieces of dry food all morning, and then starting throwing up water and liquid.  The vet I called was very worried, so I brought her in.  X-rays showed that her intestines are piling up on themselves, which is usually indicative of a blockage.  The ER was (by this time) on “emergency hours” and couldn’t do an ultra sound until the next day.  The vet put her on fluids for 90 minutes until they closed, and told me to bring her back in the AM.  They will take more x-rays, and probably send me for an ultrasound…if it hasn’t gotten better, or has gotten worse, they will need to operate. If it’s any better, then she has to stay there for a day or two on fluids (she keeps throwing up, so can’t keep anything down), and then they’ll re-evaluate from there.

I am in debt. I’ve been jobless (like many people) for six months, despite applying for almost 400 positions.  I hurt my ankle in July, and paid thousands out of pocket for that.  I just got a $650 MRI bill for my knees. I’m terrified of losing my apartment in a month or two. Athena’s care cost over $1000.

All that, I could handle. I have cut down on everything I can think of. I’m eating ramen and store brand pasta for most meals.

However, this is the life of a family member. I have no partner(s). I don’t get along with my mother and sister. My father died when I was 13, my grandmother and uncle died in 2008. My aunt and uncle and five cousins live in Israel, my grandfather has had 3 heart attacks and lives in Florida. I don’t ever want children. My cats ARE my family.  We spend large amounts of time together, we have disagreements, but we also have unconditional love for each other.  So to me, saving Kali is like saving my child.

No, the shelter will not pay for the surgery – they had a 14 day health policy, it has been long than that. No, my mother will not help me out.

No, I am not doing this just for me.  Kali, according to the vet, is not in any pain, except when her stomach is pressed on. She is still active, running around the apartment with her satellite-like plastic collar to keep her from biting her catheter.  She’s actually cuddling with me right now as I write this. Her temperament has not changed one smidgen.  If it is a blockage, once it’s removed, she should be absolutely fine.  No residual medical issues, no tubes, no medication. Her quality of life would be back to normal.  So no, I’m not just hanging onto her for me.

I know many people are in my position financially. I completely understand.  However, if you have a few spare bucks…even just a few dollars, I’d really appreciate your help. I’ve done my absolute best to keep this blog 100% free. Yes, I have affiliate programs, but I don’t let advertisers post all over my page, though goddess knows I need the money. I try to do lots of cool contests and giveaways to give back to YOU, my readers. I will do my best to always keep my morals and ethics as part of my blog, and to give back. However, I spend much time on my blog – writing, reading, tweaking things, etc.  If you don’t like cats, but like what I have to say, that’s a good reason too. Anything would help at this point. Here is the button to click through to paypal.

I know this may seem silly to some, going further into debt (keeping in mind that I never carried a balance on a single card until October 2008, and that I had enough money for a down payment on a house last year until I decided to move back to Denver) for a cat. That’s fine.  But I cannot emotionally handle losing another one of my babies. Not two months apart. I cannot do that.  So I will do everything I can to save her. And even if (cross your fingers) she doesn’t need the surgery, there are still hundreds I owe from today, more from tomorrow, and Athena’s debt. I own my debt, it is my own. However, if you love cats, and me (or at least my writing), I’d love any help you can give.