AAAaaaaand SCENE

I have that same feeling you have - I'm on a path to something great. There is something out there for me that I just haven't fucking found yet, but it's coming.

THIS IS NOT A HOPELESS BLOG. THIS IS NOT ANGRY, DESPITE THE CAPITAL LETTERS. THIS IS A DISCLAIMER. A BETTER WRITER WOULD HAVE PUT THIS AT THE BEGINNING. A BETTER WRITER WOULDN'T HAVE A MERE 10 BLOGS IN THE LAST FEW YEARS.

I have such support around me and the confidence that I'm great at anything I try and zero excuses as to why I'm not doing more. I'm self-destructive and, at times, self-sabotaging.

I have the tools and the toolbox and the tool shed and the tool belt and I'm being such a goddamn tool.

I have been given opportunities that so many people haven't been given and I've earned them after. I'm not saying everything came easy but I'm not saying anything didn't.

Some. Absolutely. Did.

So here we go, the minute I get free time I fill it right back up. I can't stay still and I cannot slow down because I will lose the momentum that took me 30 years to build up.

Something will happen and something will come of this. I have no doubt.

Look forward to an 11th entry in a few months.

I'm the Anti-Feminist

I'm not a feminist - in case the title didn't give it away, I fancy myself an anti-feminist; this does not mean I hate women, this doesn't mean I think we are a lesser species or we deserve fewer rights.

It does, however, mean I understand the world that we live in. I understand that the man I'm seeing is going to look at other women. I understand a man may want, from time to time, to call me his, "dirty little whore," at the appropriate time. I understand that while I type a sad excuse for a blog at nearly 3am that I miss the guy I'm thinking about.

I love women. I looooove women. I know we have a higher pain tolerance, I know we have the ability to withstand a great deal of tragedy while putting on a pretty face and I know, first hand, that we are very compassionate creatures, sometimes to a fault.

...

So cut the bullshit, ladies.

Expecting special, different  treatment is just as much an injustice to ourselves as demanding equality. We wanted equal rights - this means you're going to have to hold the door once in a while.

This means you're going to be the one to pick up the check, tell him he's whatever the boy-equivalent of, "beautiful," is, initiate sex.

Be a man, ladies.

...and I don't mean make out with him for a while and then unzip your pants and put your hand on the back of his head to guide him toward the promise land.

Wait.

Yes, I do.

Own that shit. Be a bitch at work because the people you work with are sub-intelligent. Cry at the silliest TV shows because they are all-too-relatable. Be self-conscious in a dress you are NOT used to wearing and worry when he doesn't text you back.

You're a human-fucking-being.

It's not about supporting one gender over another. It's not about being super-woman, feminist, we deserve this because we have been through this... ya ya sisterhood of the traveling bullshit that sets us back much more than just living the reality of feelings and how we live.

You. Are. Human.

So. Are. Men.

Stop. Just stop.

You're making life so much more difficult than it needs to be.

I'm home. It's 3am. I have to be at work at 9am and I spent the night doing laundry, performing improv and, the best part, talking with friends...I had an amazingly good night, as usual...and I was texting him every chance  I got.

Because I wanted to.

Because I'm a woman?

Because I'm a goddamn person who does what the fuck she wants to. I'm allowed to live a life that I love and also miss someone who isn't there.

This doesn't make me weak. This doesn't set us back. This just makes me a person.

Just like a woman.

Just like a man.

For All the Breasts

Just like Samantha on Sex and the City, my legal name is Kim. Just like Samantha, I've been thinking about getting a breast augmentation. Unlike Samantha, it wasn't a plastic surgeon that discovered the lump in my breast. It was me.

 Yup, it's that kinda story. You know, the scary and preachy kind that makes you worried to keep reading because you're long overdue for a breast exam or because you know someone who has suffered from breast cancer, but with some seriously fucked up direction and the occasional Sex and the City reference.

So there I was, a Saturday night after a long day of work and rehearsal. Opting out of late-night plans and in desperate need of a shower, I finish up and apply my regular lather of lotion. I have super dry skin. This is when I notice the demon living inside my right breast.

It's there, but my breath isn't. Oh, it's still there when I run my hand over it again, hoping the first time was just a mistake. Nope, there, there it is. I don't know if I took a breath in or let one out for the entirety of my self-exam state of shock.. or even when I stepped out of the bathroom in a towel and tears and uttered the words to Marcus, the words every man longs to hear from his half naked girlfriend, "I think I found a lump in my breast." Why did I say, "I think?" I knew it was there.

That entire night consisted of my hating the fact that it was a Saturday, my poor boyfriend saying sweet but basically futile things like, "Let's not panic until we have something to panic about," and playing the worst-case-scenario in my head over and over and over again. It was awesome.. and this awesomeness continued throughout the entire weekend, save for a few hours at a friend's house on Sunday that I forced myself into. It was either that or stay home and cry/panic/cry all night.

I call a bajillion doctors' offices on Monday and finally get one that can see me on Tuesday. I still cannot pronounce her name, despite the effort I put forth while listening to the loudest second hand on the exam room clock for about 30 minutes. She's not ignorant to her difficult last name and simply refers to herself as Dr. Anna; that I can handle.

She's comforting and says silly things like, "So, you found something in your boobie?"
Yes, Dr. Anna. I found a boo-boo in my shirt and this owie is supah-sca-wy. Me sad. Me want it not to be there. Me no want to be like Nemo's mommy.

Dead. I don't want to die. I don't want this to be the beginning of the end.

Dr. Anna doesn't let me tell her where it is, she wants to find it. She gives lefty the all clear and moves over to Samantha; the new name of my right breast, duh. Ding ding ding! She found it. Oh, it's there and it's palpable, the referral form even says so.

I'm on my way for an ultrasound the very next day. As a woman who doesn't want children, this isn't a procedure I've ever thought about having. As a woman who doesn't want children in her boobs, this certainly isn't a procedure I've ever considered having on my breast. Well, it's a thing, and at 28 years old, it's safer than a mammogram.

But why are we being safe?? I have a lump in my breast and it's going to kill me.

Okay, nevermind, get the chaperone in here and tell me it's a cyst.

The chaperone is Linda and she's delightful, I think. It's hard to recall exactly what she was saying while the technician was coating me in jelly and calling the Doc in to tell me it's not a cyst. I definitely remember the word, "lobulation," and the words, "solid mass," and, "biopsy."

 But I don't remember the walk upstairs to Linda's office. I think her magic just transported me there, but no, I definitely remember the pamphlets for Dealing with Breast Cancer, Wigs, Reconstructive Surgery and, well, maybe those are all I can remember.

There I was though, in her office, and watching her dial away trying to schedule a biopsy; you know, the Greek word for, "this will hurt like hell and in a few days all of your worst fears will be confirmed." I know there were comforting words being spoken. I know she was smiling and assuring me there probably wasn't anything to worry about, I know these things happened but more clear are the pink flowers everywhere, the ribbons and the fact that I was actually sitting in the office of the Navigator at the Breast Center surrounded by stories of survival; stories that should be reassuring but are merely reminding me that cancer happens here. This is where you go when you have breast cancer and this is how it begins.

Scheduling the biopsy for as soon as possible seemed like nothing short of a miracle but I'm told I should have someone drive me and I should take the day off of work.

Next week? No, she [I] can't wait that long.
Tomorrow morning? I can't get out of going to work that early.
Monday? No, I perform that night.
"Oh? What do you do?"

And with a crack in my voice, I wipe a million tears off my face and say, "comedy."

We schedule it for the following afternoon and my hero gets out of work so he can drive me home.

It is implied that every night I'm fighting tears and wondering if I should call my family, 2400 miles away, to worry them or wait until there's something to panic about, right? That's implied? Okay, good. Because keeping this light hearted is the only way to get you to keep reading.

The biopsy was physically painless and emotionally terrifying. The loud pop as the biopsy-gun rips tiny pieces of the foreign intruder out of me is the most unsettling noise I've ever heard; not because it was incredibly loud or because I wasn't warned about it but because this device was potentially taking just a fraction of the murderer out of me and not the entire thing. It's days before I get the results and I have a weekend of family in town to get me through until then.

A weekend that went better than I could have asked for. The hugs I get hurt a bit and I can't shower until my guests have already arrived, since the gauze needs to stay in place. Even as I sit here, almost exactly a week since the biopsy, steri-strips are still in place and I cannot take them off or skin could come with them. Even with all of this, the weekend was full of Vegas life; too much food, Cirque Du Soleil, trips to the desert and all the love I could ask for.

Monday morning the angel calls. It's 8am and the number is blocked. It's Linda and she tells me the results have been sent to my doctor, as she is not at liberty to give results, she suggests I call them.

Here we go.

Oh, voicemail. Okay, I'll do that.

They finally call me back. Once again I have to verify my birthday. And that's when she tells me...

"Okay, Kimberly, your results came back... they're normal. It's called a fibroadenoma; a benign tumor."

All I heard were the words, "Okay, normal, benign."

Thank you, Chelsea. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

This is something I am going to have taken out of me. This is something that has the potential to grow, maybe be tender and potentially uncomfortable.

But it's not cancer. It's not something to survive and it's not something I'll have to undergo treatment for. I won't need a wig or fund-raising campaigns and I won't need to give my family terrible news from thousands of miles away.

And without all of these terrible things, and with the jubilant tone that this blog sometimes conveys, I cannot express how long these nine days were in such a short space.

I cannot thank the staff of the Breast Center enough and I cannot tell you how good it was to have someone who let me completely fall apart almost every single night.

I can, however, look at the pictures on the wall that say, "Hope," and, "Strength," and know who they are truly meant for. I thought I was strong and this experience tested that to the fullest. Those words are for every woman who goes through what I went through but doesn't get the good news. They are for the women who wear the pink ribbon to show they don't just support the research but they are a product of its power. Hope and Strength are the words I wished I could have read more clearly while going through this. I hoped I would have been stronger and the fighters of this fight sure as fuck are.

So unlike Samantha, my tumor is benign. But much like her, this Kim came out of this a changed woman.

Even if You Don't Care for Poetry

A nip, a chill is in the air, a season’s change familiar,

The feel of feelings shifting fair, no warmth and skies not clearer,

A gray glow peeks itself through blinds, a hue I’ve known before,

Outside winds, a whistling kind, I hear it more and more

As the days lose light and sun, the darkness arrives early,

Emptying the usual fun, and shifting us to surly,

Waking to a splash of heat, now barren, slighted bites,

The cold of skin and covers meet, as motivation fights

A warmer time would beg to ask, what shall we do today?

Patience, friendly and so kind, would guide me on my way,

A heavy cloak, these clouds and shade, are not as welcome, so,

As hope of plans begins to fade, a light breaks through this woe

Alas, though here proves brisk and breezy, it may not warrant tears,

Compared to past, this seems too easy, not ideal for reindeer,

Don’t be discouraged, as I had ya’, this place, it just might just change ya’,

After all, this is Nevada… this is no Pennsylvania.

My Bad...

My first mistake was thinking I had the capacity to compose a widely and well-received blog entirely about sex and the adult industry.


Ooops.

I didn't even consider, at first, that this was narrowing my topics down to the point where I couldn't post a topical blog on the infuriating misbehavior of children, a successful or failed recipe, the beautiful discovery of a flavored coffee creamer or the painful re-watchings of the terrible ending of Nip / Tuck.

Why would I do that? Why would I cut out these delicious morsels of entertainment. Whether friends or strangers, my readers deserve a wide range of blog-ips.

So I feel better knowing that my days will be inspired by more than just sex toys and porn stars, positions, lubricant, dry spells and fantasies.

But the sexy silver lining is that this blog can encompass that too, should I choose to do so.

Where are My Congratulations?

As a 27 year old woman who is neither engaged to be married, nor with child, I have become painfully aware that it's difficult to come by circumstances that warrant similar recognition and happy congratulations from those who surround me.

Admittedly, this increases my bitterness toward these situations. Oh, and I am very aware that it's no surprise to anyone out there that I am bitter in this situation, however, I implore you to at least attempt to understand where I'm coming from. After all, this is my blog.

I'm on the verge of a major life-change; a move across the country. This is all on my own accord and not the result of a forced decision, happenstance or anything of the like. This impending move, in addition to witnessing the opposing life-changes those around my age are forced in to, is providing further proof that this is, as childish as it sounds, just so unfair!

I couldn't be happier to make the journey across the country and start a life elsewhere; a change of weather and scenery, job prospects, social networking and activities, etc. I can't help but notice, though, that making such a grown-up change is never going to get the same reaction as, let's say, accidentally getting pregnant or falling into the ever-so-popular trend of, "LET'S GET MARRIED," or, even worse, a potential combination of the two in accidentally getting knocked up and deciding it would be for the best to get married.

With more and more people tripping into these circumstances at younger and younger ages, I am forced to wonder, "What am I going to have to do to get some sort of recognition?" Selfish? Adolescent? Sure. Blame society.

It sure would be nice to be congratulated on being sexually active and NOT becoming pregnant. Afterall, it seems easier to receive praise by accident than it is by avoiding it. "Good job, Kim! You haven't gotten knocked up in all the years you have been doing this." Or how about, "Congratulations on getting out of that HORRIBLE relationship before it became a life-long obligation! Here's some money!" Of course, the latter would imply that most marriages are held in the high esteem of life-long obligations, and nowadays, that is clearly not the case. I'd love to set up a non-baby-bridal-registry. They aren't an option.

 I do understand that making the commitment of marriage or having a child are huge deals, I get it, however for those of us that have decided against one or both of these life-altering-situations, what can we possibly do to make up for it? Is there hope for us? Are there any responsible ways of making up for not wanting to increase the population? Can we do something to warrant gifts and praise for not doing these things? Or are we simply SOL?

Reality is Wasted on the Intelligent

There is something to be said for the imaginative; those who have this fantastical idea of what is within reach and achievable. They are fucking idiots.

Take, for example, those who venture into the world of makeovers expecting a lifetime of damaged hair to be magically whipped into beautifully colored and textured tresses of begging-to-be-stroked locks. Get real, sisters.

When you want something, it can certainly blind you to the realistic realm of what may actually be plausible. Being impulsive has certainly caused me to chop my hair into a mohawk and dye it freakishly glorious hues of blue and green but I always maintained the knowledge that going back was not an option. Go big or go home. If you're going to put yourself through the mill, don't expect to come out on the other side shining and healthy... at least not anytime soon.

My latest challenge was going from salon-colored dark hair to as blond as I can be, for the time being. Working in a salon and being surrounded by experts afforded me the good fortune of honest opinions and safe-handling during such an arduous process; a process that has taken 15 hours and is not over yet. This same process caused more pain than my longest tattoo session and forced me to admit to my co-workers that I do, in fact, have feelings. Tears welling up in my eyes as the toner touched my freshly bleached scalp are not easy to hide in the harsh lights of a daytime salon appointment. I'd like to think these gals think no less of me. *sniff sniff*

But I digress, as I sit here and wonder why this particular client has a look on her face that tells the story of a girl who is not entirely thrilled with her outcome. It is a process, my dear, and you waltzed in here with store-bought box color on your head and unwilling to part with more than two-inches of your length. These ladies and gentleman are not magicians and they are not willing to make you look awful and stamp their names on it. These people are professionals and whether or not you have the head capable or mimicking the look of a lead singer of some emo-screamo-chick band or you have to take baby steps toward a funky new 'do, they will not steer you wrong.

Trust me, patience is key. We all want to look like someone else, but short of a miracle and a few hundred-thousand dollars, all we have to offer you is professional opinion, top of the line product and time.

So dream a little dream, baby. Your day will come.