My First Missed Connection

This weekend at dinner with friends I was the big ol' 5th wheel. Two butches, two femmes, and well, me. Like many people, especially in this city, my gender is more complicated on the inside than it may seem on the outside, but as with most things I tend to qualify as kind of a: yes, please, some of each and all of those, and..and..., mixed up, not easily boxable weird amalgam of genders. Think of a mermaid-cat with a curly French villain mustache and a dapper hat and you're close. So. Anway.

One of the femmes was Irene, who was proclaimed to have "porn-star hair" that night. It's fun watching her dimple dance while she blushes.
At one point during the meal the other femme turns to me and tells me she was perusing Craig's List Missed Connections at work and found an ad for a Miss Sadie that mentioned a play party and a scene with a submissive and I should check it out. I love this weird little world, where an in-person dinner conversation can lead you to your online CL stalker. We go both forwards and backwards and in swirling loops these days.

So at home I looked up my name under Missed Connections for the first time in some months, and, sure enough, pop comes an ad that really must have been written for me. It references a BDSM party at which I had a fantastic time last fall as well as some hints that were obscure enough that it took me another full day to remember who this person was. The timing also added another layer to the host of strange and unexpected messages coming at me from the past this last great weird weekend. We have since corresponded and I am very flattered.

But that's not the point. The point is, that after oh, say thirteen years of scouring missed connections, from the small print in the back of the Baltimore City Paper to the occasional traipse through Craig's List, fantasizing that there is someone out there, someone whose sticky mind is stuck on me, someone intrigued and interested and compelled enough to toss that message in a bottle out in the hopes that by slim chance or fate it'll end up on my shore....that one of many simple adolescent fantasies has actually come true. Oh happy day.
I'm quite pleased.

Maybe that means this will also be the year I *finally* get fucked in a graveyard. How many fucking goth clubs does it take to make that happen? Apparently more than I've gone to and sadly I stopped going. Years ago. Except when I travel of course, for some reason gay bars and goth clubs are both still interesting and more fun when in a different town. I always feel a little bit like a colonialist, turn-of-the-century anthropologist when I'm traveling and venturing to these exotic venues; one of the kinds of anthropologists that believed in order to fully
understand and document foreign cultures it is necessary to lay them or be laid by them. Not that that necessarily works, but hey, can't blame a scientist for attempting thorough research.

But back to Missed Connections. While I am super excited that it *finally happened to me* ( I feel a little like a middle schooler with her first menses, thrilled and just slightly disappointed) let it be known to future wives and courtiers that this does not mean that appealing to me through MC is now irrelevant or no longer necessary. There are still many points to be gained there, and this is for sure a good birthday/special occasion aide. Frankly, with all the people I've dated in the past and told about my dream of having my connection missed, I'm pretty surprised none of them picked up on that hot tip and got themselves tons of free, easily attainable credit and appreciation. Though if you are thinking about acting on this, remember: I don't check super often these days, so be vigilant.

Of course, there's always W4W....

Happy Solstice and the Boon of a New Solstice Bed!

Word on the street has it that no one can quite get it up for the Holidays this year. I feel like I've felt the least prepared and most apathetic about all the big holidays (*my* big holidays) and whatnot this year of any years in recent memory. I am both a date/holiday oriented and gifty lady. Anniversaries, monthaversaries, Halloween, Dios de los Muertos, Pride, Folsom, the Solstices and Equinoxes, they tend to mean a lot to me. I tend to be a very present-giving person, for no or special occasions, I love giving presents and take great joy in finding the things that seem to already belong to their recipients. Birthdays are especially big deals in my heart and mind, I think I might have gotten that from my dad, but I have sometimes thought that if I could spend my life making sure people had happy, exciting, fulfilling birthdays, I could be happy. But this year feels pretty off, and it feels like as far as presents and planning go, since August I've just lost my touch and also kind of don't care.

I decided going back to Baltimore at holiday time isn't healthy for me, which felt like a good, strong, self-care type of decision until I panicked and realized that as a now single person, that might mean I end up mostly alone on a holiday I don't really care about, but very much do want to feel loved on. So I decided to cook my dad's traditional Polish Catholic xmas eve dinner, 'Wigilia', and invite people over. Now I am cursing myself for always having to make things so complicated.

Solstice is my holiday of choice, it speaks the most to me, yet this year I have nothing too exciting or special planned besides trying to get ready for everything else. Last year I went with two friends to Pt. Reyes area, went hiking and saw scores of elk. I was supposed to be in Baltimore and my friend Matt was supposed to be in Seattle, but thanks to the storms in Colorado we were both still here. It was magical. This year: well we'll see.

My incredibly hot date for yesterday got cancelled. I was both bummed and relieved. Bummed because the girl is incredible and becoming a friend, and much fun (which is important for me now, my horoscope even said so) was sure to be had by all. Relieved because of all the stupid holiday stuff it gave me time to do. As it was I finished wrapping my family presents, to be delivered by my friend Josh, who is also native to Baltimore, at midnight. However, given the choice for less stress and more time or hot date with nice girl who is not potential wifey but an excellent date, I would've chosen the date.

Update: I just got a new mattress and boxspring delivered, my Solstice present from my mother. And suddenly the day does feel full of magic. It is a good omen and a sign for the future. My old mattress was terrible for my body, I got it when my last big love's roommates moved out of his apartment. I've lain on it through at least three heartbreaks, and dreamt in it since before I got sober. It's felt the weight of numerous lovers; some wonderful joyous additions to my life and some unsound, hurtful choices and many who seemed to be one and then turned to the other. It has four years of unhealthy body and difficult emotions seeped into it. It was thin and broken and low quality.

The new bed feels like it will treat me right as well as be incredibly pleasurable to sleep and lie in, and I think that when we make moves to invite those aspects into our lives in one, in this case, very tangible way, they often tend to be attracted to us in others as well. The Esteemed Astrologist confirmed my long-time suspicion that I need more sleep than most people: 9-10 hours a night. Spending that much time, alone or with lovers in an unhealthy, janky environment versus a supportive and sweet one is bound to make a huge difference. Plus it's even higher off the ground than my old mattress, which will make my bed that much more princessified. Whee! I plan to do a ritual on it soon, to welcome in positive energy and influences, to invite it to attract healthy lovers who do right by me, and to welcome the coming of the light.


From my pre-Wigilia shopping trip yesterday:

So I was that person again, today. The one in the grocery store, fighting back tears. I started to sing "For Today I am a Boy" by Anthony and the Johnsons to myself while I was looking for all the fixins' of the traditional Polish Catholic xmas eve dinner, Wigilia, and all of the sudden my face felt like a swollen sponge and the tears began their welling. Well, then I had to ask one of the kindly Rainbow Grocery Co-Operative workers where the canned/jarred beets are (answer: there aren't any) and my voice was all shaky and he gave me this strange "it's ok, they're only beets" kind of look. I scurried into the housewares aisle and choked down a few silent sobs and kind of laughed to myself, wondering how many people ever feel like bursting into tears for no apparent reason except just the ambient pain and sorrow of loving and living, in the middle of the grocery store.

I seem to be that person a lot. Sometimes I think it's my reflexive emotional revolt against being in large institutional type structures with lots of people who know and for the most part play by the rules. Aundi and I once discussed how any large room with aisles or fluorescent lights gave us the immediate visceral impulse to poop, and I bet the cows lining up for the killing floor feel the same way. Or maybe it's just that Rainbow is such a open, wholesome (albeit expensive) nurturing kind of atmosphere, that similar to the therapist's office it inspires a freeing of emotions, one of the co-op members might even come over with a earthen cup of filtered water and put their arm around your shoulder until you could shop on your own again. I certainly wasn't about to weep half an hour before in Trader Joe's. (San Francisco is a city unsympathetic to beet needs that aren't met by a fresh bunch of organic bulbs, at least amongst the fancy "socially-conscious" grocery options. Pickled herring neither. I get the feeling there aren't an overwhelming number of Poles or Jews out here, at least not until the Richmond. I will continue the Slavic search tomorrow.)

Though I remember experiencing the intense desire to dive into a pile of fluffy new towels and throw a little fit once at Nordstrom's Rack a couple of months ago, and that is anything but a sympathetic atmosphere. Or maybe "For Today I am a Boy" just always makes me cry (which is true) and I've been on the verge for days now anyway. There is another song that keeps trying to pop into my head which would just obliterate me, so in harm reduction fashion, I opt for sudden tears over complete loosing-my-shit devastation. I don't really feel like blaming the Holidays, I feel like they can take responsibility for pretty much everything else. I left Rainbow after about 35 minutes, with only three items, costing $11. But I'm fine with that.


Today I woke up with Postal Service, which I don't even like but find occasionally heart-wrenching none the less, in my head. But it was ok, not as charged as the music in my head of yesterday. Also, I painted yesterday, for my mother's present, with a new (to me) technique I saw used in the Sigur Ros movie 'Heima' which is just using the ink dropper from India Ink directly on the paper. It made me feel good, like "oh yeah, sometimes I really am an artist." And now I'm finally in a festive Solstice mood, with They Might Be Giants (which is always good because it is *my* music, connected to ex's of long ago, sure, but both the Giants and Talking Heads feel like my core of tunes, listening to them gives me the feeling of "this doesn't have to be about you, its just about me") singing me and my new bed into the afternoon.

2 Pseudo-dates and the Importance of Symbolism

Two pseudo dates, one per day, today and tomorrow. I doubt either of these lovely women are my wife-to-be, but one never knows. And not every pursuit in life must be a means to an ultimate end. Especially not for me.

Let it be known that I am trying, however, and also really appreciate it when people hit on me in a cute and friendly way, and will often go out at least once with them because I think that type of behavior should get positive feedback.


Update! First pseudo-date successfully completed and actually so successful that it turned into a real date! Of course she found this page directly after the date, causing me to e-scream in embarrassment and panic. (It's always such a strange and conflicted line between the overwhelming urge for exhibitionistic, bare-all spew and the painfully self-conscious, highly mortified realization that other people can actually see me. Pema Chodron calls this something like "the overwhelming embarrassment of being me". So far, my only explanation is that its really easy for me to both imagine only the vague concept of the audience and attention I want and forget that my work is available and accessible to actual humies. ) And then, all of the sudden other offers are coming in as well. Perhaps as Tim Kreider says, "I think this time things are really going to turn around." Stay tuned for the possibility of against all odds, everything actually turning up Milhaus.

I was having a conversation with my friend Aundi, who is an excellent poet, working on her Master's in poetry in England (see links at bottom of page), about the importance of symbolism in both of our lives. It's one of my most intimate and heart-felt languages, and to me is tied to my sense of magic and spirituality as well as my narrative-based literary sensibility and my belief in dialectic processes. My best connections and partnerships have had respect and some understanding of the value and meaning of symbolism in my life, and I really cherish and appreciate those with a similar way of moving through and with the world, an affinity towards the scenic route of meaning, belief, correlation and understanding.

Re: symbolism, Aundi said : it's way too outside what's cool presently

it's nice I think. to have. it's like having peripheral vision on a grander scale

I wouldn't trade it to be any cooler

for shiz

Gotta love that, a lovely, insightful metaphor followed with "for shiz". She and I speak similarly that way sometimes.

Which brings up the question of 'woo' (otherwise known as "woo-woo", "the woo", "that hippie shit", etc.) which has a long and convoluted answer in my life. To try to make it simple, which is rarely my gift, I believe in esoterica, but not all of it, I appreciate an awareness and respect for non-tangible energies, though not when used as a mask for true intention or a tool for manipulation, and I think that logic and rationality are just two shades of a full spectrum of truth and understanding. I appreciate pluralities in modalities and perspectives although I often feel in didactic extremes.

While the value of symbolism is as often intellectual as emotional or spiritual (maybe there need be no hard distinction) it affects my thoughts and feelings and influences my behavior and view on the world daily. Both my parents are scientists and I believe in and value science, as well as emotional intelligence, multiple truths, omens, spiritual rituals, astrology (to an extent), psychic insights (also to an extent), karma, ghosts (because its fun), Goddesses and Gods (because it improves my enjoyment of life and myself), old medicine, witches, magic spells , synchronicity, dreams, and intuition. I see the world a little bit like a muti-dimensional puzzle, and sometimes connective pieces or clues can be analyzed and understood through one framework or set of tools and sometimes another fits better or makes things clearer. Often I feel strongly the sense that something is being shown but I don't know yet how to decode it. In the end, the majority of my beliefs are most strongly based on what seems like the most pleasurable, interesting, helpful, reassuring, fun, and true-feeling options I've encountered or can come up with. I also hold onto and cultivate beliefs which support me to act in ways that are in keeping with my sense of integrity. (i.e. I believe in karma and I believe in spells, so I don't cast spells intended to harm or do anything negative to anyone or anything else.)

Wow, so reading all that, I guess I sound pretty woo, at least for someone who grew up in Baltimore I sound pretty woo to me. But its a discerning woo, a selective woo, a patchwork woo that works for me without making me feel spacey or irresponsible or crazy or self-destructive/aggrandizing or inaccessible or overly out-of-touch or vulnerable to exploitation or too judgemental. My woo does often spark my curiosity and inspiration, console and make me feel better, and get my creativity, compassion, playfulness and sense of humor about myself flowing.

But beyond that, my mind likes making connections, so much so that sometimes really good ones give it the feeling of soft honeyed many-fingered ripples of delight tickling my brain. (I had that experience recently while reading 'Lolita', man, that Nabokov can write! English isn't even his first language! For whatever reason, the Poe references at the beginning of the book, especially before they get overly overt, tickled me gleefully.) And when those connections come in real life surprises, well-formed coincidences, evocative imagery, ironic mysteries and powerful symbols, I have no interest in denying myself the innate pleasure and intrigue and wonder that engulfs my body/mind and spirit.

So, a potential wifey would not, one would hope, find this crazy, or insufferable, or stupid, or silly ( a little silly is ok, silly rarely means to hurt anyone) or ridiculous or too high-faluttin or too uneducated or anything but somewhat weird (no qualms with that as long as its not seen in a derogatory light), maybe not totally in keeping with her beliefs, though adding a depth to my interest and involvement with the world as well as a useful, compelling and entertaining resource.

Whew, once again, more spew than I expected. I feel a little blushingly embarrassed again with outing all of that in one place, like I should don a witch hat and go do some Tantric breathing exercises with another spiritual being having a human experience while drinking colloidal gold at Cafe Gratitude. Truthfully, I would do all of the things in the sentence I just wrote, but all at once would be too much for me. Hopefully my next post will explain more about my serious hard-core no bullshit edge to balance this out, if I can find it.

My First Partial Offer

Well this weekend marked a milestone for SLWaW and a number of them for me, personally, but the most relevant of them was that I got a partial, mostly joking, potential offer for a maybe wife.

Someday.

She is gorgeous, over 20 years my senior, the girlfriend of dear friends of mine, and lives out of town. So there are some potential drawbacks (mostly the out of town part) and also a great deal more of getting-to-know in ways other than biblical. The road to wifey is neither short nor easy, well, at least it hasn't been for me. But I feel much encouraged by even casual interest in my proposition. It's exciting!

It reminds me of the rule I learned in my Arts Administration for the Independent Artist class (thank you Krista DeNio!): the guideline for promotion is a 10-1 ratio. If you flyer for an event, about 1 out of every 10 people who pick up a flyer will show up. Now I know that marriage is a little more specialized of an event than a Hanukkah-themed burlesque circus, or a plague of masturbating Pee-wees, at least in this town, but I figure after several hundred, or no more than a few thousand drunken offers of"oh, I'll be your wife!", something has got to pan out.
(The lovely lady in question was not drunk by the way, that's just how I envision future encounters or offers emerging: them drunk and clinging to their seething date, me Charlie Chaplining it out of there.)

Wow, I was just about to get so 90's lesbo. Well, I've been accused of being a 90's lesbo before, so I might as well go for it. What I was going to say was: as the fine film 'Go Fish'* taught us, "The Girl Is Out There."

So, one down, countless more to go. Hooray for the first, not-totally-single, step.







*As a 16 year old living in Baltimore, I went to the local small art theater no less than 3 times when Go Fish was in the theater. I clearly remember one time arranging for a mixed group of boy-girl couples and friends to go with me so I wouldn't seem so damn gay, though I'm unclear about to whom. (Same thing with 'The Incredibly True Story of Two Girls In Love'. As far as media went, if there were ladies who liked ladies, I ate it up, though I remember being a little confused at the time by the boxing butch.) Even at 16, I identified most with the butchy lethario, Daria. After at least one of my gleeful viewings I went, by myself, to the cute dyke cafe, the now defunct 'Cafe Diana'. My head swimming with Guinevere Turner's comely image, I got myself tea and cake and sat there amongst the lavender walls, glowing with feelings of satisfied lesbianism, about to burst with my own queerness, dying for someone to talk to me. Of course, no one ever talked to me, I must have looked like some very strange kid who (as Irene and I say about dudes in suits at the Lex, the local dyke bar) 'didn't know where I was'.
It turns out that I never really got the hang of 'lesbianism', per se, sexually I'm too curious and flexible, though I may be one in spirit. But it was the 90's, in Baltimore, and I still refused to say 'fag' out of respect and hadn't ever met a transperson yet and was desperately in love with my best friend and didn't even know I was goth. So lesbians, wherever I could get them, see them, be around them trying silently to make them love me, were it for me. No wonder I'm a 90's lesbian, I never really got to be one when that was all the queer I knew. Well, another psychological mystery solved. Ima go listen to some Ani.