The Comet - December 2022

EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE

EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE

everything will be fine

Ron Evans

Sarah Sims, Cory Calhoun, Lindsay Breidenthal, Dustin Hays, Jamie Howell, Christopher F. Hart, JessicaDawn.Co, Anna Spencer, Dan McConnell, Meg Kappler, Lorna Rose-Hahn

editor:

contributors:

COMET HEADQUARTERS

Greetings,

Well, hell. 50. It sneaks up on you, eh? You start out all quaint and shit - just a naive little 16 pager. Then you get a little cocky, thinking you got the whole thing figured out. So you confidently tell the printers “yo...PROUD SNIFF...we goin’ up to 24 pages.” They say “K. Bill will go up.”

Proud sniff fades. “‘course it will!” Proud sniff ensues.

Then you begin to truck along in 24-page life and at first you think “What the hay have I done? I flew the coop too soon! I’m flailing! Why, I don’t even know what the recommended color saturation levels for newsprint are (still don’t - shhhh, no one needs to know that).”

But then you think, ah heck - twenty four SCHMENTY four. “Yo, press! We goin’ to 36!”

They respond with “K. Bill will go up.”

“That’s right it will!” Oh...that’s right. It will…

Anyway, cut to issue 50 - we are now cruising at a comfy 40 pages. And yes, the bill went up.

I think we’re gonna need a bigger wall...

But I have to concede...the point person I work with at the production facility of the press - Karen Watson - is a gem, and she actually HAS rooted for us all along. She would never just send me an estimate without some kind words of encouragement. And that’s what’s at the heart of this little summary. Encouragement.

On some levels, it’s the only thing that has kept this wacky little rag afloat. And on the practical level - it’s also the advertisers that have kept this thing afloat. Thank you advertisers! There are three that have literally been supporting us since day ONE. Ye Old Bookshoppe, Lemolo, and Numerica PAC - who also distributed our very first issue on the theater seats for their performance of Evil Dead: The Musical. Many of the mags were used as gore shields during the show and we couldn’t have been more proud. These folks believed in what we were doing right away and they continue to support us. Please return the favor, buy a book at Ye Old - take in a fine show at The PAC and stop in for one of the 375,584 delicious items Lemolo offers on their menu. It helps keeps this train chugglin’...chug..chugging? Along.

And now if you will excuse me I’m about to be chugglin’ some cheap whiskey to celebrate the big 50. Cheers!

Happy Trails,

Ron Evans Editor of The Comet

Puzz e Corner

SOLUTIONSTOLASTEDITION'SMETACROSSWORDPRIZECONTEST

Themetaansweris MARIO (Hint:Lookfor a 5-lettername.)In thispuzzle,thelongestanswersweren'tthekey.Instead,you perhapsnoticedthatfivesymmetricallyplacedAcrossanswers, allthemiddlewordsoftheirrespectiverows,were plumbing tools--eventhoughtheyweren'tcluedassuch.(Thewords, highlightedyellowatright,are SNAKE, BENDER, PLUNGER, WRENCH, and GAUGE.)

Been waiting all year for our Mega-Meta contest's final hint? Whether you have or not, you can enter to win personalized wordplay prizes made by me! HOW TO PLAY: 1. Read the hint below. 2. Review the answers to 2022's 6 meta puzzle monthly contests (the 6th answer appears to the right, and you can find all 6 at tinyurl.com/2022megametarules.

3. Email your 5-letter guess to cscxwords@gmail.com by 11:59pm PT, December 20. (One submission per entrant, please.) We'll randomly pick winners from the correct entries. Grand prize is a personalized 21x21 crossword puzzle; 3 runners-up will receive certificates with personalized anagrams made by yours truly. Winners, and the final answer, will appear in January's issue. Goodluck!

Youmighthavemadetheleapatthispointfrom"plumbing tools"to"MARIO"basedonthehintalone,butincaseyou didn't,therewasanotherhintinthetitle, "ExtraPartsIncluded." Eachofthefiveplumbing-relatedwordshad a pairofwordson eithersideofthem.Thosepairs(atright,highlightedblue) anagrammedinto eachplumbing-relatedword--plus a spare letter(or"extrapart"):

ASK + MEN = SNAKE + M BARE + NED = BENDER + A PURR + GLEN = PLUNGER + R NEW + RICH = WRENCH + I AUG + EGO = GAUGE + O

From top to bottom, those "extra parts" spell out MARIO, arguably the world's most famous fictional plumber and the meta answer's hint.Nowinnersthismonth--thanksforall thosewhoplayed,andlookformore metapuzzlesin2023!

THEMELESS CROSSWORD #1 1

58. "Yikes!"

60. Suffix with press or script

61. Allege as fact

62. "Pride and Prejudice" novelist

65. Authentic

66. Unprovoked attack

67. Clutter

68. Red bloomers

69. Online crafts marketplace

DOWN

1. Early NASA trainee

2. Nearby

3. "Can I see ___?" (diner's question)

currently

28. Meteor's end?

30. Ballpark figures?: Abbr.

32. Pride symbol with stripes of light blue, pink, and white

41. 1968 Rock Hudson thriller set in the Arctic

42. Notable instances of growth

43. Digital communication?: Abbr. 44. "___ queen!" 45. Oily

49. Ballpark fig.

52. Maj.'s superior 56. Snake-haired woman of myth

4. The French Dispatch director Anderson

5. Mark for life

6. "Ars gratia ___" (MGM motto)

7. "Yikes!"

8. Self starter?

9. Research facility: Abbr.

10. Arouse

11. Sign on a restroom door

12. Massage target

13. 2020 video game set in the Greek underworld

15. Flavorful-but-tough beef cuts

22. Gung-ho

24. Belarus's capital

Triage pro, for short

"Yikes!"

Golding of Crazy Rich Asians

Tiny ___

Color TV pioneer

Atmospheric prefix

One of 12 one-pointers in a Scrabble set Trent Reznor's band, for short

Spread

Barbell abbr.

" we having fun yet?"

Neon, for one

Fake, smug flattery

Flood embankment

Noodle products?

Iron-pumper's reps

Numbers

"Ta-da!" 53. Be up to the job 54. They're often stuck in Blizzards 55. Rocker who’s Zoë's dad and Lisa's ex 57. Slightly cracked 59. Scottish refusals 63. "A long time ___..." 64. 180° from NNW

SOLUTIONS TO LAST EDITION'S ANACROSTIC CHALLENGE

ANSWERS: voucher, outpost, low, tweettweet, athlete, in bed with, RHONY, edge.

QUOTE: To the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe only the truth.

QUOTE'S AUTHOR: OLTAIRE ( bytheanswers'firstletters)

I CRAVE FEEDBACK! Thoughts? Suggestions? Lemme have it. CSCXWORDS@GMAIL.COM

IT'S TIME! ENTER THE 2022 MEGAMETA CONTEST... YOUR FINAL HINT IS BELOW!

to a fault

Hint: It's a 5-letter word associated with all 6 of 2022's meta puzzle answers.

FEATURING: @annie_kight_art

Over the years at the Wenatchee Valley Museum, there have been some odd and strange things that have been donated to the collection. While currently there is a screening process and procedures in place for donating items, this wasn’t always the case. We occasionally find oddities lying around from years gone by with little or no explanations.

One of those oddities having the strange name of the Ophthalmophantome or the Face/Eye Phantom. This fascinating face was used as a teaching aid for medical students to practice eye surgery on.

Curated and written by Anna SpencerCollections Coordinator at Wenatchee Valley Museum And Cultural Center wenatcheevalleymuseum.org

TWO SIDES OF LIFE: CREATING WHILE PARENTING

By Lorna Rose-Hahn

I have always been a writer. For a long time, however, I largely put away the pen in favor of “serious” pursuits, like work in corporate sales and communications, and then healthcare. It wasn’t until I was pregnant with my first child that I felt a strong urge to write again.

I wrote him letters in the womb; it helped me process the concept of becoming a mother, obtain some insight into the type of parent I wanted to be, how I wanted to break unhealthy patterns and reinforce the healthy ones from my own childhood. When my son was born, I wrote about motherhood. Writing felt like coming home.

Gradually I wrote more and submitted to journals. At the encouragement of friends, I started my memoir when my second child was born. My oldest was two and half years old then, and I joked that what better time to write a book.

I fell in with a critique group, and the four of us met twice a month at someone’s house. Sometimes I brought my infant daughter and soothed her in the kitchen when I wasn’t reading. At first I wrote in order to have something for the group, but within a few weeks I was writing for myself.

When my kids went down for the night, I wrote. Whenever I could get a babysitter, I wrote. I ran errands as quickly as I could, then I’d stake out space at a coffee shop. I was on my first draft (the “vomit draft”), and I was eager to get it all down on the page. Rarely did I struggle with finding something to write.

To be sure, it was exhausting. My daughter awoke multiple times a night for years, I was breastfeeding, and both my kids would need extra support, physically and emotionally (I was in the throes of just figuring this out). But I loved my project. I loved my critique group (we’d

meet for two years, and two would go on to publish books). My memoir felt so right that it took on a life of its own, one I had to balance with motherhood.

And it is certainly a balance. I look at it like this: writing and kids need not be opposed to one another, nor exclusive. I get asked if I write about my kids (which is somewhat of a hot issue in the writing world). Yes, I write about my kids. I don’t use their names. I don’t think there’s a right or wrong here: I’ve got friends who write about their kids and use their names, and I have friends who don’t write about them at all.

Having been a reluctant, older mom, having had complications in pregnancy, having neurodiverse children, having affirmed who I am as a parent all afforded me a richness in my craft I might not have developed otherwise.

The largest hurdle, of course, is time. Now that my kids are older, it’s easier to set boundaries at home: if Mama is at her computer, it’s writing time and they need to engage in an activity (I try and set it for a similar time each day, so it becomes part of their routine too). I still write after they go down for the night. I write when they’re at school. By the same token, I am present to them when it’s their time: I put away my computer and phone and we get out Hangman or a board game. Because they deserve that.

There are certainly times where I’ve had to give myself grace, weeks where I’ve accomplished none of my goals, where I’ve missed deadlines. And I have no choice but to have it be ok. For two years I enjoyed having both kids in school at the same time for a few hours.

Then Covid hit, and balance went out the window. It was ok because it had to be. Today I am homeschooling my son, and he is thriving. He does attend a co-op three mornings a week, and that’s when I write. Or hit the gym.

I don’t separate being a mom from being a writer. I used to. I used to be mortified when my son would come up behind me and make faces during a virtual board meeting. But I figure: this is who I am, and if they don’t like it, I’m in the wrong place.

Writing is self-care. Whether it’s a piece for publication, or something just for me, writing has been my escape, my affirmation, my space to play. Indeed, as the mother of a toddler and infant, I did joke that what better time to write a book. But now I realize I needed something that was just mine, something that I didn’t need to share with anyone. It got me through the early years.

About the author: Lorna is a Pacific Northwest writer and speaker. Her narrative nonfiction and poetry have been recognized by Pacific Northwest Writers Association and the Oregon Poetry Association, and have appeared or are forthcoming in Third Wednesday, Jellyfish Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Writers Resist, and elsewhere. Lorna also speaks publicly on motherhood, resilience, and her experience in AmeriCorps. Because she joins boards to procrastinate on deadlines, she serves as a director of the Oregon Poetry Association and Alaska Writers Guild, and is president of Write On The River. She is at work on a memoir about going from LA party girl to trail worker in rural Alaska. When not wrangling her two small children, she fantasizes about being interviewed on NPR’s Fresh Air. More at www.lornarose.com.

To learn more about Write on the River, become a member, or register for events, visit writeontheriver.org. Membership is $35 per year, and offers free or discounted access to all WOTR events.

Questions? Contact info@writeontheriver.org. C

WENATCHEE’S PIONEERING THEATERS

By Dustin Hays

Let’s set the stage…

It’s 1905, Wenatchee Washington. Everyone’s riding around on horses… the town has less than 4000 residents. The streets are dirt and the sidewalks are wood. The world of popular music is filled with orchestras, quartets, brass bands, ragtime… honky-tonk…

New York’s Billy Murray (not that one) is one of the nation’s most successful recording artists, in February of that year his version of “Yankee Doodle Boy” was released on the Victor label, and was a hit with the youth across the nation.

Edison Cylinders (the earliest way to purchase recorded music) had existed for around 20 years. Records (the disc shape we know today) are a new thing, made out of a form of resin called shellac (vinyl won’t hit for another 26 years). Cylinder and Disc Records are sold locally at The Wenatchee Bazaar (15 N. Wenatchee Ave.), the Wenatchee Phonograph Co.

(corner of Orondo & Mission) or by The Ellis-Ford Company, the town’s first chain department store (14 N. Wenatchee Avenue).

Vaudeville theater was all the rage, traveling theater companies would tour the nation and stop in town for short residencies. As is the case today, in the early 1900s, Wenatchee served as a logical stop between Seattle and Spokane bookings. During the first five years of the 20th century, plays and music performances were held at Haskell-Prowell’s Hall (located on the corner of Orondo and Mission).

Sidenote: Until the 1920s ‘theater’ was spelled ‘theatre,’ particularly in local publications. Nowadays the latter is considered correct with audiences in the UK, with the former adopted by American English speakers. In the interest of uniformity, all mentions will be spelled ‘theater.’

The Wenatchee Theater, the town’s first, was built in 1905 on the north-west corner of Columbia St. and Palouse Ave. Local businessman (and future proprietor of a local music store) O.B. Fuller had paid for the construction the year prior. The build-

ing was strategically located across the street from the train tracks, to aid in the loading and unloading of traveling stage companies.

Ed Ferguson and Frank Prewitt (local police deputy and Wenatchee Band leader, respectively) managed the theater, utilizing an out-of-town booking company for entertainment, along with using the building for local school performances, political rallies, and as a rehearsal spot for local productions and music groups.

Ferguson, a member of the Wenatchee Band, became the Chief of the Wenatchee police in 1907, and was elected Chelan County Sheriff the following year. Prewitt had been the leader of the Third Tennessee Regimental Band during the SpanishAmerican War (1889) and directed the Chehalis band for several years before moving to Wenatchee.

Ed Ferguson and his father James (a former Wenatchee mayor, 1898-1899) worked the door, taking tickets and greeting each theater-goer. Local businesses had ad space on the stage’s curtain, and could purchase banner space on the exte-

rior of the building.

Since their first year of operation, the Wenatchee Theater had been presenting “moving pictures,” a relatively new attraction, first popularized in the late 1890s. The silent films were accompanied by a live pianist, Ferguson’s wife Louise. Recorded sound wasn’t integrated until the ‘20s.

With a capacity of 600 (compare that to the current Numerica Performing Arts Center - max capacity of 550) the theater was the largest building for public performances in all of Central Washington.

The Wenatchee Theater held its opening event on July 3rd 1905. The first performance given was by The Wenatchee Band, a 14 piece cornet group, at the time the only local ‘band.’

For the remainder of the year, the Wenatchee Theater, or the “Wenatchee Opera House” (as it was occasionally billed in the WW) hosted 34 public events. In the years that followed, the theater continued to be the main room to see live entertainment.

The Wenatchee World reported, in No-

The only photo known to exist showing the exterior of the Wenatchee Theater. Wenatchee Valley Museum & Cultural Center Photo #76-6-102

vember 1905 that Prewitt sold his ownership in the theater and moved to Seattle. In August of 1906, Prewitt (aged 30) died in a railroad accident, when a train derailed in Montana.

A second small theater, the Horseshoe Theater, opened in town in 1908 at 112 N. Wenatchee Avenue. The Horseshoe, run by local eccentric poet and businessman Louis Michel (truly deserving of his own column) presented moving pictures and come dians to local audiences. The Horseshoe’s occupancy was around 110, tiny compared to that of The Wenatchee The ater. By October of 1908, the Horseshoe had closed, and the Wenatchee Phono graph Co. (another Michel venture, later Michel’s Music Store) opened in its place. 112 N. Wenatchee Avenue now houses the Yogi Grind, cafe & yoga lounge.

In March of 1909, the Gem Theater offered another option to local movie-goers. First open ing in a room inside the Columbia Valley Bank Building (on the corner of Orondo and Wenatchee Avenue), by October they vacat ed the building and re opened on the ground floor of the Olympia Hotel (the corner of Palouse and Wenatchee Avenue, currently occupied by the Gilded Lily Home gift shop). The capacity of the Gem isn’t known, but wouldn’t have exceeded a few hundred people.

Two programs from Wenatchee Theater shows have survived the years. Though these events come from years towards the end of the theater’s popularity, they’re special in that both performances are from local talent, rather than national touring groups.

In 1909, a production featuring amateur local performers was arranged to benefit the Wenatchee Commercial Club. “The Heir Apparent,” a romantic drama, was slated for November 10th. The Commercial Club was a group of local businessmen and orchardists, with the shared interest of profit and expansion for the city. Tickets were sold at the Wenatchee Drug Store, ranging from 50 cents to a dollar. Music for the production was provided by Crollard’s Orchestra, a group of local musicians featuring lawyer brothers Louis and Fred Crollard on violin and piano, respectively.

“The Heir Apparent” was a success, reported proceeds from opening night were $300 - adjusted for inflation, that number would’ve exceeded $10,000. It had been announced during the intermission of the first performance that the production would be extended to a second night.

The 2nd program comes from The Wenatchee High School’s 1912 Senior Class performance of a theatrical

opening, the Wenatchee Theater stopped running ads in the Wenatchee World. By this point the Wenatchee Theater was referred to as “The Old Wenatchee Theater,” even in those rare newspaper adverts.

In 1913 it was reported locally that Ferguson was to manage Cashmere’s Grange Theater. Ferguson had also been managing the Majestic Theater in Wenatchee, a room that had opened in early 1912 as the Alcazar Theater, renamed by winter of that year. Unfortunately that theater’s location has seemingly been lost to time.

In Ferguson’s 1947 biography The Wenatchee Kid, author Eva Anderson wrote this on his time with the theater: “Years brought fun, but no great financial gains. In 1914 he built an outdoor theater, but that didn’t pay either.”

Opened in December 1919, The Liberty Theater (1 South Mission Street) boasted an outstandingly large capacity, exceeding 1,000. The Liberty presented similar productions to the Wenatchee Theater, traveling stage companies, live music performances and motion pictures. For some time after opening, the Liberty housed both a beauty shop and an Edison record and turntable dealer, the latter run by H.E. Roberts.

Almost immediately after the Liberty’s

Walter W. Kastner purchased the Wenatchee and Gem theaters from Ferguson and Frank L. Stannard in April of 1919. On March 20th of the following year, Kastner was tragically killed in a pedestrian/automobile accident, while walking on the east corner of Wenatchee Avenue and Yakima Street, he was only 28 at the time. In reports following his death, Kastner is credited as managing the Liberty, Gem and Wenatchee Theaters. Kastner’s brother Louis managed the theaters until early 1922.

In 1921, the Wenatchee Theater was remodeled and renovated, the extent of which is unknown. The last performance date confirmed through newspaper microfilm occurred in November 1921.

Ferguson’s biography The Wenatchee Kid recalled, “‘The Old Wenatchee Theater,’ Ed’s early pride and joy, closed its doors forever. For a time it was used as Isaacson’s Modern Manufacturing company. Eventually it was torn down and the spot now serves as a parking lot behind the Doneen Building.”

Wenatchee’s first theater was closed. In the years following, the Liberty and the Gem Theaters continued to supply local crowds with live performances and motion pictures.

The Rialto Theater, a third local option

for entertainment, opened March 15, 1922 at 7 S. Wenatchee Avenue. The reported capacity was 750. As years progressed the Rialto served as a budget theater, closing their doors in 1955. The original domed theater ceiling has remained partially exposed through the years, otherwise the interior has been altered beyond recognition. The building has been vacant since 2018, but most recently housed The Veterans Warehouse Thrift Store.

Mission Street Theater opened in October 1927 (17 South Mission Street, most recently Soloman’s Porch). George Fasken and Charles Greime owned the theater. Fasken had owned Cashmere’s Royal Theater since 1922, in 1931 the pair purchased Omak’s Gem Theater.

Fasken and Greime called for the construction of The Vitaphone Theater in 1930, neighboring the Mission to the south (19 South Mission Street). It was originally reported the building would hold 850 guests, though later numbers show the venue seated 772. Fasken’s wife operated a shortlived music shop inside the Vitaphone, selling sheet music and records.

The Mission seems to have only been active for a few years, disappearing from any mention soon after the Vitaphone’s opening. Since the 1990s, The Vitaphone has been utilized as an extension to Liberty Theater.

This December marks 103 years that The Liberty Theater has lived at its original location on Mission Avenue. For decades now, film has reigned supreme at the Liberty. Local theater productions have found their new home at the Numerica Performing Arts Center, The Riverside Theater, rented out grange halls and in school auditoriums.

The structure that housed the Wenatchee Theater has been a parking lot for most any Wenatcheeite’s lifetime. The parking lot behind the Doneen building was briefly shown in the 1994 film “Surviving The Game,” but otherwise is just another nondescript parking lot on Columbia Street.

Any evidence of that pioneering local theater is hidden away in deteriorating ancient editions of the Wenatchee World, you might stumble upon in your grandparents’ attic.

All told, Wenatchee’s first theater was active for over 15 years. Owned and operated by locals, they set the stage for the generations of theaters, concert-goers and performers that would follow in their footsteps. C

TOUGH TIDDIES: BREAST CANCER PART III

Really, we were prepared for most of this, and I was doing better than expected with a simple Tylenol-Ibuprofen regimen. Plus, I was thrilled with the work on my chest and was earning compliments from every medical examiner I encountered.

However, my relaxation and processing plans were cut short when I got a call from my surgeon.

The good news was that the margins were good. They wouldn’t have to go back in and get more cancer out. The bad news was that the three sentinel lymph nodes they extracted all had cancer in them. Admittedly, I didn’t think this was a possibility since my biopsy results said the opposite, so I didn’t even know what to do with this information. Why was that such bad news? Did we get it all? Is that why we were doing follow-up radiation?

I thought the storm had passed. But I started to get an eerie feeling like this was just the quiet before the tsunami hit.

THEY SIT YOU DOWN FOR THE WORST NEWS

November 1, was post-op with my surgeon, followed by an appointment with my oncologist. My husband joined me, but I told my mom to join us for the follow-up appointment.

On my right side, they removed the breast tissue and those sentinel lymph nodes. What no one was expecting was that they all had cancer. Which meant the cancer had started spreading.

Reconstruction, which was my next scheduled surgery, would have to be postponed. Instead, it was recommended that I have surgery to remove the auxiliary lymph nodes (remember the lymph nodes as a pyramid and the top three were “sentinel?” The lymph nodes below that are “auxiliary”) to determine how far the cancer had spread. During the surgery, they would also place a port so I could start chemotherapy, followed by full radiation treatment, and I would need lymphatic therapy.

I tried to joke. I tried to muster the strength I prided myself upon. But there were tears in everyone’s eyes. For the first time, I came to the realization that I could actually die from cancer.

THE BAD AND THE UGLY

Just like after my first biopsy, it took everything I had to pull it together and go back out to the waiting room for my next appointment. They really should have a separate exit or room or something for us barely-holding-it-togetherers.

By Marissa Collins

Heading into Halloween of 2019, I felt like the strongest most fearless 31-year-old. I thought the worst of my breast cancer fight was over with my bilateral mastectomy.

We were entering my favorite time of year celebrating, and I was ready to lay back for a couple of weeks and recover from the ride. The past year was filled with stress and life changes, and I was ready to disappear for a couple of weeks to heal, relax, and process everything that had just happened.

Meanwhile, in some lab in some other state, the cancerous mass that was removed from my breast along with a handful of my lymph nodes were being tested to further diagnose my cancer.

THE TSUNAMI QUIET

I woke up from my bilateral mastectomy wearing a pink, flowery tube top with tubes sticking out of the end of my scars. I moved slowly and hunched over. My biggest challenges centered around my limited range of motion and weight-carrying capacity - and I hated the uncomfortable drain tubes most of all.

Sidebar: Drain tubes help drain excess fluids into a plastic bulb that would otherwise build up inside the space where the breast tissue was removed and cause infections and complications. These tubes were literally inside my chest cavity, coming out of a small hole in the side of my chest, draining fluids into a bulb in my pocket. And to ensure they continue to drain properly, the tubes had to be “milked.” Like a cow utter. Then the bulb had to be drained and measured to establish my volume of discharge over time. Yeah, it’s pretty much as sexy as it sounds.

We figured the post-op would be routine. And it was! It was totally routine getting my tubes pulled out of me like I was a lawn mower being started. I guess I never thought through how the tubes came out. Like a sucker punch to the gut, my surgeon quickly ripped the tubes out of my body in an instant of shocking pain as the suction tubes snaked their way along my insides to escape through a tiny hole.

Holy shit is all I can say. Pretty sure it was all I said as I tried to learn how to breathe again.

Once the shock subsided and I caught my breath, we were ready to discuss my lab results.

First, my left breast and sentinel lymph node. Recall that after a potential problem area was detected here, I opted for a bilateral mastectomy. The results showed there was no cancer on the left side. Which was great news! However, I did have what the medical community has dubbed “busy breasts.” In the most basic explanationmy busy breasts were prone to developing breast cancer.

Yup, you heard it here: my right breast was so bored it decided to take up murder. Let this be a lesson for all of us. Keep your busy breasts busy!

We had a lot of laughs with my surgeon. But what came next was serious.

I was joined by my husband, but I couldn’t look him in the eyes. I sat in the waiting room chair looking forward, just focusing on breathing.

Unfortunately, my poor mother was none the wiser to the news we just received. She showed up promptly for the next appointment to two newlyweds desperately trying not to break down in public. Her initial inquiries into what happened were wellintentioned, but I imagine they turned to panic when our answers were vague and whispered. I told her she would find out shortly. I was afraid if I stopped focusing on my breathing, I would start crying in front of all the strangers in the waiting room. I was mad at her terrified insistence. Time moved forward at a deafening pace.

Eventually, the three of us were called back and stuffed into a small exam room with my oncologist. He reiterated my surgeon’s news along with a laundry list of details on what to expect moving forward. We needed a full body scan to see how far the cancer had spread. I could do a PET scan, but the wait time was long, so we opted for a bone scan and a CT scan. Then I would have surgery to get my auxiliary lymph nodes removed while getting my port installed.

I would then get an aggressive chemo cocktail. I would likely experience nausea,

diarrhea, and/or constipation - but they had plenty of drugs to treat those. I would lose my hair, it would likely cause permanent damage to my ovaries, and the wear on my body and general fatigue would be so bad I probably couldn’t work.

However, they were most worried about destroying my white blood cell count. They don’t give this cocktail to certain people, because weakening the immune system would likely put me in the emergency room. But I was young, so it was less likely that a common illness was going to outright kill me - as long as I went to the hospital at the first sign of a fever.

Thirty minutes ago, I was coming to terms with my mortality. Now, I was facing the facts. If I wanted to live, I didn’t just have to give up my boobs. I also had to say goodbye to my beautiful long hair, my new job that had also become a necessary support system, the new family my husband and I had just planned on starting, and any dignity I had left.

We left the hospital in shattered silence.

In the parking lot, my mother broke the silence, desperately reaching out by asking if we could talk more about all of this, as we often did after appointments.

But I didn’t want to talk. I wanted to hide from the world and free all the pain and fear I was holding onto so tightly. I wanted to push her away from it all. So, I was mean. I wasn’t violent and I didn’t slew hateful words, but I wasn’t kind.

I think everyone shows a “mean” side during times of trauma. I’ve seen people plagued with nothing but anger. I don’t know how they do it though. My mean moments hang over my memories like a dark cloud. Unfortunately, my parents saw the meanest sides of me. In hindsight, I think that’s because it’s easy to be mean to people you know will continue to love you no matter what. And if they decide to turn their back on you for it, then they are the inconsiderate jerks - right?

No, of course not!

I don’t regret asking for space when I needed it. While it’s not my responsibility, as the patient, to take care of everyone else, that doesn’t excuse me from having kindness and compassion.

Honestly, I don’t recall what I said, but I accomplished what I set out to do and left my mother alone and broken in that parking lot. Instead of hugging her and kindly asking for some time. I was cruel to the woman who took off time from work to wait on me and go to all my appointments. I was cruel to the woman who slowly watched her own mother die of cancer, just to be faced with it again in her only daughter 9 months later.

I had my husband there to take care of me. With my father at work, who was tak-

ing care of my mother?

It wasn’t until much later that I even thought about the third person in that room. Four months prior, my husband was vowing to be with me through sickness and in health until death. We weren’t supposed to be facing the reality of those words so quickly. I don’t think I ever asked him how he was doing at that moment. All I could think about was me.

That’s the thing about the caregivers in this situation. They are in just as much pain and can easily become the punching bags of all the trauma. Yet they are the easiest to take for granted. Where are their meal plans and support groups? Who is asking them how they are doing?

After what I did to my mother in that parking lot, my fear and sadness compounded with regret. I just wanted to scream. So, my husband drove me to the top of a mountain and that’s exactly what I did.

Turns out, I didn’t feel any better after screaming. I wasn’t full of anger; I was full of pain. I looked out at the view and realized how beautiful life was and wondered how long I had to see it all.

IT FUCKING SUCKS

The next week, I was getting a CT and bone scan. My veins were tired of all the blood draws and scans, and after a painful CT injection, I resigned to crying in front of tech strangers.

I felt myself slowly falling apart while trying to keep a strong face to the outside world.

Continually providing answers, guiding conversations, and navigating real and bullshit advice WHILE going through diagnosis and treatment was exhausting. I don’t blame people for preferring to focus on the diagnosis and treatment while avoiding the interactions altogether, the deeper I went into treatment, the more I wanted to shut it all out.

Far too often I had to defend the fact that I was most certainly going to lose my hair. No, not all chemotherapies make people lose their hair, but mine did. Yes, it’s just hair - but it’s my hair. No, it does not grow back for 1% of patients. No, I was not interested in sitting in a cold cap for hours, I was prepared to lose it.

I didn’t even try talking about the fact that I was unlikely to have children of my own one day, because I quickly learned the feedback was crueler than the loss. No, I chose not to save my eggs. Yes, there is a myriad of reasons that have been carefully thought through and discussed with my husband that led to that conclusion. Yes, it causes me great distress to talk about. No, I don’t regret the decision we made.

After talking with my employer, we de-

cided I could try to continue working parttime. It was the one place I could escape from cancer and just be myself. Yes, I was making my treatment a priority. No, I did not just want to just rest all the damn time.

The thing is, for two months I had been making lifesaving decisions for myself. I didn’t need a bunch of opinions on them or lessons on hope. I just needed someone to recognize my losses for what they were. On the other hand, I wasn’t a fragile cancer patient. I was still living my life, and I needed to feel like I was living it - not dying in it.

I once announced my diagnosis to a room of colleagues. After the room went silent for a moment, one person simply responded, “well that fucking sucks.” It was the best response I ever heard. It did fucking suck. And for a moment, I didn’t have to explain or defend anything. It was what it was.

ANOTHER BIOPSY

Shortly after my scans, I got a call from my oncologist. Insert tired joke about calling with bad news here.

I had a small nodule in my lung that was probably nothing, but we would re-evaluate it again in a year. The real concern was that the bone scan revealed something on my shin bone. Now, it could and should be nothing - my left shin is so far from my breast cancer that it wouldn’t make sense - but there were no previous records to explain what it could be. My cancer was a series of rubber duckies and hungry caterpillars, so who is to say it wasn’t plausible that Christopher Columbus trekked the Marissa to plant his fucking flag on my shin? We were no longer shoulding ourselves - I was scheduled for a bone biopsy within a week.

Um, is that going to hurt?

…is not what I asked Google. I was learning that there was some shit I just did not need to add to my stress plate. Especially because I was already stressing about what this test meant.

We were trying to get this biopsy done before I was scheduled for surgery. When I asked what would happen if we found out there was cancer in my bone, I was simply told the surgery wouldn’t matter and we would be having a different conversation. My oncologist was not one to avoid questions, so I started to get that eerie tsunami feeling again…

The biopsy was an outpatient procedure. It wasn’t the most pleasant start. It was difficult to hook up the IV and the doctor was running very late. When he finally made it by, he spoke to me like a child and requested a blood draw pregnancy test. It felt like a punishment when getting a vein was already so painful. To add insult to injury,

the blood draw technician clearly thought my other blood draw/injection sites were recreational and brushed a nerve in the blood drawing process.

Otherwise, the rest of the process went smoothly. I was drugged but conscious. I was set up on the CT table and surrounded by nurses that reminded me of angels. They guided me through the procedure, and when the doctor pulled out a giant drill and started the biopsy, I promptly blacked out. The next day, I limped back into work with minimal pain.

A lot can happen when waiting for test results. I was working overtime to distract myself from getting bad news again. More so because I was processing my last conversation with my oncologist. Although I didn’t want to admit it, I knew that cancer in my bones would put my diagnosis at Stage 4, metastatic breast cancer. Nowadays, women can live years with this kind of cancer. But there is no cure.

After four long days, I got the call. For the first time in two months, I was getting a good news call! I could feel my oncologist’s excitement over the phone. Perhaps he needed this win as badly as I did.

Driving home, I realized the gift I had been given. I was feeling like the world was caving in on me, but I had a chance for a cure. There are so many people out there that do not. Why am I the lucky one?

NEVER PREPARED ENOUGH

The Monday before Thanksgiving, I went in for surgery to remove my auxiliary lymph nodes and place a port. I was gifted with another drainage tube that was promptly ripped out after Thanksgiving, but surprisingly it took the port placement the longest time to heal. Chemotherapy was scheduled for just before Christmas. I took the weeks I had to study and prep. Unlike my mastectomy, the information was not as universal. So many cancer survivors were providing me with unsolicited advice that freaked me out, so I decided not to research what others had done or experienced unless it was answering a specific question. Instead, I stuck with the facts and wrote myself a glossary of side effects and possible ways to address them. I saw my dentist, my parents cleaned and sanitized our home, my mom found us a house cleaner for pre- and post-infusions, I started a journal and a list of questions, we updated the meal train, my coworkers and I had an open and honest conversation about possible side effects, and I lined-up a friend or family member to join me at each infusion to give my husband a break.

When infusion day finally rolled around, I felt as ready as could be. Infusions always started with blood draws - which were easy now with my port - followed by

a visit with my oncologist. He always patiently listened and answered all my questions. I asked for a nutritionist consult, and he lined up one to come during my infusions. All I had to do was ask!

The last question on my list was regarding my fatty liver, a diagnosis from several years prior. It was mostly harmless, but I wanted to confirm if there were any complications or side effects, I might be aware of with it, and he assured me it would not be a problem as long as my bilirubin levels were normal.

Que the lab results with abnormal bilirubin levels.

In lieu of chemotherapy, I was immediately scheduled for an MRI to confirm there were no complications with my fatty liver to undergo chemotherapy. This also gave us time to schedule a heart scan. Unlike my shin, I would have a baseline of my heart, since I was undergoing a treatment that greatly increased my long-term risk of heart disease.

I was becoming desensitized to all the tests, hospital visits, and a growing list of side effects. It would often catch me off guard when, occasionally, a nurse or technician would ask me how I found my cancer at such a young age. It reminded me that we are all scared of this disease and looking for answers.

INSIDE THE INFUSION ROOM

My first chemotherapy infusion had been rescheduled to a week later. It seems morbid, but there was nothing I wanted more than to get my chemo on December 20. Waiting for this thing I dreaded so much felt worse than actually having it. I wanted to rip out the proverbial drainage tube and get it over with. And that’s exactly what happened.

Every infusion was consistent. It started with a blood draw, followed by waiting, followed by an appointment with my oncologist to review the lab results and answer questions. Then we went back into the waiting area before being ushered into an infusion room chair.

The infusion room is an open space with lots of chairs and a handful of private rooms, but it’s quiet and none of the patients really talk to each other. Not everyone is in there for chemotherapy, but the overall mood is somber. The nurses were always a ray of sunlight. I was usually surrounded by older folks, but not always.

My infusion lasted several hours. It started with different drugs to help offset the side effects, which gave me a slight boost of energy. Then we waited for the actual cocktail to come out from the room in the back where they were made (that sounds sketchier than it actually is…).

The first drug was bright red. It is what

cancer patients call the “red devil.” It was manually administered through two syringes by a nurse that was practically dressed in a bubble. This stuff was going into my body!

By the time we moved on to the second drug, my energy boost was gone, and I was exhausted. The second and third drugs came in drip bags and tended to make me warm and they would dry out my sinuses. I would often suck on a popsicle during the drugs that were likely to develop side effects in the mouth, but by the last infusion, I couldn’t even think about a popsicle without wanting to puke.

I documented the first infusion diligently - right down to my red devil tainted pee. It was the most important infusion. Everyone was monitoring me to determine if I would spontaneously combust. But it all went smoothly, and at the end of it all, I was just exhausted and ready for a nap.

OUTSIDE THE INFUSION ROOM

Although the side effects of chemo are all over the place, the only consistency I heard was that each infusion would likely cause the same side effects each time. As the treatment went on, it was also expected that those side effects would compound and get worse.

I always planned to be useless for the first week of chemo. The first couple of days were the hardest as I was both exhausted and wide awake on steroids and peeing all the damn time. Once my immune system was back to healthy levels, though, I was practically back to normal - until I had to do it all again.

Following every infusion, I was a walking Mr. Yuk sticker, expelling poisons everywhere. I was on a strict fluid regimen to ensure I was peeing out the toxins regularly, and I slept on a mattress covered in a plastic sheet to protect the mattress from my sweat toxins. I had to use a different bathroom than my husband, which was professionally cleaned a few days after each infusion, and I had to sleep in a different room from my husband until my immune system was back to normal levels. Basically, I was quarantining before it was cool.

I think the first infusion is the worst. It’s like a roulette game of chemo side effects, and we’re all just waiting to see what we get.

Thanks to the movies, everyone thinks nausea and vomiting are the worst of it. But I was pumped with so many anti-nausea drugs that I was more worried about constipation (which can also cause nausea, fun fact).

On the first infusion night, in a poisoned stupor, I accidentally took a steroid pill that I was supposed to take the next day,

instead of the anti-nausea drug I intended to take. Although the on-call oncologist reassured us that it was okay, my steroidal panic just inflamed the nausea, and I ended up spending the rest of the night sitting on the bathroom floor expecting the worst. That is until my ass hurt too much and the nausea shifted to just feeling like my intestines hated me. Once I labeled my drugs better and got into a routine of anti-nausea drugs, ginger ale, and some form of regular sustenance, I was able to manage my nausea levels.

However, I consistently struggled with my vision. The best way I can describe it is like being in a dark cave for years and just coming out to the light. After the first infusion, it lasted far longer than I could cope with, and I thought this could very well be the side effect that broke me. But it gradually went away, and I learned how to live with the overstimulated vision for about two days after every infusion. Because that’s what I got good at doing: learning to cope or suffering silently.

I quickly learned that asking my oncologist about any and all of my side effects was the best route to overcoming them. Some things I just had to live with, but others were so manageable it was embarrassing how long I suffered through them.

I started losing my hair a short time after my first treatment. I decided to shave it off when my hair follicles started to literally hurt like a ponytail that had been left in too long. I tried a wig, but it was hot and itchy. Honestly, the wig was just so similar to my real hair that it was painful to look at myself while wearing it. Eventually, I got comfortable with hats and scarves and just went bald.

I did not, however, get comfortable with my weight gain. That’s right, it’s not uncommon for women to gain weight during chemotherapy treatment, due to the steroids. And entering menopause did not help anything.

CHRISTMAS IN CHAOS

On Christmas eve, I celebrated healthy bowel movements. For some reason, my husband was less enthused. I’m sure he’s even more thrilled to read it again here.

Since my first infusion, I was going back to the hospital daily for an injection that boosted my white blood cell count. I was told this shot came in a single-shot format, but I could not understand why my insurance would not allow me to get it.

Every day I was growing frailer. I almost passed out after one of my injections, and I barely had the energy to sit down for Christmas dinner with our family.

The day after Christmas, I had chills, body aches, a sore in my throat, and a temperature over 101*. The fever instructions

were clear, so we quickly proceeded to the nearest Emergency Room where I was quarantined and tested for everything they could think of, including the flu - which is much like the Covid test, but I think they legitimately swab your brain.

Unable to determine the source of the fever, they sent me home with antibiotics.

The next evening, I was so hot I had to sit outside in the cold December night. I knew I had to go back to the Emergency Room. But I didn’t wunna. My husband called the on-call oncologist who confirmed that I needed to go and would be admitted overnight. I cried like a toddler on the floor of our living room. I didn’t want to go back. I was sick, I was tired, and I didn’t want to be poked or tested any longer. I wanted a normal holiday. I was done with chemo and being sick.

It was a losing battle, and I knew it. The second time around, I was comforted by the fact that I knew the nurse - but not that we had to run culture tests again. When he accidentally caught his watch on the needle drawing blood from my arm and ripped it out, I just laughed. Like a crazy person. This is my life now.

I was admitted to the hospital until my fever broke for a consistent 24 hours. Still unable to identify the source, I was put on a steady stream of every antibiotic they had. I could barely sleep between my IV malfunctioning or running out, constant check-ins, and the sore in my throat. Eventually, I would get Benadryl for the fullbody itching, and I would manage to get some sleep. To add insult to injury, Aunt Flow decided to visit, at which point they gave me a pad that could have doubled as a life raft for a small family.

One saving grace was that my husband was able to stay with me. He brought me food and stayed every night until I insisted he go home and get some real sleep. I was going stir-crazy laying around sleep-deprived, just waiting and begging for a fever not to come and ready to pick a fight with anyone that thought otherwise.

By the third day, I was released from the hospital. I vowed to do more research on taking care of my immunocompromised system, and the insurance company started letting me get the single shot to boost my immune system after every infusion.

Read part 4 in January’s Comet

Everyone’s cancer journey is different because every cancer, treatment, body, and circumstance is different. If you or someone you love is going through cancer, please do not take this as a roadmap to the cancer journey. If you have questions, talk to a doctor for medical advice. C

ARTBEAT

FIRST FRIDAYS ARTS WALK MAP INCLUDED

HOLIDAY GRATITUDE FROM NCW ARTS

This month, amidst the holiday bustle, NCW Arts wants to pause and breathe a bit into the spaces between. And in that pause, we want to express our enormous gratitude to you. You, your ideas, and your creative energy are what sparked our mission and our vision to create, connect, and collaborate with one another to build an even stronger community. Thank you.

There is so much to be grateful for this holiday season. NCW Arts extends heart-

felt thanks to both the Community Foundation of NCW, the Woods Family Foundation and the Icicle Fund for making it possible for us to get our feet solidly beneath us in 2022 as we plan for exciting things to come in 2023 – things like a local artist registry, forums for online collaboration, comprehensive event calendar and upcoming opportunities for artists listings as part of an increasingly robust website at ncwarts.org.

As NCW Arts prepares to grow and bloom in 2023, in this moment we want to honor the quiet, peaceful times and to focus on our roots. We invite you to do the same. Whatever artistic, creative seed is germinating for you, may you find the nourishment and resources you need to let it take root. Come find us now by candlelight and let us grow together come springtime. Reach out anytime to arts@ncwarts.org.

FEATURED EVENT:

HOLIDAY BAZAAR

Go hyper-local with these upcoming holiday markets. Support your local artisans, local causes and get some great gifts!

• WHS Band Boosters’ Holiday Craft Bazaar - Dec. 3, 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. at Wenatchee High School

• Night Market on The Ave - Dec. 3, 5:30-9 p.m., Downtown Wenatchee in front of Norwood Wine Bar

• Pybus Last-Minute Market - Dec. 17, 9 a.m. to 3 p.m. at Pybus Market

• Christmas in Cashmere - Dec. 3, 10, 17, 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. and Dec. 23, 1 p.m. to 7 p.m. in the Mission District Building, 207 Mission Ave., Cashmere

Find more events and arts opportunities at ncwarts.org.

FEATURED OPPORTUNITY:

SHRUB STEPPE POETRY PODIUM BECOMES THIRD THURSDAY POETS

“Modern Day Renaissance Woman” Gina Williams is a singer, songwriter, pianist, composer, producer and film and television actress who speaks, writes and/or performs in, get this, 12 languages! This

month she’s speaking Christmas, though, with a three-day run in the Snowy Owl Theater at Leavenworth’s Icicle Creek Center for the Arts, Dec. 8-10. Tickets available at icicle.org.

CHECK OUT THE FULL CALENDAR OF EVENTS AT NCWARTS.ORG

ON THE COVER: Gina Williams, “Christmas Time,” performing December 8-10 at Snowy Owl Theater, Icicle Creek Center for the Arts.

The free, poetry-only, open mic formerly known as the Shrub Steppe Poetry Podium is changing its name and location starting this month. As the new name indicates, Third Thursday Poets will now take place on the third Thursday of each month. The new monthly event will take place at Class With a Glass, 134 N. Mission Street, in Wenatchee.

Everyone from performance poets to rap artists and listeners are welcome. Presenters are welcome to share their own poems or something they love from a favorite or newly-discovered poet. Beer, wine and cider are available during the open mic. For more information, contact Susan Blair with Shrub-Steppe Poetry at sfblair61@gmail.com

SEEKING... HOSTS FOR FIRST FRIDAYS AFTER HOURS:

We’re looking for local businesses who would like to invite First Fridays Arts Walkers to come wind down their Art Walk from approximately 7:30 to 9:30 p.m. following a future First Fridays event. If you are interested in hosting the Arts community for an evening, please let us know with an email to arts@ncwarts.org.

Megan Kappler Executive Director

Susan Blair

Zach Eddy

CYBER STUDIO: VIRTUAL ART COMMUNITY BREATHES LIFE INTO SOLITARY PRACTICES

BY JAMIE HOWELL

Wednesday morning, Adele Little Caemmerer flicks on the lights in her home studio in Plain, gathers her brushes or pencils or whatever she plans to create with that day, opens up her laptop and watches Zoom windows populate with other artists ready to work in their own studios in far-flung locations from all over the country.

It’s called Cyber Studio, offered monthly through the Grunewald Guild (grunewaldguild.com) in Plain, and it’s an idea that’s picking up steam. Modeled after the in-person open studio sessions she used to participate in and sometimes lead at the Grunewald Guild, Cyber Studio is a

Eachplace for artists from any discipline to do their often solitary work in the company of other artists, but without ever having to leave their own studio.

“It’s been so life-giving,” says Caemmerer of the way the Cyber Studio community has been building.

The structure is straight-forward. The artists log on around 9 a.m., check in with each other, setting their intentions for the day, and then they get to work. Some might be painting or drawing, others are working in stained glass or collage. There’s even a songwriter who attends (using the mute button as necessary) to work on new songs.

But there are no rules about how the artists use their time together online. Some use it to clean up their studio, or send out marketing emails they’ve been meaning to get to but haven’t.

The Cyber Studio mornings are pointedly NOT feedback or critique sessions, nor are they meant to be instructional. In order to avoid any related anxiety or perceived performance pressure, there is no expectation that anyone will show what they worked on during the session. The simple act of committing to a weekly appointment with each other brings with it some small degree of accountability and, more importantly, motivation and connection. That is the point.

“It creates or even clears space for the art,” says Caemmerer. “I feel like people use it to support themselves.”

“There’s a certain gain in being in your own studio space,” points out Caemmerer. Not having to pack up their art supplies and easels and drive to some off-site location means that participants can focus more on their work and less on their transitions, while still reaping the benefits of camaraderie.

ABOUT ADELE CAEMMERER:

“I personally love the flexibility of it being online and the way it allows people to be extremely consistent from week to week,” Caemmerer says.

The artists come together once more toward the end of the session to talk about how the time went for them before signing off. Alone again in their studios, they also have access to a private Facebook group where they can correspond with one another between sessions whenever they would like.

The over-arching goals of Cyber Studio, according to Caemmerer, are to foster connection among artists and to help create and maintain momentum in their Art lives.

If you are interested in finding out more or joining Cyber Studio, registration is available at https://grunewaldguild.com/ programs/cyber-studios/ and the cost is based on a sliding scale from $30 to $80 for a month (four sessions).

and a practicing artist, believes deeply in the importance of connection with others as part of the creative process, so much so that she recently started a new creative coaching business called Creative Connected. To find out more about how she helps artists make room for creative expression in their lives through any form of art, visit practice.do/me/adele-caemmerer or reach out to her directly at littlecaemmerer@gmail.com.

Adele Little Caemmerer, an art teacher for more than 35 years

Jamie Howell

SCAN FOR DIGITAL INTERACTIVE FIRST

FRIDAYS MAP!

FIRST FRIDAYS AFTER HOURS MOVES TO EPOCH

After you’ve art-walked to your heart’s content on Friday, Dec. 2, it’s time to settle in at First Fridays After Hours, a roaming event designed to extend the fun and strengthen the connections among local artists and art appreciators. It’s open to all and you’ll likely see a fair number of NCW Arts Alliance board members in attendance.

This month, First Fridays After Hours will be hosted by Epoch, a new gaming lounge and craft cocktail

bar with an expansive menu featuring creative specialties such as “I Like it When You Call Me Big Poppers” (jalapeño poppers) and “Goat Simulator Pizza.”

Epoch is located at 16 S. Wenatchee Avenue. Check them out at epochgamelounge.com or, better yet, join us from 7:30 to 9:30 p.m. this Friday, Dec. 2.

FIRST FRIDAYS ARTS MAP

6. Mela Sharratt DeLong, oil paintings, 5-7 pm

“Uncertain Nature: The Sublime in the Contemporary Landscape.” Works from Patrick Kikut, Edgar Smith, Karen Rice and Marcy James, 5-7 pm

2. Alano Club

Susan Cleverly, handmade bracelets, 12 - 9 pm

Kasey Koski, watercolors, 4-8 pm

Greta Jill Register, acrylics and watercolor; music from Suzanne Grassell on harp, 5-8 pm

Michelle Anderst, paintings, 5-7 pm

7. Pan’s Grotto

“What Can You Do With 4 Inches?” Group show, 5-7:30 pm

8. Tumbleweed

Jewelry by Jessica and Tyler Russell and Emily Wall

FINAL EXHIBITION - “Say It Ain’t So”, Chad Yenney, collage art, 12 - 9 pm

“First Friday Open Console”, free event to view, listen and even play the 103-yearold Wurlitzer pipe organ, 6-8 pm

11. Pybus Art Alley

Brad Brisbine, paintings; music by Just Us, 5-7 pm

1. MAC at Wenatchee Valley College

3. Lemolo Cafe

4. Two Rivers Gallery

5. Salt Creek Apothecary

9. Collapse Gallery

10. WV Museum

Winter’s Dawn

Coffee tastes only as good as your mouth in it

The sun steeps into its brown, turning it gold leaf The tip of your tongue glistens as you speak, your hair in silhouette against the open window

I’ve felt this all before, a mornings’ breath from the sea, it is indeed warm, but smells too of vast undulating and darkened waters.

Yes, I live below the surface, where light is glanced and refracted, and things look bigger than they really are.

And seaweed has become ballerinas, creatures of chorus in operas and on stages. The ocean floor too, a low comforting note in its semi-darkness

If I were to drown in such depths, I would be home.

- Rayko

Corn Moon Road

When the frozen dew arrives you always seem a little more scarce. A little more distant.

I do my best to adjust. I do my best.

I watch for the headlights in the drive, I listen for the rattling of the chains that tie the canopy of your pickup down. Those sweet chimes of summer.

I pace, not in a literal sense but in my soul. I’m stuck. For a while. Then I adjust. I do my best.

I find other ways to pass the time. Other people to warm the room. Other reasons to...be.

And by the time I get to be feeling like I may be ready to move on - in ring the sweet chimes of summer. And once again, the blue dim darkness of Corn Moon Road melts into a golden glow of headlights.

And for now - and for a while, the pacing stops.

- Denise R.

LOCAL POETRY

Untitled

Him and I will be the death of me

His touch I have craved for far to long those fingers that made their way from my hair to my waist grabbing hips that ached to be loved thighs that longed to be caressed He was waiting for a call back a message ingrained in a substance I refused to take something filled with such disillusion dripping sweetly and covered in sweat I’m now torn between caving into the same old habits of disassociation or taking one last plunge into that dark abyss I said I’d never go back to He called me his beautiful distraction when in reality I was the one begging for something to keep my mind busy something to keep my lips wanting more when asked if I still felt the same the truth rolled out of my mouth like a bedtime story told long ago malignant is the term I would use for his affections I can no longer allow him to swallow me whole he ate from from the fruit that had spoiled long before I gave in He said to leave everything better than when you found it He found me broken and some how left me beyond repair

- Jo Fine Bow

Everything seems like a corner.

There’s always something coming up around that bend, inching toward. The road straightens, briefly and we get the glimpse of what’s coming.

Sometimes it’s nothing. I like those sometimes.

Sometimes it’s a lot of likeable somethings. I like those sometimes too.

Sometimes it’s a boulder on the road that missed you by seconds and you have to turn around, shaken - but alive. I don’t always know how I feel about those ones.

But the drive continues. The road curves, straightens, curves, etc. I sometimes just want to get where I am going. But if I’m being honest, I usually know where I’m going. That’s the least interesting part of the trip to me. The mystery is kind of fun, I guess.

That doesn’t mean I don’t hate the boulders, and the occasional unlikeabale somethings awaiting around the corner - but somewhere in the not knowing, there is release. Often followed by a bracing of the steering wheel - the release never stays long enough.

But if it did it wouldn’t be a release. It would just be another mundanity from which we’d need respite.

So I drive. Expecting the boulder. Bracing for the mixed bag of what’s to come. Knowing that with every dust cloud of tumbleweeds and rocks, there’s a secret release hidden somewhere on the other side. But you have to look for it. It’s like finding a secret mushroom in Super Mario Bros.

It won’t come to you, you have to snatch it up before it falls into a ravine. That’s on you. But don’t feel bad if you miss a few along the drive. They are hidden all over the world. And more are being made every second.

There’s one now! Shoot. Missed it…

- Ellen Anders

COLLAPSE GALLERY CLOSES WITH FINAL EXHIBIT CHAD YENNEY: SAY IT AIN’T SO

by ron evans

After three years of hosting art shows, creative classes, poetry nights and pop-up events, Collapse Contemporary Art Gallery is closing its doors at the end of the year. The gallery was launched March of 2019 with an exhibition of renown local painter Jan Cook Mack.

Owner/curator Chad Yenney will be hosting an exhibit of his own collage and mixed media work as the swan song for the gallery this First Friday. I reached out to Yenney to chat about his time running the gallery, his upcoming exhibit and where he’s headed post-Collapse.

Talk about your initial concepts for opening Collapse Gallery - your favorite parts of running it, and maybe some challenges along the way. I noticed there seemed to be a void between fancy academic, institutional or

museum spaces and places like coffee shops or restaurants that hung art. A lot of emerging artists can’t navigate the barriers to show in the fancier spaces, and most the non-traditional venues aren’t ideal showing spaces. I wanted to open a gallery that prioritized the artwork over everything else. Well lit, with enough room to let the pieces breath. Curating artists based on their actual body of work, rather than their CV, resume or arts education. My favorite thing is hanging a new exhibit and having the artist taken back by how their work looks on a white wall with some decent lighting. It’s a pretty simple thing but after creating the work in a cramped studio space, it is affirming to see the artwork in a space that honors the effort. The main challenges have been selling art and getting local interest in what we were doing.

Why have you decided to close the gallery at the end of this year? Ultimately, I wasn’t making enough

money to justify keeping it open. Selling art at 30% commission never really pencilled out. But I wanted to keep our commission as low as possible. I enjoyed curating the shows and exposing art that I believe in, but at the same time I wanted community involvement and participation. Since I wasn’t really turning a profit, I looked to community enthusiasm as a marker of success. And that wasn’t strong. One thing that I learned as an artist myself is appreciation for other art galleries and the work that goes into them. Closing the gallery wasn’t an easy decision but it was the right one for me and my family.

You aren’t supposed to pick favorites, but do you have any favorite shows or memories from the years of running Collapse?

I always loved working with Jan Cook Mack, she has a great energy and is such a wonderful talent. I enjoyed bringing friends I’d made at zine fests and other

art shows, I was able to get collage buddies from all over to do shows here. I love the Punch peeps from Thorpe. I also enjoyed doing classes with Rachel Courtney, and life drawing with Nena Howell.

Along with the gallery, you rented out some studio space to a few working artists, including the late Robert Wilson. Talk about having Wilson as an ongoing presence in the space. Robert was an amazing guy and a very dedicated artist. He put in the time and took his work pretty seriously. It was inspirational to see his compositions progress. While he and Lindsay Breidenthal shared a space I was able to see their pieces in different stages of development. I was able to witness that process, I loved that Robert and Lindsay both had strong voices, that were very different but complimentarily in the sense that they were both working to better their work and constantly pushing themselves. Like a lot of people, I miss Robert, and when

I learned of his passing, my first thought was “I didn’t spend enough time talking with him.”

What are your plans for the building moving forward?

After Lindsay moved out we had P2X Studio, a video, photo, design company move in. I told them I was closing and they asked if they could rent the gallery space for their company. So they are moving from the basement to the main floor starting this January.

In an announcement email you sent out - you mentioned this was the end of the Wenatchee location of Collapse Gallery. Was that a subtle hint that a new location is at least a possibility down the road?

Yeah, in the short term I want to continue some online gallery stuff and down the road who knows what might happen? I’ve had some friends telling me to move the gallery to other towns, but I dunno.

You have continued to produce your own art while you were running the gallery, talk about that process and where your current work is heading stylistically.

It’s been interesting as an artist running a gallery. Seeing what other people do, what is selling and then reflecting on my own work. I’ve been doing some pieces based on opioid addiction, fossil fuels, gun violence. I’m doing weirdo art that has a somewhat limited appeal, toddlers holding assault rifles isn’t something that pairs well with a ‘Live Laugh Love’ sign.

Tell us about the final show you have coming up.

Our last show is called ‘Say it ain’t so’. I was trying to think of funny show titles for a gallery that is closing. ‘Goodbye cruel world’ was my top choice, but decided against it to avoid triggering anyone. It will be a solo show for my work. I have a lot of newer pieces as well as some oldies. All collage based mixed media with a surrealism lean.

Will you be open all December long or is the First Friday opening the end?

We’ll be open all month. Selling art, display stuff, easels, frames and furniture.

Any events (artist wise) coming up? Gallery Ergo -Seattle December 9th Baton Rouge Gallery January 3rd

Social media/web links: Instagram.com/Collapse_gallery Instagram.com/chadyenney

EVERYTHING IS FINE

By Varuca Salty

Content Warning: self-loathing, depression

Welp, it’s another bad mental health day for me. What even is mental health? Have I ever truly experienced it? Or is what I’m experiencing exclusively mental illness? Hard to know since anxiety and depression have been around since I can remember. I’m burnt out. A common place for me to be coming into the holiday season. Grocery stores are too busy, packed with people impulse buying things they think will fill their voids. Traffic is atrocious. It gets dark too early to make sense of. I’m tired and ready for bed by 4pm but that’s usually when I’m starting my next shift of “work” with making dinner and making sure my kids have finished their homework, etc. Maybe it sounds like I resent my life? That feels correct. I think I do. Because I’m so goddamned exhausted all the time from all the obligations. Plus the anxiety and depression I mentioned earlier. That for sure doesn’t help. I am realizing I have this line that gets crossed and when it does I want to either burn the whole goddamn house down and cut people out of my life forever, or I want to bend over backward

to make sure everyone else is comfortable and never leaves me. And nothing in between. I’m killing that mental health stuff. I have abandonment issues, so just accept that this is how it is for me right now. I’m working on it. I just learned about a new term that piqued my interest. It’s called obliger rebellion. This is when someone (much like myself) shoves down their own feelings and needs over and over and over for so much of their life that they eventually blow up. They go from super flexible and “happy to help” to super rigid boundaries and super explosive reactions when anyone impedes on their personal freedom. They over-give until they have nothing left and then they snap. Well hell. “Called out” as the kids are saying these days (I don’t think any kids say that...).

I’m on this healing journey, working through my baggage and I’m really trying to stop being such a reactive asshole. Everything would be so easy if I could just know what I was feeling in the moment and react appropriately or ask for time and space to process in real time instead of assuming that everyone is trying to personally attack me and ruin my day by expressing themselves and their own needs. I recognize how easy it COULD be. But damn if this isn’t the hardest part of my

healing journey so far. You mean to tell me that not everyone else’s problems are MY fault and most of them have NOTHING TO DO WITH ME?! How can I be so insecure and feel so unworthy while simultaneously thinking the entire world and everyone in it is mad at me. I am a true paradox.

Let’s take a look into my clearly unwell brain and see how we got here…

1. I was raised by two emotionally immature parents with very few healthy coping skills of their own.

2. I thought if I could do MORE or be BETTER or try HARDER that I could earn the love that I so desperately craved (and, to be fair, needed in order to be a healthy and sane human).

3. I started people-pleasing and saw some payoffs. Heck yeah, I’ve cracked the code. Just be whoever they want you to be and do whatever they want you to do. THEN you’ll be lovable!

4. I eventually had an existential crisis that made me question my whole reality and realized I don’t even know who I am because I’ve just been trying to win over anyone and everyone who will give me the time of day because I’m so depleted of love and appreciation and self-esteem.

5. Now when anyone shows me genuine

interest and love and acceptance I question THEIR sanity. Surely I can’t be worth actually liking, I’m a piece of garbage. I’ll try harder! I’ll do better!

6. My insecurity and unwillingness to welcome love in inevitably pushes people away. I am so good at convincing people that I am not worth loving. (Super fun defense mechanism and trauma response.)

7. I am alone. And sad. (And hate myself.)

Cut to present day. Why am I like this?! I mean, I know why I’m like this. I’m all fucked up from not getting my basic needs met. But why can’t I fix it? How long and how much therapy does it take to realize that I deserve to feel loved? That I’m not actually a horrible monster of a person, but just a sad little kid with unmet needs? So far it’s taken almost 4 decades. I’ll keep you posted if I figure out how to solve it though.

A nice little upper of an article this month. Goes great with my seasonal (and lately not so seasonal but really continuous) depression and my sweatpants that I’m on day three of wearing without changing or showering.

Hope you’re all doing better than me! Love you byeee! C

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 2, 2022 AT 8 PM – 10 PM

Live Music w/ Erin McNamee

Bushel & Bee Taproom

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 3, 2022 AT 6 PM – 8 PM

Abbigale Solo @ Julep

Julep Ellensburg

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 3, 2022 AT 5:30 PM – 9 PM Night Market on The Ave

Norwood Wine Bar

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 3, 2022 AT 9:30 PM

Datura, Well Adjusted and Not All There!! Live at Wally’s!!!!

Wally’s House of Booze

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 4, 2022 AT 4 PM

Warren Miller: WINTER STARTS NOW

Icicle Creek Center for the Arts

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 7, 2022 AT 12 PM

GIVE NCW Do Good Drink Beer

Pybus Public Market

DECEMBER 8-17

All Is Calm - The Christmas Truce of 1914 at the Riverside Playhouse

Tickets: numericapac.org or call (509) 663-2787

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9, 2022 AT 7 PM – 9:30 PM

The Nutcracker

CWU McConnell Auditorium, Ellensburg

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10, 2022 AT 4 PM

Student Performance Fundraiser

Epic Motion Dance & Fitness Studio

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 10, 2022 AT 3 PM – 6 PM

Seth Garrido at Alta Cellars

Alta Cellars

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2022 AT 7:30 PM

Jake Shimaburkuro - Christmas in Hawaii

Numerica Performing Arts Center

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 16, 2022 AT 6 PM – 9 PM

O&W LIVE!!! Older & Wiser @ The Riverhouse Cigar Bar

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 18, 2022 AT 2 PM – 5 PM

Live Music with Gavin McLaughlin

Succession Wines, Chelan

TUESDAY, DECEMBER 20, 2022 AT 5:30 PM

Old Time Radio Show: World War II Radio Christmas

Numerica Performing Arts Center

FILTHY LITTLE BOOKLETS: THE TIJUANA BIBLES

By Wayne Swanson

In the depths of despair during The Great Depression, Americans (along with food and shelter of course) were seeking cheap and easily attained escapism. Pulp Fiction magazines, hand-medown books, jigsaw puzzles and the funny pages were some of the cheapest and most popular means for that escapism. And somewhere between all those mainstream avenues - something else was born. The dirty little 8-pagers, now known as Tijuana Bibles - more on that moniker in a bit. These were simply-drawn, often terribly-written, underground comics featuring many beloved funny pages characters, movie stars and politicians printed on 8 pages (4 pieces folded in half and stapled) of cheap pulp paper and sold under the counter.

Why? Because in these funny pages… everyone was having sex. And I mean everyone. No one knows for sure who started these tiny spoof porn comic tracts - and that’s part of the allure for the modern collectors and researchers.

The mystery of it all.

Most Tijuana Bible experts agree that the mob was likely behind a large portion of these filthy little books, at least from a distribution standpoint. As you can imagine though, nobody involved with creating them was stupid enough to put their name on the cover. There were made-up publishing companies sure, but no artist or writing credits, and for good reason.

The shops, bowling alleys, bars and underground clubs bold enough to stock the 8-pagers would often get raided with the specific intention of finding and confiscating these comics. I know that sounds insane but, this was the 1930s and the thought of anything depicting Dagwood giving Blondie HIS Dagwood while the dog watched was simply too much for the powers that be to get behind. Ahem. But, because of their cheapness, small size and - let’s face it - multipurpose functionality, the little tracts spread like a fine VD across the country.

It wasn’t all fun and games of course, the grotesque racial stereotypes prevalent

in even mainstream media of the day is rampant in some of these books. Ruthless misogyny was always a given. As was homophobia, incest and bestiality among other atrocities that should never be depicted or seen even as crude line art. But the bulk of them were just… people humpin’. In the office, on a boat, in church, in the air while parachuting. Yeah, that was drawn.

What I find the most interesting (and at times troubling) is that these crude little drawings were actually being used - yes used - as pornography. I mean, sure…some of them are quite funny, even looking at them nearly 100 years later - but most of them feel like they were written by uneducated children who didn’t really know how sex worked.

“Hey big boy. I bet you’re even a bigger boy in those trousers. I’m so horny and you should make that stop.” ~ “Gosh! I’m gonna pecker you!” Actual dialog I came across in my…research. Between the lame dialog, pointless setups and absurd typos, it was clear that this was porn, and really little else. And in many ways they were actually quite ahead of their time. The idea

of seeing your favorite characters and stars doing things they’d never do in the New York Times or up on the silver screen must have been pretty neat for the stone age folks suffering through that miserable era. Even decades later, spoof porn is a staple. Who hasn’t seen Edward Penis Hands, A Tale Of Two Titties, Tits a Wonderful Life, Forest Hump or Her Ass-Lick Park? Ok, I made that last one up - but I bet it exists.

But more importantly, these kooky booklets were the foundation of the Underground Comix movement that would poke into the mainstream some 30 years later. One such member of this underground scene, Art Spieglemen (Maus, Raw, Arcade), has spoken about this and even collects Tijuana Bibles and continues to research who was behind the creations. While there are many records showing busts and seizures of the bibles (according to Wikipedia, one guy caught shipping the bibles was sentenced to 5 years in prison for doing so), Spiegelmen has yet to find any record of the actual creators being found and charged.

There are a few artists who we do know of

though, most notably - Wesley Morse, creator of the Bazooka Joe comics that came wrapped around that waxy, tooth-busting pink shit brick of bubblegum. But we can only guess as to who the other artists were cranking these things out in the early days. Surprisingly, while the success of the Tijuana Bibles waned after the Great Depression, they continued to be reprinted all the way up to the 1960s - new ones were even being made up to the 1970s. It was around this time that they started to be called Tijuana Bibles - simply because the colorful border town sold them along with other assorted goods you couldn’t easily get in the States. Obscenity laws had laxed and more people were putting their names on them by this time. But as the glossy full nude magazines were moving in, and later hardcore porno flicks - it was inevitable that the Tijuana Bible would slip into a bizarre little place in history.

The first one I ever discovered in the early 90s was a reprint of one of the Dagwood & Blondie numbers. Now, being a teenage boy in the age before the internet - you can bet your bottom dollar I held onto that

thing. Sometimes with just one handrimshot. TMI? Sure, but at least we are past it now.

You never forget your first Tijuana Bible.

Images compiled from tijuanabibles.org and tijuana-bibles.com

DECEMBER EVENTS

The poignant holiday revenue featuring the area’s best performers saluting the season through dance, music, & comedy performances.

DEC 1-2 at 7:00pm

Ukulele master and jolly ambassador of aloha, Jake Shimabukuro, is back for his third concert at the Numerica PAC. This time he is bringing joy to the world with the debut of his highly anticipated holiday show, Christmas in Hawaii.

PRESENTED BY:

DEC 13 at 7:30pm

WORLD WAR RADIO CHRISTMAS

A LIVE RADIO PLAY BY PAT KRUIS TELLINGHUSEN

H o l i d a y M o v i e s ON THE BIG SCREEN

- PRESENTED BY -

Local performers bring a classic Christmas tale to the stage in 1940s-style radio hour in this live musical radio play. From the live sponsor spots, to the period microphones, to the Foley artists right there with the actors – the result is a nostalgic evening of entertainment, directed by Dani Schafer-Cloke. Must be 5 years of age or older to attend.

PRESENTED BY:

DEC 20 at 7:30pm

Sweet nothings. Carolina blues. Rolling thunder like a fucking clap back smack attack. Abstract expressionist automatic bullshit. What a world to live in, what a time to be alive, what a cliché click to clack the fuck back. Shit. He said the word. The only word that you’re not allowed to say. And they’re gonna kill him for it.

Year: 3057. Time: who gives a fuck. Political system: freedom, bitch. Location: America, motherfucker.

We’re allowed to say what we want, do what we want, sleep with whoever we want, and dance to anybody’s tune for anything. Fuck on the subway? No problem. Shit on the sofa? No problem. Cash money and all that – doesn’t exist anymore. We don’t trade anything for anything. We just live, we do what we want, and we love and hate and feel. We feel whatever we want, and we throw away everything else.

The robots clean it all up.

“Lick my boots you slutty binary fuck machine,” I tell her.

“What face would you like me to wear today?”

I say the name of the first woman that I’d ever masturbated to. Her face assumes the shape, and her mouth speaks with that sweet smoky voice.

And afterwards, it’s another robot to clean up the jizz. We have no slaves anymore. Only ambition. We can do anything. We can say anything. Everything…

Except that. That one word. The only word we can’t say.

And this stupid motherfucker just said it. Worst part about it is - he’s standing next to me, wearing the most defiant face I’ve ever seen.

“Yeah, I don’t know this guy,” I say.

The Macy’s Day parade float is at my back, and there’s nowhere for me to run. Looking around me, all I see is the Hunters: hooded figures, faceless faces always veiled in shadow, with their nightsticks drawn and their Glocks at the ready. Nobody dies – unless they say that word.

I slowly sidestep away from the Deviant. That’s what he is now. They always say that, whenever anyone says the word. Deviant, like we’re some sort of amoeba in a clown’s jellyfish cage.

I keep stepping away one inch at a time, nerves frayed like a fucking car horn train track. Fuck, now my automatism’s back. Gefiltefish. Derail. Stalagmites. Fuck my brains out.

“Citizen 597, you have been classified Deviant by the Regulatory Authority,” the Hunter says.

“You hypocritical fucking pieces of shit! It’s just a word! Why should I die in the place of a fucking word!?” the Deviant says.

“Because we live in a society.”

“Fuck you. Watch me say it again!”

“YOU WILL COMPLY!” the Hunter says.

“You really don’t like this word, do you? Why does it bother everyone so much?!” the Deviant shouts. He throws up his hands and does a semi-circle, as if to ask the world. The world doesn’t answer. His faces turns to sorrow. And then to anger.

“The Deviant will be reprimanded into custody.”

“The Citizen will not! The Citizen will never comply! And if you don’t like me saying the word whom, then you’re just going to have to fucking kill me.”

The Hunter shoots him in the head. And then the Hunters fade away, into the nothingness of the shadows of wherever they popped out.

“Miss, do you want me to lick your boots again?” the robot asks. She’s still wearing the same face.

“Not now, sweet cheeks. Not now. Why don’t you stick it in my ass?”

Dear Moxie Rose,

Is Vaseline an okay lubricant? My boyfriend uses it for…himself. But I want to know if it’s okay as a regular lubricant for me to use as well (I have a vagina). I can’t really get a clear answer H.L.

Hi H.L.,

Don’t worry! It’s hard to get a straight answer because there really isn’t one. As far as basic body safeness goes, Vaseline won’t hurt you. But it is petroleum, which means it is essentially an oil based lubricant. So while it’s not toxic to the body, there are definitely reasons people try to avoid it, as well as reasons I usually recommend staying away from it. One of the biggest reasons I usually steer people away from oils is because oil is much harder to wash away from the body. Usually if you have it on something like your hands, the job of washing it away and breaking down the oil is made easier by things like soap. But you absolutely, 100%, do not want to get soap involved when it comes to cleaning the vagina (it is a self cleaning organ, thanks to being a mucous membrane like the nose)using soap to clean the vagina cannot only dry out what is already very delicate tissue, it can throw off your pH balance as well as your flora (good bacteria) leaving you much more susceptible to things like yeast infections and bacterial vaginosis. So since you can’t use soap to help wash away the Vaseline (petroleum jelly) from your body, you increase the risk of it staying behind on the body and holding on to bacteria. Which leaves that bacteria, that would have been much more easily washed away, behind in an area that is warm, dark, and moist. The perfect breeding ground for bacteria. Now if you are absolutely dedicated to making sure you spend a significant amount of time making sure it is cleaned, without soap, it’s definitely a “to each their own” route. Personally I don’t like the extra risk of throwing off my pH, or getting a yeast infection or bacterial vaginosis, so I tend to go other routes as far as lubricant. Now the only other major reason that many sex educators caution people about any, ANY, oil or oil based lubricant is because oil will compromise latex condoms as well as polyisoprene (polyisoprene is a non-latex alternative that is used to make condomseven though it is a latex alternative, it is

still considered close enough to latex to also be compromised by oil). So the use of any oil or oil based lubricant while using a condom can contribute to the condom being compromised and becoming no longer effective at preventing pregnancy or STIs. Many condoms already come prelubricated with silicone lubricant, which has a very oily feel to it, and is therefore often confused as being an oil lubricantso people don’t really think of the risk. If you are using a pre-lubricated condom and still feel the need for extra lubricant, water-based and silicone lubricants are both absolutely safe for both latex and polyisoprene condoms.

Dear Moxie Rose, Help me explain the importance of nondemand touching to my partner. My partner’s love language is definitely more physical. And it’s not that I am a non-physical person, or that I don’t enjoy things like cuddling… but because of past traumas I tend to always feel like any physical contact is working towards intimacy and there are some times where I am just not in the mood or that headspace. But I still want to be able to cuddle and hold my partner but without them thinking that I’m giving them the “green light” for more intimate acts. They are extremely supportive and try to understand but they don’t have the experiences that I do so I struggle to find a way to explain what I need to them without getting frustrated.

B.C.

Hi B.C. Firstly, I want to tell you how sorry I am that that is the experience that you have had. I understand what it means to have trauma seep into what should otherwise be very fun and loving acts. And non-demand touching is a very important part of recovery for many people. Now I do want to be clear that I am not a medical professional, I am not a psychologist- but I have firsthand experience in working with non-demand touching, as well as helping others with it to be able to at least speak on why it can be so helpful for some people with past sexual trauma coming up with current partners. For those who do not know, nondemand touching is exactly what it sounds

like: it is the act, the idea, of making physical contact with your partner – caressing, back rubs, snuggling, even things like kissing- without any expectation that it go further than that. I know that sometimes sounds like a very simple idea, that not all touching means sex is next. But for many people, that is how sex begins. By kissing. By caressing. By general physical contact that begins to escalate. For many survivors it is hard to let go of the idea that not all physical contact is going to lead to something more. Non-demand touching can play a very important role in the healing process of many assault survivors because it is helping to retrain (for lack of a better word) their brain. And the way it does that can be different for each person but as a general example to help people better understand why this can be such an important act between partners, especially when one partner is dealing with past sexual trauma and the other is not: while the survivor may know and fully understand that they are safe, that their consent is needed and will be respected in order to escalate physical touch to intimacy, that nothing is going to go further unless they say so… There is another very large portion of their brain that does not believe that. It is an instinctual, fight or flight part of the brain. The part of the brain that now works overtime to protect the survivor from ever going through a trauma again (even if they are not actually in any danger). So when a partner initiates any sort of physical contact with them, even if the contact is completely innocent and not meant to be a catalyst into more intimate activities, The person still healing from trauma may not always believe that. They will often times feel like any sort of physical touch is obviously going to lead to intimacy, and if they are not in the headspace for it or not in the mood for it… waiting for physical touch to escalate to intimacy no longer is a loving act between partners, becoming more of a looming fear over their head. That they are not in the headspace for it but this person is initiating physical contact, which means intimacy is going to be expected… Or so that is how they often see it. Sometimes partners allow themselves to agree to intimacy, where they normally would not have, for fear of disappointing or letting down their partner who they believe is fully expecting intimacy because they

initiated some sort of physical contact. This is where non-demand touching is extremely important, and the extremely important part of it is that your partner understands what is happening. It is OK to talk to your partner about things like this. It is OK to tell them that you want non-demand touching so that they understand that while you may be absolutely open to loving physical contact, you are very clearly wanting for it to go no further in that moment. Allow for your partner to physically make contact with you by way of cuddling while watching a movie, caressing you, playing with your hair, the list goes on. But do so in a continuous manner while going no further. This helps your brain see that just because you have a greed to this physical contact, does not mean that you automatically agreed to intimacy, nor does it mean that intimacy is being expected just because there was physical contact. The partners who are doing the “physical contact” should understand that this is a form of intimacy for many survivors. Especially in the healing process from sexual trauma. Because while you may tell your partner over and over again that you don’t need them to be intimate, to have sex, if they do not want to in that moment – that you initiating physical contact is just about you wanting to physically connect with them because that is your love language, and not about you trying to initiate other sexual acts-and while your partner with past trauma may absolutely believe you and have the utmost faith in you… there will be that portion of them that doesn’t believe it. Non-demand touching is talking directly to that part of them. Proving to that part of them that when you say that there is no further demand to this touching, that we are just being close with each other, that that is all they can expect. Continuously showing, proving, that intimacy will only happen with 100% enthusiastic consent… And not just because their partner initiated physical contact.

Moxie Rose: (sex and kink advice/education) from For The Love Of It in Wenatchee, WA.

The information provided in this column is for educational purposes only, and does not substitute for professional medical advice. C

THE GIFT EXCHANGE

THE FUNNY PAGES COMICS AND NOVELTIES

Why is Santa afraid of getting stuck in a chimney? He has Claus-trophobia.

What brand of motorcycle does Santa ride? Holly Davidson.

What do you get if you eat Christmas decorations? Tinsillitis!

1) What group is almost entirely made up of lefties?

A) The Rolling Stones

B) The Muppets

C) The Astronauts who landed on the moon

D) The Stark family from the first season of Game of Thrones

2) Years after this person’s death, it was discovered they may have been a pot enthusiast, as some of the pipes found on this person’s property tested positive for cannabis use... Who was a secret stoner?

A) William Shakespeare

B) Edgar Allen Poe

C) Einstein

D) Monet

3) A desperate man in China tried to remedy his constipation by doing THIS, and it nearly killed him. What at home remedy did he try?

A) He had his wife use a toilet plunger repeatedly on his butt

B) He inserted a live eel into his anus

C) He Dispersed fourteen entire bottles of KY Kelly into his rectum

D) He tried to reach into his own butt with his hand and grab the stuck poop

4) Scientists recently learned and revealed that THESE creatures might hold the cure to immortality for humans... What creatures are we talking about?

A) Pandas

B) Seahorses

C) Beetles

D) Jellyfish

Ah, winter. Cold and dark just like my starbitchy heart. Here’s your fave winter tradition to get you through the holiday season based on your sign.

Aries - Day drinking and complaining. Or if you don’t drink… just complaining.

Taurus - Reading a book, but not a new one. The same one you’ve already read 9 times.

Gemini - Sledding. Because your grasp on reality is already a slippery slope, so you might as well have some fun with it.

Cancer - The annual busting out of your light therapy lamp to stave off your seasonal depresh. Also crying.

Leo - You’ve heard of Elf On The Shelf. How about Threesome under the Treesome? Get on board, it’s your new tradition.

Virgo - Glaring. Lots of glaring and fist shaking.

Libra - Watching lifetime originals about an ex-woodworker who found god but lost faith in love and then miraculously meets the woman of his dreams in a ski accident. Because you’re basic af.

Scorpio - Horror movie marathon, starting with Black Christmas, because you’re non-tradish and metal as hell.

Sagittarius - Decorating the house with all of your holiday decor two full months early so you can bask in the holiday spirit for as long as possible.

Capricorn - Snowball fights. Because you’re a competitive child who still doesn’t know how to manage your feels. What better way than throwing icy balls at people’s faces?

Aquarius - Knitting the scarf you started 3 years ago but have no real plans of finishing and drinking straight from the eggnog bottle. It’s your holiday, you do you.

Pisces - Microdosing and pretending like your problems don’t exist. Not really winter dependent...

ANSWERS: 1-B) The Muppets (because the operators were right-handed). 2-A) William Shakespeare. 3-B) He inserted a live eel into his anus. The creature then punctured the

man’s tummy. Oof. 4-D) Jellyfish