I went back and forth about what to write about this month. I started at least 4 different versions (including a highly academic look at my love for the 1990s classic Life Goes On that I’ll surely come back to), but what I kept coming back to, given the time of year, is that 2019 can go fuck itself.

It has been a shit year for me and the ladywife Kim, especially for the ladywife Kim. I mean, a shit fucking year. A suckfest of epic proportions. A parade of fucking loss and grief. Among the people in our close personal and professional circles (including ourselves), there have been so many deaths—human and soul pet alike—that I’ve stopped counting, 4 divorces, at least 3 different cancers, 2 bypass surgeries (a double and a triple), a terrifying head injury, and a partridge in a fucking pear tree.

Of course, there have been bright spots—as bad as shit gets, it’s never all bad. The birth of our nephew Baby Hugh. Reuniting with old friends in London. Visiting two of my closest friends, my little brother and sister-in-law, and my twin nieces in Portland, Oregon. Celebrating our 10th anniversary (and Baby Hugh’s baptism) in Ireland (this would be the 10th anniversary of our first date; for the record, same-sex marriage wasn’t legalized in all 50 states until 2015, the year we were married 4 years ago). Taking our annual lesbian pilgrimage to Provincetown. Putting up the Jewmas tree without fighting.

But net-net (yes, fucking net-net—I’m being that person), it’s been the worst year in recentish history, and that’s saying a lot given the estrangement from my mom since my wedding, the revelation four years ago that my stepfather sexually abused his son, the #metoo movement that has been a source of great empowerment and a trigger for flashbacks to decades-old trauma, not to mention the political climate that is a constant source of anxiety as a woman, a Jew, a lesbian, and a human being with empathy.

So, unlike 2019, I’m keeping this post short and sweet (ok, maybe just short). Here’s hoping next year is better (I do like a low bar). Here’s hoping I get Kim to join me on my next trip to London. And here’s hoping that the Gregorian New Year kicks off better than the Jewish New Year, which came up rainbows…all over my face. (Fun fact: when you hit your forehead and don’t break the skin, the blood needs somewhere to go, and thanks to gravity, somewhere is down your face and especially into your eye sockets—you’re welcome.)

Ready to Roar into the 2020s,

Jessica the Westchesbian

Jessica lives with her shiksa wife and geriatric cat in picturesque Tarrytown on the Hudson. Although a proud Westchesbian these days, Jessica grew up in Asheville, North Carolina, back when the opening of the Olive Garden and the 24-hour Walmart were big news. During business hours, Jessica’s a communications professional who translates highly technical concepts into clear, concise, colloquial language that media buyers and sellers can understand. Outside of business hours, she’s a poet, cat mom, wife, avid reader, and lover of questionable crime, sci-fi, and supernatural TV shows (preferably all in one), not necessarily in that order. Her poetry has appeared in Tin HouseThe Paris ReviewLIT, and The Huffington Post, among others.

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