Pink Pixie Club
The art of pursuing a bit of the bucket list, terminal illness not required
I recently binge watched Dying For Sex, which despite its silly title and questionable premise was one of the most thought provoking stories I’ve seen in a long time. The idea of a stage 4 cancer patient deciding to upend her quiet life to pursue anonymous sex in order to “find herself” before she died seemed like it could be a raunchy gratuitous mess or at least hard to grasp. The cast was so strong I opted to give it a chance and I was blown away by how skillfully it unfolded.
I will preface by saying this show is not for everyone. If BDSM (mostly comical), nudity (mostly male), or nonstop sex talk makes you feel squishy, skip it. But if you’re game, enjoy the ride. The show is surprisingly funny from beginning to end, impressive because *spoiler alert* as advertised, the main character dies. Michelle Williams as our cancer stricken heroine Molly goes from helpless to incandescent as she moves from feeling insecure and disconnected to her body to being fully in control as a power kinkster. Her face tells so many stories on its own, her comedic timing is golden, her pink pixie in her final days is my absolute dream hair. Her bond with Nikki (a hot mess played to perfection by Jenny Slate) is intense to a fault, but Nikki is devotedly all in. Nikki encourages Molly to pursue her dying wish to get sexy with anyone and everyone she fancies in a quest to discover what gives her pleasure, what makes her feel alive.
Eight short episodes explore quite a few themes; the capacity of female friendship, the lack of empathy in the medical community, many definitions of intimacy, the lasting effects of childhood trauma, the grind of being a critically ill human, the commitment and sacrifice involved in being a dedicated caregiver and the notion that if you’re cool, a palliative care social worker might just invite you to a spicy dom/sub potluck party. (Hello, Robby Hoffman!)
An impressive array of substantive ideas to weave into a truly funny show about dying. To Elizabeth Meriwether and Kim Rosenstock who crafted it from the podcast of the same name, I say BRAVA. This show is feminist as hell; it is Molly’s story all the way, to the point that the love interest doesn’t even merit a name (Rob Delaney, known only as “Neighbor Guy”, is an absolute treasure)
The theme that resonated the most for me was Molly’s immediate response to receiving the news that her cancer had returned and had metastasized to her bones was “I must do life NOW!” She leaves her safe yet boring caretaker husband and opts to die with Nikki by her side.
The journey of the dying person on a mission to do bucket list shit is not new, but this version felt fresh to me. I also extrapolated that you don’t have to be dying to make significant changes. In fact, starting now is a better idea if you’re at all concerned with the quality of your allotted span of time being a human.
I have been working on recording audio for some of my older stories, currently spending some time on a ten year old piece titled “I’m Not From Here”. In it I reference my lifelong struggle with loneliness and how I accept that dark hole in my brain as an inevitable part of life. I call it “the souvenir of the urban nomad.”
While prepping this story, I stopped to think about times I’ve felt particularly lonely. When I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s in 2018, I stripped my life back to bare metal. I let go of everything and everyone that took energy with zero consideration of what I received in return. I burned it all to the ground to rebuild with intention.
Within a few years I had culled my roster to only star players, those who were loyal, dependable, and kind. Living with the unknowns of degenerative disease became much easier when I wasn’t trying to counsel the eternally negative, when I gave up those who would leave messages inquiring about my health, only to find that returning their call cost me a precious hour of my life. An hour where it quickly became clear I was the designated listener. An hour that almost always concluded with “But how are you doing? You good?” No, but thanks for asking in the last few minutes before we hang up. I know you’d rather talk about you, I’m never getting better and that’s not something you’re comfortable discussing. Love you kiss noise bye now.
The final toxic personality purge I made without much thought but the natural progression of Marie Kondoing the inside of my head meant they had to go. I deleted the dudes who made me feel like I was still fuckable, the last few I kept on file because they weren’t local so I couldn’t make a real life mess of things without getting on an airplane. It was just an occasional salacious text, the kind of exchange that in the moment seems better than nothing.
After the breakup of my last legitimate relationship in 2022, I had to concede that I’d never found a partnership that felt as good as being single. Quitting the dating scene as a fifty plus year old chronically ill lady person is easy as there is zero market for you anyway. I tried ordering Netflix and chill a la carte and it never worked for me, probably due to the fact that even in the most casual settings I found myself trying to shape shift into what the other person wanted me to be or what I overthought the other person wanted me to be or I just morphed into a blank canvas that fit all occasions, nodding and listening until they asked, “How about you? You good?” Good was the only acceptable answer and I was no longer anywhere close to good.
It’s been awhile since I purged my remaining “you up?” contacts. I firmly believe that was the last bit of dirt that needed to be swept up to fill in that fissure in my soul that I once thought was a birth defect. I am 100% cool with being alone. Am I a little bitter that men of all ages, shapes, sizes, and sexual orientations can get some if they so desire, that they are allowed to age like a fine wine from Chateaux Zaddy? (not all men, I know, please no hate mail) I suppose I could put it on the ever growing list of things that are not fair. But I choose to focus on what currently has my joy meter going off these days.
New friends! It’s been awhile since I connected with fresh faces and exchanging numbers with a potential new buddy is even better than it was in junior high. And now we can Zoom/Skype/Facetime. As my ability to get out and about is limited, I cherish a virtual hangout. And when a new pal tells you they want you to meet their dogs, it’s the friendship equivalent of going steady!
I am 46 days out from getting my skull screwed to a table and cracked open and I have not been the least bit stoic about it lately. I have no fucks to give about losing it in public anymore. I cry on the bus, at birthday parties, at Target to the point that small children are probably thinking, “Wow, that lady must want something she can’t have really bad”. I threw a “This Is Not Fair” pity party last week because I have to have an MRI instead of seeing Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds with St. Vincent as the opener. I am so tired of adding ZERO FUN events on my calendar. But I’m getting comfortable with crying and being angry. It feels appropriate, deeply human, and decades overdue. I am impatiently waiting for my “I must do LIFE now” opportunity sporting the pink pixie, sans the death sentence.
I feel morally obligated to acknowledge the world is on fire…there’s very little escape from it. I find the devastation to be two-fold: first there are the atrocities and then there are the blank stares, like today’s weather and today’s illegal deportations hold the same space. My current irritation is all the little ways technology seems to cater to the lazy. My email was offering a simplified synopsis of the email chain until I turned it off. I’m sure this might have some practical use in a business setting but why wouldn’t you just read the email? How much time are we saving and for what? There are now buttons to “Generate Key Takeaways” on relatively short news articles. In case you just want to scratch and sniff what’s happening? Are you really too busy to read the entire Katy Perry in space article? Why did you click on it in the first place? I’ve read that Netflix is asking writers to write scripts that can be followed “while doing something else”, i.e. dicking around on your phone. Sure, a lot of people do it, but should that be the goal? What about those of us who enjoy plot more than multitasking?
So much UGH.
Perhaps I’m coming off a bit harsh. My “your ignorance is not my bliss” button went off several weeks ago at work. I flew with a lovely lady, very professional and well spoken who asked me if I thought she could wait until payday to buy a $1,300 handbag from Japan or if she should buy it TODAY because of the tariffs. She said she didn’t have a clue what to do because she refused to expose herself to anything political because she “loves everybody”.
As someone is fighting to save what’s left of my brain so I can attempt to use it for meaningful deeds, I had no clue where to start with any of that. Sure, the red hats are marinated in their cult speak, but what about people like her? There must be millions of them. How do we fix this kind of detached ignorance? I don’t understand the $1,300 purse, so I’m not sure how to explain how “loving everybody” is a fucking cop out without screeching in a register only dogs can hear.
I know I can’t figure it all out on my own. Must give brain something sweet in order to stay sane. Old friends who help me to take pills on time and focus on positive outcomes, sharing a mutual case of the giggles with my Nancele, knowing I may be filled with justifiably sadness, anger, and frustration but I no longer feel the ache of being lonely.
I LOVE YOU. I think I start every comment to every piece you write that way. But start it that way, I must. Eileen, you're a champion in so many ways. Your honesty, courage, humor-dark and light, your wisdom are all gifts you give us when you publish. Thank you, my dear friend! xo
Pink hair. Crying in public. Dogs. Being feminist AF. TJ's almond croissants. Dude purges. Virtual Vitality. Reading as a singular activity. Joy amidst the rubble. Wisdom inside the tsunami of dumb. Thank goddess for you, Eileen.