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I hate how much of a homebody (or, if you prefer, housewife)
I've become: I went on a somewhat panicked round of
errands today when I realized that I wouldn't be able to go shopping during the day
anymore. Which, of course, is catastrophic. Sheesh. Five months, and it's like the
preceding three and a half years didn't happen.
Both of my parents, at different points over the course of the weekend, introduced me
as their daughter. Can't ask for more than that.
With my mother, it was to the staff
at a chinese restaurant near her house on Friday night right after we got into town; we were
arriving just as my mom and her boyfriend were leaving.
When I'd spoken to her on
the phone earlier in the evening she said they were going out to eat, but didn't say where.
It was a complete coincidence. After we said our hellos, Maddy and I went inside, and one
of the employees went rushing out to give my mom some leftovers they'd forgotten.
Afterwards, the employee came up to us an mentioned that my mom had told her she was
excited about her daughter being in town from San Francisco. The employee didn't seem
skeptical about the use of the "d" word.
We were at my dad's place on Saturday afternoon when an old business partner
of his swung by. It's someone whose name I've heard mentioned my entire life,
memorable for being the same as my father's except the last name is
"Connell" rather than "Connelly."
I get the impression he's not much of a regular visitor, thought, as he'd never seen
the remodeling my father did a few years back. Anyway, my father introduced me as his daughter
Sherilyn. (He mispronounced it, but I figured correcting him would be in bad form.)
If he was at all surprised to hear that his old friend suddenly had a daughter, he didn't
show it. I'm sure he'd heard about it from my father when I was born: Another
boy. I don't mind so much, but my wife was a little disappointed, since she's really
been wanting a girl. This is it, though. Four's enough. Presently, maybe when my father walked
him out he filled him in on the recent changes. Or not. I don't know. Doesn't matter.
He's going along with my personal little identity trip now, and that's what matters.
As trannies go, I'm extremely lucky.
Killing time on Saturday, we went to an arcade Nicole had told us about to play some
air hockey. The place was flooded with natural light, which was all wrong. Next time,
it's AMF Sierra Lanes. Air hockey should be in bowling alleys.
Before leaving town on Sunday, we had lunch with Danny. I haven't seen him since
the somewhat ill-fated Fresno trip of April
'99. It went well—we both look different than we used to, but in the long
run we're pretty much the same as we ever were—and we've agreed not to let another
three years go by. And, of course, he'd never met Maddy, and they hit it off splendidly. That's
always a good thing.
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Back. Wasn't so bad, really.
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Anyway, the interview went well. Me being a tranny was never directly addressed; I'm sure it was something he worked out for himself, and being a gay boy himself I don't think he had a problem with it. Besides, this is San Francisco, and that still counts for something. When he brought back my license after photocopying it, he commented that I look like Lillian Gish. Not the first silent film actress I would necessarily want to resemble (like Louise Brooks or Clara Bow, or especially Paulette Goddard as the Gamine in Chaplin's Modern Times), or even the first Gish (for as fond as I am of her, Anabeth Gish's presence on The X-Files this season wasn't enough to get me to watch), but I took it as a compliment nonetheless. Though I still hate the picture. Another hate-worthy picture was taken this morning, for my ID card. Should be getting it in a couple weeks. My main problem with my last few DMV pictures has been that my eyes looked like they were about to pop out of my head. I tried to not look like that in this one, and as a result I'll probably look like I'm squinting. We're going to Fresno this afternoon. As usual, my nerves are screaming. |
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As I was walking from my car to the Transbay gathering last night, my left hand starting hurting.
The thumb, to be precise. Hurt for the rest of the evening, in fact, and all through the night.
It's a recurring repetitive-stress sort of thing; it first appeared when I worked for Organic in
'97. I was with Kaiser at the time and had what is essentially a thumb-cast made, held
on with a long beige bandage. Thankfully
I've had the good sense to hang onto it, and use it whenever the pain flares up again. Like right
now. I figure I'll probably take it off before the interview this afternoon. Either that, or
I could walk in waving my bandaged hand around, saying "See? See? This is how dedicated I am!"
Or not. It makes typing a bit more of a chore, certainly, and the cast keeps wanting to add spaces.
Anyway, there was also a TGSF social going on last night, so my clever plan was to hit both of them.
I got to the Transbay thing at about 7:30pm, and if nothing else felt terribly overdressed. I was in club
mode, full battle gear, and nobody else was. Whoops. Oh well. It was pretty much just a casual
support group held in a restaurant called
Quetzal,
nothing too terribly interesting. I'm glad such things exist,
even if I seldom went to them back in the day, but they're not really my thing now.
For better or for worse, I realized I wanted to dance. Damnit.
I left at 9pm and went across town to
Cafe Mars for the
TGSF thing. Unfortunately, A) there wasn't any dancing going on or even an obvious dance floor to
speak of, and B) I didn't see anyone else from TGSF there. Maybe I was too late—it technically
started at 8—or maybe nobody else had made it at all. There was a table which seemed likely,
but on a couple passes I didn't recognize anyone. Not that I know what everyone in TGSF looks like,
not by a long shot; more importantly, I got the distinct vibe
they were all genetic girls, and I didn't feel right asking otherwise. Of course, at The Holy Cow
back in September (in that short period after The
Great Overshadowing but before getting laid off)
I wasn't read when someone else in TGSF was looking for other trannies. So I might've been wrong.
I wound up sitting at the bar nursing an orange juice, trying appreciate the romantic aspect of
the situation. Y'know, sitting by myself, feeling vaguely stood up, not even being able to dance,
having gotten dressed up and having somewhere to go, yet finding I still wasn't really anywhere at
all.
We're having sushi tonight. Yay.
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Yet another article about how dire things are getting for
laid-off techies. I can't yet decide if it's ironic that it's by my old company (or a company it acquired, anyway). At least the tone isn't
quite as snarky as those that usually run on sfgate.com. Is it really necessary to quote the lyrics of the FAO Schwarz song? Gotta drive home the humiliation
a little more, huh?
For not the first time I'm finding myself considering looking into getting a job at the zoo. It's a twenty-minute walk,
and you can't beat that commute. I don't like the thought of dealing with huge crowds of families, but maybe I'd get
lucky and just have to shovel elephant poo. Nah—even that would probably require experience I don't have. Oh, Mina's
been known to make some pretty hefty urine boulders in her time, but that's not close enough. In this job market, why train
someone to shovel elephant poo when you can just easily hire someone who's already done it?
Besides the Castro, another benefit of working at Le Video is getting into movies at the Landmark chain (The Lumiere,
The Embarcadero, The Bridge, basically all the cool ones except for the Roxie and The Red Vic). So that's something to
keep in mind.
And my career shovelling elephant poo may have to wait: it seems that Lew very much wants me for a project back at the
old homestead, and referred me to the staffing agency the company uses to hire contractors. I called and spoke to their
main contact, and it went well. He observed that my I have the same first name as the actress who played Audrey Horne
on Twin Peaks, and rather than out myself with the truth, I told him we was one of the few to catch it. (Which
wasn't untrue.) We talked for a bit longer about the Twin Peaks, both trying to outdo each other with obscure
references, and finally made an appointment for tomorrow afternoon. I suspect it's all formality at this point; Lew
wants me for the position, and unless I give this guy a good reason not to represent me (like not having been honest about
being a transsexual at the earliest opportunity?), it's mine. By the end of the month, I'll be riding to work with Maddy
again, if only for a few weeks.
Of course, there's something inherently embarrassing about being laid off from a job then returning as a temp six
months later, but that's not at all uncommon these days. Then there's the "leaving as a man, returning as a
woman" cliche, which isn't quite as common, but on the plus side I'm long since out to the people I'll be working with.
And, if all goes well—which is to say, I don't freak the guy out so much that he decides he doesn't want to deal
with me—the net result will be, at long last, representation by a staffing agency. Considering that the
standard response from most of them has been to ignore my phone calls, that's a very good thing.
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Here we go again: for my taxes, my dad's asking for the federal letter showing the amount
rebated to me. I haven't really dug for it yet, but I have a sneaking suspicion I don't
have it anymore. (Do you have yours?) It was $300, for pete's sake, like everyone else
(except for heads of household who got $500, and married couples filing jointly or a qualifying
widow(er)s who got $600). I hope he just wants it for the record and it doesn't have to
actually file the thing. It's terribly embarrassing, just like
when he did my taxes last year and I couldn't
find my 1999 returns. I'd like for him to think of me as being somewhat responsible, and
I keep giving him reasons not to.
I'm not liking it any better now than I did then. And I have to keep reminding myself: Uma's
wearing a wig. She must be.
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