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Friday, 10 November 2000 (scorched earth) 10:43am Shaved this morning, the first time since Tuesday. My upper lip is officially getting dark and hairy again. My new endoc said that changing my levels would help with electro, so that's probably the excuse I'll use to wait until the end of the year to get zapped again. I say that now; the real question is, how long before the panic sets in and I make the call? I cheated and downloaded Things Falling Apart. Why I consider it cheating I don't really know, because there's no doubt in my mind that I'll buy it when it's officially released. In the meantime, it's exactly what it should be: noisy, with liberal doses of violins. What more could you want? Speaking of cheating, if anyone asks, I voted for Bush. There's absolutely no way anybody can prove otherwise, and for some reason Bush voters aren't considered nearly as evil as Nader voters. In any event, it's not the first time I've been blamed for the ills of the world; by the logic of an anonymous phone call back in 1990, America's military should be nonexistant by now. In a column I wrote for The Fresno Bee during the buildup to the Gulf War, I said that my conscience wouldn't allow me to serve in the military. Oh, the shitstorm to emerge from that one was enormous, including the aforementioned call in which I was branded as dangerous: see, other people might read what I'd written, decide they didn't want to serve their country either, and next thing you know, we'd be defenseless! (Apparently, the bulk of our military is comprised of people who read The Fresno Bee's Teen Tempo section.) In any event, I can appreciate how Tom Tomorrow feels. It's an awesome responsibility, carrying the weight of the free world on one's back. Frankly, I've been crucified for less.
And, yes, I know, it's all about the Supreme Court.
It's a good thing I that I actually know some clothes designers; in the long run, that's going to be my best bet. If I want something aestethetically appealing which actually fits upon my gargantuan frame, it'll have to be custom-made. As such they'll probably be a bit more expensive, but as always, it beats muu-muus from off the rack. (Remember that Simpsons episode where Homer deliberately gains enough weight to be classified as disabled? That fairly well illustrates what I'd always suspected my wardrobe would look like.) I also went bookshopping again, not at City Lights but Columbus Books across the corner. I'm always much weaker in used bookstores; I got Leonard Cohen's Beautiful Losers (after having wanted it for a year and a half) and Chuck Palahniuk's original novel of Fight Club. Ah, retail therapy.
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Thursday, 9 November 2000 (peace and noise) 9:16am Okay, I'm already sick of it all and want it to go away—if only so people of good conscience will stop fighting with one another for having differing beliefs and perspectives. I'm not talking about the candidates, either. Meanwhile, I just got a frantic call from The Den Mother, who is currently (somewhere back East, but still not far enough away). Seems she's having difficulty with one of the projects we've been working on: it's designed for IE, using stuff that only works on IE...but she needs it to work on Netscape. ("I don't care if human lungs can only breathe air—they need to breathe water, too! Just make it work!") So I suggested she run it in IE rather than Netscape, since from the beginning it was designed to run in IE rather than Netscape. Now it works, and she's happy. I'm trying to look on the bright side: she took my suggestion, didn't demand that I make it work on Netscape too, etc. My stock is probably fairly high with her, and that's a good thing. Must think of the good things. Must, must, must... I think this is what Dylan was talking about, when negativity don't pull you through. i started out on burgundy 10:35am I'm attempting to convince my mother that we should go out to eat on Thanksgiving. It's an old tradition which deserves resurrection. 11:27am sfgoth has been going up and down a lot today. I don't mind so much. 2:32pm In attempt to increase my physical activity without going to the gym, I've been walking a lot lately. Today I decided to take advantage of the fact that I live in a topographically gnarly city, walking the semi-famous Filbert steps into North Beach. After about a minute my legs were already hurting, and by the time I reached the top I was breathing heavily. But I suppose that's kindaa the point, and it beats a Stairmaster. Which isn't to say that going to the gym on a regular basis would be a bad thing, but...oh, never mind. After the climb (and the return of my breath) I went to City Lights. I've only been a few times, but I've always liked it. The place has a reals sense of history about it; important things happened there, important if you give a damn about freedom of expression. So I'm browsing through the fiction section when a book leaps out at me: Blue Paige, by Danny Vinik. I was momentarily fascinated by the cover, a tranny shot from behind, with heavy dangle-action going on. If the picture had been of me, I realized, there wouldn't have been anything visible from behind at all: my thighs are too wide (although Maddy insists otherwise), and I'm simply not long enough to dangle. Which I've never considered to be a bad thing. Tempted as it was, I didn't buy the book (too much financial misconduct lately, not to mention I'm still reading Michelle Tea's Valencia plus I've promised Summer I'll review a book for Errata), although I imagine I'll probably break down in the near future and get it. However, I'm no longer convinced it's a tranny, but suspect it's a genetic girl holding an official "Blue Paige Performer" dildo. Now that's brilliant marketing, and it just goes to show why real bookstores will always be more fun than Amazon.
3:28pm
How's that for the understatement of the year? It isn't just a case of hand-staplee-forehead, either, but rather my new endocrinologist's reaction to my blood tests. Her words, even. As I'd suspected all along, my levels aren't what they should be. This isn't something my previous endoc could have known, seeing as how she hasn't bothered to check in the last two years. In fact, my old endoc never even bothered to check my testosterone levels to begin with. I guess she prided herself on being able to eyeball these things. Who needs all this newfangled technology, anyway? Who needs science, or its methodology? Not her, apparently. Nope. A sixth sense, she has. It's the only logical explanation. Well, in the accuracy of her sixth sense is a reflection on the others, I'm amazed she can taste food or walk around with bumping into things. According to my new endoc, the usual testosterone level in genetic females is between 12 and 90. (Between 12 and 90 what, I don't know; I just have to have faith that the numbers are relevant.) With Hormone Reassignment Therapy, which I've allegedly been one for the last two years, her patients usually wind up somewhere between 20 and 80. Not bad at all. So, what's my testosterone level? 527. Which, I'm informed, is healthy for a man. That's fine and good for those who aspire to be men, but in my case it misses the point just a little, y'know? My estrogen is at 400, which is adequate, but they're in a practical statemate with the testosterone. The dynamics between estrogen and testosterone are the (heart? basis? core?) of HRT. Did my old endoc give a shit? No, apparently not. I did manage to talk her into giving me a prescription for a testosterone blocker last year, but she did so very grudgingly, and I voluntarily went of the stuff after a couple months because a bit of research into revealed some unpleasant side effects. I also didn't like the feeling that I was self-medicating; if I needn't the stuff, well, she'd know, right? That's what I was paying her for, right? In any event, she forgot she'd ever prescribed it in the first place and nothing more was ever said. She was much more involved in the mystery of how I can be taking Meridia yet gain two pounds over the course of three months, according to two different scales. It's my own damn fault. I trusted her, and I shouldn't have. The moment I began to suspect that things weren't quite right, I should have jumped ship, but I didn't. What really scares me is a repeat of last year, of what happened to my head when the hormones really began to kick in. I thought it was both the estrogen increasing and the testosterone decreasing at the same time, but no. I'm not done yet, it seems. And I now I have to hold, I have to try to keep the veneer of calm that seems to be relied upon by others at times, because we love the abuse because it makes us feel like we are neededat some point or another my own drama became irrelevant. I don't have the luxury of externalizing, not anymore, if I ever did. I have to be the one to keep it together at all times. And I fear that's about to become very, very difficult.
so? deal. you've had a much better go at it than most. this isn't how you dreamed it would be someday; this is what you settled for. All my new endoc is doing, for now, is to double my dosage of provera. In practical terms, I'm taking a purple pill and a white pill in the morning, then a purple pill at night. Now I'll be taking them both at night, too. In a month, I'll be having my levels tested again, and we'll go from there.
Cataclysmic change. But I knew it was coming, didn't I? Wasn't it what I wanted? Have I ever really known?
"The film will be longer than the theatrical version, but shorter than the extended version. The effects are being redone, it's being re-edited to make it a tighter movie--the one Robert Wise wanted. The lighting will be corrected, the ambient bridge sounds will be better. It will virtually be a new film."
Oh hell yeah. This makes me inordinately happy. See? The world's not a completely evil place.
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Wednesday, 8 November 2000 (waiting underground) 9:23am Yeah, sure, whatever. 11:45am Is it over yet? Does it, in fact, ever end?
Oh, I've asked that question on more than one occasion...
Then again, I can justify it with the new prez's beeg tax cut. Bush has officially
won now, right? Last I heard they were neck and neck. Or something.
Hooked up new stereo. I'm happy with it. I also got new speakers, inexpensive and roughly a quarter the size of my old pair, which I've had for at least ten years. Time to get rid of them, and I like the idea of replacing them with something smaller. Seems only right. Reduction is a good thing.
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Tuesday, 7 November 2000 (talk of one, thought of none) 10:07am Voted this morning before coming to work. My local polling place (and we all know how painful that can be!) is in a garage down the street, and I filled out the ballot using someone's dryer as a table. Oddly enough, the machine was coin-operated. I can only imagine they bought it used, and that it doesn't actually require quarters anymore. Boy, that would suck, huh? To have to save up change to do laundry in your own garage? I was tempted to put in some money just to see what would happen, but decided against it. Ah, democracy in 2000. And, yes, I voted my conscience. I wonder, in 1980, was a vote for Anderson a vote for Reagan? We did end up seeing Requiem for a Dream with Orky last night. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I love a good junkie movie, and this one's going to be hard to top. Along with Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, it's one of those rare movies which manages to recreate visually what I've experienced in my own drug use. Only brief moments, of course, and I've never done heroin or cocaine (and never will), but still, it's fascinating to see one's own internal moments reflected on screen...
I'm also reminded of why I didn't pick the name "Jennifer," which is the most common feminization of my birth name and
is in fact what my parents would have named me had they won the coin toss. There's already a Jennifer Connelly, and
frankly, I wouldn't want to compete with her.
And that's why I don't need to know if Bush or Gore won. Not right now. It'll be the same tonight as it is for the next four years, so for now, I'll just savor the suspense. Or lack thereof. Heh. Kinda reminds me of the night of the final episode of Survivor. You can have your election, but I suspect that was the defining cultural moment of 2000. That's how fucked up we are. And don't try to tell me my momentary apathy is just as bad; I did vote, after all. I'm simply in no rush to find out how everyone else voted. President Dubya can wait.
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Monday, 6 November 2000 (forever changed) 8:58am clatter, crash, clack! Actually, it was more like thunk! boom!, but I wanted to make a Björk reference. Anyway, whatever the sound was, it was obviously something very heavy falling to the ground—not the kind of thing you want to hear at half past one in the morning in any cirumstances, and even less so when you've recently acquired an aquarium and have two very inquisitive cats. We stumbled out of the bedroom frantically (Madeline even slipped and skinned her knee on the kitchen floor), fully expecting to see the tank on the ground, probably shattered, with water everywhere. We haven't actually gotten any fish yet, but that would be a small comfort. Remarkably, the aquarium was still standing; it took me a moment to realize that the sound had been one of the stereo speakers falling, the one which happens to be carrying both the receiver and the (mostly neglected since I discovered CD-R) tape deck. The cats enjoy sleeping on top, so it was really only a matter of time before this happened. Certainly there's no point in getting upset at the cats, and I've been meaning to get replace the speaker with something a bit more appropriate for our tiny apartment anyway. It was a shock that none of our systems especially needed, what with the stress of going to work the next day. I'd had the previous week off, of course, and Maddy had missed the last few days of the week. Brian is gone, and I don't know what's going to happen next. I've been left alone so far, but any moment now I'm sure The Den Mother is going to knock at my door... I just don't feel comfortable here right now. I've had this feeling before, though. It'll pass, or I'll adapt. It always works that way. As I suspected she would be, Leigh is very happy to have me back; as I'd also suspected, in both my absence as well Brian's, The Den Mother and The Dreaded Russian Guy both descended upon her while fighting with each other. At least now I'll be able to shield her, a little. She also made me promise to show her pictures from the wedding. I talked to my mom yesterday. It's looking like we will in fact be going to Fresno for Thanksgiving, unless she can somehow convince barefoot that she can get along with his mother-in-law, and frankly, I don't see that happening. I told her a bit about the wedding, which may have been the first time I've mentioned it to her. It she was at all fazed by me telling her I was Dana's maid of honor, it didn't show. (She, on the other hand, didn't ask for pictures, but one thing at time.) Probably because she's used to this sort of thing by now; through PFLAG, she's come across quite a few families-of-trannies mailing lists and says they've been a wonderful help to her. Some parents are galvanized by queer children, are given a sense of purpose they might not have had before (if my child is queer, i'm going to try to make the world a better place for them), and I consider myself extremely lucky that she's one of them. She's even been telling people how proud she is of me—and, in a lot of ways, that's all I've ever wanted from her.
Best of all, she asked about the cats. Scored big points from Maddy for that one.
According to Pike, The Den Mother has asked him to more or less assume Brian's former responsibilities regarding me. He says that she fully
admits her ignorance when comes to what I do. He really doesn't need more to deal with right now, but she deserves credit for realizing
he's more qualified than she is, and I can't help thinking it's for the best.
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Sunday, 5 November 2000 (blue sunshine) 6:57pm A new picture is coming soon, I promise.
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Saturday, 4 November 2000 (disassociative) 7:38am It actually struck me on Monday night, after the rehearsal dinner when we were hanging out at Dana's: this is what it used to feel like anticipating a major holiday. I hadn't felt quite that excited about what might happen the following day since xmas eve as a child. Now it's come and gone, and there's not much to look forward to now except returning to work on Monday. Yeah, Thanksgiving's at the end of the month with xmas following, but those involve going to Fresno and being with my family. Not quite the same. At least last year we got together at barefoot's place in Oakland for Thanksgiving, and I felt like I was in my element, or at least close to it with my home just over the Bay Bridge. And with the possible exception of seeing Astrid, there wasn't much good about xmas.
Time marches on, however, and we're dragged along whether we like it or not.
On the plus side, AMC is showing Rock Around the Clock. Hell yeah.
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Friday, 3 November 2000 (remember the mountain bed) 6:09pm I had blood drawn and went to lunch with The Ex today. (Yes, in that order, thank you.)) I'm sure I'll start relaxing tomorrow, seeing as how I'm on vacation and all.
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Thursday, 2 November 2000 (seven hours sleep) 5:16pm Lest I should get too relaxed, I went to see my new endocrinologist today. The anticipation was no less nerve-wracking than when I first went to see my original endoc, not aided by my overly confident attitude towards driving to San Jose—well, driving to San Jose was easy enough. It was trying to find the place which proved difficult. I was fifteen minutes late, but she still saw me and didn't seem too upset. In fact, it went very well. I knew I was in better hands when I asked if I should take off my buetz before she weighed me, and she replied, "No, it shouldn't matter so long as we use the same scale every time." I wanted to fall down and kiss her feet. Finally! A doctor with a sense of scientific methodology! I mean, I don't pretend to be an expert on such things, but even I know that the only way measurements of weight are worth a damn is if the same scale is used every time, and my old endoc's staff would just toss me onto whichever one was handy. Yet she'd give me static if I'd apparently gained a few pounds since the last time. Don't work that way, kids. My new endoc was a bit surprised that I haven't had any bloodwork done since before I started on hormones. I appear healthy and am coming along well enough, but you can't tell just by looking what estrogen levels are, how my liver's holding up, etc. The little details, the ones which my old endoc shrugged off. As such, I'm getting tested tomorrow, and when she receives the results from the lab, she'll adjust my prescription if necessary. It's entirely possible that she'll keep me on the same amounts as before, and if so I don't mind; it'll just be nice to get a second opinion. She didn't seem as disappointed in my breast development as my old endoc, and laughed when I mentioned that implants had been suggested. Just like genetic women, some of us are late bloomers. It's too soon to declare that I'll need to inject silicone into my chest—and, quite frankly, I would only do that if my life depended on it. In other words, it ain't gonna happne. Most importantly, perhaps, she didn't object when I said that I was in no particular rush for surgery, and in fact may never have it done. My old endoc seemed surprised that I haven't already made an appointment; the new one agreed with me that it's a very personal decision, and not necessary for everyone. If I don't feel I need it, then there's no reason why I should, and there's nothing wrong with that. It's all about becoming comfortable within my own skin, and only I can know what that requires. This remarkable empathy of hers probably comes from her also being a tranny. I'm not suggesting that genetic women (or genetic men, or an f2m) aren't properly qualified for this sort of work, but I think it helps. As it happens, she was one of the endocrinologists suggested by my therapist back in '98; I didn't choose her because of the distance. I was going to San Rafael to get my head shrinked and to Alameda for zapping, and I liked the idea of my endoc being local. I chose unwisely, it would seem. Alas. Now I know. Oh, and, yes, I'm going to write about wedding. Honest. Just need to find the time. And, one would hope, the words will reveal themselves shortly thereafter. I will say this, though: it was quite possibly the most beautiful, most real thing I've ever witnessed.
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Wednesday, 1 November 2000 (something is sacred) 5:22pm And, lo, the following day they did rest. 'Cuz they really, really needed to.
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