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Much to my surprise (and according to Google, it's the currently the forty-eighth thing to be isn't much to my surprise), Vash joined me at Mission Creek last night. She's housesitting nearby, and it was extra-nice since I'd been feeling sad about the fact that we didn't have plans to get together until Saturday. Sadie was late in gettng back from a gig in Bolinas, so when Mission Creek closed, Vash and I switched from Mission Creek to Ritual. And it was extra Vash time, so it was all good. Sadie eventually joined us, and after dropping Vash off at her sitting-house (she declined to join us for dinner), Sadie and I headed off in search of food. We'd originally planned on hitting Osha on Leavenworth, but parking availability and the annoying tendency of San Francisco restaurants to close at ten found us at Thai Stick instead. We had a nice fishbowl view of the Tendernob around us, though, so it was just as good. A guy who'd been kinda obviously checking us out for a while came over to our table and asked if he could ask us a question. Always a promising start. His (second) question was if we knew where he could buy some pot. At a quarter past eleven, on Friday night, in the Tendernob. In fact there were probably several young men on the neighboring streets who could oblige, but Sadie is clean 'n sober and I haven't bought any in over two years, so we were stumped. Collectively, all we could think of was the Haight, and considering that he'd just gotten into town from Seattle and was leaving again at a quarter to five in the morning, going into the Haight to buy drugs would be spectacularly bad idea. He told he us he was leaving again for Fresno, which made Sadie laugh. I asked why he was going to Fresno and he said his parents live there. I said that mine do too, and he replied isn't it shitty there? Oddly enough, my immediate answer was no. I don't think it's shitty there. Not anymore. Maybe I once did, and it took me a few years to feel comfortable going there after I moved to San Francisco, and especially after I started transitioning, but now? I don't have a problem with the town. It has no power over me, I don't have to stay, my aforementioned parents live there, and my home is pretty well established now as San Francisco. (I'm still feeling slightly weird about my crying jags this past weekend a room which is for all intents and purposes the identical twin of the room I grew up in. Sadie's theory is that I was more emotionally raw because of that connection, and she may not be wrong, but that's a separate issue entirely.) So, no, Fresno's not so bad. And, as I told him, he's going at the right time of year, providing he can stay out of the sun during the day. From there, Sadie and I went to the Power Exchange. I needed to take some specific notes on the building and decor for my show/book, and neither of us had been there at all for a while anyway. It's always good to see my friends there. I've mentioned a couple times that I'm doing a solo show about the place in October, and of course the book project has been common knowledge for much longer, and it's funny—nobody has told me not to write about them, that I'm violating their privacy, any of that. It would be perfectly valid if they did (though "valid" doesn't mean I'd necessarily oblige), but nobody has any issues with it. Like the last few times, Sadie was planning on just hanging out with me, watching whatever spectacle there was to watch, and not getting involved otherwise. It never seems to last, and before long she was instructing a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed blonde girl in her early twenties on basic flogger and whip technique. Rhonda asked if she's my girlfriend, a question I haven't heard in a while. The answer's the same as ever, though.
5:39pm At Citizen Cupcake on the third story of Virgin Megastore at Fourth and Market. It's seldom a convenient place for me to go, but when it is, the view can't be beat. Ennui's going to be joining me soon.
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Among the problems with working from one's bedroom, as I attempted to do last night, isn't just the giraffe stampedes. It's that the bed is right there, calling out, especially when you haven't gotten much sleep lately. Surely you can just lie down for a little while, a brief nap to get the energy up, and...net result was that I crashed around half past nine last night, resulting in one of my rare eight-hour nights of sleep. Which is a good thing. Ended up missing a text from Johanna around ten inviting me to get an impromptu Sesame Snow from the Quickly on Taraval, unfortunately, but there will be other opportunities. I'm at the Mission Creek Cafe right now. I'll probably be hanging out Sadie later in the evening, and even if I don't, it's nice to be out in the world, in a breezy cafe with a power outlet and wifi. (Lookit how productive I'm being.) Refreshened squid, short black velvet dress which fits me nicely and makes my body look halfway decent, full battlegear, as good as I get. I'm having an iced mocha, which has become my lastest thing. The groovy part of iced drinks, I've discovered? They don't burn your mouth. That's so great. I still find that iced tea takes like piss (the bad kind of piss, unlike Vash's, which is warm and tasty, especially when she's been eating pineapple), but I does love a good iced mocha. Or Thai Iced Coffee, especially from Tu Lan at Sixth and Market. So, so good. When I get one during the workday, it's usually at the Borders near my office. I have one of the Borders Rewards Cards, 'cuz, why not? Especially since I get sent coupons and stuff. I don't use them very often, since I don't buy media often; I generally prefer to get them from the library and/or pirate them. (Arrrr!) So when i do, it counts, like when I used a 40% off one last year to justify buying the Ultimate Superman Collection DVD set, or today, when I used bought Willie Nelson's The Tao of Willie: A Guide to the Happiness in Your Heart. I got it from the library last year and loved it a great deal, and am finding comfort in it now, and I can have it with me whenever I want it.. Not bad for nine bucks.
sometime after midnight if someone pushes you away, they should expect you'll start exploring in that direction.
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Slept on the retightened squid with no pain or discomfort, and even when I made God kill a kitten, my head didn't split in two. This is how it should have been from the beginning, really. But I never seem to get this sort of thing right at first. I like my new hair girl, and she seems enthusiastic about helping me with the upkeep. That she lives in San Francisco is a big plus, too. We got on splendidly, talking the whole time, and when we started discussing butch/femme politics, I busted out my laptop and read her "In the Shadow of the Valley." She liked it and said she could relate to it; as a genetic femme who's attracted to other femmes, she's often felt marginalized. It always means a lot to me when a non-M2F person says they can relate to my work. We finished around a quarter to eleven, and it seemed like a shame to go home with the squid looking as good as it's going to look for the next few months, so I headed downtown. Ate at a sushi place on Polk which was expensive but open, then went to Divas. I'd hoped to get some writing done, but instead arrived in time for the open mic. It's a lip-syncing extravaganza (as so to avoid certain taxes and licenses than live music would require), and the host zeroed in on me and insisted that I return next week to perform. Patti Smith's "Gloria" keeps going through my head. Heaven forbid I should want to do a song that isn't six minutes long and verbose.
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My head should be hurting right now. Nothing major, I would hope, but at least a dull, steady throb. Instead, nothing. I feel just fine, thanks for asking. The thing is, I was supposed to get squid maintenance last night, tightening the tentacles back up to my scalp, covering up my lovely blondified roots. (That's kinda the point; if my hair isn't blonde, it'll be obvious within the squid. So I'm told, anyway.) The girl who originally did the work has since disappeared, so I made an appointment with the other person she suggested, the girl who taught her and more recently did fanatastic work on Melissa's natural dreads. Except that she never showed up. I stood in front of her place for about forty-five minutes, rang the buzzer and left messages, but, nothing. So I went to Best Buy to replace my laptop's recently deceased Cylon mouse, then to Ritual to work, and finally hung out at Sadie's for a while before heading back home. The evening wasn't a total bust, anyway. Dead network at the office. No work getting done. This happens a lot.
12:27pm Going home.
6:24pm At the Sea Biscuit, a table, plugged in. Sporadic wifi leeched from the neighbors, but that's okay; I'm in hardcore compose compose compose mode.
7:31pm The hairstylist called, apologized profusely for the mixup, and squidwork is happening tonight.
10:52pm The squid has been tightened—and my head isn't asploding! Who knew?
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After an extended detour through Santa Cruz, Vash and I got back from Fresno around ten last night. It was a good weekend, save for one harsh night.
9:12pm Vash and I both enjoyed a lovely Hansen's Diet Lime Tangerine soda beverage as we left San Francisco on 280 around three on Friday afternoon. As we approached the part where 85 turns into 101, we both started feeling it in our bladders. (Tiny bladders, us.) No problem; it would be a relatively quick jaunt into Gilroy, especially since they widened that part of 101 a few years back, effectively ending what used to be a gnarly bottleneck. Except that, before we knew it, the traffic was at a crawl and our back teeth were swimming. It was the first time in years that the traffic had been so slow. We felt especially mocked by a highway exit with a NO SERVICES sign; it's probably up because they patrons of the massive golf course don't want tourists buzzing around needing to piddle. We managed to make it to Morgan Hill without darkening our undies, and while we were waiting in line in the restroom at the In & Out Burger (Vash figured we'd have better luck there than Denny's), we compared notes with our fellow travelers. Seems there was a Porsche crashed up ahead, so we got caught in the rubberbottleneck. After we piddled and got back on the highway, it was smooth sailing. Makes sense, seeing as how our full bladders weren't slowing us down anymore. We got into Fresno around a quarter to eight, stopping by my mom's first to drop off some stuff and say hello before heading on to my father's place. His wife was out of town and my no-account siblings and niece wouldn't be arriving until later and/or Saturday, so it was just the three of us. Which was nice, especially since he's regained some of his health since the last few times I've seen him. My parents are getting old. That's so weird. Not that you can tell by looking at my mom, who turned sixty-seven this year but doesn't look a day over fifty-seven. Gives me some hope for my senior years, especially since I know she didn't really start getting serious about her health until after I was born, which is to say right about the age I am now. She was still awake and talking to my brother Jonco when Vash and I returned. Vash went to bed (we were once again in the equivalent to my childhood bedroom, which I'd called dibs on), and Jonco and I went to the Tower District (The Cool Part of Town) for a drink at Livingstone's, literally a stone's throw from where The Ex and I lived for the first half of '94 Tower District, and where all the one and future Fresno hipsters congregate. Their Bloody Mary is best described as "a raging disappointment." Not having had fried Mozzarella sticks in years, I have no frame of reference, but those didn't seem very good, either. Vash was, of course, long asleep by the time I went to bed. She was also very warm. Fresno gets hot on summer days, and while I've always extolled the virtues of Fresno summer nights (and I mean it, I think they feel wonderful), they can still be hot when you're trying to sleep, especially if you didn't grow up with it the way I did. So, much like Tuesday night though this time in an empirically warm climate, she didn't want to cuddle, and told me as much, and I got all triggery and upset as a result. I don't sleep very well when I'm feeling bad or sad or heartbroken or all of the above (nor does Vash, which is why she hardly slept at all for a week after I hooked up with Ryder), and I tried to keep how I was feeling to myself, my sense of loss and despair, surely out of proportion to the situation but feeling very real all the same. I scratched, I texted Sadie (who was understandably asleep at half past two in the morning), and finally around four Vash rolled over and put her arm around me, and suddenly I felt calm and relaxed and very very tired, and before long I was asleep, only for a couple of hours but it was better than nothing. Barefoot and Rox showed up late on Saturday morning. Vash and I decided to invite ourselves to their brunch trip to El Toro Tambien with Jonco, much to my mother's chagrin, who didn't want any of us leaving since Tom and his new family were going to arrive soon. But we left anyway, because we're like that. Besides, El Toro is one of those places that's oddly seminal in my life, having been there my entire life and aside from the prices going up a little and the addition of windows around the Millennium, it hasn't really changed at all. It's comforting. Besides, Vash had never been. From there, Vash and I went into beautiful abandoned downtown Fresno to go thrifting. I always have good luck down there, and scored some nice slips. Yay for stores not already picked over by hipsters such as myself. The clan was there in something resembling its entirety when Vash and I returned to my mom's place, minus my niece Shandon and Jonco's wife, but more or less made up for by Tom's new wife and his stepdaughters. That's balance, I suppose. I played some with Jim's iPhone. I have to admit, it's a fun little gadget. Gimme a few years, though. Pretty much everyone swam except for Vash and I. It's not really Vash's thing, and even though reblondification a few days earlier had demonstrated that there are worse things in the world than a soaked squid, I just wasn't feeling up for it. My mom made one valiant attempt to get us to watch our language around Tom's teenage stepdaughters, based on some arcane belief that it could possibly make a difference to them. It had roughly the effect you'd expect. After dinner, Vash and I went for a walk with Jonco and Shandon. We brought my mom's dog Spooky along for good measure. We stopped at the Baskin-Robbins where I spent so many a summer night in '89 hanging out with Conk—it's so retarded that that sort of thing is so prominent in my nostalgia, but there it is—and generally walked through the swankness that is Teilman between Palm and West and Sierra and Fruit. It's not as swanky as Fresno gets by a long shot, but I'm pretty sure I didn't realize when I was growing up just how nice my neighborhood was. No reason why I would have, I suppose. Before we went to bed, I told Vash how I'd felt the night before. My last two major relationships were mortally wounded by bad communication, and I don't want to let that happen again. I don't know how long her and I will last—for a very long time, I hope, but I also know that statistically it's unlikely, nobody is forever, and they may not want it to end, but it will, it's just a question of when, and when it does end it'll hurt worse than just about anything else has ever hurt, and it won't be due to neglect on my part. I opened the window to get extra circulation in the room and she held me, and it was good, and I felt relaxed and safe and actually slept. We left Fresno around noon on Sunday and headed Santa Cruz-wards. 152 West lead us past the Goodwill in Gilroy, and though we hadn't bothered with any Goodwills in Fresno, Vash had a feeling about this one, and she was right; pretty much their entire stock seemed to be remaindered from Target, and for better or worse, I tend to like Target's stuff and (most importantly) they make stuff in my size. We both scored in a big way. From there it was back onto the road and to Santa Cruz, with the specific destination of the Pink Godzilla. Yummy as always, and though I got the impression that Vash wasn't all that impressed last time, I think she's warming to it. Frack it, I figured. Sometimes doing the tourist thing is good for the soul, so we went to the Boardwalk. Ran into Maggie, of all people who (as is her wont) asked about The Ex. We also observed an impromptu photo shoot on the Carousel, a heavily made-up and fake-tanned girl who clearly has aspirations to be a model, and actress, or both. I'm not convinced there's a difference between the two. I couldn't begin to guess what she looked like naturally, and I find that distressing. My tastes always run towards girls who can roll out of the bed and look naturally beautiful, like Vash. But my tastes are usually at odds with the larger society. Except for the parts where I'm clearly brainwashed by the Beauty Standard and stuff. After a quick jaunt through the main arcade (where Vash was impressed to learn that Gorf was programmed by a tranny), we went to the pier to walk off the soft-serve ice cream and watch the sea lions. There are sea lions to be watched in San Francisco's own touristy areas, of course, but how often do we make it to those? Not very. We made it back to the car around half past seven, having stayed longer in Santa Cruz than we'd intended, but not having any reason to rush back. Which is good, because I got thoroughly turned around trying to get us out of town. Considering that it was my first time navigating there without a map, I think I didn a pretty good job overall. When we went to bed that night at the Black Light District, she held me, and it was good.
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Last night was much, much better.
3:11pm The Gilroy Goodwill rules.
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Been keeping it together fairly well today. But the night is always the roughest.
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Something my endoc said right before he left the room on Wednesday is that testosterone is stored in the fat, so even though it's being blocked by the spiro, the body's leeching it out of my fat. And, since my body is ample, there's plenty to leech from. He didn't say that last part, mind you; we aren't quite at that point yet. (I just watched the Richard Branson-Steven Colbert Trainwreck Interview. If you take out the humor and the water-throwing, that feels like our relationship.) That's the single greatest reason I've ever heard to lose weight, to sweat out the poison. At the front desk, I realized that he hadn't written me a new prescription. My current bottles have run dry, and they aren't refillable. I asked his admin, and she said that he doesn't write refill prescriptions. Rather, I have to go to the pharmacy and have them fax the office with the request. Which makes absolutely no fracking sense whatsoever, and therefore it makes perfect sense for him. So, yesterday morning I stopped off first thing at the Walgreens near my work with my empty bottles. They said they'd fax my doctor (while acknowledging that it's a goofy way to do things), and it should be filled by noon. I had an appointment to get my roots reblondified at one, so that'd be cutting it close, but good enough. Around half past eleven I got a call from their automated system saying there was a delay in filling my prescription. I called the pharmacy, and they said that the authorization hasn't been faxed back yet. I called my doctor's office—by this point pacing in circles on the roof of the building, growing more agitated by the nanosecond—and they told me that while they did get the request, it was part of a large stack of things for him to sign, including some emergencies, and so he'd get to it sometime after lunch. Y'know, maybe. But at his convenience, whenever that may be. Trying very hard to remember to use my syllables, and practically leaving a ditch in the deck with my pacing, I explained that it would be really super-swell if he could bump me to the top of the queue, because, see, I'm out, and the only reason I'm out is because of his retarded control-freaky system which makes everything far more complicated than it needs to be, and if he'd just get it done as soon as possible I'd be really happy, thank you very much. She said she'd talk to him. Uh-huh. At a quarter past twelve, she called back to say that the form had been signed and faxed to the pharmacy. I called the pharmacy at half past twelve; they didn't have it. Of course not. I walked over there to doublecheck, and they said that it had just come in a few minutes earlier, and I needed to be patient and give them more time. Yep. Impatience. That's obviously my problem. It was getting dangerously close to my appointment time, so I headed to Glama-Rama. Meanwhile, the area around my office and the Walgreens was starting to get dense because of a game at the fucking ballpark. Made me glad I was getting away when I was, at least, but it also meant I'd have to wait until Friday morning to pick up my 'mones. Indeed, when I got out of my appointment around four with reblondified roots, the traffic report said that it was seriously gridlocky around the Fucking Ballpark because of the game letting out. So, yeah, definitely wasn't going back that direction. In the plus column, though, the squid received its first shampoo. It's not as heavy when wet as I'd expected, and it dries quickly. Like the cotton candy it resembles, it's mostly air. So I headed back to my neck of the woods, found a table at the Sunset Cafe (which was pretty easy, since they were all open), and worked until Johanna arrived. We went back to my place to eat and watch the movie, and I didn't think about my doctor or the prescription or anything of the sort. Went by Walgreens this morning. The prescription was ready to go. Miracles never cease. Haven't gotten much work done today, since the network's down, and the IT Troll is taking his own sweet time fixing it. That's okay, though. Either way, I'm leaving early this afternoon to go to Fresno.
sometime after midnight how will i know when it's ending? will it hurt more, or less?
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Yep, it's time to look for a new doctor. This guy just isn't right for me. His bedside manner is for shit, he acts like I'm some schmuck who's just wandered off the street and haven't been transitioning for nine years (with the paperwork to prove it), and his attitude feels adversarial at best. He often interrupts me when I'm talking, and has an incredibly smug and condescending look on his face when I am speaking, like he just can't wait for me to shut the hell up so he can finish the appointment and go away. Yesterday's staredown was over (what else?) my hormone levels. The increased spirolactalone had the desired effect of reducing my testosterone back down to where they should be, i.e. in the female range. He'd said last time that he didn't think I was a viable candidate for castration and/or SRS because I don't hate my erections, and because I'm not disgusted and neurotic about by my sexuality, I'm not actually transsexual. Can I tell you how fracking tired I am of bioboys concluding that I'm not what I say I am? I don't give a shit if you're a doctor or some bearded schmuck at a reading, nobody else gets to tell me that my self-identification is incorrect, perioddotendoflinethankyoudrivethrough. I tried explaining to him that my genitals don't strong affect my gender identity, that having a penis doesn't make me a boy and not having a vagina doesn't mean I'm not a girl. Unsurprisingly given that his specialty is gay men and BDSM, he was not impressed by my non-phallocentric view of my own sense of self. It felt like he proceeded under the assumption that I was just a boy who wears makeup and says he's a girl—and, of course, he wouldn't be the only one who sees me that way. I brought up the castration issue again yesterday, and he said that I'd have to be at the current super-low levels of testosterone for at least six months to a year to make sure my body's okay with it. I pointed out to him that I have been at that low a level for over a year in the past with no ill effects, and if he'd just look at the medical history I provided—no, of course not. He said that during the last appointment, we'd talked about lowering my estrogen levels. I genuinely do not remember talking about that with him; admittedly, I spent the majority of that appointment reeling from the whole "not actually a transsexual" thing, so it's possible we did discuss it. Anyway, he wants to lower my estrogen because of the danger of blood clots and all that stuff. While those things are real risks, I've also been doing this for several years and have had high estrogen levels for most of that time and my body, thank Oscar, has always responded well. If he looked at my records he'd see that, of course. He told me to make up my mind about it, fixing me with that condescending gaze of his, waiting for me to blink and bend. No, no, no. To hell with that. I told him I wanted to keep my estrogen where it is, thank you very much. He rolled his eyes, shook his head and turned away. I asked him if this was one of those deals where if medical issues do arise no reputable doctor will ever prescribe me estrogen again, which was the bullshit scare tactic he used to get me off the injections. Judging from his response, I did a lousy job of keeping the sarcasm from my voice. I don't know, maybe it's true, maybe if I do develop complications then not "reputable" doctor will prescribe estrogen again, but it feels like bullying to me, and I'm sick of it. There was no way I was going to blink this time. Frack that. I feel like I've been getting pushed around way too much lately, especially by boys. Besides, my emotions are fragile enough lately without messing with my hormone levels again. Just for a while, I want my levels to be something resembling stable. And, especially right now, with low testosterone and high estrogen—can I keep that? Please? Considering that I haven't had to find new employment for the past two years or new housing for the past twelve, having to find a new doctor yet again isn't such a horrible thing, annoying as it is. I miss the guy from Kaiser, the one who had the crush on me. His objectivity may have been questionable, but at least he fucking listened to me and took me seriously.
11:40pm Johanna came over this evening. We ate chinese food and watched Close Encounters of the Third Kind. I was doing what's referred to as "taking care of myself."
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Spent an unexpected evening with Vash. I'd already seen her more than I'd expected to; she was on foot in the City while her car was getting fixed in Oakland, so she came by my office in the morning and we went for coffee-like beverages. (The cute rockabilly girl at the bagel place: you brought a friend, huh?) Shortly after I got home, she called from the Mission and asked if she could spend the night. Seems her car won't be ready until today (Wednesday), so it made more sense for her to stay in town. I drove to the Mission, we had dinner, and we returned to my place. As is so often the case, she was in bed and asleep before me. When I got in and tried to cuddle, she didn't respond like she normally does. Instead, she rolled away or repositioned herself. When I got all teary and emo about it this morning (as I had at the time, finding myself unable to sleep and sharpening my nail on my arm), she explained that not only was she nine-tenths asleep, and she was feeling overly warm and not keen on adding my body heat to the mix. Which is understandable, but it all still put a zap on my heart which hasn't gone away. At one point last night when I was pawing and rubbing and kissing and nuzzling Vash hoping she would respond and turn and love me, I realized that Perdita was doing the exact same thing to me (albeit with purring and that occasional dive-bomb thing she does with the side of her head). Like mother, like daughter.
3:41pm Going to see my doctor this evening. If it feels more confrontational than medicinal, as has been the case the last couple of times, I'm going to start looking for a new doctor. Probably.
5:20pm Frack him. He stared me down and expected me to blink, but I didn't. Frack him.
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My math skills suck as much as ever; the show opens on October 13, not October 20, so it's not two months, it's two months minus one week. Or something. Sooner than I know, anyway.
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