My Face for the World to See (Part II):
The Diary of Sherilyn Connelly
a fiction


February 1 - 10, 2001

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Saturday, 10 February 2001 (sealed up with virgin stitch)
7:04am


From Salon's extremely negative review of Hannibal:

[Ridley] Scott's "Hannibal" is the apotheosis of serial-killer chic, the prestige movie version of a Manson T-shirt.

Well, heck. Now I have to see it.

sometime after midnight

Since fights are inevitable, it's convenient when they happen to occur on mornings when we have a therapy session scheduled. It's a great timesaver.

After an emotionally grueling morning, we found ourselves at the gym. Finally. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, the only kind which seemed to have a chance of working—less buildup means less of an opporunity to talk ourselves out of it. The idea, of course, was to make it a habit again. Whether that happens remains to be seen. Sunday's no good because we'll be at Howard's most of the day, and Monday night Maddy has her belly-dancing class (not to mention it's might be a long night at work for me), Tuesday morning I'm taking my car to the garage...et cetera. You get the idea.

Being Saturday afternoon the place was crowded, but I managed to find one of the crappy old treadmills that A) wasn't being used and B) wasn't displaying the words "REWAX BELT" on the LED. Some of the machines have been saying that since '98, and I'm guessing the belt-rewaxing won't be happening anytime soon. '98 was also when the gym stopped carrying magazine racks, so I'd had to start bringing my own along. Presently, on the rack was the fascinating but physically unwieldy book I was reading—Celluloid Mavericks, the kind of film history book which is like porn to me—and my discman, spinning Holy Wood. The book didn't really need to be there since I'd rediscovered how hard it is to read on a treadmill, but I'd already gotten started and didn't want to stop to put it on the ground. That kind of peculiar laziness that comes with running at 4.5 MPH.

About fifteen minutes in I wished I had, since it all went flying. I'm still not sure what I did wrong; presumably in moving my arms one of them went farther than it should have, making contact with the rack. Newtonian physics took care of the rest, bringing to me much more attention than I'd desired. (Maddy, who was half a gym away at the time, didn't seem to notice.) I picked up my stuff and got back on the proverbial horse.

In spite of that, we'll be going back again. And again. Really. I'm sure.

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Friday, 9 February 2001 (prosthetic synthesis with butterfly)
9:13am


When I was in the fifth or sixth grade, I broke a chair. More accurately, the chair broke when I sat down on it. Perhaps it might have happened regardless of who it was, I don't know. But it was me, and was a source of no small amusement for my classmates. (The person whom I considered to be my best friend never let me forget it, and it wasn't always in a good-natured manner, either. By the time we reached high school, we barely had anything to do with one another. He'd made it with the cool kids, and I spiralled into my own kind of social ineptitude, a Veronica Sawyer/Betty Finn kinda thing. But there were others.) It was a perfect example of why I hated my body, even then. I had been taller than most of my classmates since kindergarten, I was expanding horizontally, and it was getting to be that time in a young boy's life when things start to happen down there...anyway, the point is I'd always felt like the proverbial bull in a china shop, and that just made it worse. I was big and uncoordinated, and I didn't want to be. Everything I touched, I destroyed. When I read Of Mice and Men a few years later, I identified with Lenny far more than I wanted to. (And don't even ask what it did to me when Sherilyn Fenn played Curley's wife in '92.)

Anyway, that's what it felt like when I broke the mechanism that opens the hood of my car last night. It's a curved lever with a silhouette of the car with the hood up, and when you pull on it, the hood goes up. Except for last night, when the thing broke. I'm sure it's probably just shoddy engineering (the lever is made of light plastic) and was bound to break eventually, but still it feels like I did it. As always, everything I touch, I destroy. Because that's how I was made, whether I like it or not.

2:40pm

This building's security personnel have a tendency to not wash their hands after urinating. I really wish I wasn't privy to this sort of knowledge.

6:06pm

I've been doing something I'm not proud of, something I promised myself I'd never do: killing time by browsing eBay. It's not as if there aren't a jillion better things I could be doing. (As for work, I'm waiting on stuff.) Even bid on a couple Spacemen 3 CDs. I feel so dirty...

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Thursday, 8 February 2001 (burning world)
10:02am


So I responded to my father...

As do I, and I've very glad to hear you say that. Quite often people in my situation encounter more than a little familiar rejection...

...and he replied.
I learned a long time ago to look for the inner person and make my judgments based on what I found.

It's either very strange to hear him talking like this, or it's exactly what I should have expected. I'm honestly not sure which. My mother's reaction was certainly much more intense, the opposite of my father's laissez faire attitude. Which pretty well sums up how they've always reacted, I suppose. My mother has accused my father of being too self-absorbed to care about his children's lives, and she may be right. I'd be lying if I said I'd have it any other way; I suppose it would be different if I was his only child, rather than his fourth. (Well, fifth, but pick pick.) But he has the son with his name, the red sports car, and the blonde he's always wanted. So it's all good.

2:33pm

The Den Mother's office is even more cluttered than mine. I suppose it makes sense because she's a much busier person than I am, but it's still weird to see someone who seems so tightly wound allowing their immediate environment to be like that. I guess that makes her a bit more human.

I also just realized how incredibly thin she is. Like a rail. It goes without saying that I'm jealous.

But why? Her body type is very different from mine. I'm not built like that. Period. It's not like she's accomplishing something which I'm capable of.

I'm reminded of a girl we saw at the Jonathan Richman show in December. Costanza and I agreed that in body shape (very thin) and hairstyle (short hair with bangs) she was reminiscent of Emo Phillips. The truly sad part is, I still admired her for her looks. Hell, I was once told when I had my hair down and sunglasses on that I looked like Howard Stern. That one hurt. Emo would be a vast improvement.

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Wednesday, 7 February 2001 (the process)
6:48am


Ah. Now we've made it into the "legitimate" media. Even our own. I'm expecting a frantic call from my mom.

9:17am

On the F line this morning, a woman sitting behind us was reading a story to her son, aloud. And the kid was certainly old enough to read. I haven't decided if my level of annoyance was justified—among other things, it was difficult to concentrate on my book—or if I'm just grouchy.

My father wrote last night. He was able to finish my taxes without last year's return; I owe, but I have enough in savings to cover it.
He continued.

By the by, we really enjoyed spending the evening with you and Madeline. It's a great feeling for a parent, after surviving the teen years, learning that he likes the person his child has become. I hope these meetings can become a habit.

love

dad

Now, I could point out that I haven't been a teenager for several years (and that I was extremely mellow by teenage standards), but I won't. I'll just take it for what it is: that my father's cool with me. Which is a good thing.

2:20pm

I'm on a grand total of one (1) tranny-oriented mailing list. I haven't mentioned anything about this weekend. I thought about it, but decided not to. It just doesn't seem worth bringing up, somehow. I tend to only talk when I feel at ease, so I guess I don't. It's not my place anymore, if it ever was. I've had my fill of trolls and meaningless flamewars.

5:15pm

I'm finally going through my old entries, from the first one onwards, and proofreading them. Oh, but it hurts—it's all so damn sloppy.

today i am dirty
want to be pretty
tomorrow, i know i'm just dirt

yesterday i was dirty
wanted to be pretty
i know now that i'm forever dirt

we are the nobodies
we wanna be somebodies
when we're dead,
they'll know just who we are

It's hard to tell what you've lost, what you ever had in the first place, what you can get back. It's best not to think about it, or anything at all.

lamb of god have mercy on us
lamb of god won't you grant us

nothing's going to change the world

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Tuesday, 6 February 2001 (love's secret domain)
10:24am


Along with thick hair, a slow metabolism and a tendency towards alcoholism (the latter two I battle with varying levels of success), being a pack rat seems to run in my family. I've been trying to overcome it lately, in the form of throwing stuff away. Lots of it. Lately it's been in the form of videotapes, and I have a fair amount of paper products awaiting extermination.

And, yet, I can't find my tax return from last year. I filed electronically, and part of that involves printing out a copy of the return for my records. Which I did. I'm sure I did. I have it from the year before, the first time I filed electronically—both printed out and as a pdf—so if I got it right the first time then I surely I got it right the second time, yes? Or was I just so distracted last year that I neglected that step?

I've looked in all the obvious places, particularly the big stack o' tax forms. Not there. Time to go through everything in the office again, and if that doesn't work, a Level 3 diagnostic at home. And, if worse comes to absolute worse, I'll call the IRS and ask for a copy. Which would take forever, but might be my best bet.

Although I have most of my tax returns from the last ten years, this is the first time I've actually ever needed one after filing. It's at the request of my father, who's doing my taxes this year. So, you can well imagine why I don't want to tell him that I've apparently lost it. I'm not worried that he'll get angry or anything like that, but, good lord, I'm not sure I can handle that level of embarrassment. I'd like him to think that I have my shit together, and this would suggest otherwise.

12:22pm

Remembering that I've handled greater levels of embarrasment (forgetting the keys to my mom's place, looking in the mirror on a daily basis, that sorta thing), I went ahead and told him that I haven't been able to find my return. He'd also asked for my stock option paperwork, which I've sent along. Hopefully that'll be enough for now.

2:07pm

It was inevitable, and as such it has come to pass: layoffs at my company. (It was just announced, so I have nothing to link to, but I'm sure the word will get around soon.) My department doesn't seem to be affected, but you never can tell. I could be out of work tomorrow, and if so, that's why I'm still living in a garage. And who knows, maybe there'd be an opening at Brian's new job...

5:00pm

The Den Mother called an impromptu in meeting in Pike's office (why? because. that's why.) a little while ago, essentially reiterating the email sent out by the CEO announcing the layoffs but stressing that our department will be left alone. Still, I guess it's real, 'cuz we're on Fucked Company now.

The tricky part will be sticking to our original plans of going to the gym tonight, rather than just plopping down on the couch and continuing our MST3K marathon. I suspect the potential guilt of staying home will be a strong motivator.

9:57pm

Guilt? Bah. 30MPH winds made it a fairly simple decision. At least, that's our excuse du jour.

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Monday, 5 February 2001 (candy apple grey)
6:34am


Many people hate San Francisco for many reasons, all of which are valid. There's a lot wrong with this place, and I wouldn't try to convince anyone otherwise.

When you're driving here from Fresno, though, it takes on the air of Paradise, and you can't reach it soon enough. For the time being, I'd rather be here than anywhere else.

9:48am

Our upstairs neighbors put a pile of cardboard on the sidewalk this morning, presumably to be picked up with the rest of the recycling. For all the times they've done that, by the end of the day it's still sitting out on the sidewalk, and I don't suppose today will be any different. In a way, it's hard not to admire their simplemindness, how they don't appear to be burdened by such concepts as "cause" and "effect." Although I suppose it results in a lot of burned fingers.

2:17pm

My mom got a new computer recently, and we hadn't been at her place for more than five minutes on Saturday before she enlisted my aid on it. Nothing major, just uninstalling a few things and fiddling with some settings. I didn't mind at all, since it gave me a chance to season it to my taste—putting a telnet icon on the desktop, as well as her dialup, since she normally starts in through Netscape. I also didn't mind because it was only fair with how much work Costanza's been doing on my system, and his skill in these things is at least as far above me as mine is above my mother's, if not moreso...okay, much much much moreso.

2:40pm

Before leaving Fresno on Sunday, we had lunch at one of my favorite restaurants, El Toro Tambien. It wasn't quite as good as I remember it. I suspect that's because my mom was with us, and as a result I was feeling a little too self-conscious to order a quesadilla, which is what I always got when I was younger. I don't know why I felt that way, I just did. Maybe next time we're in town Maddy and I will just go by ourselves and do it right. After The Chicken Pie Shop, of course.

5:52pm

It appears I may find myself in a meeting tomorrow with some Very Bad People, including a fishlipped schmuck whom I've done a good job of avoiding up to this point. (I suppose I've never forgiven him for insisting on having the overhead lights at full blast back when we were forced to share cubicle space.) (And, no, I'm not talking about TFQ.) Just in case I'm not able to get out of it, I'll have to be sure to get into full battle gear tomorrow morning. Seems only right.

Madeline's going to a belly-dancing class tonight. I'm very proud of her for that.

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Sunday, 4 February 2001 (zen arcade)
10:18am


So, am I prodigal?

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Saturday, 3 February 2001 (reoccurring dreams)
8:44am


I managed to shave without cutting myself, which I'm going to interpret as a good sign. I'll probably be tempted to do a quick touch-up at my mom's this afternoon. I suspect that would be bad.

The question is again raised, at least in my mind, why did I wait so long for this? I'm not sure. All I know is that two years ago, when the coming out process more or less began, it didn't seem like an option. The energy necessary for it simply wasn't there. Between the breakup and dealing with my mom and everything else, having to explain all this to my father just wasn't a priority. After all, it he hadn't made a priority of telling me about getting remarried, or of my older half-brother. Little things like that. So this could wait, too.

I suppose I went with the path of least resistance in terms of who I told. I think I told jonco first, on the phone sometime in early '98, before I'd even started to see a shrink. Then came barefoot, whom I told in person later that year when we driving back to the Bay Area from Fresno. (I don't remember the exact circumstances, but presumably we'd both been in town, and The Ex had to stay longer for some reason.) I'll always remember the look on barefoot's face; it was somewhere between shock and incomprehension. It wasn't that he unfamiliar with the concept of transsexuality, or had a problem with queerness—after all, among his best friends was his wife's openly gay (some might say flaming) cousin, who had been in their wedding party the previous year. No, he simlpy hadn't expected this sort of thing coming from my direction. I'd totally shattered his veneer of ironic detachment. It was a proud moment.

I officially came out to my mother almost exactly two years ago, but that story's been told.

Anyway, this is going to be a little different. He already knows, and although he doesn't really understand, so I'm sure I'll have some explaining to do. Not the first time it's happened.

We got him a Borders gift certificate for his birthday, and as I was filling it out, I realize that no matter what the nature of my relationship with him has been, there's still something very odd in presenting myself to him as "Sherilyn." Anything to get my taxes done, huh? (I kid, of course.)

11:24pm

Not a word.

From my father, anyway, about the obvious. Almost immediately after the introductions we started talking taxes. (For the first time in pretty much ever, he's doing them for me. I left my various forms with him—which, I have to admit, makes me kinda nervous, though I'm not sure why—and will be faxing him a few others that he needs. No more quick'n'easy online filing, I guess.) Over the course of the next five hours the conversation veered in many directions, but never once was I and what I'm doing the topic. My mom had warned me ahead of time that might be the case, to not take it personally if he doesn't appear to show a, well, personal interest in me as a person. So to speak. And I didn't take it personally. He was still accepting me into his home with no apparent objections, and still seems to think highly of me, making occasional references to what he considers to be my high level of intelligence. It wasn't "It's a shame that you're wasting that intellect" kinda stuff, either. I suppose an argument could be made that he's boasting about his seed, but even I'm not quite that cynical. (Really, I'm not.)

Both he and his wife referred to me in male proper and pronoun, but I wasn't expecting anything different. I did happen to notice that on his calendar for tonight he'd marked "Dinner w/ S." Which must mean something.

His wife—whom, I should point out, twice made reference to them being married, thus raising the total number of times either of them have admitted it in my presence to two—talked to Maddy semi-privately shortly before we left. She said they weren't sure what to expect, but that I looked good (a few minutes later she upgraded it to "beautiful") and that my appearance was quite feminine. I don't suppose either of them have seen me since I lost the majority of my former weight, so that probably has something to do with it, but it was a nice compliment nonetheless. She also confirmed that my father has no objections to my transitioning (perhaps proving my mother's theory, perhaps not), and that they're glad that Maddy's with me, that I'm not going through it alone. I couldn't agree more.

My 14 year-old niece, the younger of the two, happened to be spending the weekend with them. She joined us for dinner, and spent the rest of the time at the computer. Heh. That's exactly what I would have done at her age. Hell, I once hid from a birthday party for me (thrown by my parents over my objections) in that very same room. Benjamin Braddock is still the voice of the young generation, it seems.

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Friday, 2 February 2001 (song for dead time)
6:34am


Leave it to Salon to shatter the myth of el toro rojo. Oh well. Manson isn't playing Willy Wonka, either. (Which is a good thing, because, y'know, he sucks and he'd ruin it.)

8:52am

Yesterday, John Ashcroft was confirmed as Attorney General. That same day, the parking lot next to my office raised its rates from $12 to $15.

Coincidence? Not damn likely. Wake up, people!

11:02am

Lo, I am humbled. After having done my own taxes for as long as I've been filing at all (for about eleven or twelve years now, I guess), I've been stymied by this year's return. Between the stock options and weirdness in my W-2, I'm at a loss. I guess it's a good thing I'm re-establishing contact with my father, since he's the only person I know who could possibly make sense out it.

I can't help feeling guilty that I'm thinking in those terms. I probably shouldn't, though, since even my mother encouraged me to use taxes as a means of communicating with him. But it seems wrong, somehow, which is one of the reasons why I haven't mentioned tax stuff to him at all in the context of tomorrow. Although he probably knows it's coming.

12:02pm

Speaking of guilt, I backed out of going to lunch with Maddy and Summer when I found out they were planning on eating at Burger King. Almost anywhere else would be fine, but that place (particularly the location in question) creeps me out to no end, not to mention there's nothing there I can bring myself to eat. I haven't seen Summer in a long time, primarily because I've turned down previous lunch offers for reasons related to both business and vanity. Now that I have a little free time and I'm not leading up to or recovering from getting zapped, I chicken out because I don't like Burger King. Christ. Could I possibly be more of a prima donna?

2:58pm

Yep, we're living in the future. I know this because Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2 is being released on DVD next month with a bunch of extras. Having read this factoid in many places, I am aware that it's the worst movie ever made—or, at least, it would currently hold that title if Battlefield Earth hadn't been released during the same year. Since the latter was a much bigger movie, and consequently a much bigger flop, nobody much remembers BW2 at this point.

Anyway, ten years ago when (digital) laserdiscs were just starting to make inroads, the most we could hope for was a decent transfer of the film, and maybe a trailer. In the unlikely event that there were extras, they'd cost a lot more, often between $60 and $100. (Side note: this is often what the regular VHS versions of the movie would cost, since video stores would often have to buy dozens of copies of certain titles to meet demand. This is called being "priced for rental." Later, after it ceased being a "Hot New Release," the price would usually be marked down to ~$20 for the consumers who actually wanted to own a copy. The fact that brand new DVDs are regularly priced in that same range, it seems to me, is a fundamental shift in the economics of the video business, and if you'd told me in the early nineties that it would happen, I'd have predicted that the entire industry would collapse. One of these days I should ask Stanley how much it's really changed.) I drooled over a lot of laserdisc box sets, eventually breaking down and getting a few like Tron and Natural Born Killers. Oh, and 1941. Yes, I have a weakness for big-budget flops. (Though I haven't seen Battlefield Earth yet. I'm working on it.)

Not every movie released on DVD has extras, of course, not even if they'd had them on laserdisc; the aforementioned Tron and especially Coppola's Dracula are positively skimpy compared to their laserdisc ancestors. Still, though, these days even commercials for stuff like Coyote Ugly and Shanghai Noon trumpet all the extras on the DVD, the kind of thing which only used to be marketed to select geeks such as myself. To me, that's proof we're in the World of Tomorrow.

5:19pm

Again, I find I'm more likely to pass when I'm not really trying at all (such as in stealth mode at the office). There's a lesson in that, somewhere...

sometime after midnight

The listings say it's 1974's Pray for the Wildcats, starring Andy Griffith and William Shatner, but anyone with half a brain can tell it's really 1979's Chuck Norris epic Good Guys Wear Black. (Then again, we're talking 4am Saturday morning on The WB—those with half a brain need not apply.) (To easily offended Buffy/Angel fans: I said 4am Saturday morning. Otherwise I wouldn't besmirch their fine programming. Besides, Willow is a hottie.) What a tease. It does have Anne Archer as a late seventies sex kitten, but even that doesn't make up for not getting to see a Devil's Rain-era Shatner and Andy Griffith together on screen. I should probably just go back to bed. Big day coming up, and Oscar seems to have stopped crying for the time being...

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Thursday, 1 February 2001 (when she breathes)
9:13am


Shaved this morning, finally. I guess it's been three weeks since I last shaved (the morning of the Neil show), and a week and a half since I got zapped. Seems about right.

I'm feeling no small amount of anxiety about the condition of my face. It looks blasted to me, and of course my upper lip still appears dark. I suppose it probably always will, to me. Even if nobody else notices.

Since I can't think of anything else to get him (I kinda shot my book-giving wad with Cryptonomicon over xmas, and I haven't read anything else lately which he might like), I'll probably be getting my father a gift certificate from Borders. Yeah, it's chickenshit, I know, but I think it falls into the "better than nothing" category. Or maybe the "it's the thought that counts" one. Something like that.

The really sad part is, we won't have a chance while we're in Fresno to eat at The Chicken Pie Shop. Next time, definitely.

2:22pm

I got up off my increasingly fat ass and left the office, walking the Evil Filbert Steps to North Beach. Well, the Evil Greenwich Steps since the Evil Filbert Steps are closed right now, but the net effect is the same. I had sushi for lunch, splurged a little in a movie paraphanelia shop (got a poster for Crash that I've had my eye on for a long time), then walked back over the steps, eschewing the simpler way out of guilt for having eaten the sushi.

I've been off the Meridia for a few months now, and I'm really feeling it. My appetite feels more like it did a couple years back, before I started. I don't like that. It scares me. It means it really is coming back down to me and my willpower.

4:10pm

Tron 2.0? Why, yes.

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