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Saturday, 31 July 1999 (spectacle) 10:39am Yes, that's right, I apparently thought yesterday was the 29th. Bite me. 1:55pm The light in the shower room is burnt out. Oh well, that was nice while it lasted.
Drove to the East Bay, dropped off the car, took BART into the city and came to work,
and I expect I'll be here until six or seven, after which I'll probably be heading
to Dana's and going with her and Costanza to Brigid's party. Whoosh.
Terminal spoke very highly of her, saying she was a lot of fun, had a great sense of humor, and that her and Summer clicked like nobody's business. He asked why I was wondering, so I brought him up to date. He thought it all sounded great and seemed happy for us. I wouldn't have thought Terminal's blessing would have mattered to me one way or the other, and yet I was pleased to have it. Maddy was actually the topic of quite a bit of discussion. Imani asked how we're doing as she always does, and Timbre was particularly concerned about how she's doing with her family, having been through similar drama when she wanted to move away. San Francisco, it seems, is a common destination for those who find that pursuing their own destiny involves a considerable amount of grief from those who've already decided how you should live your life. You don't move here just because it's a wonderful place to live (which it is); you move here because if you stay where you are, you'll never really live at all. Timbre and I talked a bit about my transitioning, how long I've been on hormones, and so forth. She seemed especially curious about the reaction of my family and The Ex to the news. She was way ahead of me on that one, though, observing that SO's tend to be fine with most sorts of gender-mixing, up to a very crucial moment. Which was very true in my case; The Ex fully supported my experimentations with cross-dressing and the like. (It was at her prompting that I briefly joined the Stop AIDS Project, which lead both to my first time dressed as a grrl in public and meeting Miguel, but that's a story for another time.) When I told her I wanted to go on hormones, she cried hard, and that was pretty much when things were all over. But we'd been together seven and a half years, and inertia carried us forward for another year. Her reason for asking is, she has very strong f2m feelings, but hasn't done much research into it yet. This was partially because she didn't want to upset her boyfriend. I can certainly appreciate that all too well, for breaking The Ex's heart was my greatest fear for a very long time. Like the crack-addled poet once wrote, face your fears and watch 'em die. Hurting those you love in pursuit of your destiny is an awful thing to have to go through (to those of us with a sense of compassion), and I used to think I wouldn't be able to survive it. Yet I did. Anyone can, if they believe in where they're going. I suspect Timbre does, or will if she can see it a little more clearly. I can't make up her mind for her, and the process of transitioning isn't something I'd wish on anyone. Unless, of course, it's part of who they are, in which case it's something they need to pursue with everything they've got. I've been incredibly lucky in being able to do so and get away with it for the most part, but what good is it if I can't help someone else do the same? What's the point of experience if it can't be shared? Not forced upon someone unwillingly; my mother was very fond of the "I'm older and more experienced so you should do everything I tell you" approach. But when you're on the same wavelength, as I suspect Timbre and I might be (m2f or f2m, that detail is irrelevant; both groups have many more shared feelings and dreams than either e'er-so-provincial side will care to admit), then it seems wrong not to help however possible.
I have to be very careful, because my quasi-altruistic bent has gotten me into trouble in the past. But that
doesn't mean
I'm going to stop caring.
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Friday, 30 July 1999 (salivation) 8:10am So I went to Walgreen's yesterday and got a pair of sunglasses. Not prescription (duh), but for $6, they'll tide me over. In conjunction with the beret, they work quite nicely.
Whatever else is wrong with my apartment, it does have a full length mirror (the closet
door, in fact, taking up nearly half of one of the bedroom walls). I'm sure I don't need
to explain why that comes in so damn handy. Anyway, inspiration struck, and I dug up a
short black leather skirt which The Ex bought over a year ago but never wore—it
was still in the Lerner's bag and the price tag was still attached, so I'm fairly
confident on that point. It fit quite well, actually, and along with the
beret and sunglasses, I look like a morbid, pretentious English major. As opposed
to the morbid, pretentious Cinema graduate which I am. (Progress!) In any event,
I know what I'm wearing to Shrine tonight.
(That's called "taking pleasure in the little things." It's a valuable skill.)
My arty English major look seemed to go over well. Tiff flat out said, "You look so French!" Only Kenya made the inevitable Monica Lewinsky comparison. Which was not intended as an insult nor did I interpret it as such. Around 1am something very strange happened: apparently under the belief that underaged drinking was taking place, the police ordered that the lights on the dance floor to be turned entrely on. This is a very cruel thing to do, but it gave me the excuse I needed to put on my sunglasses, thus completing the look. Granted, I spent the rest of the evening in the bar where they weren't quite as necessary, but I didn't care. I liked the way they made me look, and there's no shortage of people there with similar affectations.
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Thursday, 29 July 1999 (salvation) 8:41am The bagger at Safeway called me "ma'am" this morning. Been a while since that's happened. He couldn't really see my face, just my hair and probably a hint of my complexion, so he took his best guess. That man deserves a raise. It used to happen much more when I'd wear my fuzzy black beret (formerly belonging to Pandora), but the problem there is that it tends to leave its imprint on the top half of my hair. Not good, since as we've long since established I'm vain as hell. Sunglasses, though. I really need to get sunglasses. On general principle as much as anything else: I am sensitive to light. My current pair of glasses are the first I've owned that didn't tint in sunlight, but I like the way they look much better than my previous pair (I mentioned the vanity factor, right?). So I need to call my optometrist and find out about getting prescription sunglasses. If memory serves, my insurance won't cover them quite as much as it did my regular glasses, but it's a start. Beyond practicality in the classic sense, it's easier to look femmey in sunglasses, particularly with hair that frames the face the way mine does. Though I'd like to get the real thing (so I can, like, you know, SEE when I'm walking down the street), a pair of cheapies from Walgreen's should do the job for now... Oh, hell, that's right. I still need to contact an ophthalmologist to get tested for the glaucoma which is bound to arise eventually. Thanks for the great genes, dad. Can't worry about it right now, 'cuz it's gonna be long day. I'm in that scary position of being expected to do great things. Specifically, saving a project I've managed to keep out of until now, when it's at its most critical and fucked-up. The main producers breathed a collective sigh of relief when I told them I was brought in on it. Which is flattering, no question, and is further evidence that my position here is secure, but jeez...it's not like I'm not kept busy enough, and while I'm quite cool under pressure if I do say so myself...
In the plus column, the network is back up at Maddy's office. This is a very good thing.
Now, I realize that most everything can be attributed to something a human has done. And I have no belief in the supernatural on any level. (When I was trying to make my mom feel better about the whole goff thing, I told her that she didn't have to worry about me becoming a devil-worshipper because I don't believe there's a devil, and I can't exactly worship something I don't think exists. That just made her more upset, because she made the connection that it must mean I don't believe there's a god, either. Which is correct. In spite of all the evidence to the contrary, she apparently feels that lack of belief in the supernatural is more dangerous than total belief.) This building is pure evil, though. I'm quite convinced. Our department's copy/fax machine has been moved, essentially out of our department. Why? Because it's now serving the entire floor, all four departments. All four that I know of, anyway. I suppose this floor might extend into another dimension, and as a result the number of people using our limited resources might be even higher than I'd previously susptected. And that would certainly explain the horrible vibe, as much as anything would. Anyway, the damn thing is deep in the mailroom now. And not in what is generally considered the more public part of the mailroom, either, but where the mail people actually do their assorted duties. Now they have to deal with us getting in their way all the time. Great. Efficiency will surely skyrocket now. Okay, I'll admit, there's one good thing about this place: the shower room. It's been here all along, of course, but I only just now realized it existed, since only now on the otherwise utterly anonymous-looking door is there a sign which says "Shower." This makes me happy for two reasons. First of all, it's a place where I can have a mirror and privacy. The other inhabitants will surely be pleased to no longer have to walk into the restroom and deak with seeing me putting eyeliner on my lips or whatever. (I won't say how, but I've been in enough men's rooms in my life to know when somebody's nervous—the process takes longer than it should. That's enough detail, I think.)
Secondly (well, actually, it's a subset of the first part), this gives me more incentive to start exercising
in the morning again. I'm strongly considering cancelling my Club One membership because it's a $30 suck on
my checking account, and I haven't gone in months. The Evil Levi Plaza Gym is right across from this building,
meaning I won't even have to go that far after exercising and showering to be able to get made up. I could
be wrong, but I'm pretty certain I mentioned at some point recently that I'm vain. Any doubts about that should
be long gone.
Failure is one of those things that 'serious people' dread. Invariably, the people most likely to be crippled by this fear are people who have convinced themselves that they are so bitchen they shouldn't ever be placed in a position where they might fail. 5:22pm *whew* I think we're gonna work out just fine. 11:38pm The more things change, the more they change. Don't let anyone tell you different.
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Wednesday, 28 July 1999 (try not to breathe) 8:58am The third blacklight has been installed, this one over Omega and Shulgin. The next stage begins. 9:16am Something tells me I'm going to be listening to mostly live R.E.M. stuff today. Still haven't found anyone to go to the show with me, however. 11:18am Seems my counterparts down under aren't quite playing by the rules. Time to kick some Aussie ass. 1:53pm He means well, and I'm not blaming him for his inexperience, but damn, this kid is in way way way over his head. And guess who gets to rescue him? 7:18pm It was an ambush, I tell you. A goddamn ambush. They knew I couldn't resist. So there's a menu in the gate when I got home tonight. From a Chinese restaurant, one I've never been to before. As it happens, I've been on a major Chinese food kick lately, and my current goal is to find the perfect Chinese Chicken Salad. Now, of course, I have plenty of food at home—no shortage of salad accoutrements, certainly, and I've been hitting the cottage cheese pretty hard these days, too. (Nonfat cottage cheese, natch. Have you ever looked at the fat content of the regular stuff? It's scary.) So I definitely don't need to order out, and monetarily speaking it's never a good idea. My next step is plainly obvious. No, actually, it's worse. The restaurant in question has a minimum delivery charge of $10; China Wok, which is my favorite (and so far has the best salad, not to mention a scrumptious and apparently addictive Hot Garlic Sauce Deboned Sesame Chicken), has a minimum of $12. So what's a couple more bucks if I know for sure I'm going to like it?
Thusly is the quest for knowledge (will I ever find out what the chicken salad
at the other place is like?) and frugality dealt another serious blow. I
don't really care, though, because my order from China Wok should be here
any time now.
Somehow I've managed to miss the show altogether this year, probably because it's been on at the same time as Deep Space Nine and Law & Order (while DS9 was on I wasn't nearly the L&O junkie I am now), so it got neglected. I really need to get back into the habit...
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Tuesday, 27 July 1999 (reception) 7:42am What had happened yesterday was the network had gone down at Maddy's office, hence no internet access. I'm guessing it's still down. Damn. This sucks. It's almost like...well, like before the 'net was widespread. Gross. Who wants to live like that anymore? So I paid the rent yesterday. It was the first time my landlords had seen me GAFfy; because Normals almost never do, they didn't say anything. Normals stare, but in conversation they seem to be afraid to comment. I had to drag it out of Jonco and my niece on Sunday. When I told them they could feel free to make comments about how I looked, they insisted that they weren't bothered—which wasn't what I'd asked—and had nothing to say. So I told them flat out, "I'm fishing for compliments, damnit!" That worked a little better. Later, though, Jonco commented that when people saw me they probably thought of the movie Powder. I gotta say, that stung. Anyway, they asked about The Ex's progress in moving out. That seemed like as good a segue as any, so I brought up the cat issue. The wife didn't seem crazy about the idea, though it helped a little when I assured her it would be declawed and kept indoors. The only kind I've ever had or ever will; that's why Mary lived as long as she did.
I didn't get a definite answer, and I'd told them I wouldn't want to do it until after The Ex is
completely moved out, but the idea didn't get immediately shot down, either. So the outlook
is fairly promising.
The network at Maddy's office is apparently still down, and last night she'd suspected that if it hadn't come back up by today they'd just send everyone home. A perfectly logical theory (lord knows we couldn't get much done around here if we were completely isolated) which doesn't appear to have been borne out. Damn. Well, she should be home for real in a couple hours... I returned home on Sunday evening to find a message on the voicemail from her. She was thanking me for having called her the night before, and told me how things had gone with her Ex. (Not well.) It was a wonderful surprise. I particularly like that she didn't feel the need to identify herself beyond "It's me." I didn't even do that much when I first left a message on her machine, even though I knew it would be the first time she'd hear my voice.
In any event, it broke my heart to have to erase the message, though I listened to it quite a few times first. I
love the sound of her voice. It's so...gentle. Just makes me all the angrier about the way she's been treated.
There's no justice in the world.
Although, now that I think about it, I haven't been to Roderick's in a long time. Hmm...
Uh-oh. Headache. Maybe not.
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Monday, 26 July 1999 (ritual) 10:20am I may never curse out loud again.
"I have a friend who's exactly like you. She's also Jewish. She's a doctor."
Nothing about whether she's good with money. Maybe that's supposed to be
a given.
Summer asked me why I wasn't at Perki's birthday party on Saturday night. Two main answers: one, I wasn't invited. I knew it existed because she'd talked about it during the week, and I even saw him on Friday night, but not having been asked to go I wasn't about to. Just as well, because I went to Dana's party (and happily pushed back my original plans with my brother and niece to do so) and had a great time, most likely a better one than I would have had otherwise. I even found the new leather jacket I've been needing. My old one, while functional, was a bit too big, and the pockets were almost completely destroyed. What can I say? I use the pockets in jackets. A lot. I like to be as self-contained as possible. And this one has that all too scarce feature, the inside pocket. I can't stress enough how important that is, particularly since they're seldom found in women's jackets for what I suppose are obvious reasons. (An obvious reason which I'll admit I needed to have pointed out to me.) Strictly speaking it isn't a woman's jacket, but it's more flattering on me than my old one, and hey, I'm vain. At least, I need all the help I can possibly get.
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Sunday, 25 July 1999 (veil) 7:50am Very tired. Just got roughly three hours of sleep, which is my own fault entirely since I talked Maddy into letting me call her when it was almost 3am my time anyway. I simply had to hear her voice, though. It had already been a long weekend for both of us (and we may or may not have just had our first major unpleasant disagreement, I'm honestly not sure) and today's not going to be any better. Far from it. For either of us. She's probably going to be talking to her Ex about some potentially very uncomfortable things, but which need to be discusssed, period. As for myself, my brother Jonco should be arriving in roughly two hours with the younger of my two nieces. I'm honestly not sure how old she is (I'm not a very good aunt), but she's at least a teenager by now. He hasn't seen me femmed/goffed out, and I have not a clue what she's been told about me. Considering they spent the day with The Ex yesterday, I'm sure the question of "So where's Uncle Jeff?" must have come up at least once. I can hardly put into words how much I'm not looking forward to this. I am just so tired of coming out to people. Explaining things and answering questions is fine, but I much prefer them meeting me now and then working backwards. Someone who's known me for a long time (all of her life, in fact) is a bit dodgier a prospect, and one I'm not entirely up to. Particularly since I've been feeling insecure about my appearance lately. Even I'm beginning to think I'm looking too pale, too white. So I have to decide if I just want to say fuck it and keep doing the same thing (knowing full well they might be uncomfortable enough being in public with me to begin with, let alone with me in all my pasty-faced Mansonite glory) or tone it down a bit, whatever that means at this point. I'll have to decide pretty damn fast, since I still have to shower and shave and get dressed, and this place is a disaster at best right now.
The worst part is, I may not get to talk to Madeline today
at all. It's going to happen on occasion, right?
I simply had to ask, and he said that he's more or less brought her up to speed. "Do you know what goth is?" was apparently his first question, which I suppose is as good a way as any to start. She says there's some Trenchcoat Mafia-type kids at her school, but he sounded rather skeptical about that. He also said she didn't sound too hot on the whole gender thing, that she thought it was "wrong." Who knows, perhaps I'm about to face my first genuine opposition. Even my mother, after I came out to her, never really tried to judge me.
For the record, I'm getting made up as usual. This is who I am, folks.
Deal with it. If she wants to talk to me about it and try to learn, I am
as always completely willing to do so. If she has a
serious objection upon seeing me, and considers me an immoral sinner or
whatever, they're
perfectly free to turn around and leave.
I have no intention of taking any static from a self-righteous 13 year-old.
Even in public, when there were usually a set of eyes or two trained on us. And in public we were, going out to breakfast and then eventually to Pier 39. If it's crowded during the week, then it's a wall o' humanity on the weekends.
Now, of course, word about me will spread to my sister-in-law and her little
cowboy of a husband
(whom we've suspected of being abusive to my nieces for years, but of course we have no
proof and there's not much we can do). My brother suggested that it might be used
it as an excuse to keep the girls away from my mother, lest they be corrputed by my
freakishness. Whatever. I genuinely don't care.
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Saturday, 24 July 1999 (everclear) 12:09pm Wow. That was darn near seven hours of sleep. I spoke to The Ex a little while ago, and we discussed the specs for the new computer her boifriend is building for me and which she's financing. I don't know the precise details of the arrangement on their end and I don't really care. This'll take a bit out of the debt she owes me, particularly one of the first things I was going to do when she started really paying me back was get a new computer anyway. This is going to save both of us a good chunk of change, but it's not like I'll be getting gypped, either. I've known her boifriend long enough to trust him in these matters. Hell, her and I met him at the same time, and I got to know him before she did. That my life is surreal is such a given at this point, you might as just drop the prefix. More importantly, this'll allow me to have a functioning computer when she finally takes her Mac— and a top-of-the-line PC at that, which'll be the first time my home computer won't already be three years obsolete when I receive it. Up until now, my computers have always been secondhand at best. My current PC, which has been little more than a dust magnet on my bedroom desk since its suicide attempt June of the last year, was given to me from my father in 1995 because he wanted to upgrade. You do the math. We've also been talking about her just signing the car over to me entirely. Not a bad idea, though I need to do a bit of research. By her logic doing so should resolve a fair amount of her debt because of "equity." God, I hate financial/legal terms sometimes. Okay, legal stuff I kinda like (78 episodes of Law & Order on tape and counting; by the end of the summer I should have the whole series), but I'm a little iffy on this one. It'll certainly be simpler than looking for a new car, though, no question about that. So we'll see.
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Friday, 23 July 1999 (oxidization) 6:36am Well, that was a dream, anyway. Not a pleasant one (where were you, my dear?), but it's a start. The fact that I slept past 5am might have had something to do with it. 9:29am Don't you hate it when someone starts a story but doesn't finish it? Me too. 9:59am The latest Slimming Effect is finally up on Errata, and goddamn if a million typos aren't leaping out at me. Oh well. Not much I can do about it now. 12:07pm Is it already past noon? How the hell did that happen? Maybe that's why I don't sleep much—time, or at least individual days, seem to move so fast I can't bear the thought of missing something. Reminds me of something Keith Richards allegedly said (if Jim's sigline can be trusted) in reference to staying away for nine consecutive days: "It was just that life was so interesting for nine days that I couldn't give it up. Not even for a minute." I'm not quite that bad, of course, and the lack of heroin certainly helps. Friggin' staff meeting at 3pm so we can all discuss our "progress" (HA!) on an extremely moronic project which was foisted upon us (can any other kind of project be foisted?) which, quite frankly, nobody has the time for nor inclination towards. Aaargh. I couldn't help noticing that Summer's gone today, though. I envy her greatly.
And I guess I'm making my triumphant return to Shrine. Of course, last week was when Tania and Laurel
and Summer were all there. None of them will be tonight, though. Maybe I'll spend more time on the
dance floor than in the bar this time. Been a while since I've done that.
But that goddamn useless timesink of a meeting's in a few minutes. Christ. Not now.
I'm not sure I can handle it.
The thing is, I didn't return to her office, nor did I call when I got back to mine. I'm not continuing on the aldactone, and I suspect that removing it from my regimen is at least partially responsible for the way my head's been today. Why not, considering how borderline petulant I was about it at first? Research, mostly. I've been reading more about it, mostly firsthand accounts, and what I'm learning is that it's not worth the trouble. The estrogen really is doing a pretty good job on its own of knocking back the testosterone, and the extra help isn't necessary. Moreover, it has a tendency to dehydrate the body, some say permanently. My skin tends to be dry enough as it is; although, in truth, it used to be much worse than it is now, i.e. before I started on the 'mones to begin with. So I took both of us forgetting as a sign to just drop it. I'm not doing my metabolism any favors at the moment by doing so, but the levels will settle again before too long. And it's not like I'm quitting the good stuff. (God forbid.)
The Muni ride downtown reminded me why the best time to ride the train is between before 6am and after
6pm. Standing room only, and the crazies were out in full force. To the extent that I wasn't as much
the object of curiousity as I tend to be. The clearly impaired gentleman with the face frozen into a
permanent grimace and either Tourette's syndrome or just a really intense pottymouth was diverting
attention away nicely, as were the urban youths with the deafening boombox.
I very much melted into the background, as when I was able to actually sit down (after having to switch
trains at West Portal station, which displeased the Tourette's guy in a big way). I
opened up Black
Butterflies and kept to myself. Which is what I always do anyway.
Right now I'm having my semi-standard Friday evening meal of rice 'n' tuna (for your carbs and protein) and before I head out will wash it down with el toro rojo (for your non-soda/coffee energy). Indulging one of my odder whims (a dangerous habit to get into), Madeline shot a fairly extensive photo tour of her home in Kansas. Well, okay, her trailer. Yeah, she lives in a trailer, but y'know what? I live in a fuckin' converted garage. Yes, it looks like an apartment, but the fact of the matter is a car used to park where I now sleep. As far as I'm concerned, that makes us even. Even? Hardly—she has a hallway and a second bedroom. Spatially, she definitely wins. Near as I can tell, my place is half the size of hers, if that. It's a strangely disassociative experience to see evidence of yourself in a place which you've never been, such as the pictures of myself (two of me, one of Summer; I'm not bragging, honest I'm not, it's merely an observation) or some posters I sent her. I still remember quite vividly when the pictures were taken, or when the I bought the posters. Somehow, it makes the distance seem a little less vast. Rather than just scanning them, she actually sent me prints, which was a nice touch. These are the first I've received from her. I'm eternally grateful for the existence of the internet for any of a number of reasons, ranging from helping me to come out to giving me a fighting chance at an actual career to allowing Maddy and I to establish a remarkably potent sense of intimacy in spite of the aforementioned vast distance without spending too much money. Forgive me if that sounds crass, but when you live 1800 miles apart these things become an important consideration. Neither of us are rich, and I don't know if she's received hers yet, but I'm cringing in anticipation of the bill for the particular phone marathon which was on my dime. We are both very fortunate to be able to do this they way we are. That said, there's something wonderful about having a tangible object to work with, even if it's just a photograph. And not a printout, either, but the real deal, of darkrooms and chemical baths. The old ways are still the best. Included with the home shots was one of Maddy and her sister Ritt. As I said, these are the first prints I've seen of her. It really is a different experience from just pixels on a computer screen. A pleasant chill went down my spine, and three words came into my mind like a bolt of lightning, three which form what many of us Woody Allen fans consider to be one one of the most powerful phrases in the English language:
God, she's beautiful.
First off, I just have to say I got the most perfect parking spot ever, right in front of the Maritime Hall. This was nothing more than total dumb luck, as I didn't arrive until midnight and almost just paid the $6 for the parking lot down the block, but decided to drive around once just in case. It's a good thing I did. It's an even better thing that before I left I noticed the smashed bottle next to the front tire. If I'd run over it I would have been screwed in that most profound way imaginable, since among other things I don't think my AAA card is still valid. But anyway. I can't remember the last time I saw Summer glowing quite so much. Gothnic with Ash? Maybe, but I think even further back than that. I don't know. Regardless, particularly compared to how justifiably mopey she was earlier this week, now she was at her most perky, and her smile couldn't have been wider. It pleased me no end to see that. Imani as well seemed to be getting over her broken heart. It still hurt, but she said she knew it was over and it was time to move on. The first step, certainly. She also asked about Madeline and when she'd get to meet her, and said that she was very happy for us and was glad to at least see someone else's love life working out. The sentiment was sincere; in addition to being sensitive almost to the point of empathy, I don't think she's capable of saying anything other than exactly what she's feeling. Deception is probably a foreign concept to her. I spent most of the evening hanging out with Tiff, who by her own admission was more than a little drunk. I gave her a ride home, since her place is right along the way, I didn't like the thought of her taking the bus at that hour and of course I always have to give somebody a lift, it seems. It's just the way I am. Best of all, I got to dance for real. It's been far too long. ...and I can't believe I forgot to say this ealier: She's drunk, she tastes like candy, she's so beautiful... Much better.
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8:20am I have an appointment with my encodrinologist this morning. I'm not expecting anything to change in terms of my prescriptions; I've gotten the distinct impression that she won't be adding anything else to the cocktail. The most she might do is up the premarin dosage, in which case I'd probably be taking it three times a day rather than twice. Yeesh. It's times like this that I envy Trevor in just taking injections, either weekly or monthly. If I get any static, it will in be regards to me not having lost a substantial amount of weight in the last two months. According to my scale(s), I'm ~172, down from ~180 last time. I suppose that's something, and perhaps even a healthy rate, but she'll be expecting more. Can't blame her, really, I also wish I'd lost more. Still, for not exercising regularly beyond the walking involved in getting to and from work (I haven't done the math, but it's probably at least a couple miles a day) and dancing once a week or so (which I haven't been doing nearly as much of lately), it's not bad. Says something about my eating habits, perhaps.
But anyway. Gotta get going.
So I got off the bus at SFSU and started walked towards the cinema department. Couldn't help noticing how dead things were. Maybe it was between classes, and— Duh! This just goes to show detached from reality I've become. Of course there was nobody around, it's the middle of friggin' JULY. Hell, the summer session is probably already over. Feeling very stupid, I turned around and started walking towards Stonestown, along Lake Merced Blvd., and then up Winston Drive—I could have walked across the campus and taken 19th, and it would have been nice to see the campus for the first time (a year? two?), but I wanted to get over there as soon as possible. Also in my agenda, and this one was a little more thought-out, was stopping at the Tower Records across from the Stonestown Medical Building. Though I try to avoid the chain music stores as much as possible, I needed blank tapes and Tower perpetually has them on sale. That, and I wanted to get the new Nine Inch Nails single. Yeah, I know, but look, for $3, it's not so bad. When the album itself actually comes out, I'll get it from one of the indy stores. I promise. Anyway, I was knocking about inside Tower when my forehead started to itch. I rubbed it, and it was wet. I looked at my finger: the tip was white. Good heavens, I'm melting! I was sweating and I hadn't even realized it. But why was I sweating, for chrissakes? It was an average July morning in the Sunset district, i.e. cold and gray. And it wasn't like I'd walked that much. I'd taken the bus, and the hike from SFSU took all of ten minutes...though it was a hike. Winston is fairly steep, sure, but come on. Whatever the reason, it was happening and I had to deal with it. A few more light touches to my face (as anyone who's worked in television or seen the movie Quiz Show can tell you, the mantra is pat, don't smear) confirmed, yes, I was indeed melting. I had tissues in my backpack, but that would have involved opening my backpack, which I didn't feel comfortable doing considering I'd brazenly walked right past the bag/coat check when I entered. I glanced at myself in my powder compact's mirror: yes, "splotchy" was definitely the best word. Shit. So, without buying anything, I left and headed across to the medical building and its public restrooms for some emergency maintenance...
Or so I thought.
The running around wasn't doing my system any favors; what I needed to do was just sit down and relax, let my body cool itself off. So even though I had a half an hour to spare, I went into my doctor's office, signed in, then sat down and fixed myself up as best as I could. At least my timing wasn't too far off today, for I'd only been waiting a minute or two before I was called in for the ritual weighing by the nurse. Perhaps because of the several gallons of sweat which had recently evacuated itself from my body, the scale said I was 171. The nurse viewed this as good progress, at least. Shortly thereafter I actually saw the doctor. She also seemed pleased with my the roughly ten pounds I'd lost in the last two months. It's still nothing like the rapid loss I experienced last year, but this is healthier, at least. And have I mentioned lately that I need to start going the gym? Just checking. She was less pleased with my breast development. Indeed, when I lifted up my shirt, her face practically dropped. (Can you imagine how disheartening that is?) It seems that I don't have as many receptors as I should, or at least as would be considered average, and as a result my breasts should be larger by this point. Not much can be done about it, either. What will develop will develop, and that's okay with me. I've always considered breasts to be the most overrated female physical characteristic, and the larger they are, the less attractive I tend to find them. (Ironically, The Ex was quite ample, but it wasn't a detail I noticed until after we'd been together for a while. I wasn't very observant back then.) I will never ever in a million fucking years get implants, period, thank you very much. As always, she asked if I've noticed any side effects from the various medications, and as always, I said I didn't. Any increase in nervousness was what she really wanted to know about, for she was determined to figure out why I'm so jumpy. It's a perfectly valid observation, because I'm jumpy as hell. Always have been, can't really say why. One of my theories (which, in retrospect, I probably should have mentioned to her) is that it's a leftover from when my brother would beat me up regularly. Though it was a long time before I actually fought back in the Hammurabic sense, I defended myself as best as I could. To this day my reflexes are fairly quick when it comes to blocking. On the other hand, if I'm startled, I can leave an indentation on the ceiling. To that end, she decided to have a THS done, a thyroid hormone stimulation test, to determine if a hyperactive thyroid is to blame—I'd provide a link if I could find one. So she gave me the paperwork to have the test done, prescriptions for refills on all my assorted medications (or so I thought, and you know what that means), I made an appointment to see her in September, and I headed to the lab. Fortunately, the lab in question was in the same building, a simple walk-in. Though it's long since been established that my insurance won't cover my doctor visits (they insist they're on my plan, my plan insists they aren't, it's a real clusterfuck), I gave the lab my card just for the hell of it. They didn't seem to object that the name on the insurance card was Jeff and everything else said Sherilyn, and I took that to be a good sign. The bottom line was, I didn't have to pay. I suppose that ultimately remains to be seen. Since by her own admission this procedure was being done more out of curiousity than anything else, I'm going to be quite upset if the end result is the loss of my insurance privileges. It was a simple blood withdrawal, nothing special. The nurse asked me to make a fist, wrapped the rubber tubing around my arm (I considered asking her if I could hold one end between my teeth in classic junkie mode but decided against it) and dabbed at the inside crook of my elbow with a cotton swab. So far, so good. I'm sure at one point or another in my life I was afraid of needles and shots, and to an extent I still am because that's one of the reasons I don't want to get tattooed or pierced. At least in the case of piercings, however, what I find more unsettling is the notion of violating the flesh, and then leaving the foreign object in. It's okay on other people, but a chill goes down my spine every time I think about it on my own body. This, however, I intended to watch. I wanted to be aware of the needle penetrating the skin and finding the vein, to associate what I was seeing with what I was feeling. To demystify it, perhaps. I don't like pain, but I believe tolerance of it comes at least partially from being aware of the cause. Looking away never helps. So I watched it go pierce my skin and I felt the slight sting, it slid in...and, nothing. Not a lack of feeling, I could definitely feel it, but nothing else was happening. The nurse said I had a "dancing vein," which I took to mean she'd missed the damn thing but didn't want take the blame herself. If the vein was dancing, then it must have been leading, because the needle started following: she wiggled it around until she found the vein. Which she did after about ten seconds of searching, and she told me relax my fist. I watched the vial fill up with blood. (Such a simple matter...) She apologized for the difficulty, removed the needle and dressed the wound. And that was pretty much that. I didn't ask when the results would be ready, but I'd suppose I won't find out until my next appointment in September.
I went across to Tower to get the CD and tapes, then to the Muni platform on 19th avenue. When I got there
I suddenly realized that we'd fogotten one of the prescriptions, the aldactone. Goddamnit. I'd even remembered
to get a refill on the vicodin even though I probably already have enough to last me through completion
of electrolysis and several broken limbs, but totally blanked on this. It meant I'd
have to go back to her office...
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Wednesday, 21 July 1999 (tomorrowing) 5:53am Oh, yeah...much better. This is much more like it. My advance apologies to those in the accounting department with delicate sensibilities. 8:24am There. Now I'm all legal. 2:18pm Have you ever looked at word so often that it loses its meaning, and you come to realize how completely arbitrary language is? That vocal language is essentially random sounds which only have meanings because we assign it to them, and written language is even further detached from reality? I just had one of those weird sensations about the word "calendar," which is popping up entirely too much in what I'm working on right now.
Linguistics has always been a fascination of mine, right up there with sociology.
They're very much connected. (Two words: Noam Chomsky. When we lose him, our freedom will never be
quite the same.) If I had the discipline to be an academic, I probably would have gone into one
of those fields. Alas, I'm an HTML hack. Oh well.
But there it is, the instinct towards violence and cruelty is strong. I'm not talking about just angry or vengeful thoughts (as I confess I've been having my share of lately), but acts of pure wanton meanness. What is justice in these cases? Can anything really be done to make up for what they did? Humanity is so doomed. It's a miracle we've made it this far.
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