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Saturday, 10 June 2000 (egress) 7:25pm Feh. I don't care what the thermometer says. I've got a fever, and that's all there is to it. Unless it's possible to be feverish without having a fever per se? Whatever the details, I'm there. It sucks, but at least I've gotten this far. For as much as I resent being ill, as long as I'm in the thick of it, I want it to do its worst and be done. Raise the body temperature, fry the invading forces, and then let me get on about my business. If you'll pardon the pun, the sick part is that I'm actually glad I don't work next week. On less thing to worry about, y'know? I don't relish the thought of spending my vacation being miserable, but I'd rather spend it at home on a clear conscience than taking sick leave (particularly since the traitorous thermometer insists I don't have a fever—I oughta crack the little fucker open and suck out its silvery guts, that'll teach it a lesson), or worse, still being in the office. Now, if my DSL would just work. I've called PacBell and waded through their automated system, done what I'm told, and...
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Friday, 9 June 2000 (torn curtain) 8:41am My DSL was down last night, and wasn't back up by the time I left this morning. I suppose I should hook my modem back up and get the two of them to place nice with each other. Still, though, I wonder if in a few years regular modems will be as foreign to us as rabbit ears on televisions are now... 9:30am I think it's sinking in: my 27th birthday is a week from today. Yeah, I know, I'm a mere pup, but I'm still slightly freaking out. Bad enough that I have to figure out what I'm going to do with myself during the week. If nothing else, the car needs work, but it's scary to be without it, particularly if the urge to go clubbing strikes me...as I suspect it will. 11:36am Then again, I might just spend my time dealing with the cold that's creeping up on me. At least then it won't affect my productivity at work. You're welcome, shareholders. 3:50pm When someone asks you what you thought of a movie (or, worse, when you're offering the opinion unsolicited), please assume that we already know that it isn't the greatest film ever, okay? That's an unnecessary bit of information. If you DO think that it's the best movie you've ever seen, swell, terrific, by all means mention that, but if it isn't, then don't bother. It implies that we'll automatically assume you think it's the best film you've ever seen unless told otherwise. It's like taking a bite of food and saying, "It's not the isn't the cure for cancer." Well, DUH. But what did you think of it? Grr. I thought I'd been away from the video business long enough to get this stuff out of my system, but apparently not. On that note, a confession: Maddy and I have been going to Blockbuster. However, we have not been giving them our business. Rather, the coupons for the free DVD rentals which were supposed to come with the DVD player we bought last December finally arrived. When the coupons run out, we aren't setting foot in that place again. So we're in there recently, and an employee puts down the phone, incredulous. "They want to know if we have Sex and the City. We're a family store!" I explained to her that it's an HBO series which was recently released on video. I don't even have cable and I'm aware of that, so what excuse could someone working at Blockbuster have? Sheesh. I'm actually ranting about idiotic Blockbuster employees. (Yeah, and the last movie we rented isn't the best movie I've ever seen, either.) I obviously need to leave so I can start stressing over being away from work. The Den Mother is gone next week, but she's also gone the following week, so that'll be nice. I have no idea about TFQ's vacation plans, if any, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed for week after next. Being that I'm a catty bitch and all.
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Thursday, 8 June 2000 (see no evil) 7:02am In a not atypical display of bad timing and worse taste by my subconscious, I dreamed about The Other last night. Nothing too inherently horrible, all things considered—just running into her and talking, although she at first called me Jeff. I can't help thinking that by now she's heard the news, but then again it was a dream, so pick pick. I wonder if my brain is trying to warn me: it's going to happen eventually, y'know... 9:27am It was nearly 8pm by the time I reached the Cow Palace, and the expansive parking lot was full of both cars and people. The people, at least, were in an orderly and incredibly long line. I don't think I've seen that many people dressed in black in one place at one time since the Manson show last year. (Obviously, I've never attended Convergence.) I figured there must be some people I knew, but at most a couple dozen out of several thousand. I didn't get my hopes up. Besides, all goths look alike. Sometimes you gotta get close to tell them apart. I finally found a space at the very ass-end of the main lot, about as far as I could get before the curve of the earth would have obscured the actual venue. (Those who still maintain that the earth is flat should try going to an arena rock concert sometime.) I was close to the line to get in—sort of. I wasn't close to the end of the line, which seemed to stretch all the way out here from the entrance to the lot, then back to the building. I hadn't noticed how gnarly the line was last year becuase we had usage of a handicapped plaque. And yes, it belonged to the handicapped person who was with us. Anyway, at least this time I could at least get some reading done. Except that as I got out of the car I spotted Ilene, who just happened to be standing in line maybe ten yards away. She smiled and waved. Paydirt! I quickly emptied the contents of my backpack into the trunk and joined her in line. Admittedly, we don't know each other all that well—I first really met her when she mentioned that a (completely horrible) picture of me from last year's gothnic is on her site—but, hey, there's no time like the present, y'know? She seemed perfectly happy to have me tagging along with her and her boyfriend. It was beginning to sprinkle as the line slouched towards the building. Finally, rain. It would have to wait until now. Sheesh. It was beautiful, though, and for not the first or last time during the course of the evening, I was reminded of seeing Pink Floyd at the Oakland Coliseum in '94. It was an open-air show, and the clouds couldn't have been more perfectly behaved. The two hits of acid helped, I suppose, but by any standard it had been breathtaking. A Perfect Circle was still playing when we made it inside, and we wandered up to the far left of the stage where Ilene was supposed to be meeting some people. We never did find them, but it was interesting to get up that close before the real crush began. I had no objection to going off on my own if they decided to stay on the floor, but thankfully Ilene had every intention of going high up into the bleachers to actually see the show. I did notice while down amongst the crowd during A Perfect Circle's set that a lot of people were doing the "devil" sign—you know, the forefinger-pinky thing. Haven't seen that one in eons. Maybe it's just because we were feeling satanic by proxy after the sign-and-megaphone-wielding Jeezus Freaks out front denounced us as sinners. Though I wasn't surprised to see them outside a Nine Inch Nails show, in the past their taste has been questionable: I've seen them outside the Shoreline Amphitheatre before the Bridge Benefit. All the Bridge proceeds go to help handicapped children, and there are many children in wheelchairs (both onstage and off), but that doesn't matter. By being at this big evil event and thus by definition rejecting Jeezus, we're going to Hell. I'm sure the parents appreciate the sentiment. As we passed them last night, I was keeping quiet, but I made the mistake of making eye contact with one of them. Didn't mean to, it just happened. He shouted, "Oh, man, you REALLY need help!" Excuse me? What the fuck was that all about? Is he going to convert me to Jeezus through insults? Or maybe he just knows that's all us hellbound rock and rollers will respond to. Getting clocked by a Jeezus Freak right before going in didn't do my self-image any favors, either. So much for passing. Naturally, Ilene assured me I looked fine. Still, my ego took quite a beating inside—I'd finally decided upon wearing the same thing as I had at Lou the night before, and every girl I saw either was doing a similar look but much better or I found myself wishing I'd done something more like them. From our eventual vantage point fairly high up against the wall, Ilene and I indulged in no small amount of people-watching. Ilene was obviously experienced at it and had the shorthand down well. "Pigtails, white mesh blouse under a short black dress, harlequin stockings, next to the girl with the red braids and..." Our location really was ideal, even if I was constant danger of the guy sitting in front of me banging the back of his head into my knee. (I've figured it out: he was a cross between Timmy from South Park and Spud from Trainspotting.) Nothing beats dancing to live music and I look forward to doing so at the eels show later this month, but the chaos on the floor was like watching a magnet being moved around under a petri dish filled with lead shavings. Indeed, the show was briefly halted about twenty minutes in because someone got hurt. Which is why they were down below and I was up above. As I've mentioned before, the show was self-indulgent in the best possible way; Trent didn't skimp on the instrumentals from The Fragile, during which the crowd seemed to get a tad restless. Fuck 'em. I now must defer to The Examiner's coverage of the show, which perfectly describes the emotional high point:
All I can add is that when they weren't being used, the three oblong screens hung above the stage which reminded me of the monoliths in 2001. I'd guess that wasn't accidental. Like just about every aspect on both sides of the stage, it was a lot of trouble, but it was worth it.
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Wednesday, 7 June 2000 (riptide) 6:14am Lou's show was extremely loud and extremely heavy, full of distortion and noise, frequently making what started out as tight little pop songs unrecognizable until he started singing, and even then just barely. If "Sister Ray" or "Like a Possum" wouldn't have fit, it's only because they wouldn't have felt too short for some of the endless, cycling, trance-like jams. It was, in other words, perfect.
Afterwards, I simply had to ask The Ex: is Maggie post-op yet? And am I cuter
than her? She was able to answer the first question simply enough, but she
was laughing too hard after the second one. Her boyfriend was kind enough to
respond, though.
I'd gotten made up before leaving the office, but now I had a decision to make: stick with the velvets (utilitarian and not aesthetically displeasing, but still daily wear) or change into the skirt and fishnets I'd brought along. Past experience has shown that I'm more likely to consider myself underdressed than overdressed, so I changed. Sitting in the car in the parking garage, mind you, no small feat. Naturally, I was hooking the fishnets to the garters right when the family belonging to the SVU parked next to me returned. Well, the kids have to learn about the world eventually, y'know? I'd used the restroom before I left work, but my nerves were causing my insides to churn something fierce and I definitely needed to urinate again. Regardless of how I look otherwise, whether or not I'm wearing a skirt is typically the deciding factor in which restroom to use, and even if I'm in full battle gear I still feel nervous about using women's restrooms that aren't in places I trust. Which doesn't mean I therefore feel comfortable using the men's room, as last Friday demonstrated. And The Ex surely goes into public restrooms with Maggie now and again, and I'd like to think that I'm a little teeny bit more passable than her... So, purely for experimental purposes, I stuatted down between the corner of the car and the wall. Just to determine that what I was wearing would allow for non-standing urination, you understand, both because my height makes me easy to see over the door of a stall, and I'm trying my best to blend in with the Romans. Yep. Definitely. Very amenable. In fact... Fortunately, nobody entered that part of the garage for the next 15 seconds, and I didn't have to use the restroom again for the rest of the evening. I met The Ex, her boyfriend, Burnout and his wife at a restaurant, though I didn't eat. The only things on the menu that appealed to me were salads (gee, what a shock), and I knew there was no way my stomach could handle that kind of roughage. Not a single comment about my buetz. Didn't surprise me about Burnout or The Ex's boyfriend—as a general rule, non-femmy boys don't comment on such things—but nothing from Burnout's wife or The Ex. Such a snub. (I kid, of course.) It was the first time Burnout's wife has seen me since late '98, and she didn't seem too freaked out. In fact, she told me about a relative of some persuasion, a cousin or nephew, who's an F2M. I noticed that she used the female pronoun when talking about him, but I didn't correct her. If that's her comfort level, I'm fine with it, because it beats her not being able to handle such things at all. I'm sure once I actually start listening to her music I'm going to wish I'd gone into the auditorium while opening act Victoria Williams was playing, kinda like when I missed Nine Inch Nails at the '91 Lollapalooza because it was my turn to wander around—and now that I think about it I could have seen Lou in the mid-eighties before I really knew who he was, but that's a long story. Anyway, The Ex and Burnout had both already gone in with their respective companions, but I was feeling in no particular rush to go in and sit in reserved seating with strangers so instead I sat out on a bench and moped. Moped and wrote, which is what I normally do when I mope. I was also admiring one of the t-shirts on sale. The front was a variation on the Ecstasy cover, but what really grabbed me was the back, three words not actually from the album: DON'T BE AFRAID. God, what a beautiful, serendipitously timed sentiment. I'm trying, Lou, really I am, but it ain't easy. The Ex was looking wonderful. She had a glow about her which I haven't seen in many years. It was a glow of contentment, for she's happier now than she's been since the early nineties. (I realize now that our downhill slide began when I moved up here in mid-'94, which is why the first half of '94 stands as one of the happiest times in my life. Never underestimate the bliss of ignorance.) For as painful as our breakup was, and as difficult as it was to abandon her plans for our future together, she's much better off for it now. There is still lingering pain on my part, mostly in the form of my guilty conscience. For the last few years before the breakup, as I was coming to terms with aspects of myself which I see so clearly now, I did things I'm not proud of. Nothing directly to or against her—I never laid an unkind finger on her, and never cheated (though not for lack of trying)—and I suppose in a way that's part of it: I kept a lot from her. I was afraid, embarrassed, ashamed, any or all of those things, of who I was, of who I was becoming. And it was causing us to lose touch which one another, to grow apart. Would we have grown apart anyway if my gender circuitry hadn't been so badly miswired while I was stewing in the placental juices? Maybe, perhaps, but it's impossible to say. (It's like asking how my life would have been different if my parents hadn't had my legs fixed when I was very young and I'd remained handicapped. I would have been a different person. Not better or worse, just different from how I am now.) Even though it took me a long time to truly acknowledge being transgendered, I do believe that it resulted in my personality always having been more feminine than masculine, and perhaps that was part of what drew The Ex and I together to begin with. Had I been simply a boy without those other internal forces, then we might not have happened at all. Perhaps what drew us together, as it were, is what eventually tore us apart.
She could be, and for many years was, in a relationship with Jeff with Sherilyn influences.
But that Jeff, the person she fell in love with, no longer exists. Besides, he bungled the early part of the
"becoming Sherilyn" thing so badly that the relationship was mortally wounded anyway.
However, she recognizes that much of what appealed
to her about Jeff is present, maybe even amplified, in Sherilyn. Not all of it,
and The Ex is fundamentally heterosexual, so a romantic
relationship between her and Sherilyn is not an option. But a platonic one?
Absolutely. That's how her and Jeff started out, so it seems only natural,
and it means the pain wasn't all for naught. It means we can forgive each other our
trespasses. Now I need to learn to forgive myself.
Gives me a chance to change clothes properly, at least. No reason that I can't wear the same outfit as last night, since I'm expecting the crossover between the two shows to be quite minimal. Would it even matter if a lot of people were going to both? No, not really. And I'm going alone, so it's not as though I need to worry about anyone else.
Maddy isn't interested, and
I never did hear from Anodyne, so I'm guessing she never got tickets.
(Or she did, and decided not to get in touch with me beforehand. Fair
enough.) Last I year I went to the Manson/Hole show with Howard, Melissa
and The Ex. Howard never did write me back, and when I mentioned to
The Ex last night that I was going to the show tonight, she was suitably
jealous but said they couldn't afford to go to both shows. I certainly
respect her sense of priorities.
Have you ever felt like a moment in a mass entertainment designed for presentation to thousands of people at once was intended especially for you? That's how "La Mer" and "The Great Below" felt. Trent was indulging the hell out of both of us, and if nobody else got it, that was their problem. (Many people in the immediate vicinity apparently figured it was a good time for a restroom trip.) It was quite sublime. Had a nasty jolt on the way out there, though. Unwisely, I ran a yellow light on Geneva. I didn't notice the cop car waiting to cross until after I was past the point of no return, and when he turned on his siren, my heart stopped. It quickly became obvious that he wasn't after me—in fact, as near as I could tell, he was simply in a hurry. Seems to me like a slight abuse of power, but when a cop turns on its siren, it can do whatever the hell it wants. Won't get no lip from me, nosir. I went alone and expected to remain as such for the show, but thanks to a big dumb stroke of luck, it didn't turn out that way...
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7:41am Going to see Lou Reed tonight. This will be the first concert I've been to since R.E.M. last August...and the first time I've seen The Ex since December. 9:21am This day is shaping up to be an endurance test. I got into work to find that my computer is requiring more maintenance than had been previously suspcted, and has been taken to IS for at least a few hours. (Good thing I still have Shulgin and Omega.) I would not at all be surprised to discover that it's toast and I'll have to get a new one. Fine. What I don't have backed up elsewhere, I can live without. Really, I can live without all of it. With the possible exception of certain internal organs, there's nothing I can lose that I truly require. For as much as I love my things, electronic or physical, they can still all go away at a moment's notice, and I'd have no choice but to continue onwards. It's happened before; that's the nature of theft. It's gone and it ain't coming back, so deal with it. Most of what I have wasn't mine to begin with. Oh, it may qualify as my property, but I didn't create it. It's not an expression of that most abstract concept, self. It's not, to be perfectly highfalutin', my art—"art" being loosely defined as that which is created by the individual as a means of expression. And the closet thing I have to that is this fucking journal. It's just words and it's derivative and repetitive and frequently vapid and inconsequential and censured, but it's both the best I can do and all I have to show for myself. I fear somtimes that if I stop doing it, I'll never be able to create anything else, and this only barely qualifies as "creation" in the first place.
It does seem to be genetic, though, and I've always been amazed by how
in spite of how my brother barefoot and I grew indepndently of one another and in very different
surroundings (he's 11 years older than me, and he left home right around when
our parents split up), we developed such similar writing styles. Similar, though I
like his a lot better, and his essay on
Tom's struggle with hard drugs still
inspires me. And he doesn't even chicken out by changing the names.
Meanwhile, the move into the new office is tentatively scheduled for June 26. Good. I'll be back from vacation, and I can handle a few more weeks of being around him, even if the dull thud of his techno has been making me want to drive my head through my monitor.
3:40pm
how do i, how do i play this? What should be just a comparatively simple evening (meeting up with some friends, seeing a show) has been blown completely out of proportion. Because The Ex is one of those friends, and that makes it extremely tricky. Because of Madeline's wishes, I haven't seen her since December. Plans for this evening kinda fell into place, though—The Ex and I both bought tickets to the show not aware that the other was going, and Burnout suggested getting together for dinner beforehand—and unlike the occasional party invitation from her I've had to decline, this time there was no good reason not to go except that Maddy has wanted me to have as little contact with The Ex as possible. Preferably none. To her credit she has started a dialogue with The Ex on her own, but she still objected to me getting together with her (and her boyfriend and Burnout and gawd knows how many others) before the show. The Ex and I are friends. We've always been friends. We were friends before we were a couple, and as our relationship was dying its fiery death a year and a half ago, we agreed that we would try our best to keep the friendship alive. Yeah, we both played headgames and did some generally fucked-up things to each other during the worst of it. I've forgiven her, and she's forgiven me. I have no desire to get back together with her, and she has no desire to get back together with me. We are, as stated previously, friends. Nothing more. None of which touches on the fact that I've changed a great deal since the breakup. Indeed, the breakup in many ways jump-started my transition. I'm not exactly the same person I was then. If we grew apart naturally while we together, then the growth we've no doubt both experienced in the meantime is probably ten times greater. And even if I wanted to get back together with her (which I don't), I know she's very happy with her boyfriend, and I wouldn't want to jeopardize that. For better or worse, I still have a great deal of guilt from the breakup and the fact that my decision to transition confirmed that our relationship was over; at the time, I had to keep reassuring myself that it was all for the best, that in the long run (or even the short run) she'd be happier. I kept my fingers crossed that I'd be happier too, of course, and I ultimately I am. But I'm still scared. I'm scared because of the heavy emotions which have been vested into this situation. I'm scared because of the awful feeling that I'm fucking things up beyond repair, even though I know this is something that needs to be done and I'm tired of being bullied. I'm scared because I never wanted it to turn out like this...I tried my best, I really thought I could make a go of it, and my hubris may have lead me astray...
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Monday, 5 June 2000 (harangue) 8:50am Uck. I'm not here five minutes before getting sucked into what I believe is referred to as a "water-cooler conversation." All I wanted was to grab a cup from the kitchenette we share with the accounting department, but no, a complete stranger asked me about my weekend. After a pause, I replied that it wasn't long enough. They laughed and said they heard me. As if that wasn't bad enough, they started prattling on about how they'd just seen Gladiator not once but twice this weekend because they liked it THAT much, and... I faked a little more small talk and then escaped. On the way back to my cubicle, I passed by The Den Mother on her way in. The negative omens are piling up like a wreck on the Montague Expressway. I'm not expecting too heavy a workweek, though. Brian's on vacation this week, and although there's at least project looming over our heads, he's instructed me to stall until he gets back. It's not that he doesn't trust me (he does), it's that he doesn't trust the marketing department, and while I have their grudging respect they're still liable to try and take advantage of his absence.
It's just as well, since I'm still getting IP-quakes a couple times an hour, knocking out
my network connections and making it very difficult to get any actual work done.
Which gives me more time to work on (*sigh*) deconstructing my cubicle. Maybe.
Then again, maybe not. I mean, the new office isn't even close to being ready for
us to move into just yet, and...shit. I need to find out precisely when this is all
taking place, since I'll be gone next week. Let's just say I'm kinda protective of
my stuff, and am very concerned about exactly where I'll be sitting in the new place.
"Oh, you look like you could use a little sun, so we put you facing the window and
removed the curtain...."
And the way they get worked up about dirty words! To quote Eric Cartman about the oh-so-dreaded "f-word", what's the big deal? It doesn't hurt anybody. Fuck-fuckety-fuck-fuck-fuck. Must be something in the bible about how if you want to get into heaven, you'd best avoid hearing The Seven Words You Can Never Say On Teevee. Of course, neither teevee nor the words in question existed when the bible was compiled, but pick pick. Not to mention that at least a few of the original Seven (shit piss fuck cunt cocksucker motherfucker & tits) have found their way onto the airwaves, which is naturally used as an example of moral decay in society. I don't get that one at all, but I don't get snake-handling or denial of xmas (by self-described xtians) or papal infallbility, either, and all of them are based on unique interpretations of the bible, unique interpretations which are then pronounced as the only accurate interpretation. Okay. Fight amongst yourselves, kids, but please, keep it amongst yourselves, all right? Thanks.
Whether or not this qualifies as a spoiler depends on how much you've already heard about the film,
but I have a confession to make: I got a little teary when Alanis appeared as God. I have a feeling
it's gonna take a while to figure out the significance of that one.
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Sunday, 4 June 2000 (sempiternal) 1:42pm Why is it so unpleasant when a limb "wakes up?" It's probably the ickiest feeling this side of an ice cream headache. The thing is, when you consider what's actually happening—the circulation of blood resuming after having been blocked—doesn't it seem like it should feel good? Blood flowing through the body is a good thing, so shouldn't the pain be when it stops flowing, as a warning? Further proof that there's no gawd. A benevolent creator, or at least one with half a brain, simply wouldn't do it that way. 4:40pm China Wok no longer offers Fish Balls with Saday Sauce. A moment of silence, if you please. It's awful when you lose the simple pleasures. Not that I ever actually ate it, but it sure was fun to say.
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Saturday, 3 June 2000 (goin' back to harlan) 8:35am We saw Small Time Crooks last night. I liked it, but then again I'm a Woody Allen fan. It's the first of Woody movie that Madeline's seen in the theater and only the second of his that she's seen at all, and she didn't seem too traumatized by the experience, nor by my launching into hardcore film geek mode immediately after. The MegaMultiplex of our choice was also showing the latest crowd-pleasers, and being a Friday night, the crowds turned out in force to be pleased. (Lest I sound like a snooty film snob as opposed to merely a hardcore film geek, I have nothing inherently against big blockbuster movies. I go to movies because I want to be entertained, and I do want to see Mission: Impossible 2, though I'll be giving Big Momma's House a wide berth.) (Um, no pun intended.) Hence, the hallways were crawling with teenagers, and it was with a profound sense of discomfort that I ventured to the men's room. I am getting so tired of dealing with this, I can barely express it. The issue of which restroom to use is one of the oldest jokes about trannies, and I'm sure it's funny as hell from the outside. When I used to actually watch talk shows—in the pre-Jerry Springer days, when they weren't the mutant parades they are now—an audience member would always ask it of a pre-op: "What bathroom to do you use?" Big laughter, and quite often it would go unanswered in favor of more "thoughtful" questions like "When did you first decide you wanted to be a woman?" I have no regrets about the transitioning and am about a zillion times happier with my appearance now than I've ever been before, but dealing with public restrooms in this case is not something I would wish on my worst enemy. I didn't have any makeup on (which of course means I was only wearing eyeliner) and I zipped up my jacket so the fishnet shirt wouldn't be quite so obvious, but my hair was up in a high ponytail and I was wearing my velvets. Because that's just how I look normally, that's why. Androgynous. It ain't like everyone else, and it sure as hell sticks out like a sore thumb when you're in the heart of mainstream America. Robert Duvall's most famous line from Apocalypse Now involves the fragrant qualities of gasoline-based bombing technology prior to noon, and the next most famous is in reference to the water sports of cultures indigenous to Southeast Asia. But my favorite has always been his exit line, and it was going through my head last night:
Someday, this war's gonna end.
I wore the hard-won corset from Foxy Lady and it was quite the hit, though I'm not sure if I'll be wearing it again anytime soon. At the very least, it's going to take some getting used to. Not that it was uncomfortable per se, it just didn't feel quite right somehow. Maddy did my hair up in different style—multiple braided ponytails—which also got a number of compliments. I've been saying this for a well over a year now, but I've really gotta learn how to braid my own damn hair. The really weird part was, we were there for nearly three hours and I didn't go into the restroom once. I don't mean to sound as though I'm obsessing on restrooms, particularly since the women's room at Shrine is as ambisexual as they get (hell, it has urinals), but I never even went in to primp, let alone for waste elimination. Just one of those things.
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Friday, 2 June 2000 (remission) 7:05am The preceding 24 hours have been utterly without merit, and I would like to ask that they be stricken from the record.
Thank you.
Oddly enough, TDM hasn't tried to get me to move yet. I wonder
if she simply hasn't gotten around to it, or if she finds
me too creepy and doesn't think it would be worth the effort. I'd like
to think it's the latter.
A couple staff meetings ago, I joked to Brian after a big long boring PowerPoint presentation that we were going to be quizzed. Lo and behold, The Den Mother passed out quizzes. (On which I scored the lowest, still something I'm very proud of. I ride the short bus, goddamnit!) Earlier today, I joked to Brian that during a staff meeting scheduled for this afternoon she was going to produce a seating chart, and that The Fidget Queen and I were going to be put into a brightly lit office together. Ha! Joking about your worst fears is a swell way to deal with them, huh? Let's just say it came a little too close for comfort. Her new seating chart was unveiled, and I am in fact being moved into an office—but with Leigh, and TFQ's going to be far away. Out of earshot, at least, and that's what matters. I'm not thrilled about being uprooted, but it could be a lot worse. Leigh and I worked close together at Autodesk and she understands my, shall we say, aesthetic requirements and has no objections. Indeed, she even suggested black curtains for the windows. So I'm sure it's going to be a good thing...
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Thursday, 1 June 2000 (10 miles high) 9:16am My DSL at home has been down since yesterday afternoon, and my connection at work seems to be on the verge of death. Nothing like that feeling of an impending crash. (Makes it all the more ironic that our stock has actually been climbing.) that feeling of an impending crash. Yeah, I think that's it.
Lee was on icq earlier. We didn't talk, or at least he didn't respond—it was probably his every-so-often jaunt online to
download his mail—but it was nice to see him there.
Anyway, the prognosis is rebuilding my system next Monday, including a memory upgrade from 64 to 128.
Cool. It's also
going to require me cleaning out my hard drive which I've very effectively cluttered over
the last year and a half, but it's about damn time, really. Purging is good for the soul.
Although there were supposed to be seven people in the group, only one other person ever showed. An pre-op in her late forties, on hormones already but not really having begun transitioning yet. (In full battle gear, she's surely what Sondra would have referred to as an OMID, or an Old Man In a Dress. I try to be more sensitive than that, with varying levels of success.) Part of the reason being that she was too busy dealing with the way her life was spectacularly igniting around her: divorce, being kept from her kids and estrangement from her family in general, the loss of her job, etc. And all this while still existing in boy mode, only having announced her intentions to transition. I spoke very little, and it felt like I was sitting in on an individual session. Which was fine, since she obviously needed it right then and there more than I did. It was heartbreaking, and more than a little frightening, being just shy of my twenty-fifth birthday. This was what happened if you waited too long, if you tried to deny your nature and create a life for yourself that doesn't quite fit, as most of the previous generation was forced to do. Very bad things.
Although bad things can happen regardless.
Now, I just have to use all my mental energy to convince
the universe to move The Fidget Queen into his old office,
ergo completely out of my earshot. Making the best of a
bad situation, you understand. Sure, I'd ultimately prefer
that I be moved in there, but that could be miscontrued
as selfish. Nope. I'm thinking purely in the little
phlegmwad's best interests. He deserves that office,
really he does. He'd be much happier there.
Happiness consists of being able to tell the truth without hurting anyone.
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