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


June 1 - 10, 2001

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Sunday, 10 June 2001 (steal your love)
8:02am


I slept for barely three hours, but I can't bring myself to go back to bed.

An old-school Sunday. Fitting, somehow.

Dancing at Shrine last night, seeing Terminal (i prefer "sherilyn," but for you I'll be extra-patient) and Crawford (you deserve whatever happens to you) and Gahan (remember, the light was in our eyes) on the floor as well, felt like I was returning to the pages of a dimly-remembered novel, one which I felt like I'd lived because I identified so much with the protagonist. But it's not real anymore, if it ever was. Closure is a myth. Sometimes parts of you can die before you'd ever realized they were alive. (Don't ask what any of that means. I'm not entirely certain myself.)

A few people asked where I'd been, including Götterdämmerung and Tiff. I'd be lying if I said it didn't do my ego a world of good to know that my absence is noted, even if not until I return. And, aside from it being Shrine's last night at the Maritime Hall, I'm doubly glad we went because it turns out Tiff is probably leaving town in July to go to school in Irvine. Even though there's a possibility we'll run into her again at the Dyke March (she mentioned something about having a "slumber party" afterwards, a concept both bizarre and intriguing), it was nice to say goodbye proper. The completion of the arc of a recurring character, as it were. She was also kind enough to take one of the better pictures of Maddy and I that I've seen in a while. (Not that there've been a lot of them taken lately, but pick pick.)

And, of course, our hair looked fabulous because we'd had a cut and color with Miguel earlier in the day. In what seems to be becoming a new ritual, we then went out together in the evening. He'd been curious about the place ever since I'd first told him about it a couple years back, and it had been one of our destination when we went out in April, but we never made it. I'm terribly embarrassed to admit that I'd been very reluctant to have him along in the past, like he'd crimp whatever marginal style I might have. It was needlessly elitist and stuck up of me. Trés goth, in fact. But I'm better now. Really.

Unfortunately, Anodyne wasn't working coat check, and if she was there at all I didn't notice. Beyond the fact that I haven't seen her since (November? December?), I kinda wanted her and Miguel to meet. I'm not sure why, it just seems like it would have been fun. I'm tempted to write her and ask, but I suspect there may be a level of drama happening that I'd probably best avoid. Lord knows it can exist without me.

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Saturday, 9 June 2001 (lonely girls)
7:52am


I may not have had a guitar strap for Billy Talbot, but when RE/Search's V. Vale asked if anyone had a plastic bag to hold the donations for Jello's legal defense fund, I was ready. I feel so punk rock.

sometime after midnight

3am pancakes at JT's at help, too.

So that's it for Shrine, pretty much.

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Friday, 8 June 2001 (assume power focus)
9:16am


From my mom last night:

I received another phone call from one of your classmates today regarding the upcoming reunion. Staci Walton was in band with you and remembers you. She would like you to call her at 555-3898.

The name didn't immediately conjure up a face, so I looked it up in my yearbook (which is kept in the living room bookcase for just such an emergency). Oh. Her. If memory serves, this is the same person who used her popular-kid influence to talk me into going on that horrendous senior trip. Not great surprise that she'd be involved in this, too. She remembers me from band, indeed. More likely whatever info she has in front of her mentions that I was in band, and she was too, so she's pretending it implies some kind of connection to us. (Percussion, by the way. I was determined not to let my utter lack of rhythm hold me back. Sheesh, but I was a schmuck.) In any event, I don't suppose I'll be returning that call.

1:34pm

Four hours left at work, and I'm thinking I may escape the indignity of the office party. Beyond the fact that my birthday isn't until a week from tomorrow, it probably helps that the admin who normally coordinated such things has moved on to bigger and better (or at least different) things, and the overall morale is such that I doubt anyone else gives a shit. Which is as it should be.

Both Orky and Miguel invited us out tonight, Miguel to a glam/fetish club I'd never heard of, and Orky to one which sounds suspiciously like a rave. Which isn't to say it doesn't seem interesting, because it does, but perhaps for another time. And I'm ever going to find acid again, that's the kind of place to look.

Instead, we're going to a RE/Search book party tonight. Lawrence Ferlenghetti and Jello Biafra will probably be there, and I've always liked RE/Search's stuff. Plus it's free, doesn't required getting dressed up, within walking distance of work, and most frightening, we can buy more books. We just don't have enough, y'see.

3:12pm

Well, I'm doubly glad now that I didn't take up Brian's offer and going to the new company with him, since his position (and, by extension, mine) fell through. This is precisely why I've never seriously considered leaving. It also helps that I'm fundamentally chickenshit.

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Thursday, 7 June 2001 (face of scars)
10:29am


I'm continuing to be buffeted around in UCSF's scheduling system. Although I'm still getting my vision tested on Monday, the real appointment with the ophtalmologist (regarding how much I'm at risk for glaucoma) on June 26 has been pushed back, since when it was originally scheduled they apparently neglected to make sure he was going to be in the office. Or maybe something came up, I don't know, but now it won't be until July 9. The day before our two year anniversary, as it happens.

Of course, had I taken care of this two years ago (oooh! deep!) when my optometrist suggested it...well, it would have been taken care of two years ago. Ergo, I don't really have much to complain about.

If I were to complain, it would be that the replacement janitorial staff is insisting on leaving the lights on in my office. He arrived as I was leaving last night and I told him then to turn them off when he was done, but I'm going to guess he didn't understand what I was saying. God, could I sound a little more bourgeois, please?

And speaking of unnecessary energy usage (that was the topic, right?), the Evil Levi Plaza has put a sign in front of their still-running fountain:

IN RESPONSE TO THE CURRENT ENERGY SHORTAGE, [THE EVIL LEVI PLAZA] MANAGEMENT WILL TURN OFF THIS FOUNTAIN WHENEVER WE ARE IN A STAGE 2 POWER ALERT.

In other words, they're not going to do anything to help the problem until it gets worse—as it inevitably must, with this kind of wastefulness—and then pretend to give a shit.

Oh, but I'm being unfair. Across the street is a park with a much, much smaller fountain. It's kinda hard to find unless you know where to look, so of course that one they've shut off, with a sign explaining why:

IN RESPONSE TO THE CURRENT ENERGY SHORTAGE, [THE EVIL LEVI PLAZA] MANAGEMENT HAS TURNED OFF THIS FOUNTAIN UNTIL THE POWER SITUATION HAS IMPROVED.

How swell of them to make that gesture. Not that there'll be any improvement while they continue to run their large fountain, but hey! They're doing their part!

If only everyone were willing to make such grand sacrifices. I'm not expecting anything of the sort from our upstairs neighbor, who again left the garage light on all night. It's his wont, as is not replacing the light when it burns out, and there's no point in getting too upset about it. Indeed, I'd like to think he's getting his just deserts; in the mail yesterday were three different bills (or possibly subpoenas) from the DPT. We've noticed that when he parks on the street, he constantly gets ticketed since he apparently doesn't pay any attention to the street cleaning signs. Indeed, he's probably gotten nabbed for that more in the last year than I have in the last six.

Now, he travels a lot, but there are at least two other people up there with him, and by all appearances it's never occurred to any of them to move his car for him while he's gone, as a simple courtesy. It's probably never occurred to him to ask, any more than it occurred to him to tell them the washer and dryer in the garage belongs to someone else. He's in his own little gravity-intensive world, and I'll bet it's a very unpleasant place.

Anyway, I'm terribly amused that he doesn't bother to pay the tickets, which is surely why the city is coming after him. Kinda makes me feel better about having to replace the bulbs that he burns out. He's getting his.

Which isn't to say I wasn't just a teeny bit tempted to disappear the bills from the mailbox. After all, being who he is, he's just going to ignore 'em, right? And he's caused us no small amount of stress in recent memory, right? But, no. From a purely karmic standpoint, it would be a bad move. I'm using up that particular cosmic goodwill whenever anything important arrives for the prior upstairs neighbor. If he can't make sure that correspondence (bills, returned checks, etc.) regarding his house tax make it to the correct address, that sure as hell isn't my problem. Although I do get a good laugh out of it. Since I'm probably going to hell anyway (seeing as how I haven't felt the healing touch of Jeezus, and would probably scream rape if he ever got his grubby paws on me), I might as well at least take a few of my enemies down with me.

4:02pm

The approach of my birthday can only mean one thing: Father's Day. It's just another reason I'm glad I'll never be a father. It'd be like being an xmas baby.

Anyway, last year I sent him a card, and the year before I ignored it entirely. (1998? I have no idea. That's like pre-history.) Since he seemed to appreciate Cryptonomicon for xmas, I'm thinking about getting him Stephenson's Snow Crash and In the Beginning...Was the Command Line. Then again, that might be shooting my wad too soon, and I'll save Snow Crash for xmas. Or I could just get him a gift certificate to Border's like I did for his birthday. Of course, it would probably be for the same amount as the check I traditionally get on my birthday, thus effectively cancelling each other out.

On that note, I'm trying to decide if it would be in poor taste for me to write him and mention not to put "Sherilyn" on checks just yet.

4:35pm

Barefoot was kind enough to give me a crack of Cool Edit Pro, which may be the single most useful program ever. A compilation CD wherein you don't have to constantly reach for the volume control when a new song starts? Which is to say, normalization which actually works? What a brilliant concept.

Don't steal music.

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Wednesday, 6 June 2001 (obviously 5 believers)
9:46am


"Most people wouldn't want the word 'monkey' in their job titles."

12:23pm

I haven't made Enterprise doodles in a notebook margin for many, many years.

3:13pm

Done.

5:19pm

Looks like we'll be going to Shrine's last night at Maritime this Saturday, and with (the newly single) Miguel in tow. Should prove interesting.

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Tuesday, 5 June 2001 (visions of johanna)
3:16pm


No new picture yet, mainly because I've yet to find one I like. Soon, hopefully.

I've been listening to the Moulin Rouge soundtrack. Haven't seen the movie yet, but that's kinda the point. I like knowing the songs before going into a musical, since it allows me to concentrate on the other aspects. Of course, I might end up wishing I could be distracted by the music as Nicole Kidman's costumes destroy whatever's left of my ego.

Of course, going to see it in the near future almost certainly means dealing with a crowded movie theater, never a happy experience. Has to happen eventually, I suppose.

I'll probably be going to a few non-multiplexes next week, if any of them have anything interesting playing. I got lucky last year.

In an effort to be productive, I made an appointment to take my car to the garage for its annual checkup before going to the ophthalmologist on Monday. They're within a ten minute walk of one another, which makes me feel all the more clever.

3:45pm

I just got called into a closed-door meeting with Pike and The Dreaded Russian Guy. Even though it was good news—a raise, perhaps meager but damn good considering that I'm lucky to still have this job at all—that sort of thing still makes me nervous as hell, that hot-seat experience. Having Pike there made it a little better than had it been just been TDRG, and since The Den Mother and The Big Boss are gone it's a tag team I should get used to.

None of my Good American gratitude about being gainfully employed makes me any less annoyed by having to go to Performer tomorrow. I wonder how many recently axed employees could have kept their jobs if not for how much the company was shelling out for this program. Who knows, The Fidget Queen may still be with us. Boy, talk about your mixed feelings.

5:05pm

I worked up my courage and called my speech therapist, in hopes of making an appointment for next week. Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm really bad at this sort of thing. It's like procrastination, only much more destructive. Anyway, according to her outgoing message she's out of town until June 20. In fact, she says not to leave a message now but rather to call back in the last week of June. Well, that settles that, I guess. Hey, at least I tried, and it would seem I couldn't have made an appointment for next week even had I not waited so long.

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Monday, 4 June 2001 (distant camera)
10:05am


I admit, I was keeping an eye out on Saturday night for Maggie. We weren't too far from her place, and being a lesbian-oriented event she would certainly consider it acceptable entertainment. Snarky? Not necessarily: when Chasing Amy was released a few years back, she asked me if I thought it would be appropriate for her to watch, or if she'd find it offensive as a lesbian. The L-word defines her. Anyway, if she was there, I didn't see her.

Of course, she probably has other things on her mind. When I mentioned to The Ex that Maggie's site is currently 90% 404s, she said that Maggie's been having ISP issues, and apparently they're somehow related to a struggle she's having with her landlord. I don't really see the connection—if it's a money problem, it's odd that they would host just a few of the pages rather than shutting it down entirely—but haven't pursued it any further. It's probably best that I don't know.

4:19pm

Scribbled into my notebook on Thursday. Not the eerie recurrence of the phrase "best that I don't know." Obviously I'm learning to value ignorance.

5/31/01
10:16am

It's times like this that I wish I did heavy drugs. I don't know why, but a speedball sounds really good right now. I've never done one before, but it still sounds good.

"This meeting will be very interactive."

"Give yourselves a round of applause!"

I don't know what time it is. I've taken off my watch. I think it's best that I don't know.

My endoc didn't object to my comments about abdominoplasty. She seemed to agree with my reasoning, that my prior size may make it very difficult to lose the gut. At my comparatively young age I may still have enough "elasticity," but that it may take longer than I'd like. While I'm sure she never doubted me, when she saw the stretch marks in my upper arms, she concluded that I must have once been much bigger than I am now.

It's been suggested—not by her—that it would be taking the easy way out. I don't think that's the case. I've worked hard to get where I am. If I had reason to believe that exercise and diet alone would do the trick, then I'd redouble my efforts. But I'm not convinced that's the case. Of course, it's also arguable that I should lie in the bed I made. Even if I am genetically predisposed towards bigness, and I am, I've still big negligent and overly indulgent in the past. I wish I hadn't been, but I was. It was my own damn fault. But those were different times. And there's a reason why I once realized that transition was inevitable, I started to make a serious effort to lose weight. Like my endoc said, I didn't want to go the Mimi-from-Drew Carey route. (Boy, I'll bet that's not a joke she'd make around all her patients.) In that respect, she seemed sympathetic. Maybe she sees that I'm the kind of person who won't be satisfied until they get as close as possible to their physical ideal, however improbably it may be. And being an endoc who focuses on trannies, I'm sure she has a lot of experience with improbable goals.

The main point she emphasized was the need to go off hormones for a period of time before any kind of surgery. It's necessary to prevent blood clotting, but a lot of trannies disregard it because they just can't bear the thought of going off hormones for even a short while. I don't relish the thought either, but if my life depends on it, I will. (Granted, taking hormones is more of a risk than not taking them, but I'm not having any ill effects, thank Oscar.) Some trannies have died during SRS because they refused to go off 'mones beforehand...how's that for irony of the darkest variety?

One of Dana's oldest friends, and not coincidentally the father of the bride at her wedding, is an F2M. (Recently listed by the Guardian as one of the Bay Area's sexiest people. I guess I'm not enough of a public figure yet.) (I kid, of course.) A few years back he went off testosterone to have a child. Y'know, if he can make that kind of temporary sacrifice, so can I, for what would surely be a much shorter period of time. My endoc's other primary caveat was that it hurts. Well, DUH.

Does that mean I'm definitely going to do it? No, but I guess I feel a little more comfortable pursuing the idea. I'd feel moreso if I really knew where to look, if I knew someone else (specifically a tranny) who's done it. I suppose it would help if I wasn't so damn nervous about meeting trannies. I swear, I must be setting some kind of record for self-imposed exile.

Speaking of surgeries, she said that next year I'll have to start giving some serious thought to what my future under the knife will be. I'll have been taking hormones for four years come September '02, and they don't like to keep people on full dosages for longer than that, because the health risks really begin to compound. If I decide that SRS just isn't going to happen (and I haven't decided that), then an orchie will do the job so I can significantly reduce my daily dosage. And this isn't at all like the pressure my old endoc was putting on me, telling me to call a plastic surgeon.

Fuck! I totally forgot about More Tears last night.

Every time I look at the cover of Gloomcookie #7, I'm reminded of Maddy at Dana's wedding.

I'm going to get my blood tested again in November. She was kind enough to just put "Connelly" on the sheet, allowing me to fill in the first name with whatever will be appropriate by the time. Appropriateness is in the eye of the beholder, of course, in this context being "What is my insurance most likely to accept?" It's possible I'll have switched that particular paperwork by then, especially if I'm planning on officially "coming out" to the company when we move.

One of my reasons/excuses for not having done so yet is getting zapped, my level of self-awareness about the before and after stages, and lately, the fact that even after being "healed" the skin around my mouth still looks damaged to me. She agreed with Phil that I should be patient and give it time to really heal, for what she called "the inflammation" to go down. It looks to me like something more permanent than inflammation, but I suppose I'll wait.


Maybe I should write longhand more—perhaps I'll actually, like, write more.

It's looking like Maddy and I might be joining Dana and Lee for dinner on my birthday. (Coincidentally, since it's the day on the calendar which works the best.) That would be quite perfect.

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Sunday, 3 June 2001 (without rings)
1:54pm


Figures. Reading John Shirley gets me interested in writing fiction, not something I've ever had a knack for. Reading Harvey Pekar makes me want to write comics. (Drawing is a bit beyond me.) So after the Sister Spit show last night, I get that "Hey, I can do that!" feeling. Though the idea does make me nervous, I'm not completely unfamiliar with public speaking; I actually gave stand-up a try at an open mike club in '97, though didn't go very well. It was Good Friday—historically a good day for crucifixion and little else—and Hale-Bopp was in the sky, and everybody knows comets are harbingers of sorrow. So, of course, it makes perfect sense that I bombed.

There's another show tonight, a more gender-oriented event called Intercourse. I'd go, except the notice is entirely too short. Looks cool, though, and I like the idea of, y'know, maybe actually meeting other trannies. What a concept. Intercourse is a one-timer, but later in the evening is a monthly event called Kvetch, an open mike queer spoken word thing. Which I'm not going to either, at least not tonight. I'm seriously considering it for next month, though. After all, I have over two years worth of daily nonsense to cull from. Granted, I'd be lucky if a so much a day's worth is usable, but...it's worth a try.

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Saturday, 2 June 2001 (the great divide)
3:15pm


It was bound to happen eventually. I was at the gym this morning and encountered a vulture. I'd been on the crosstrainer for barely seven minutes when I was asked how much longer I'd be. Most of the other machines were open, though the second crosstrainer was out of order, and the place doesn't set time limits. Ergo, fooey on her. Out loud, I told her that I'd just gotten on. About half an hour later she asked me to let her know when I was done. I told her that she could just look over in this direction, and if I wasn't on it anymore, that would mean I was done. The place isn't that big, after all. It was something of a tactical error, since the net result was her keeping an eye on me, which I didn't much care for either. Though that sort of thing is common at 24-Hour, but it had never happened before at this place, so I figured it was a fluke. Still, though. And, no, I didn't tell her when I was done. 'Cuz I'm a rebel and all.

We're going to a Sister Spit CD release party tonight in the Mission. Bowing to parking realities, we're taking the Muni. Which is as good a night to do it as any, really, since the Black and White Ball is also happening. We may have to venture downtown a bit more just to see the ritzy people getting on the bus with that look of class fear in their eyes.

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Friday, 1 June 2001 (softer, softest)
7:31am


All things considered, it wasn't so bad—three hours with co-workers from both coasts on a boat going around the Bay. I'd never seen the underside of the Golden Gate Bridge, so that was kinda cool. Given the choice I would have rather done something else with the time, but at least there was no attempt at something truly organized, like some kind of team-building game or something. We were pretty much free to do whatever we wanted, though the options were pretty much limited to talking to other people or not talking to other people. I did more of the latter. At several points I was tempted to read (having finished the second book in Shirley's Eclipse series, I'm shifting gears and reading Peter Biskind's Easy Riders, Raging Bulls, more of my beloved porno-like film-history), but decided that would be too antisocial, even for me.

Booze was available, and I was asked if I drink. Earlier in the day when lunch was served, I was asked if I'm a vegetarian. The answers were, respectively, "Very seldom" and "No, but I wish I was." I don't think anybody was particularly surprised.

4:19pm

So after going through the standard twenty questions with the young, eager-beaver nurse about why I'm on hormones (she's read about people like me, but has never actually met one), we finally got around to why I was there, for the referral. She picked a UCSF ophthalmologist more or less at random, which was fine by me. Except that when I got back to the office and called the number she gave me, it turned out to be disconnected. I looked up the guy's number myself, found a different one, called, got a UCSF switchboard and was told he no longer works for them. No, of course not. Long story short, I have two appointments: one for Monday after next during for a general vision test (unless my optometrist's tests were sufficent, and I've faxed them the info just in case), and one for actual glaucoma stuff on the 26th. Farther away than I would have liked, but that's what I get for waiting so damn long, I suppose. Now I just have to make appointments for my car and with the speech therapist, and I should also go back to the regular doctor for a general physical, which I haven't had since time immemorial...

At half past four on Friday, though?

4:56pm

I'm feeling spectacularly drained, though I'm not sure why.

Inspired by Harry Shearer, I observed that the phrase "At the end of the day" was used eleven times during the meeting yesterday. Eight of which were by one person. See? I was paying attention.

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