Dead silence. Then—

Oh My God! That's A Guy!

No Way! That's A Dude?

Totally! Did You Hear His Voice!

And so on and so forth. Nothing I haven't heard a million times before, nor anything I won't continue to hear in one form or another for the rest of my life. I kept walking, didn't respond. Dropped off the books. Thankfully, I knew another way to get back to my car, slightly out of the way but worth it. It was starting to rain—hail, actually—but given the choice I'd rather deal ice falling out of the sky than go back through a harassment gauntlet. Mostly I don't have the choice, and they come at me from unexpected directions.

Thought about going to The Power Exchange after the Bad Movie Night, but got chased off by the cold. It's always something.

Vash is on her way over. We're going to the Anarchist Book Fair—her first time, surprisingly—and then into the Haight in search of trashy clothes. It's for the play she's in, but I can always use more as well.

I finally remembered my dwindling supply of the small white pills with a "V" on them in my freezer. Took a half pill when I got to work. Hopefully today won't be quite as gnarly as yesterday, but there's still an edge to be taken off.

12:10pm

Called Crunch this morning with a few questions, and the answers were all good: they provide towels, and monthly lockers are available for a sawbuck and a half. That solves about ninety percent of my logistical issues, as commuting with a towel and workout clothes would be a serious pain, if not a dealbreaker entirely. (Their classes are also part of membership, which is a nice bonus, though whether or not I end up taking advantage of them remains to be seen.) This raises the question of potential noodlety around people who may not be too crazy about having a non-tang-owner in their midst, but I guess I can change in the shower or something. If there's anything I miss about the old CNET building at 150 Chestnut (and they are legion), it's the shower. That came in so handy so many times. This building actually has a shower, a legacy from its gay bathhouse days in the seventies. (Ah, back when this place was all about the queer sex. Good times, good times.) Unfortunately, it's up on the roof. I don't think so.

Now, the fun part: joining. The fellow I spoke to the other morning gave me his card and wrote down my phone number, which suggests that I have a bit of leverage. I'd told him I was going to talk to my boss to see if he'd cover it, and though I didn't (on top of the raise? um, no) I figure I'll play the my boss said no, but I'd really like to join, so do you think you might be able to cut me a deal? card. Because I'm a card player. We all are. You, too.

Quite possibly the most surreal moment of a weekend filled with them (like a Jewish wedding with nary a yarmulke in sight) was that evening, towards the end of the reception. Vash and I were outside of the restaurant where the wedding was also held, with a group of her fellow family smokers. The butt of choice was cigars, and I was relieved when I turned one down, even though I was told that inhaling wasn't necessary. It's one thing to start drinking—I had a couple of glasses of wine the night before, and a White Russian and predictably bland Bloody Mary during the reception dinner, resulting in me guzzling down water as the drunk-fear crept in—but I am so not going to even risk becoming a smoker in my thirties. So not gonna happen.

Anyway, somebody's self-described "blonde shiksa wife" took hold of my arm and started expounding about love and how love is all that matters and how she loves me even though we've never met because I'm part of the family now (it made me a little uncomfortable every time that word was used in association with me—I've lost track of how many families I've passed through at this point) and how if Vash and I are ever in their neck of the woods then we can stay with them and she's not just drunk, she really means that, about the love and the crash space and everything else, and while we're talking about love she gets how it's an uphill battle for me and what a difficult road it is for us and how we just have to remember to remember love, wash rinse repeat. I'm still uncertain if she was just referring to Vash and I as being the big obvious queerbots we are, or more specifically about me being a tranny. If so, it was the closest anyone came to acknowledging the fact. Maybe most couldn't tell, I don't know. If it was and issue with anyone, they kept it to themselves, which certainly would have been easy enough. In any event, it's not the first time a ninety-nine-percent stranger has latched onto me like that. Sometimes I think I attract them.

2:50pm

And so it begins, again. I stopped by the Crunch Fitness at Embarcadero and Folsom this morning to ask about their rates. It's about as conveniently located as I can expect at this point, fairly close to my office, just outside the subway tunnel where the N-line enters and exits the subway. I'd prefer something in my actual neighborhood, but all that's left is a Curves-wannabe "Women's Health Club" which probably wouldn't accept me given my not-real status. Even if they did, I don't trust any gym which has a prominent "Franchise Opportunities" link on their site. Crunch's rates are prohibitively icky, though the manager was happy to offer me a reduced rate to join. Of course. That's how these things work. It would still cost a lot per month. But my options are growing limited, and I know from experience what's needed to get in shape. And I do need to get in shape, to be able to climb onto one of those infernal machines with a large book and my headphones (preferably without a loudspeaker over my head) and have at it for an hour or so a few times a week. A lot of my recent depression is directly tied into how I feel about my body, and I'm really not liking my body these days, especially around the middle. Right or wrong, there it is.

5:12pm

Tim called me into his office to let me know that my raise (or, at least, a raise) has been approved. Didn't say how much, I'm guessing not as much as I requested, and the new head of our department will be the one actually giving me the details, but he wanted to let me know that something was happening with it.

8:45pm

Getting kicked off the N due to mechanical issuses at a quarter to seven in front of UCSC in the rain? Made perfect sense, given how the rest of the day went.

Driving north on 101 yesterday, without the benefit of a California map (which Vash I had both somehow managed not to bring along), I decided that we should stop in Santa Cruz to eat at Pink Godzilla. I asked for directions in Soledad, where the snow-flecked mountains off in the distance were gorgeous largely due to their distance, and cut across the 183 (through the artichoke center of the world to the 1 without either a hitch or the slightest bit of preciptation. I was especially proud of the fact that I managed to find Pink Godzilla without looking a map, which after twelve years is a first. Vash liked it a lot, and even found some nice slutty clothes at one of the thrift stores across the street. She also had good luck at a store in Echo Park the day before. Her thrifting fu was strong this weekend.

4:08pm

My brain, meanwhile, is very fuzzy today.