Sherilyn Connelly > Diary > March 1 - 10, 2011



2/3/11
My Face for the World to See (Part II):
The Diary of Sherilyn Connelly
a fiction


March 1 - 10, 2011

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Thursday, 10 March 2011 (discoverer)
7:07am


Yvette was not at the gym this morning, so it was just Rita and I on the treadmills, turning the angle up to fifteen and the speed about to about four, which is actually pretty intense, especially when you do it (in intervals) for nearly forty-five minutes as we did. We're both very chatty with each other, probably more than we should be considering how much our heart rates were spiking, but that keeps it interesting. She's definitely curious about my life, as I think more people at the gym are than are brave enough to ask, and when I dropped the g-word (telling her about how when Marta had commented at Ilene's housewarming party that Ilene's was the only closet she's seen with as many in reference to Ilene's housewarming party, and I'd said something to the effect of welcome to the goth world) she was all kinds of fascinated by it, as civilians often will be. She asked what it meant to be goth, how goths at a club or just in general would react to someone who's dressed regularly (I assured her that Marta is not at all goth, but is completely accepted by all my friends), and my personal favorite, whether or not the whole scene actually died a long time ago. I told her that it's been being proclaimed dead for years, at least since the closing of the original Batcave in the mid-eighties, and some would argue that it was all over on April 20, 1999 and the unpleasantness in Columbine. Personally, I don't really care whether the scene is supposed to be dead or not—and really, there's nothing more goth than not caring.

8:22am

At My Desk at Green House. The current plan is to be here until three and get as much work done as I can, and then relocate to the House of Boxed Steam and continue to attempt productivity there.

2:21pm

Whooboy. Sprog invasion. Time to leave.

5:37pm

At Ilene's house. She's working at her desk, and I'm on her bed (using the incredibly useful little laptop table my mother's boyfriend built for me) rewriting "Finding Sister Midnight," with plans to submit it to (un)remarkable, which seems like it might be a good fit, especially since I'm not convinced that the original anthology it was intended for is ever going to happen. Alas.

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Wednesday, 9 March 2011 (collapse into now)
9:32am


Picked up Marta in West Portal last night (where I'm embarrassed to admit that I failed to notice that she was wearing high-heeled boots, something she had to point out this morning), we returned home, had dinner and watched a couple episodes of Party Down, then went to bed, exerting no small amount of willpower to keep our fooling around to relative minimum since I had to get up at four. My own fault, that one, but I'd made plans to meet Rita at the Y at five in the morning for an hour of pre-Bootcamp stretching, because that's what I need to be doing right now. Rita commented this morning as we working out together that I've been helping to keep her honest about to going to the gym, since she might have just stayed in bed if she didn't have plans with me. Yvette has said the same thing more than once, and I'm mostly certain they don't resent me for it.

I'm getting bored with adjectives like brutal and intense to describe Bootcamp this morning, but was indeed both of those things. The instructor asked me a few times if I was okay, since I was evidently getting that "going to either puke, pass out, or puke and pass out then choke to death on her own vomit" look. I did none of those things, but it was touch-and-go at a few points.

We have a substitute this Friday—someone who apparently will turn it into a Zumba class—which is just as well since I'm spending Thursday night with Ilene, and I'm still not quite ready to leave her place so early in the morning, especially if I'm not returning afterward. (Which is why going to the gym is not a problem on nights that Marta stays at The Black Light District—indeed, she says she didn't even notice when my alarm went off at four this morning, nor did I disturb her when I was getting ready to go, and she didn't really wake up at all until I returned at seven.) And maybe someday I'll go the gym on Friday morning and then return to her place as she's waking up, but I can't even begin to predict that far into the future. In any event, Ilene suggested that I bring my workout clothes along on Thursday so I can join her for her jog the next morning. Sounds good to me.

12:32pm

It occurs to me that I haven't received any story rejections (or acceptances) in a couple months, which means I've been slacking. Need to start submitting stuff again.

3:07pm

My first library school class—and the only one I'm going to be taking for my first semester, because I seriously gotta ease into this shit slowly—is called LIBR 203 - Online Social Networking: Technology and Tools. One of the recommended textbooks is called This Book Is Overdue!: How Librarians and Cybrarians Can Save Us All, which means I now have to get over whatever objection I may have to the existence of the word "cybrarian." Of course, it sounds like a "Cylon librarian," and I'm totally down with that. And it looks like the kind of book I'd pick up on my own in the library anyway, which is a bit more than I can say for the other recommended book, the Publication Manual of the American Psychological Association, Sixth Edition. Yikes.

6:41pm

what's your deal? i mean, how clueless are you, really?

9:13pm

Lots of unexpected processing with Marta tonight at table in front of Maxfield's, one of those very public places which is perfect because nobody paid us any mind. It was, as our processing usually involves, about mistakes I'd made, blunders I'd made in my eagerness to do things combined with my anxieties about asking if I can do things, because I still have the idea in my head that the idea is always going to be "no," and it's a powerful fear to shake. So I'd phrased something very badly and I hurt Marta a great deal in the process, and it took us right to the edge of breaking upbut we not only worked through it, a new, far better plan was hatched, one which I'm very happy about. Not that I wasn't aware of it before, but it reminded me once again that this is by far the healthiest relationship I've ever been in, and the trick is stop letting whatever damage I have left over from Maddy and Vash (which were, on the whole, not especially heathy) from messing things up now. And Marta's patience helps a lot, too, and unlike those past relationships—Maddy in particular, I have to admit—I always feel confident when we're going into a heavy conversation that we'll emerge out the other side not only unscathed, but in an even better place than we were before. That has not always been the case, to put it mildly.

Afterward, we had dinner at San Jalisco. It was quite delicious, and one of these years I have to drag The First into town to try their Huevos Rancheros.

Home now, and gym tomorrow.

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Tuesday, 8 March 2011 (a day without substance)
3:54pm


I'm about to hit eight hours at the cafe, and my productivity is pretty well shot. Which is understandable, though I did get a lot done.

And I also received a mass email earlier today from Rhonda, saying that our friend and my semi-regular play partner Marc from The Power Exchange has passed away. Fuck. That really breaks my heart. I'm not even sure when the last time was that I saw him—maybe when Marta and I went to The Power Exchange on Halloween in 2009? Possibly. He'd made a valiant effort to keep in touch with me since then, calling me every few months to invite me to lunch, and I'd always meant to call him back and take him up on the offer because I really did like him a lot, and he turned me on to the food pantries after I got canned from NakedSword which really saved my hide in a lot of ways and he managed to take me to lunch on at least one occasion back in the day and was always really sweet to me and...godsdamnit. Bottomfeeder will be dedicated to him, that's for sure.

Rest in peace, pal. Thank you for making me feel wanted during those times when nobody else did.

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Monday, 7 March 2011 (sour yellow sounds)
8:52am


In spite of the lateness of my arrival, My Desk is available. Thank goodness. I need to get a lot of writing done, though I don't think much work-work will happen. That'll more likely happen tomorrow.

11:33am

Speaking of the public record, a new Unthology review at The Short Review:
Unthology 1 is the first collection of short stories from small press Unthank Books who profess to be purveyors of unconventional and unpredictable fiction. The criteria for the collection was loose—no word limits, no themes, just high quality, original writing. The introduction expands on Unthank Books' mission statement focussing particularly on the state of the short story today: while noting the sheer amount of short and flash fiction being published it simultaneously and bravely admonishes the dearth of quality, dismissing much published short fiction as mere "overdressed anecdotes or marginally evolved pub jokes". Editors Ashley Stokes and Robin Jones make an astute and daring claim and stand up to it well; they have compiled an admirable and exciting collection of stories from up-and-coming as well as more established writers.

Having said this however, the collection immediately undermines itself by starting with an extract instead of a short story, which somehow dwarfs the passionate and relevant introduction. Nonetheless, while Viccy Adams' extract from Doing it by the Book takes a while to get going, it transpires into a disorienting and surreal piece on the loss or rather the theft of a man's identity. Similarly Sarah Dobbs' extract from The Lemonade Girl seems a bit out of place, yet is an excellently observed short piece focussing on a man's obsession with a missing ex-girlfriend.

Mischa Hiller's The Burning also operates within a familiar domestic sphere but does not for a moment lose tension. It details the dissatisfactions, irritations and small betrayals endured by a couple, yet opens up to unexpected, tender moments of relief. Hiller, whose novel Sabra Zoo was recently published to much acclaim, is certainly one to watch. As is Lora Stimson, whose Post Day perfectly captures the angst of being young and the lonliness of family life. Complex relationships are simply mapped in this atmospheric, sensual and quiet story detailing the observations of a young girl and the significance and ambiguity of the smallest things. Its tone is unflinching, intense and free of any "adult" justifications.

Another stand-out piece is Sherilyn Connelly's The Last Dog and Pony Show. Written from the point of view of a transsexual at a very niche sexual role-playing event where participants identify with and dress up as animals—or "furries'"—Connelly impressively handles what could otherwise be open to mockery. In these unlikely and un-real circumstances the characters find ways to interact and express their emotions in ways they cannot in "real" life. The dynamics and possibilities of sexual role-play are examined and communicated excellently—real tenderness emerges in this unusual, funny and daring story.

Also of note is Sandra Jensen's impressive Write or Die which showcases a writer's narrative control in a dark, well-paced and original piece—a prisoner's confession of a murder written entirely in dialect. Furthermore Michael Baker's sustains the voice of his psychotic narrator in Bleach to great effect. The story is wicked, brutal and hilarious—impressive, from such a young writer. Jenni Fagan, who won 3:AM Magazine's Poetry Book of the Year in 2010, also masters the darkly comic in Impilo—a visceral and horrific story of a man losing his leg, imbued with absurd humour, and an elegant control of the surreal.

Finally, James Carter's Herringbone is an interesting and clever short piece, a meditation on a repeated pattern—the herringbone - an original and odd story that has nothing of personal relationships. A man interacts with the world, subconsciously noting all the times he sees the herringbone pattern, and ends in a serendipitous and thoughtful surprise.

While the limits of space mean I cannot discuss every piece, it is worth saying all the stories in Unthology are enjoyable and well-written, with some unique voices emerging. The collection keeps its promises: this is a varied, well put-together collection showcasing some interesting writers in an unrestricted and playful place. It will be interesting to see what Unthank Books do next.
Neat! And I'm guessing they don't realize that it's (to use the British term) life writing, that those "unlikely and un-real circumstances" actually do exist, and that it's excerpted from a book, but that's perfectly okay. Just so long as the story works as a story.

8:03pm

Simon Sheppard has asked me to read at Perverts Put Out again next month. Yay!

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Sunday, 6 March 2011 (thrashing in the water)
11:41pm


Marta and I don't rembember how we went to sleep last night. I think we both just passed out from exhaustion.

First thing on Saturday morning, I told her about hanging/making out with Lisa the night before. She was okay with it, as it was the kind of thing we'd discussed before, that we have each other's blessing to make out in public places with whom we wish to make out with and who wish to make out with us. There's still an adjustment period, and some heartburniness—hell, I know it's going to hurt like mad the first time that Marta does it—but that's okay, healthy, even.

Things did get a little meltdowny when we were in the Haight (I don't know what it is with me and Haight-based meltdowns), but we worked through and emerged out the other side, and in plenty of time to be first in line at the Red Vic. The Found Footage Festival was great as always, and afterward we went to Liam and Daisy's cocktail party, joining a cuddlepile with Ilene and Davina, Marta slowly getting comfortable with the group snuggling, which made me very happy indeed, because I want her to be involved in these things, to share them with me.

We were quite tired when we got back home, and Marta had even started to go to bed proper but I was having none of that and we started tearing into each other, and the only reasonable explanation of what happened is that we fucked ourselves into unconsciousness—we both remember the first part, anyway, and then the next thing either of us remember is startling awake a couple hours later from the sound of one of our legs kicking the Hitachi Magic Wand off the bed, the light behind the bed still on, both of us still naked and with the heater off, none of which being how we normally go to bed properly.

When we finally woke up and got out of bed this morning, we had a late breakfast, got some work done, watched a couple episodes of Party Down while eating lunch, and then went back into the bedroom and picked up from where we left off the night before, but with considerably more energy and far less danger of passing out (the occasional intentionally obstructed air passage notwithstanding).

We had dinner together at The Dark Room (from Taqueria Cancun, beans and rice with avocado for me and two tacos for her, the standard), and then Marta headed home. The first person to arrive when the doors opened for Bad Movie Night was Lisa, which was no great shock considering she's a regular. We hugged hello and talked for a while, and I may have talked her into attending Frolic next week, in spite of her fear of furries, which exists but is neither as intense nor as myopic as most people's.

Surprisingly, she left without saying goodbye barely half an hour into the movie, just before Ilene arrived, her first time at Bad Movie Night since November 2009. Ilene was frazzled from the Muni ride over from her office—the fact that she works until eight on Sunday nights is one of the reasons she hardly ever comes to the show—but she assured me it won't dissuade her from attending again soon, and she settled in quickly with me in the front row and got into the swing of things. And after the show, after hanging out with the rest of the crew (and a brief dalliance in the red-lit backstage area), I gave her a ride home.

Sleep now. I'm not going to the gym tomorrow, but I do intend to hit Green House and get My Desk, since it's going to be another one of those weeks.

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Saturday, 5 March 2011 (a short term effect)
8:01am


Up a bit earlier than usual for a non-gym, post-dancing night, but Ilene and Porter wanted to leave comparatively early, which was okay by me. The timing turned out to be just about perfect, actually.

I picked them up around nine at the House of Boxed Steam, where Ilene was putting the finishing touches on her outfit for Strangelove at The Cat Club that evening. For my part, in addition to the black-and-purple stripey stockings with garters (which were of course covered by the black velvet dress I had on), I was wearing my pink-and-white tail again. As we were at The Cat Club's bar ordering drinks (screwdriver for me, Porter's treat), a guy that I sorta vaguely knew came up to me. He's one of those people that I've seen around at the goth clubs for years but have spoken maybe five words to, and those all words probably would have been no more recently than 2000. But, by the gods, whenever I would find my way back to clubs, there he would be, tall and skinny with long greasy black hair and coffee-stained teeth, looking not unlike an underfed Dave Grohl. I've always found him rather creepy and am happy that he ignores me as a rule.

But rules were made to be broken, since he said to me: you're wearing a tail.

Ugh. There was no way this could end well. uh-huh.

Having had his visual acuity confirmed, he moved on to the pertinent question: why are you wearing a tail?

Not that it was any of his goddamned business, but: because i like tails. i think they look good on me.

what are you, a furry? The contempt dripping from his mouth as he said the f-word was so thick, it would have to be mopped up by the staff later.

Deciding that there wouldn't be any point in explaining the difference between animal role play and furries—and, what's more, I'm becoming less sure that I only exist on one point of the spectrum anyway—I nodded and said: yep. i'm a furry.

He clicked his tongue in disgust. ugh. i cannot stand furries. they're just wrong. i don't understand why anyone would want to demean themselves like that. and what's that tail supposed to be? are you supposed to a horse or something?

I've never been very good at walking away from this kind of conversation, even when I know I should, so I replied: yes, it's a pony slash horse tail. i primarily identify as a cat, but i've been wearing this particular tail lately because i don't have a good cat tail.

He shook his head. you're not a cat. i don't see you as a cat at all.

At first I thought he was pointing out the fact that once one removes any elements of imagination or metaphor or (heaven forbid!) fun from the mix, I'm taxonomically of the species Homo sapiens and not Felis catus. Which I'm fully cognizant of, I'm honestly not that detached from reality (though there are of course though would argue that I detached from reality when I said I was a girl). But, then I realized that, no, he was challenging my animal identification—the identification that was so openly disgusted with in the first place. I said: actually i am a cat, very much so. it's in the public record, even. The public record being "The Last Dog and Pony Show" in Unthologt No. 1, making it a comparatively obscure and difficult-to-find record, but on the record nonetheless as far as I'm concerned.

He replied: no, no you're not a cat. you're an otter, actually.

My hackles raised. um, no. i am really, really not an otter. i don't even know what it means to be an otter, but—

He continued: in the gay community—i mean, i'm not gay, but a bunch of my friends are—in the gay community, an otter is a man who's really hairy, but much thinner than a bear. they're very extroverted, which you are but cats aren't. so that makes you an otter, not a cat.

I felt myself recoiling in place as I fathomed just how deep the insult went, on just how many levels my identity was being challenged, especially from somone who held the animal identification in open contempt. The gods knew it was not the first time that a gay/bisexual boy (or probable closet cases like this one) has failed to grok that I'm deadly serious about being a girl. Forcing a smile, I replied: i actually have to disagree with your description of cats, because while they do tend to be aloof at first, once you get to know them, they're often all LOVE ME LOVE ME LOVE ME—my arm was interlocked with Ilene's, and I gripped hers perhaps a bit too tightly when I said that—which is why when we were asked before the dog and pony show to come up with a phrase which describes how our personalities are similar to our chosen animal, i came up "attention-starved yet aloof, slutty yet finicky, skittish, fiercely loyal yet ultimately alone," which pretty much describes both cats and me. I paused for breath, then said: and while i will fully admit that there's room for other animals on my totem, horses and ponies being the obvious ones since i'm wearing this tail, i am most certainly not, in any way shape or form, an otter. period. i am not a boy, and i am not an otter. i'm a girl, and i'm a cat.

Our drinks arrived, and before the guy could say anything else, Ilene suggested that we relocate to the back room to get about the business of dancing. And dance we did, though it was mostly just Ilene and I, Portero only joining us occasionally, as well as Liam, who's also generally been there for the last few dancing excursions but seldom actually dances with us. And Davina and Mouse weren't there at all, unfortunately.

It was Strangelove's "Cure Tribute Night," so much of the music being played was The Cure (QED), and I was happy that "The Lovecats" made it into the mix, it being a song that's entered into my heavy rotation (hence the bottom right corner of the page). I had a couple rubber bands around my tail to make it more manageable for travel, but as we were dancing, Ilene removed them so the tail would have a better bounce and swish.

After an hour or so, we decided to re-relocate to the front room. Along the way, I heard someone say sherilyn! It was Lisa, my self-described biggest fan, whose emigration from San Francisco had clearly been delayed and who was in a much giddier mood than I'd ever seen her, at least in our limited interaction. She admitted to be stoned for the first time in over a decade, and on the prowl for a "poly goth boy," figuring that this club would be the best place to find such a creature. I decided to hang out with her for a while—Ilene was there officially on a date with Porter and not me, after all, and while they were both happy to have me around and I'd gotten in some quality smooching and cuddling with Ilene, I found myself fascinated by Lisa, especially since her normal level of fannishness about me was being greatly heightened by being stoned, and I am nothing if not a creature of a perpetually needy ego.

So, I didn't see a downside to hanging around with someone who was kept going on about pretty and funny and talented and generally awesome I am, someone who (as she put it) couldn't help but fawn over me, especially if there was a chance in hell that I could parlay that into something more. I've totally fumbled on what could have been groupie action before, both times I've gone on tour (especially the girl at The Ugly Mug in Orange County) and I wanted to see if I could make this one work, if I had the confidence to ask the right things and follow through. Hardly classic starfuckery, since aside from the fact that there would be no fucking, the star generally doesn't have to work so hard to make something happen, but at the same time, I've always been one to take what I can get. And I ultimately had no expectations of anything actually happening—for what stories I do have of unexpected hookups, like Ryder or Leanne or Jezebel, there are countless other nights where nothing happened at all—especially, again, since her specific mission was to hook up with a boy, and for as much as she'd told me in the past that I was beautiful, I wasn't sure that translated into actual physical interest. But I did gather up my courage after we performed an unsuccessful inspection of the back room for a likely boy candidate and informed her that I would be very happy to make out with her, if she was interested. No pressure or anything, just putting the offer out there. She laughed (as she was tending to laugh at everything, admittedly) and said that was good to know. Yeah, I knew what that meant.

When I mentioned in passing that I'm transsexual, she seemed genuinely surprised. I'd figured she'd known all along, but nope, she'd had no idea. Go me on that one, evidently.

After a cruise of both the front room and back revealed no likely candidates—not to mention that we were constantly choosing places to stand which either blocked doors or made people think we were waiting in a line—we found an empty couch. The flirtation continued apace, as did a fair amount of Tranny 101, much of it stemming from her mild confusion over the fact that I transitioned from male to female, and yet I still like girls, her even going so far as to ask so why do you like girls? Which is one of those unanswerable questions, like asking me why I like hot sauce: because it's good, de gustibus non est disputandum and all that, and the fact that gender identity and sexual preference are two largely unrelated traits is one of those concepts that non-transgendered people often have great difficulty wrapping their brains around, in spite of the fact that we were sitting in the middle of the city which is considered the mecca of same-sex attraction, so there should not be anything whatsoever out of the local definition of "ordinary" about me being a girl who is attracted to girls, not even the fact that I used to be a boy who was attracted to girls, but it constantly surprises people, and it sure as hell doesn't do me any favors at all when it comes to cruising and flirting.

But I think something shifted a little for Lisa when she discovered that I was transsexual, that it made me a viable candidate in a way that I hadn't quite been when she thought I was a genetic girl. It certainly ratcheted up the curiosity factor, and of course, I was openly encouraging her flirting/fawning (which she occasionally apologized for being so blatant about), but at some point her gears clearly shifted to okay, yeah, this one will do nicely, and I'm not convinced that would have happened if I hadn't come out to her.

your skin is so soft. i know i keep saying it, but it's just so...soft.

So as we were sitting on the couch, still not yet having kissed but definitely in something resembling a cuddle mode with me caressing her legs and her hands on my neck and shoulders and playing with the squid, our discussion flying all over the map and never staying on any one thing for very long from our histories to our respective writing careers to our mutual fondness for black PVC (of which she was wearing a certain amount) to Bottomfeeder, and I was somewhat surprised that she'd never heard of the Power Exchange but was intrigued by my description of it, leading her to ask are you a switch? to which I replied i've never really had a proper answer for that question, it depends on the situation, but i try to be as attentive to my lovers as possible, but i'm ultimately too needy to be a top (frequently when we were talking, Lisa would trail off and then say: i'm sorry, i just keep getting...distracted. you're extremely distracting) and that was when when a group of girls came over, fascinated by my tail, which I'd kinda forgotten was there. One of them asked: can i pet it? I replied: sure. it's not real and has no nerve endings, so be my guest. Earlier in the evening I'd run in the girl who'd asked me about it Dancing Ghosts, and she told me that she'd investigated the store I'd told her about and discovered that the hair is, unfortunately, not violin bow-quality. But she thanked me all the same. And on Thursday evening before dinner Marta and I were in Multikulti, and I heard someone behind me say: do you have a tail? Marta and I gave each other a look and managed to not burst out laughing, and I turned to see that it hadn't been directed to me at all—it was a woman talking to her boyfriend about some sort of a black-tie-and-tail shindig they were going to. Presently, one of the girls told me: your tail's really tangled. it would be a lot sexier if you brushed it. Well, yeah.

I felt a tug on my neck—Lisa had discovered the cutoff bootlace I've been wearing around my neck as a choker for the past couple weeks, looped twice and then tied in a loose knot, an attempt to further accessorize inspired by the lead in Ginger Snaps, and Lisa was now pulling on it, her eyes going all sort of far away as I'd seen them throughout the evening, and she said: oh, sherilyn, you bring out the top in me in a big way.

A hand on my shoulder, not Lisa's. I looked up and saw Ilene standing over me, behind the couch. She leaned in and gave me a deep, long and upside-down kiss. I asked her if this means it's getting to be about that time, and she confirmed that it was. I said to give me a few minutes, and she nodded, smiled and walked away. I turned to Lisa, who looked almost despondent (of course, every emotion that had crossed her face had been amplified) and said: oh no, do you have to leave? I replied: i'm afraid so. I leaned in and finally kissed her, and she responded in kind, us making out fiercely, both us starting to pull away occasionally and then jumping back in for more, several false exits, like Devi all over again though on that night I actually wished I didn't have to leave with Ennui and sometimes wonder what would have happened if I'd stayed with Devi—and considering that we'd taken a cab to that club to begin with, it's not like Ennui's trip would home have been any different if I hadn't left with her, and she even said she would have been perfectly fine if I'd stayed at the club with Devi, but doing so had just felt wrong, somehow—but not only had I promised that I'd drive Ilene and Porter back home, I wanted to leave with them, specifically Ilene, lest I commit an Aesop Violation which would be massive even by my standards. Besides, something about that particular kiss from Ilene, at the time and in that way, for all the ways in which it should have been completely awkward it was in fact perfect, crystallizing things that had been uncertain until then, making me realize that, yes, she does in fact like me. Which I knew, but didn't really know, somehow.

11:23am

This is the first day, or at least morning, that I've spent at home for a while. The moving-out process upstairs is officially complete, and the Black Light District has been in need of a good cleaning all week long. And my landlord has confirmed that the new kids are moving in on Tuesday, so now's the time to get things done around here.

2:58pm

see? the universe is smiling at you. even your stalker is hot.

3:33pm

There. Much better than it was. Now, heading out to pick up Marta, and then we'll going into the Haight for dinner and to see the Found Footage Festival at the Red Vic, and then back into the Sunset for a cocktail party at Liam and Daisy's.

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Friday, 4 March 2011 (the first and last chime)
9:21am


Got to the gym at five this morning, did an hour of stretching with Rita, and then a Bootcamp which required far more crawling around on the ground like soldiers in WWI than usual. Though there's still some sniffliness, the headswimmy feeling has gone away, and I am officially declaring myself on the mend. If Ilene wants to go dancing at Strangelove tonight, then I will, and if she doesn't, I won't. Pretty much.

At My Desk at the Greenhouse Cafe yet again. Though I'm pretty sure they're done with the moving of the Big Things, the cleaning of the upstairs is now beginning, so, yeah, distance is good. And they mentioned that their destination is Denver, so that's one minor mystery solved.

2:41pm

Heading home in hopes of getting some nap time in. They can't still possibly be cleaning upstairs at three in the afternoon on a Friday, right?

7:11pm

Managed to nap for a couple hours, I think. It's always kinda difficult to tell, but considering how sluggish I am, it must have worked.

Wearing a garter belt tonight at Strangelove, probably for the first time since Pink Saturday a couple years back. The time has come again, largely because it actually fits properly again.

sometime after midnight

i'm sorry, i just keep getting...distracted.

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Thursday, 3 March 2011 (dreary time in oregon)
8:57am


Didn't get nearly as much work-work done yesterday as I would have liked, but I did get the Bad Movie Night listing for this week finished, which is pretty well ahead of the curve by my standards. Made it to the gym this morning and worked out with Yvette and Rita. Perhaps not quite as intense as I would have liked (again), but it was good to sweat, and I also learned that the rumor about Bootcamp not happening for the next few weeks is not true. So, I'm going back tomorrow, and will even be getting to the gym at five to resume stretching with Rita. Anyway, as the three of us were on our various machines, I mentioned that I'm starting librarian school later this year, and Rita said: oh, that's perfect for you! People keep saying that, so it must be true.

At My Desk at the Greenhouse Cafe for record-breaking fourth day in a row. It's a different person behind the counter than the last few days, so I feel a little less self-conscious about the fact that I'm suddenly living here. She's a cute punky girl with pink hair, and I was pleased to discover that she didn't make me feel bad about myself or my own appearance. That's progress. (Marta suggested last night that I'm prettier than Jessica Harper was in the movie Inserts, and I don't believe that at all, but of course she loves me so she'd think that. And I maintain that she could totally pull off Veronica Cartwright's look in that same movie.)

I still have the cold, sniffliness and sneeziness, but I just gotta burn through it. I'm having dinner with Marta tonight and we're going to the dress rehearsal of the new play at The Dark Room, and the possibility of going dancing at Strangelove tomorrow night at The Cat Club. So I'd best be well by then.

Work-work now.

10:29am

The marketing guy just asked me if I want a break from the stuff I've been doing—"break" meaning switching gears briefly to an entirely different project, one which is more urgent, requires more research and a higher word count, but also pays much, much better. Sadly, the higher pay rate is just for this particular situation, which will probably be four new pieces at the most, but I'm down for it. I is a hack, it is what I do.

3:44pm

Done! With the first article of new project, anyway. He likes it (I am really quite fortunate to have a boss who likes my writing style, since most of my previous employers refused to even give me the opportunity in the first place), though it has to be bounced off the client first. I'm feeling good about it, though, and if they like it, it'll certainly be the most I've ever been paid per word.

10:13pm

Left the cafe around four to head Missionward. Marta and I had tapas at Picaro, then went to The Dark Room for the dress rehearsal of the new play, 007 James Bond in Ladykiller: Live. Needless to say, I have less than nothing to do with with this one, and am beginning to consider backing out of the Star Trek play in September. So close to school and all. We'll see.

Sleep now, and gym tomorrow.

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Wednesday, 2 March 2011 (absorbed into your system)
11:11am


Blech. Yeah, this has gotta be the worst of it—sore throat, sneezing, prodigious phlegm production, the whole routine. I didn't go to the gym this morning in hopes of erring on the side of rest, but of course that was based on the notion that I might actually continue sleeping after five in the morning. And I think I may have, a little. But I'm going back tomorrow for sure.

I'm at the Greenhouse Cafe once again, at My Desk, because I don't really have anywhere else to go. And I need to get some work-work done, swimmy head be damned.

3:52pm

Just completed my Free Application for Federal Student Aid (FAFSA!), and I qualify, so yay. I seem to recall having read that the State of California subsidizes the Library degree to some extent, so I really need to track that information down.

As I was entering in my driver's license info, I noticed that while I dutifully changed my hair color from BLK to BLN when I went blonde, I never did update my weight, which hasn't been close to 170 for several years. New / old fitness goal! I'm hovering in the late 180s right now, so it could well happen. Not that I care about the numbers or anything.

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Tuesday, 1 March 2011 (wise words from the departing)
5:16am


Sore throat, eh? That's how it's going to be, body?

8:40am

At the Greenhouse Cafe on Taraval. I got here at about a quarter past eight, and while My Desk was thankfully unoccupied, there was (is) already someone sitting upstairs near it, and that just means that I'll need to start getting here right when the open at eight. (Except for tomorrow morning, since I'll be taking Marta to work.)

Yvette wasn't at the gym this morning, but she called and left a message for the woman at the front desk to let me know she wouldn't be there, which was very sweet. Helps to keep me honest, for sure. Being a social creature I took the spin class, where I learned that our Bootcamp instructor will be gone for a month. I mean, it was nice to have the excuse to spend the morning at Ilene's last week, but I'm not quite ready for Bootcamp to go away. Nor is anyone else, and we all had a bit of an orphan vibe about us as we discussed it. (This right here, this is what the Left—usually in the form of guilty white liberals who feel horrible about how they were born—calls "First World Problems.") Apparently there's a yoga class happening on Friday mornings at six now, so that'll be a good change of pace. And the woman I was doing the one-on-one stretching with has returned, so there'll be that, too.

One of the regulars commented on how much I'm thinning out, and as I was leaving the woman at the front desk (as is her wont) admonished me not to lose any more weight. I do keep track of this sort of feedback, because nobody else will, and it keeps me going.

3:23pm

When I think that the Velvet Underground is on too loud, it's probably on too loud. And I've had gotten jukeboxes turned off because I was playing the Velvet Underground. (It's what they get for having the Greatest Hits CD on there and not expecting anyone to put on "Sister Ray.") Yesterday it was pretty much all Dylan, and I love both Dylan and the Velvet Underground, but the net result is still me putting in earplugs and playing drone music through my Princess Leia headphones. And it's still not as jarring as it surely would be at home right now.

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