9-1-1 Emergency!!!

A few nights back, I was in a snoring competition with the chihuahua when all of a sudden, I was woken by an alarm going off in the house.

I'm still undecided as to what woke me up first; the actual alarm, or the Sir Bark-A-Lot that I have taught to howl when sirens go by.

Oh, I taught him good.  I never knew a chihuahua could howl so well!  And yes, he worked it for the full 15 minutes of ear piercing sirens.

Cats ran this way and that, trying their damnedest to trip me up.  I was scrambling around the house with my arms in the air like a demented lunatic, muttering, "Fucking," this and, "What the fuck," that about some fucking noise that I swore I've never heard before.

You see, it wasn't the usual alarm that erupts while I'm cooking, so I was confused as to where this sound was coming from.

Well, if I'm being honest, the confusion was really because it was 4 a.m. and my nerve pills were in full effect, not to mention it was the night of the Budder Bar that I had apparently eaten too much of.

So to say the least, I was not of sound mind, and I couldn't quite hear properly, because I wear ear plugs to sleep.

yeah ... i mean business when it's coma time ...

However, I was able to figure out it was coming from my office.

I entered, all bleary eyed, and removed the smoke detector from the ceiling in a desperate attempt to shut it the fuck up!  I found a little hole, tried poking it with a pen, then considered ripping the wires out of the contraption because I was going to lose it if it didn't stop screaming in my face.

Amongst the howling chihuahua and the screaming siren, I tried calling Papi, but had no luck.

My love was obviously passed out on the job and had the ringer off.

Oh, I'll try again, because maybe mi esposo is actually working and isn't near his cell.

No dice.

At this point, my eyes are starting to open, and I have one ear plug out.

I'm getting serious now!

I tried to poke and prod the detector hole with an even skinnier pen, when I realized the alarm wasn't coming from this gizmo.  It was coming from the box in a nook in the wall.

It's an alarm system we used to have connected before the sewage flood.  It shouldn't be going off!  It's been disconnected!  WTF?!?!?

Ok!  I'll call Papi's work line that only the privileged are allowed to have.

As I was dialing, I went to the top of the 'my didn't they do a great job of the carpet' stairs and punched in the code on the alarm display box. 

ahhh ... the silence was deafening ...

I then heard Papi answer and I explained what just happened.  My love proceeded to call the alarm company from his cell as I heard the one ended conversation.

Oh damn.  They've already called the Fire Department.

Sure enough, within a few seconds of receiving these words, I see flashing lights outside our front window.

I casually strolled out the front door, giving a wave, as if I was greeting a long time friend.  The firefighters came rushing out of their truck, axes in hand, with full gear ready for the fight.

"Um, hey, how's it going?  Um, there's no fire."

Boss-man firefighter replies, "Well what are we doing here then?"

Still in a bit of a Medicinal Cannabis/Nerve Pill stupor, I shrugged with a teen style, "I dunno," and waited for them to award me with the answer.

When I realized that they must've thought I was a wee bit simple, I added, "Oh, well, our alarm went off, even though it's supposed to be disconnected, then they called you."

They shook their heads and gave me the death stare while they walked away.  I don't blame them.  They had to scream out of their cozy place, jump into gear and holler their emergency to the peaceful, empty streets of Vancouver at 4:15 a.m.

As I was closing the lights off around the house, I saw someone coming up my basement sidewalk dressed in black, and used a flashlight to bang on the window.

Oh great.  The cops were called too.

I went out, hoping to clear up the issue without sir officer figuring out I wasn't 'all there', but lo and behold, it was my neighbour.  Ah yes.  The alarm company calls our neighbours until someone answers as well.

and a good fucking morning to you too!

Papi instructed me what to say, as I still couldn't form complete sentences.

Eventually it all ended and I went back to sleep.

When I awoke the next morning, I really wondered if it was all a dream, until my love informed me the next day that we're going to be billed for the Fire Department showing up.

I'm not sure which had the most effect on my inability to function.  Brain injury?  MC?  Nerve pills?

Nah ... it's really just another day in our reality show/blog household.

The 96 year old bird slept through the whole damn thing.

Nipples.

I went into The Dispensary and had a nice chat with my Medicinal Cannabis guru.

Apparently, I ate too much of the Budder Bar.  That's why I got a little paranoid and coocoo.

Well, lesson learned.  I can see now where that little gem could fit in.  Not really something I want for the all day, never ending, nattering of a bitchy back.  It's something that could be used for the really bad days where I can't lift my head off the pillow.

So, I've found the magical tincture Snake Bite Oil is the ticket for this femme.

I was actually able to sit for longer than 10 minutes making music yesterday without a screaming back.  Let me tell you, it was the greatest feeling.  I never knew three years ago that it would be a struggle just to get back to composing.

I'm pretty grateful that we live in a city that is so liberal that I actually have a choice about what to put in my body for pain management.  I really don't need residual liver damage from a motorcycle accident, ya know?!?

Anyway, I found another bonus to the Snake Bite Oil.

Another side effect of MC is being a little more brave.

Papi was wandering around without a top on yesterday ...

... which was never out of the ordinary prior to the top surgery ...

... and I looked at my love when Papi started talking about his nipples.

"I was told that they would take a while to heal."

I was finally able to look at them without the mask of denial!  I thought to myself ... wait a minute ... how did they create that nipple?? ... then proceeded to ask Papi. 

"It's my own nipple.  It's from my original nipple!"

Then I realized, I'd never thought about it.  So now, I'm looking at said nipple and I realized that there was no other scarring to make the big female areola hole shrink to fit into a small male areola area.

damn ... does that make sense?!

Well, I was surprisingly curious as I shocked myself by asking my love how the hell they did that!!

Papi didn't know.  Papi and I just looked at each other, wondering how they created this crazy illusion!

They really did a good job!  I finally looked at it differently.  I didn't look at it from a place of queasiness.

well ... maybe i shouldn't go that far ... i was queasy ...

None-the-less, it took me a moment to really envision my own nipples being cut off, cut to size and placed back on my chest!

Oh yeah ... I couldn't really get past that, but the point is I really looked at them from a place of acceptance.

Here is the person I married.

My transgender, F-M esposo.

That's when I had a moment where I saw the person Papi wants to be.

It was quite a fleeting moment, but I saw it.

I saw the 'man' that people see when they just see Papi on the street and walk on by, without trying to figure out if this is a man or a woman.

I saw the male figure that Papi desires to see in the mirror.  It wasn't so scary, it was just a chance to see my love through different eyes.

Of course, the feeling I had in seeing my love in a different way vanished with one sentence.

"I don't think they'll fall off now."

Nice.

No, they pretty much look like they're going to be stuck there for good.

So, to my Blogger Friends Dirty Cowgirl and Sandra, you can stop worrying about nipples being ripped off by the power of the shower head, then floating down the tub drain.

They're now permanent.

And small. 

**shudders**

Side effect: Paranoia

Ok.

So I started my first day of consciously learning.  Last night I started to read the first link that Papi sent me: Hudson's Guide: Myth's and Misconceptions about Testosterone, Transition, and Trans Men.

I read the first Myth's title and snickered a little.  It was the Myth I was terrified about.  I felt a little stupid in thinking that Myth number one was one of my biggest fears.

Myth #1: Taking testosterone ("T") for transition will make trans men uncontrollably angry and volatile, or cause "'roid rage."
This is one of the most common myths about FTM transsexuals who take testosterone, but there is no compelling evidence to support such a sweeping generalization.

No matter!  Papi has proven to me that I get the same silly love that I married.

Great.  Got that one down.

Myth number two stuck out a little.  I never thought about the negative, health side effects from the poison my love injects into his ass.

But good to know.  Hormones don't cause cancer.

The next few had me rolling my eyes as if to say, "C'mon.  I'm not that ill informed!  Gimme something I can learn!"

Really though, number three?!?  Hormones will make you taller?!?  I'm not completely daft.

Number four confirmed that taking hormones will not shrink breasts, and number five let me know that breasts won't grow back if Papi stops taking hormones.

Ok.  But then there was number six.

I was comfortable reading that it is a Myth is that hormones will make you gay.

Well, that was good enough for me, but then they had to add the disclaimer!

After telling me that it's a Myth, they went on to say that some people become gay after they transition!

Myth #6: Taking testosterone will make you gay.
Some trans men may find that their sexual feelings and attractions shift after starting testosterone therapy, while others may not.

That was enough to throw me into a tailspin!  Maybe Papi will be gay!!!

Oh, no!  My love likes to watch fag porn.

Then there's someone from my Trust List that told me their guy started sleeping with guys after the transition!

Oh my fucking God!

So, that was as far as I could read.  I started thinking that this was it.

I mean, I can't possibly just come to acceptance and now it's all roses.  My life is never that easy.

A new honorary Trust List member wrote to me and told me of her analogy of life.

I used to have a cat that loved to play with mice. he would catch them in the yard and terrorize them.  He didn't want to eat them, or hurt them, he just wanted to play.  Of course, the mice didn't understand this.  I can only imagine how terrified they were.

Last year I told my mom like I felt like "god" was the cat and I was the mouse.  I think the analogy applies to your life as well.  I have had a tremendous amount of adversity in my life, not quite as bad as yours, but pretty damn close.

At first all I could think about was that fortunately, I don't believe in a 'god'.  So that didn't instill fear in me.

I get the analogy.  Because, yeah!  I can't get off that easy.

Yesterday I said I was ready for acceptance, and what happens?!?

I may not believe in a 'god', but for sure there is some kind of cosmic force that just uses me as a science experiment to see how my a brain can really take.

I finally went to sleep last night after reading Myth #6, ...

... thank you nature's pain reliever ...

... but now I have all day to wait for my love to get up so I can find out if I might be left in the dust while Papi goes out and chases the fags down on Davie Street!

So, here I sit at noon, knowing my love won't be up to speak to until about 7 or 8, because Papi is executing the Graveyard Coma.

I'll have to wait.

Wait!

Papi's alarm just went off!  That's right!  Papi has an appointment.  I took this opportunity to ask the question as quickly as I could to relieve my ailing heart.  Before my love could make a move, I asked the blurry eyed rushing to the washroom esposo, "Are you gay?!?!?!?"

"Whata?!?!  Are you serious?!?!  You were afraid I'm going to leave you for a Tranny Chaser and now you're afraid I'm going to leave you for a fag?!?!  Honey!  I'm married to you!  I love you!  I can't believe you're afraid!  I have penis envy, but it's mostly curiosity.  I also am attracted to F-Ms but I've always been open about it!  You know that!"

I calmed down a little, then started to realize that it may have been a little bit because of the 'new meds' I'm taking.  "Well, I guess I shouldn't have read it while on the new pain killers."

Papi's indignance filled the room, "I knew it!  I knew it!  I thought it the other night and now I know it's true!  The pot meds are making you insecure about our relationship!!"

Oh.

Now I remember why I quit smoking it all those years ago.

Paranoia.

Now what?

I'm ready.

I had a really nice visit with My Person yesterday.  It's always so comforting to know that someone can read my mind.

She instinctually repeated what I had said yesterday in terms of Papi not really being totally on board with my new choice of pain relief.  When My Person's partner says, "You know, I don't really like it when you _____," My Person's rebuttle is, "Yeah, well I never asked for a dude for a partner, so get over it."

She's just so funny, and it's just so true!

I appreciate that I don't really have to say much for her to understand where my heart is, and vice versa.

I know acceptance is a really good thing.  Getting to it is the object of the game.

Neither one of us is perfect.  We're just who we are and it is our spirits that we love in one another.

Now that the drama of the Tranny topic is becoming a more peaceful experience for me, I'm really coming to terms with the fact that I really have been a closeted Tranny Lover.

I look back at the women I've been attracted to and damn!  They're either so androgynous that people would mistake them for men, or they're transgender and are now going through/have gone through the male transformation process.

There's people that have told me they're going through with the transformation, and I would drop my crush immediately, because, "That's just not what I want in a relationship."

Papi never wanted a pot head in a relationship, and we both wound up in love with our biggest fears.

goddamn ... we really did good on this one, eh?

I can go on about our Tranny situation in jest, frustration or tears, but there really is one very scary truth that my love and I need to look at.

Papi and I are starting to really get our thinking caps on now for what we should bring to the Dominican Republic.

I was starting to wonder if Papi was having cold feet about the whole deal, but getting to know my love more and more, I realize that this anxiety around the 'what if's' is really just my love's personality.

However, there is one topic that is very much a reality to fear.

The island is so religiously brainwashed into homophobia, that if they found out Papi is transgender, the possibility of my love being killed is very real.

Religion can really breed hatred and violence in people when it comes to anything to do with the queer topic.

I know this is truth.

It's truth in our own country, in our oh so very liberal city of Vancouver, and in every other country in the world.

My love is changing, and looking more different to people every day.  I don't really get to see the changes, because they're so slow, that on a day to day basis, I don't really notice.

However, I get to see these changes through others' eyes.  They will mention something is different, and I'll eventually see it as a new reality.

Yet, it's still just the gorgeous person I married, with a few adjustments.

Anyway, I think that by the time we get to DR, my love will be past the Helium Voice stage ...

which has been a lot better that what i feared ... imagine that! ...

... and there will be a lower voice.

My love's scarring from The Great Breast Disappearance will have calmed down a lot by this phase, and perhaps my love will have done some body building to disguise the scar as well.

Those little critters that poke out of Papi's chin seem to be much stronger than the previous little peach fuzz caterpillars that I would cringe over.

Yes.

I'm seeing much more from a place of acceptance.

This is starting to feel like I'm coming to a place where I can speak freely about where I've come from in these 9 months.

I think I'm ready to be someone else's 'My Person'.

Gimpy giggles.

Papi and I are really meant to be.

I was terrified that the hormones were going to create a monster of a spouse.

I've been proven wrong.  People will get extra boisterous because of the testosterone factor, but there really has to be an already existing anger management issue.

Papi and I laugh our way through most of the 'issues' people have in relationships, and I didn't want that to change.

The 'angry' person has never arrived, other than the fact that my love is a little more aggressive in terms of road rage, but mi esposo has promised to work on this.

At the same time, I have to work on believing Papi's truths vs. myths.  I'm slowly letting go of my own crazy ideas that pop into this overly creative brain.

I'm not so worried about the anger issue coming up anymore.  My love has proven to me that I still get my silly spouse, even if he is growing man hair.

Now to Papi's side of the fence.

My love abhors pot heads.  This is why mi esposo would rather have me taking the pharmaceutical companies drugs instead of nature's offering for pain.

Well, if I'm going to be stuck with this pain for the rest of my life, then I really need to look at long term pain management, and pills that would rot my liver are not really a great option in my books.

So, I got approved for medicinal marijuana and took a trip to the The Medicinal Cannabis Dispensary here in Vancouver.

They don't really know what kind of dose I need to get past the point of pain, so they gave me a bit of a starter kit.

They gave me an infused iced tea and a 'Budder' bar, where the infused honey is what's holding this delicious looking edible together.

I was also recommended being given Snake Bite Oil for the nerve issue specifically.

Sounds gross, tastes gross, and at first made me a little nauseas.

However, all it took were two little drops per hourly dose of this magical serum, and I actually felt like I could cook a dinner for myself.

I've been snacking for the past couple of weeks.  Really not eating healthy, just trying to get the most nutrients I can without moving too much.

So, to be able to cook was great joy for me.  Getting those lush, organic greens into my body instantly gave me more energy, and I had more mobility to use it.

Ok.  No problem, until the 3rd dose.  I had a moment of pot head snickers and Papi was not impressed.

The giggle attack.

My love doesn't want to see the giggle attack, because then I'm a full fledged pot head.

I removed myself from the room to try to contain my giggles, but inevitably I would snort out a chuff.

Then I heard it, "Andréa?  What are you doing?" in such a tone that it felt like I was a bad little girl who got caught sneaking cookies before my dinner.

I couldn't hold it in any longer and the bursts of laughter came out.  Papi wasn't happy, "See!  This is what I didn't want!  I don't want a pot head for a wife!  I hate pot heads!"

Well, that just made me laugh all the harder, because whether you're on something or not, when you're not supposed to laugh, it makes you laugh all the more.

I needed a time out.

I had to sit and get serious, or my love will not be impressed.

way to harsh my mellow dude ...

Eventually, the giggles calmed down and Papi said, "Well, I guess the non-stop giggles are better than the non-stop whining."

irk! i prefer to call it wincing in pain, not whining.  this femme doesn't whine!

Exactly my dear.

And you know what?

If this femme's perfect butch is replaced with a Tranny with man hair for a spouse, then Papi can deal with a gimpy, limpy, pot head for a wife.

Tou-fucking-ché and somewhere, we'll meet in the middle.

My love soon realized where the issue with pot heads came from, and we had a long txt chat about it.

It's my love's turn to work on this fear, just like I had to work on the hormones fear.

We were really meant to be here for each other to help each other over our 'issues' aren't we?

Quickie!

Well, I don't have much time today ...

which is a good thing ... we all know what too much time alone with my mind does to me ...

... but I did want to drop by and tell you how exciting my day is.

I've been approved for medicinal marijuana, so I may be able to let go of the horrid, pharmaceutical company chemicals that I take, for the never ending pain from the motorcycle accident almost 3 years ago.

It might be a day to say, "Goodbye morphine, codeine and percocet!!" and, "Hello!!" to nature's BFF of the hippies.

Can't hurt to try.

I may be overly optimistic that this will ease my pain, but who cares!  It just might work.

Anyway, more importantly, I also get to see a friend today, and she has a puppy.

A puppy people!

I know you're jealous.

Biker Granny

It was the G'mas 96th birthday the other day.

When someone is at this age, you don't know when the 'last day' will be .

However, with this old bird, we're pretty sure she'll be living well past 100, because there's much more guilt to be dished out before she retires and gets to see her dearly departed husband and daughter again.

The moment I wake up, there are orders being barked and screamed at me from the Fuzzy Family.  Not to mention, when I walk up the 'my, didn't they do a great job of the carpet' stairs, I am forced to do the old bird's bidding as well.

There is no, "Good morning," or, "Hello."

There is only, "The dog needs brushing!  The flowers need watering!  I can't seem to get the TV on!  Listen, when are you going to get me a new nighty?  Is my laundry done?  I need more underwear!  Andréa, do you hear me?!?!" ad infinitum ... 

yes ... oh i hear you ... but lord knows you can't hear me!

With my eyes half open, my only desire is to get The Golden out to have a morning pee, so I can start the coffee proceedings.

I have to take the orders and just smile and nod, knowing that my job as Cinderella will be ending in the next year when the poor old thing has to go to a home, and Papi and I really start to plan out our dream of moving to the Dominican Republic.

So, we try to keep our cool, remembering that our days are numbered with the old fart.

One thing that Papi has always wanted was to have a picture of the G'ma on one of the many motorcycles that have lived under the carport.

Being the matron of the house, the G'ma has always vehemently replied with, "No, I will not!"

Well, on the crazy old lady's birthday, we were bringing the G'ma home after a nice drive through Stanley Park, which we do every year on her birthday, Papi decided that today was the day for a G'ma pic on the bike.

No questions asked.

As soon as the frail old lady got out of the car, and stepped only a few inches away from the vehicle, Papi snatched he walker away and told her, "I want a picture of you on my bike."

G'ma's response?  Obviously, "No, I don't want to!  Give me back my walker!"

Naturally, the Tranny Terrorist ignored the warden's orders and forced the almost Centurion's ass on the motorcycle, leaving me to just smile and nod at the G'ma.

My love zipped around the other side of the bike, and made progress by turning the old bird around, then demanded, "Put your hands on the handlebars.  Give me your leg."

Papi leaned G'ma back and I was there to hold her from falling completely backwards while her brittle old neck was having trouble holding up her head!

My love didn't take notice that I was doing my best, with what little strength I have right now, to be sure the old thing was safe.

No, mi esposo just pulled G'ma's rickety leg up and over the wind visor like G'ma was a Can Can Girl doing a high leg kick, minus the sexy nylons.

Poor ol' thing shouted, "You're hurting me!  I don't like this!"

Didn't matter to my love.  Papi was getting that picture on the bike no matter what the cost.  G'ma's days are numbered and my love wants to remember her with a picture on the motorcycle.

Well.

Once the old boss was actually on the bike, let me tell you.  There were smiles of pride and happiness like I've never seen on this cranky old thing.

 

She looked like life had just begun again, and she was posing for the camera like the young spirit that is inside her.

Of course, my love was so happy that we finally got the pic of a lifetime, he needed to be documented for this event as well.

 

Next came trying to get the old fart off the bike, and we had to go through the same procedure in reverse.

After the Gramma Drama was over and she was back to shuffling along with her walker, she got to the end of the carport and the only words that she said were, "You do some strange things."

Yes, indeed G'ma, Papi does.

No matter.

Papi got the picture he always wanted.

Kumba-fucking-ya

Last night, Papi asked me if I'd like to join a Facebook page called 'Top Surgery Tips' as an ally.

I told my love, "But, I don't know anything about any of that, so there wouldn't be anything I would have to add to the group."

Papi suggested, "Well, maybe if you read a little bit about it in the group, it will help you understand it more."

Fine then.

Possibly.

Yet, I was instantaneously reminded of the painful trauma that my love has finally bid adieu.

At this point, there are just big scars that take the place of the gore that had me on the verge of panic attacks.  Anyhow, as I was reliving the pain in my mind, it happened; I found out why mi esposo wants me to join, "Well, it's really all about me anyway."

There it is!

The Papirazzi.

That's what my love is after.

Honestly, when I write to 'you', my imaginary friend, I'm not really writing for anyone in particular, I'm just blurting out the mania in my mind so it will calm down.  I either look for a silent ear to listen to what I'm going through, or just to tell 'you' the crazy things in our lives that happen.

Anyway, the point is, when I finish my blog, it's pretty much a guarantee that Papi will read it.

Now, that's no big deal.  It's actually how I managed to speak out loud to my love in those first 6 weeks of being grief stricken and catatonic in a La-Z-Boy, with only my tears as company.

My love would read the black and white monologue of pain and have a little more understanding about where I was in our journey.

However, as I started to show more strength, mi esposo started becoming a blog critic.

Occasionally, Papi will say, "Your blog really wasn't that good today."

Hey.

I can take it.

But there was one thing that started becoming apparent.  The only time my love would tell me my blog was boring, was when it wasn't about Papi.

Now fast forward to where I am now.

Here I am having many, many tear free days, finding more and more strength and love, and Papi has become my meanest critic!  I've had to actually say, "Ok.  You're not allowed to read my blog anymore."

Who's blog is this anyway?!?!?!

But I digress.

So, my love asked me to join this Facebook group because it's all about him, not because I need to learn, but because mi esposo needs more attention.

As for being an ally to the Top Surgery Tips, I briefly looked at the page and had to relive mi esposo's Great Breast Disappearance all over again.

It's awful to see all the pain that wouldn't even allow my love to raise his arms to grab something from the counter.

I don't need to relive this.

What I do need is to find some peaceful way to learn and get past my fears.

I tried the other day.  I really, really tried, and all I found were site after site of defensive words.  Anger that exuded about not being understood, or having been hurt by other people.

I can only learn from a place of harmony.

I need to read something that is lovingly telling the reader, "I'm happy you came to the Tranny 101 course," and "Here's a great place to start learning."

I don't mix well with anger, but I do agree that we need those filled with fire and political passion to get the world to listen to what needs to be changed for everyone's sake of humanity.

Regardless, I need to hear words without hostility, or I just won't listen.

We now have kitchen handles.

I needed wire cutters for my thin cable.

Papi went through every option in our cold room ...

... a room where all the 'extras' are kept along with a freezer and tools ...

... and kept coming at me with clamps and vice grips.

Big grips, small clamps, grips with adjustments, clamps with locks.

Clamps and vice grips.  Not wire cutters.

"Never mind, " Papi reassured me, "I'm pretty sure this little area at the back is supposed to cut wire.  I had wire cutters somewhere, I just don't know what happened to them."

Papi went to town trying to cut my cable.  All it did was bend and fray the section of my wires I wanted cut, so they wouldn't fit into the hole of the crimp I needed to fit the cut end into.

So, after I'd given up on my love and just used a crimper to try to squeeze the frayed end flat, Papi comes back into the room with a hack saw.

I'd already cut my thumb with a knife while making my dinner.  I didn't want to actually lose a limb for this little wire.

oh, btw, if you cut yourself while preparing veggies, and some of it gets on the food, but you cook it anyway, is that considered cannibalism?

Yes, it's DIY household on the rampage again.

I managed to get that little bastard into the whole of the crimp, but stopped at that point.

I'm really not cut out for crafty things.  I was so angry, I was ready to shove the frayed wire up the ass of Satan.

I need to stick to music and writing.

However, after my failed attempt at finishing off my homemade towel cables, we decided to put the handles on the cupboards in our kitchen.

yes ... this should've been done months ago ... life's busy, ya know?

I was there to monitor measuring to get them in the perfect spot.  We had spoken about this team work as a way to conquer our home DIY projects.  I would measure, and Papi would cut, drill or whatever needed to be done.

We measured with utter preciseness, and Papi drilled the first hole.  It wasn't big enough to fit the screw in.  My love kept upping the size of the drill until finally something worked.

By this point, the two of us were thinking we'd be spending the next year trying to get these cupboards done to perfection, and we were sweating.

who knew that drilling and holding things in place would create a sweat?!?!

It was at that moment that my love dissed the measuring tape.  "We'll just hope for the best."

I was not impressed, "But sweety, we need to measure to make sure it looks right!  That's what we decided!"

I was then reduced to being a tool holder.

A fucking tool holder.

shall i get my fucking Vanna White gown on?!?!?

Terrified that we'd have crooked handles all over the kitchen, I would periodically check up on my love by keeping myself 'busy' sweeping the wood shavings off the floor.

It looked like I was doing something else, but my control freak eyes were watching the tranny with the tools.

Yup.  I was hoping for the best all right.

It seems that's how it always ends with our DIY projects.

As for my wires, mi esposo recommended that I try doing it while I'm not PMSing.  Apparently, I was scaring my love.

That didn't move me as much as the fact that I was also scaring the one eye, who was crawling on his belly trying to hide under out TV trays that are also a makeshift coffee table, a blog writing surface and a collector of the 'ToDo' list.

Does this really sound like we're ready to move to the Dominican Republic and build our own house?

Hmmmmmm ...

Well, at least I'll have good entertainment.

Buzzer of a Bugger

Ok.

So I just spent a good 45 minutes writing a post about strength and my magical energy.

But you know what?

I need to share something much more entertaining.

When you look at this picture what do you see?

Perhaps you see Papi getting ready for a day on the bike?

Yes, most would see that, but this is not the case.

You see, we had this massive hornets nest that was twice the size of my head:

My love did a poll on Facebook to see how many people would take care of it themselves, vs. call a professional.

Most people thought mi esposo was crazy to even have to ask, but we all know my love's knack for the DIY project.

We also all know how some of these projects ended.

Regardless, what you were looking at in the first photo is Papi preparing to get rid of the nest without any help from pros.  "I'm not paying hundreds of dollars to someone when I can just do it on my own!"

My love stormed out of the house, and armed himself with the garden hose.  Papi decided that it would be good enough to just put the spray on high as possible, and get rid of those pesky little critters.

No, Papi didn't read this technique on the internet, my love made it up all alone.

The spraying began and they were mad!

But not the same kind of 'mad' that Papi is.

mad

 [mad] adjective, mad·der, mad·dest, noun, verb, mad·ded, mad·ding.

adjective

1.

mentally disturbed; deranged; insane; demented.

4.

extremely foolish or unwise; imprudent; irrational: a mad scheme to invade France.

5.

wildly excited or confused; frantic: mad haste.

Here we have it folks.

A hornets' nest being destroyed by Papi:

Yes.

This is my love attacking the nest with only a hose in hand.

Sorry there's a massive yellow post in the way, but unlike my love, I have more brains than to be outside while a ton of pissed hornets try to save their home.  I remained in the house behind the screen door, like any sane person would do.

sane

 [seyn]

adjective, san·er, san·est.

1.

free from mental derangement; having a sound, healthy mind: a sane person.

2.

having or showing reason, sound judgment, or good sense: sane advice.

3.

sound; healthy.

So, back to my love the DIY loon.

The nest did indeed get knocked down by the sword of water, however only half of it fell off.

There were hornets flying in every direction and my love's helmet did it's job of keeping my love's gorgeous face free from the sting of the enemy.

Now, what to do with the piece that fell and still has many of those little buggers inside?

Well, naturally, you would use a shovel to pummel it.

There stood my love, hammering the half nest into the dirt with a shovel, while keeping an eye in all directions, and spraying any of the hornets that were coming his way for the kill.

Strike one direction!

Spray the other!

Papi ducked and sprayed as hornets tried to find a way in to attack their opponent. 

My love then decided he needed to bury the half nest into the dirt to rid of it for good.

After every application of a shovel's worth of dirt, Papi buried the nest, continuing to spray in every direction of those who were trying to get to mi esposo from behind.  Somehow, Papi would manage to spray them down before they stung.

Next, we hear from the neighbouring yard, "Hey, you're hitting me with water ya know!"

Papi yelled back, "Sorry!  Just trying to get rid of a hornets' nest!"  There was no response back from the neighbour.  They already think Papi's a bit demented, so I'm sure they just shook their head and carried on.

Truly, it was a sight to be seen.

I owe my love $5, because I made a bet that Papi wouldn't make it out without a sting.

I had visions of racing my love to emergency after being attacked by a mob of buzzers.

Papi did it though.

The nest is gone, and they've moved on to another place to make their home.

Papi never got stung and this amazes me.

A day in the life of Papi 'n I.

Do you see why I love mi esposo so much?

Who needs a tv with this much entertainment around?

Today, we're putting knobs on the kitchen cupboards.  I'm pretty sure I'll have stories to tell you from this escapade as well.

The time is right.

About two years ago, Papi and I were trying to get pregnant.  I haven't spoken to 'you', my imaginary friend about it, because it was quite a sore subject.  However, I feel this is the right time to do so.

We were so thrilled when the first time we tried to conceive, I managed to actually get pregnant!

Bingo!  Blammo!  There ya go!

Yeah.  Unfortunately, it ended with a big bang as well.  When we went for our first ultrasound, we were overjoyed, glowing parents, excitedly waiting for our turn in the waiting room.  We were completely unaware that the Pit of Doom was going to drag us to darkness that day.

As I lied there with my feet in stirrups, we eagerly waited to hear the first sound of our baby's heartbeat.  Only, the nurse told us it wasn't there.

We didn't really know what that meant.  We both had thoughts stirring in our mind about why there wasn't a heartbeat.

Maybe the sound for the machine was broken?

Maybe the baby was situated in such away that made it hard to make out?

Our minds swirled with irrational ideas to keep us safe and happy.

However, there was no denying it when she showed us that we should be able to actually see the heart as well.

We were devastated.  Papi was thoroughly distraught and the only word that would come out of my love's mouth for the next few moments was, "No!"

From there, we needed to make an appointment to have the deceased baby removed from my body.  It was a horrible time where the first DNC didn't work.  This was followed by being in and out of emergency a few times from an excruciating miscarriage that wasn't supposed to be happening.  Finally, the 2nd DNC completed the job.

echos ... 'you're starting to show' ... still intruding my fragile mind 

After all the trauma, I didn't think that I would want to try again, but you know me.  Nothing stops me when I have my mind made up.

We tried again 3 months later, after many anti-depressant pills, and a uterus that seemed to be working fine again.  Only this time we had a local friend/pornographer document the procedure.

Yes.

You heard me right.

Pornographer.

Well, the entire thing was caught on film, including the sex that is important to making a baby, because your body is more open to the turkey baster method when you're doing the deed.

This brings us to last night.  We went to see the short film of our baby making escapade on the big screen, along with a theatre where every seat was filled.

It was nerve wracking, and my love and I slumped in our seats trying to disappear.  I was shrinking because people were going to see my vagina up close and personal, never mind the fact that they'll also see what my face looks like during sex.

Papi, was slithering down his seat because my love can't stand to hear his own voice on film.  My love could care less about people seeing mi esposo's sex act.

The film was very well done.  It had a split screen, where the left side was the evolution of getting the donor's sperm, the process to prepare it, and the verbal account of our journey.  The right side was for the voyeurs who wanted watch the down 'n dirty show.

I really only watched the left side.  I've seen myself having sex before, so it didn't really interest me.  I was enthralled by the fact that this was a time prior to my love telling me there would be a male transformation in my life.

I hypnotically watched my love's breasts.  They were so beautiful.  A vision of my butch confined to film.  If I ever wanted to see the person I married before top surgery, I now have the opportunity to do so.

Then there was also a scene of me walking with a cane.  I had a weak stagger from brain injury, still not having rewired my brain, and was unable to walk in a stable manner.

The whole thing was surreal.

Breasts, a cane, a baby making session.

Well, we didn't get pregnant on this next try.  I'm pretty sure it was because I needed to be on anti-depressants, lest I commit suicide from my chemical imbalance whispering seductive words about how living is the true hell the zealots speak of.  Studies show that anti-depressants make it harder to conceive.

My love and I accepted this fact eventually, and decided that when we move to the Dominican Republic, there will be many children who really need a home, and we will try to adopt there.

I don't really need a mini-me running around.  It would have been cute to see a blonde, curly headed, tiny version of myself.  However, I'd love another little being that needed me and called me 'mom' just as much.

Anyway, I've been meaning to tell 'you', my imaginary friend about this difficult time in my life, and now was the right time.

I was grateful to have seen where my love and I have come from and where we are now.  It made me love Papi all the more.

It was such a beautiful night filled with loving friends, talented film makers, and memories to remember.

Oh.

And porn.

Taunt me baby, you know I love it.

So, here I am, sitting at my blank blog screen, doing the same thing I do every morning: asking myself where do I start with my words and what am I feeling?

The moment I begin to type, I hear, "Honeeeeeeeee ... d'you wanna see something?"

"Oh gawd," I muttered, expecting to see something that I know is going to be too much of a struggle for my indolent eyes.

my new nerve pain medication is whipping my ass ... open eyes ... please open!

"Why do you say it like that?!"

As per usual, I answered in all honesty, "Because I'm sure it's going to be something I don't wanna see."

Papi laughed and walked toward me with only a t-shirt on, giggling all the way.

the tranny terrorist has come out to play ...

My love stands straight in front of me, with a Brace Face smile of grandeur, and lifts his ...

**shudders** ... still cringing with that word ...

... leg up on to our chocolate, leather ottoman in a Captain Morgan pose.  Papi then proceeds to stroke the new fur that is growing like an out of control ivy on the inside of his leg.  It's like it is an alien being, who's only purpose in life is only to inch toward the groin, then continue beyond until it has completely taken over mi esposo's body.

"Do you wanna touch it?  It's soft," my love teased, while stroking this new found coat like a beloved treasure.

"No, I think I'm good."

i'm sure it will distract me during our next make out session ...

As I write about the Tranny Terrorist and today's harassment, I can hear Papi in the washroom trimming the peach fuzz that is my love's minute, facial trophy of pride.

I'm pretty sure my love believes that if you trim it, it will come.

Man hair!

Seriously!

I keep checking the top of Papi's head in fear that there may be a male pattern balding spot.  It haunts me every day!  When I see a part in my love's hair, I panic!

My Trust List friend had asked me what my fear is around the changes, and this is what I described:

If this is what I desired, I would have stayed in the closet.

However, my friend said there are plenty of really good looking F-Ms who want to look their best, and that perhaps, I should look at some of those pictures.

i guess it's true that i'm not happy unless i'm worrying ...

Papi has gone through The Great Breast Disappearance and I still love mi esposo, even though I no longer have a pillow to rest my head upon.

The poison, that my love injects into the already perfect body I adore, is edgingly invading his body.  Every new hair mocks me yelling, "Helllooooo Andréa!!! We're coming to git'cha!"

Yet, I still love Papi.

I'm pretty sick.  I love the Tranny Terrorist who likes to flaunt these day to day changes in front of me, with the sole intention of razzing his wife.

I remember when I was a little girl, and my grandpa used to tease me until I cried.  My family said, "If he didn't tease you, it would mean he doesn't love you."

I'm pretty sure I married my 'grandpa'.

He was bald, fat and hairy.

2 differences however.

My love never insults me, and I don't need to deal with a penis.

These would be deal breakers.

Next step: Motivation

I'm like an elephant.

I never forget.

I can forgive quite easily, as we are definitely not perfect beings.

But forget?

No.

It's part of the reason why I'm so sensitive to cliques actions, and why I have social anxiety.

I've run into the issue of being ostracized by mobs since I was a little girl.  Over and over again these throngs of people prove how mean they can be.

I really thought that it would get better at this developed point in life.  I mean c'mon!  We're adults here, are we not?

some of us have that nattering teenager inside ...

But just like elephants never dismissing a memory, some people are like feral cats and never change their loathsome habits.

I sat with a Trust List friend the other day, whom I told about my issues with 'learning'.  How I prefer to ask questions and learn from my mistakes to educate myself.

I mean really.

My biggest lessons have come through the err in my imperfect ways.

However, she looked at me with sympathetic sincerity, while asking me if it really is a method I would recommend sustaining.

I reminded myself, at the same time I told her, "I usually do these things until I'm sick of the pain, or finally realize they don't actually work."

I'm wondering if perhaps I should take a look at my scarcity of wisdom in the transgender world.

I've been so pig headed about the whole thing.  I've only been letting in what I can handle, to be honest.

Yet, I really feel that I'm much more secure now.  This allows me to be much more inquisitive, and simultaneously, more willing.

i am the queen of denial ... and denial ain't a river in egypt ...

Papi and I went to a movie the other day about transgender people.  3 people told their stories and one of them was a very young child.

The parents of this child were so supportive of their kid being trans.  It was really quite beautiful.  They fumbled through this new world, learning as they went.  All the while, they supported their offspring by allowing this person to decide who they wish to be.

Next came an F-M who had a struggle all through his life because everyone else could see that this 'girl' was not the same as the other 'girls'.

He spoke about his upbringing, the first person who accepted the male inside as 'Tom', and his isolated voyage in this quest of finding who he really is.

We didn't get to see the third person, because Papi's stomach erupted from a bad case of 'alfredo sauce from hell'.

It didn't really matter that I didn't get to see the third one.  The first two were enough for me to feel so deeply for my love, and the titanic trouble Papi must have endured to finally get to a point of acceptance of the male within.

My love had said to me early on in the drop of the bomb, "The reason I found strength to come out about my need to change genders, is because I knew I could trust you to keep loving me, and that you wouldn't leave me."

Papi was right.  I'm not going anywhere.

But damn!  I've got a lot of learning to do, opinions to change, and fear to overcome.

Nevertheless, there was one comment that stood out in the verbal exchange of femme to femme love with my Trust List friend the other day, that still reverberates in my mind.

I had blurted out, "My love is stronger than my fear."

My friend was jubilant to hear these palpable words, and stressed that I should place this bold statement around the house.  That way, I could see these words when I fret about my future with my soul mate who is becoming another gender.

There's really nothing to be afraid of.

I've gotten past that point.

So now, the work must begin.

Anyone feel like giving me a loving nudge?

Back off bitches!

The Hen Peckers are at it again.  Only this time, they're attacking Papi.

don't you fuck with my baby, bitches!! i don't care if your a he, a she, both or none of the above, your behaviour grants the title 'bitches'!!

The Trans Clique is spewing their defamation about my love on forums.

They have no idea about mi esposo's situation, but they feel that Papi should be following their orders.

like tiny little soldiers we all fall in line ...

Papi's job is a difficult subject that my love and I have spoken about numerous times, and mi esposo doesn't take this job for granted.  Papi is very aware of the transition being discussed amongst management at this company, and is waiting for them to figure out this issue on their own.

You see, my love started working at a transition safe house for abused, mentally ill women a few years ago.  Only 'women' can work there, and only 'women' can be housed there.  However, there has been an M-F who was taken in.

The women were uncomfortable with this transgender person at first, because she still had a penis and walked around with a short house coat.

Yet, over time, they became used to the soul inside and accepted her as one of their own.

Stress the words; over ... time ...

The women there adore my love.  Rightfully so!  Papi has the biggest heart of anyone I've ever known.  Mi esposo is perfect for the job, because of this.

Abused, mentally ill people need to have this love in their lives, just as much as they need consistency.

I know that these souls would be heartbroken if my love were fired from this job, or even if Papi left by choice.

My love has been slowly telling these broken souls in a sweet way, that they have to be prepared for the day when mi esposo must say, "Farewell."

Slowly ... over ... time ...

It's giving them a chance to mentally prepare for the day when they have to let go of Papi, when it's my love's own time to depart.

Papi knows that time is ticking and that there will come a day when mi esposo must say goodbye, but just like in a romantic relationship, right now is not the 'right time' to break up.

Well, when my love was written about in the newspaper, the trans mafia read it, and are now spitting words of venom over the fact that mi esposo is still working in a facility that employs only 'women'.

What ever happened to free thinking, not being labeled by society, and supporting one another by understanding each other's own journey is just that; their own?

Nope.

The clan is saying that my love is double dipping and being a woman when it's convenient, and being a male when it's advantageous.

One of the biggest ring leaders is adamant that nobody label them as male or female, so how dare they label my love as only a male?

Papi shed a few tears from the hens pecking at my love's beautiful skin.

Cliques.

They are just insecure, scared beings who can't be alone from the clan.  They don't allow free thinking.  They demand you be just like them so they will accept you.

Papi and I are both one in the same kind, who allow each other to think how we feel.  We correct each other when we're too far away from PC thinking that may hurt another.  We love each other and the friends we have, because they, and we, accept each other for who we are.

We don't fit in to these mobs.

We and our friends don't fit in together.

So, in an essence, we are doing our very best to weed out the cliques one by one, find the real friends that we deserve, and feel the pain when the Hen Peckers break our skin.

My love is not hurting anyone by being at work.  Quite the contrary.  Papi's presence would be terribly missed.

If Papi triggered anyone into feeling that my love is an intimidating male, mi esposo would ask to be moved to a different facility in the company.

It's not the pack's choice.

Go on then.  Live your own life.

We'll be living ours with the people who show us love.

Looks like Papi will be making his own Trust List.

and yes.  it was difficult for me to type 'his', so shoot me.

hair-phobia

I am a 96 year old's watch dog.

I'm so sick of the fuckers who call trying to trick our old fart into giving away her information.  They figure out who's old and feeble, then work every angle to ambush her while we're not looking.

However, in this world of civil anxiety where there is mob flash looting, throngs of riots and utter starvation, I think my life as the g'mas guardian is goddamn good.

I was quite disturbed yesterday by watching The Real News and their segment, Austerity and the Destruction of Democracy.

It sounds pretty much like we could all be heading towards WWIII.

Do you see it out there?

I do.

good gawd get me to the dominican republic where i can live off the land and my goats ...

Yet, here I sit fretting about such small scanty subjects.

Like Papi's ever expanding leg hair.

Seriously.

My love's man hair is creeping like an ivy, up those thighs toward mi esposo's perfectly smooth stomach.  If this leg hair is any indication of what Papi's chest hair will be like, this male transformation is seeming like it's teeming with tenacity.

Now that I've been given the green light to lie upon my love's Great Breast Disappearance, I better get in there while the going's good.

It won't be a pleasure to lie on Papi's chest while coarse hairs probe to find my nostrils.

Yesterday, my love says in a panicked flutter, "I see a hair on my back!  Can you tell me if it's coming out of my mole, or just becoming back hair!!!!"

Back hair. 

oh for fuck's sakes.

"No," I said after a horror filled examination, "it's just coming out of the mole."  We both sighed with a breath of comfort.

My love then proceeds to tell me that there is a hair starting to grow on The Great Breast Disappearance.  "Can you see it!  It's right here," my love said with a smile.

"No," I said with a quick sideways glance, continuing to wash the dishes.  I didn't really look.

I didn't really want to.

All I could think about was the conversation we had after I calmed down from the anaphylactic crying session the other day.

I had accepted that Papi isn't the manly monster I thought I would be married to, when my love pipes up, "You do realize that it takes a few years before all the changes stop happening, right?"

fucking yay.

So, I just get used to the idea that I'm still in love with my butch, who happens to look slightly more masculine, and now?

Now I have to think about all of the changes I've grown used to possibly being exacerbated?

My love was in the local newspaper the other day, along with another F-M, speaking about how human resources in the work place have to make way for changes in peoples' gender.

There was Papi's gorgeous fledgling F-M face underneath someone who had obviously been going through the procedure much longer.

He was bald.

Honestly, I can't see my love being bald.  It won't look good.  When Papi would use the clippers and shave that salt and pepper hair too short, it didn't look as good as it usually did.

But bald?

Why the hell does everyone have to go bald?

Why the fuck does the face, leg, chest and back hair have to be the replacement for locks on their heads?

Seriously!!!

So, like I said.

Here I sit fretting over small little problems with hair ...

omg.  am i hair-phobic?!?!?!

... and the world is making it's way towards a modern day fall of the roman empire.

Pretty ridiculous eh?

Ok.

I have to do it at least once in my blog:

He.

There.

I said it.

Fucking baby steps.

Shhhhh ...

'after all it’s just another way society has of sticking you in a box and controlling you'

I read these words in my comments box from a new face in my manic world of mind to paper, BlackLOG, and I remembered why I'm here speaking to my imaginary friend.

Lest I be judged.

It just so happens that people read my words of discord.

I never set out to harm anyone, rather to be good to 'me' and give myself some healing around what I find difficult.

I am not evil, because I didn't intentionally set out to hurt anyone.  I am working things out, and I'm behind the eight ball is all.

I mean really, Papi was trying to get across to me why people would choose not to have anything to do with me anymore, but not all people diss me.  I am still loved by those who matter.

I now remember why those of us who are struggling with the fact that our soul mate has exposed their true gender don't speak; lest we be judged.

But, this is my journey.  I am not a cookie cut out of every other person.

It is true that because of my words some folks will choose to disapprove of me, just as it is true that I don't think the same as other people.  Honestly, I've been this person all my life.  I think for myself, not the way others would have me do so.

It is the reason I am friends with the underdog.

It is the reason I've never been akin to the 'cool kids'.

I will not be muzzled by the imperial masses who, as a new member of my Trust List said, 'put politics before humanity'.

I will openly continue my journey, albeit there may be many tears along the way due to being the 'odd' one out.

I will continue to be the last called for the basket ball game, and I'm sure there will be a lot of gatherings I'll be deliberately left out of.

wouldn't want to be associated with me ... you may be dissed for doing so...

However, it's my journey, and I have hope that these words will reach the many out there who are feeling the same discord.  I am hoping these words will find those who may relate to my feelings.

Our feelings of difficulty around our partners re-arranging their genders is unique.

We don't fit in.  Instead, we all 'don't fit in' together.

What you read yesterday is true to my feelings of the inner battle with myself.  It is my inner struggle I live with every moment.  It is my healing journey that began at the age of 10 when my father let me know that I wasn't good enough to be in his life, by choosing drugs over his children.

if i don't eat a crumb, i will vanish ... if i just lose 5 more pounds, maybe i'll die ...

It is why I am here at this very moment probing to find peace, to learn, grow and heal in my way.

I only speak the truth of what's in my head, and unfortunately, those without any psychological cacophony will never understand.

The beating I gave myself was only because Papi spoke to me from the other side of the fence.  It was my love's way of showing me how I am seen from another's perspective, and in mi esposo's words, "I like the fact that your non-PC.  It's one of the reasons I love you.  I also think that being racist is not quite the words I was looking for.  It's more like homophobia.  It's transphobia."

And it's my transphobia.  It is not for someone else to tell me how to get past it, all that really matters is that I'm trying do so and not stagnating in my filth.

Yesterday, I took an elephantine baby step and referred to my love as 'he' on Facebook.  It is a great place to start, as it's coming through my fingers, not my mouth.

Two people recognized it and gave me a pat on the back.  I needed that.  I needed to hear from someone else that indeed it was a big step, and that they're happy for me getting to that point.

One of these two souls is an F-M who would never silence me.

It is someone who is witnessing my growth from start to finish, much like I get to witness my love's changes in becoming a male born in a female's body.  It is a person who hasn't decided to follow anyone's lead, but only to support and love me through many of my words that may seem unloving to the politically fueled.

There may be many tears to accompany my truth.  There may be many days where I feel like the person those who dislike me make me out to be.  There may be days where I beat myself up with my inner struggle, yet I will not be extinguished.

Those who wish me to be mute and invisible, only make my voice feel the need to be heard all the more.

(roar.)

I guess I asked for it.

"You have to understand that all the things you post in your blog will be seen by the politically correct.  You're not politically correct.  It's kinda like you're being a racist."

These genuine utters stung, bringing on an anaphylactic crying session.  To know that Papi and all the other transgender people, Rah-Rah Tranny folks, Tranny lovers etc. would think that I'm that evil, and that my expressing a cacophony of antipathy could hurt another, stopped me from being able to show my face, even to my love.

My love continued, "I don't see why you don't read more about this so that you're informed." 

like tiny little soldiers we all fall in line ...

I had to be honest with my love, "I really have trouble reading online to better my life.  I have files of links on my computer for things I need to read about from the music industry, how to market better, and learn more for my music production.  I don't even read those, and those are things that are part of learning more for my music.  So, if I haven't even read these things, then I won't get to reading up on transgender issues and how to be politically correct."

No.

I don't read online and learn. 

i didn't ask for this to be my life ...

The only things I like to read are stories that take me so far from reality that I can't come back.

dragons, wizards and magic ... just like magic, sometimes i wish they could wave a wand and poof! i'd disappear ... never again to harm another ...

I cried tears thinking of all the people who have read my instantaneous feelings of the moment.  My fledgling ramblings of how I perceive the transgender world.

My political incorrectness that harms others, when really it stems from ignorance and fear.

Yes.

Same damn thing as racism.

So.

I'm evil.

The very thing that I fear in other people, that is what I am.

I will ask more questions so that I may learn to be what everyone I've bruised wishes I would be.

It won't bring back the haters that have already made their minds up about how hideous I am.  But I can learn from this, so that I may not damage another living being.

It was never my intention.

I'm aching thinking that another person would be injured I through my words.

The lashing of Papi's tongue has put me down to the dog's mat.  I'll just curl up here for a while and lick my wounds.

One thing that changed last night.  As the tears fell so hard that i felt it coming from my toes, reaching through every vein, strangling my throat until they finally reached my eyes to fall, Papi finally held me.

I haven't been able to lie upon my love's chest since the top surgery.

It used to be my favourite place.

It used to be how we'd end the day.

It used to allow me to hear my love's heart beat and feel that it was beating for me.

I haven't felt that in months.

However, because of the tears that were so obviously painful in hearing the truth about how hideous I could be, mi esposo finally gave me back my chest.

Definitely not as cushiony as it used to be.

Not the butch's breast that I could lie upon for support.

Flat.

Barren.

Yet still that heart beat could be heard.

And so could the echos of my love's prior verbal beatings.

It was Papi's truth.

Never meant to hurt, but only to be heard.

And so, I see how I've hurt another.

Baby Steps

We see what we want to see.

Most of us anyway.  Papi is included in this 'most of us'.

I received a text last night as I was ready to make my way home, "I almost fell off the toilet when I saw you referred to me as 'he' on my status area."

my sweet papi, so addicted to facebook that my love can't even go to the bathroom without it

I was confused.  "I did?!  Lol!!"

I thought that maybe I was subconsciously moving along much faster than I was aware of.

I mean, I try to speak about Papi with no pronoun what-so-ever ...

... as you've probably noticed ... hope it doesn't drive you crazy as much as it is difficult for me to do so ...

I was truly surprised that my mind would just switch over without help.

I had to see for myself when I got home.  Most definitely.

When I arrived home, my ailing Papi was in bed still fighting off the flu.

My love said, "I read it wrong.  It was someone else who referred to me as he.  I was so happy when I thought it was you though."

so happy ...

I realized at that moment, Papi saw what my love was yearning for.

I realized at that moment, there was a way I could make my love feel joy:  Use a male pronoun.

I'm so not ready for this.

I fight it with obstination.

I throw around my love's name, and occasionally when I'm not thinking with focus, I will say 'she' and quickly correct myself to 'he'.

It's about the only time I do it, and it's only around people who already have taken the plunge in calling mi esposo 'he'.

However, now that I've grasped just how much it would mean to my love, I suppose I need to look at that.

We're both in this relationship to make each others lives richer, more full and meaningful.  Otherwise, it would be a loveless charade.

I mean for gawd's sakes!  Some of my closest friends are doing the right thing and using 'he'.

I'm the one Papi chose to be with.  Something as simple as dropping the letter 's' could make mi esposo happy, and I'm too tenacious to do so?

Well, when you're in a relationship that is successful, you will find compromise is a strong spot.

Yet still I feel the need to shout, "No!!!  I'm a lesbian!!  I'm not in a straight relationship with a 'he'!!!"

When I came out of the closet, I hit the new world with a boa, sparkles and 16" stilettos, strutting until I found my butch who would bare their soul to me.

please don't strip me of my boa and sparkles ... i can let go of the heels ... they hurt too much

I found my perfect butch, I married this gem.

So, yeah.

I'm wavering in the pronoun department.

It was just so hard to see the let down in Papi's face when my love said it wasn't me who used, "he".

Maybe I need to take baby steps?

Perhaps just start with the people who know who I am?

Maybe right now it's time to put in to use some of those cliché sayings that were burned into my brain during my days at that anonymous group for drunks.

One day at a time.

Fake it 'til you make it.

(dear sponsors who thought i wasn't listening:  i was.)

Roots of my Willow

Papi's still going on about the inane he said/she said conversation.

But you know what, if it's my reality, then that's the way it is in my blog.

So there!

**sticks out tongue**

In last night's cozy hang out, my love tried to tell me the 5 Foot Clitoris is only 'x' amount bigger, by way of the distance between mi esposo's thumb and index finger.

Again, I corrected Papi, "Nope.  It's bigger."

"No way, it was big to start with."

"Nope.  It's huge."

And again went the batty back and forth comedy skit that is our marvelous life together.

Our life.

Like an old married couple, we watch Wipeout together and in tandem will burst into deep belly laughs, while peoples' flexible limbs are being thrown this way and that after bouncing off the big balls.

I snuggle into the side of Papi, spooning my love's arm.  I'm still only able to get this close.

Apparently, the pain is still too much to allow my head on mi esposo's chest.

Between each 'oof' and squeal of the contestants dense enough to be on the show, I evaluated a conversation I had during the day with one of the first people on the Trust List.  She was the 'responsible person' at the QAF that I was volunteering at.  She sweetly asked me, "How are you coming along with all this?"

I knew what she meant.  She didn't have to elaborate.

"I'm doing better.  I'm no longer defiantly saying, 'No, No, No, No," I said as I emulated a child stomping her feet, clenched fists articulating every 'No' with a slam to my lap.  I continued, "Now I find myself saying, 'Ok I think I can open my mind a little more day by day."

It was actually surprising to me to hear those words of substance come out of my mouth.

Between every whole hearted guffaw from one of the show's hosts, Jill, I thought about where I was in November, and how all the pain that pummeled my head and stabbed my heart seems to be dissipating.

I didn't know that I'd even get this far.  I remember when Papi said, "I'll give it one year, and if you're not on board with this, I'll stop."

or something like that ... enter here: papi correcting me while my love dissects my blog ...

Well, we are at 9 months, and my arduous issues are really all about pronouns, and hearing about the loss of another butch to the F-M world.

Seems manageable.

However, there is a run off that is more painful than the aforementioned.  I would say struggling with people's hatred is harder than my dealing with mi esposo's male transformation at this point, but they actually lie in a different category.

So, I sit here, brazenly amazed at how my mind could actually calm itself down to this point.

I can put these paltry issues into a tiny brown paper bag.  I can roll the top closed and wait for that moment when I'm hungry enough to open it, and eat it for lunch.

Pronouns.

Missing butches.

Haters.

Seems feasible that I could take these fuckers on, don't you think?

I feel like a willow tree, swaying from the force of the wind.  My branches may get blown too far in one direction, and it seems I would fall.

I never do.

I just right myself and wait for the next blow.

My roots are strong.

Sleep.

She is such a hurt young lady, and occasionally, she has to have her quality time to continue healing.

She definitely flows through my tears, and lives deep within my heart.  In that place that she calls home.

the pit of doom ... familiar ... still not ready to leave for good ... there's a nice La-Z-Boy down there.

I've coddled her and dressed her wounds that seem to be improving at a stupendous speed.  I sent her off to go sleep away the injury.  We need to have a suspension of consciousness to heal.

Poor thing is exhausted and through her slumber, is indeed erasing the prior molestation of her self-imposed quiet.

Prior to settling her in, I took her out to a few places where she could feel that she's ok to be herself, and trust in the good of people once more.

Now I can have my time back.

Yesterday was a beautiful day full of surprises, as I found 2 more people to add to the Trust List.

Both came completely out of the blue.

A gentle soul told me in a kind way that my language wasn't quite correct.  This sweet person helped me to learn a little more about their transgender world.

I was corrected and learned from him that not all F-Ms are of the third gender, and in turn I thanked him for new found friendship.  I also made sure he knew I was grateful that he didn't try hurting me with words, and that I was welcoming him as a new heart to top off the Trust List.

This person said to me, "I may not be a good friend, I've never learned how to be.  I am here though."

It was my turn to correct him.  "All you have to do is be here to be a good friend.  By making me feel better, you have proven your friendship."

I left the conversation feeling that I was stronger yet again.  Someone didn't judge me for my ignorance, but allowed me to learn through a peaceful conversation.

My vocabulary and knowledge have been reformed.

When Papi said, "If you want to learn more why don't you look online and read about it."

I replied in honesty, "Because I want to learn on my own by asking questions and learning from my mistakes."

It's how I've always done it.

It's familiar.

and we all know how little i like change ...

The 2nd heart I collected was someone I've known for years on end through a secret, anonymous club for drunks.  I just would never expected we'd sit and have a conversation about current day life.

I don't know why I wouldn't expect it.

This ally was there through my toughest years of getting clean and sober.  This friend has been a fixture since I walked into those rooms filled with the after burn of alcohol.

Why would it be so shocking to me that I wouldn't be judged by someone who has walked through the steps of mental health and spiritual wholeness?

I see now that the day I felt the hurt was a day I let my guard down.

I am surrounded by strength and love, but I have to know when to harness it and be honest with my weakness.

I see now that it's not good to be in physical agony, nor pumped full of pain meds that will change the chemical balance of my brain, when I go to these places I fear.

Having my guard down means the hurt teenager will come to play.

She needs her time and she's not finished healing yet.

I can't let go of her hand for a second or she runs around the room with her arms in the air screaming, "Look at me!  Look at me!  See my pain!  I see the hate in your eyes and you can't fool me!  I know who you are!!!"

She's a bugger, but I let go of her hand at the wrong time.

Most definitely, it's good to see where she's at.

It's kinda like stopping the pain killers to actually see how much your injuries ail.

I won't be doing that for a while, and goddamn she needs a definite time out.

Sleep little one, I'm going out into the world again today.

Purge.

The Papirazzi is on full force today.

A very sweet reporter we met the other day just so happens to be doing an article on transgender people in the work force, and asked if my love would like to be interviewed.

Papi has been trying to get a date fixed with her to have this dialogue, but their schedules didn't really work out to do so.

This morning, however, I woke up to hearing my love on the phone with the reporter, answering questions about being transgendered from up to down and all around.

Papi said, "I don't know how personal you want to get about this, but other things happen, like the clit getting bigger."

I giggled while I prepared my Dominican Republic Coffee.

yes ... still some left ... almost out though ... maybe if i tap my heels 3 times, 'there's no place like home'

Then Papi yells out, "Hun, do you think it's gotten bigger than 5 centimeters?"

Oh great.

Don't drag me into this!

"It's bigger."

Papi chuffed to the reporter, "No, it's not.  Don't listen to her.  She has issues with it."

They started to talk about a penis, and my love said, "They don't make one that is like the real thing, so forget it, and besides, my wife would leave me."

ok. so we've got that down. phew.

Papi doing the interview made me proud.  Not that I wasn't already.

In the same realm that I've walked along side my love through this male transformation, Papi has also had to stand beside me in my conflict.

This also means defying the haters.  Those beings who have read about themselves here in my blog and decided to despise me for my honesty, instead of proving me wrong.

Those who bury under the blanket of protection of political ideals, then judge me for my openness about my strife.

Those who say to their followers, "Ok, so now we don't speak to Andréa anymore."

And those who heed the demands who can't think for themselves.

Haters.

I looked to Papi's Facebook page, and under the 'things that inspire me' shout out, I found: My Wife.

For my love to blatantly propel the repugnance of those who resent me, by saying I am an inspiration, made all the pain float away.

For all the support I felt I was needing to give to the person going through male transformation, there is also a balance in our world of love.  The need to support the partner.

My love does this.

Then proceeds to wave the 5 Foot Clitoris at me, "It is not that big."

I answer, "It's huge."

"No it's not."

"It's huge," I repeated.  Then true to any debate in marriage, this mundane back and forth colloquy went on for a good 2 minutes.

"Are you ok with me having my picture in the paper?"

you have to ask a performing extrovert this?

"Of course!  Why wouldn't I be?!"

"Because if people who don't know see it, then they will know your spouse is going through a male transformation."

"That's ok.  It'll weed 'em out faster."

Truly.

Purge.

Asylum.

Trust List.

Strength.

I need you.

Still.

My previous days' bleeding has stopped.  I just hope I don't pick the scab.

Retreat.

Indeed.

Love through text, "Aw honey.  I'm so sorry.  I totally understand, if that's any consolation.  They don't deserve your attention.  Please try not to let them get you down.  Your reality and feelings are important, and they're your own."

Trust.

Honesty; It's my super power.

Perhaps it's time to look at what I would gain by being part of the hate regime.

High School.

She was hen pecked to the point where she believed her life is not worth anyone's time.

wicked stares, whispers of giggles spread the hate ...

This 15 year old girl, who's hands shook, sitting in a steel desk in a marketing class, finally collapsed from the overdose of pills.  My teenager who wanted to look pretty when she was found deceased.  She prepared her hair and make-up for the day's big event.

it's all about the hair ...

Those pills didn't kill her, they only set her up for the support network that began the journey of healing.

She's here with us now.

Sitting with her tears, investigating thoughts that roam her weightless psyche, "Maybe if I was nicer, they'd think twice about hurting me?"

No, they won't little one.  You're already that person.

Nice.

but nice finishes last ...

Your barren passage is not the same as 'theirs'.  Their road is well traveled.  It's course is cut straight, clear and precise so that none of the sheep may be lost.  Theirs is paved with black tar for soft, smooth joy rides.

Our path?

We must cut our own path.  I see very few remnants of those before me, yet thistles have been cut to the ground.  Possibly they were held back so as not to scrape the body following them?  It's quite a rocky trail, so we must watch our footing.

Hard to see where it leads to, as there are many trees in our lush, green forest blocking our view.

However, here there is beauty; delicate birds sing your songs, placid frogs croak and trees creak from the wind's effortless muscle.

It's so very quiet otherwise.  So very alone.

It leaves us time to think about what is meaningful.

Forced respite.

All I need to do is keep walking, and I will find a Trust List's lean-to, and take shelter in if it rains again.

What I don't find here, I can look for when I meet with those of brave security.

Simple as an electronic shout.  My fingers have the power.

I can send my message through air waves.  Tiny particles that make their way to each of of those who exist in fortitude.

They were once on this trail.

They may be lost again.

Perhaps it will be my cabin they come to for asylum next time?

I'll keep the fire stoked for their arrival.