It's a little bit like ...

Mayhem!!!

Working on another film score.

I'll be back soon as I get a ton done.  I'm behind because of a fancy keyboard program that won't work for me.

In the meantime, here's a video of our last performance.

Note the barefeet ... my back was out and couldn't wear heels!!

It's blasphemy!!

You can see our video for the song in the background.

Now I'm off and running ...

My Husbutch.

I have a Godson.

I refer to him as The Turkey.

Mostly because his little baby chub legs looked like you could break one off and have a Thanksgiving chomp.

He's walking now, so his legs are getting more svelte and are no longer appetizing.

Well, yesterday we celebrated his 2nd birthday party/Grey Cup party.

thank god we won ... i don't think i could handle another vancouver riot ...

As per The Turkey's momma's wish, I brought balloons galore to the party.  They were a magnanimous hit with The Turkey!  Now I know what I have to do every time I visit, so that I may be dubbed his absolute favourite tall person of all time!

Anyway, his Godfather was there too, and we are both so proud to be the Godparents of this little guy.

The Godfather offered to help me in with my balloons aplenty, as did The Turkey's brother that I refer to as The Porkchop.  He also had little baby chub legs that looked like you could break off a piece and have it for Christmas Dinner, but now he's all tall and lanky.  No meat on his teenage bones.

hey ... i know what you're thinking ... but i'm probably your favourite cannibal.

So, as we were heading to do the balloon deed, The Turkey's biological father ...

... and one of my best friends, who was best man at my wedding ...

... made a reference to The Turkey's baptism day when The Godfather and I had to repeat the vows from a pastor, then walk down the aisle, receiving beautiful smiles from the fellowship in their pews, to the back of the church.

But what these people didn't know about the newly dubbed Godparents, was that neither of us believe in God, nor follow religion, so it was completely awkward having to suffer through all the God talk just to be blessed as The Turkey's Godparents.

As we walked down the aisle, and all the good, God believers sang their song of praise, I leaned over to The Godfather and whispered, "I feel like we're in Whoville," which got a great laughing snort out of him.

Fast forward to yesterday, and there we were walking toward the door to get balloons, when The Turkey's bio-dad said, "There goes Andréa with the only man she'll ever say vows and walk down the aisle with."

I wanted to agree, but then I had this moment of thinking about Papi.

I married a butch.

A masculine woman.

The world's most perfect masculine woman, I may add.

One day, when I was clawing my way out of the catatonic tranny spell, my love had asked, "Do you think we could have a 2nd wedding, so that we can be pronounced man and wife?"

Of course, in response to the Tranny Terrorist, I quickly barked out, "No fucking way!!"

I mean really!  I've had my perfect wedding with my perfect butch.

How on earth could I ever marry a 'male', and live to tell the tale?!?

But there was a memory in this that I had spoken to a friend about.  I thought about how happy it would make my love to have his marriage certificate say male and female, instead of female and female.

I'm not rushing out to change our marriage certificate.

Hell fucking no!!!!

That bitch is mine!

But you never know.  Through this whole journey, I have learned a lot about the word, 'never'.

Never say, "Never", or it will come back and bite you in the ass.

At this point, I'm loving being married to my husbutch, and that's where I am 'right now'.

Tranny Talk and Straight Porn.

After my Living Day Anniversary breakdown, I've calmed down and am back to obsessing about other things.

ah ocd ... never a dull moment of crazed thinking ... it's just good entertainment ...

I've stopped gorging to avoid the fear, and am now back on track with my diet, complete with the zits and dark circles under my eyes and narcoleptic tendencies.

Not to mention I'm wearing my fat pants right now.

You know, I didn't realize I was gorging and being a lunatic about my Living Day Anniversary until after the fact, and that I'm not the only one who freaks about the Discovery.

You see, we visited one of the absolute sweetest couples we know.

It's been a long time coming.  We've tried to make a hangout work forever, but last night was the magical night that it all came together.

And a beautiful night it was.

It was one on one time, and I didn't sob my eyes out when I started talking about this blog and Papi's transformation.

The best part of the night was when they showed us the wild world of bad straight porn that's on our movie list through our cable company.

Of course there's nothing there for lesbians.  When they say, "Girl on Girl", it really means straight women who will cringe at the scent of their counterpart's taco, have long fake nails that would never come near a real lesbian ...

... pap smear anyone?!?! those little fuckers would poke my cervix out of it's happy home! ...

... and will continuously look at the camera, playing it up for the men who are watching.

Because it's all for the men, not us.

Fuckers.

... no pun intended ...

We also spoke about how our insurance company will place the Discovery on the date of our accidents, in an effort to get us to spaz out, and that they then canceled it.

sound familiar?!?!?!  yeah ... at least i proved to papi that i'm not just paranoid, i'm also correct.

We yacked about the people in our community that make someone like me, and others, afraid to speak about our grief, hence the La-Z-Boy and the Pit of Doom.

yes ... it has been that long since we've tried to make the hangout happen.

Through it all, there was a moment when I looked at my love a little differently.

I had another moment where I got to see the male my love desires to be.

Of course, that fleeting moment flew by and denial kicked in again, but through speaking about my fears I concluded that I am indeed really doing well.

There are just a few ends to tidy up.

ghosts ...

However, Papi and I spoke about it like it was no big deal.

Well, it is a big deal, and mi esposo and I are on the hunt to find the perfect moderator to help us communicate better through this.

Sometimes we can work things out on our own.  We really do have honest open communication, and even if it stings the other to say how we're feeling, we open it up and sew it back together.

There are parts about this male transformation that we need someone to guide us through.

There is no handbook on "How To Talk To Your Tranny."

There is also no handbook that says, "What Your Crazy Wife Is Thinking Right Now."

So continues the healing of this wacked out world of transgender life.

Oh!  I've been corrected in my language and learned something new about this gender reassignment again.

Transgender is like a wide umbrella that holds people of all walks in their journey.

Papi is a transsexual.

Good to know.

At least I still get to call him a Tranny, and that's all that really matters.

tomorrow ...

When the rain sets in for the winter, those voluptuous drops of water are like little shards of glass pelting my body.

Every one of them wreak havoc on my injuries, and people say, "You're limping!  Are you ok?!"

I just want to get to the Dominican Republic and stop the ouch.

Even though we can't leave until all my legal crud is cleared up and the G'ma goes to her new home in the sky, I'm feeling like I'm really going to be there 'tomorrow'!

It was pointed out to me last night, that Papi not only has to pass as a guy for his safety, but for my safety too.

That part didn't really occur to me.

I'm such a romantic idealist, that I just think we're going to move there and people will love us automatically, because we're loveable dammit!

I forget that they are a country where the people could homicidally judge us, if there's any evidence of my love having been a woman in the past.

When we were last there, we became friends with a sweet, young, single father, who was the official photographer of the resort we stayed in.

He showed us a video on his camera of the after effect of a fight.

It involved a machete and a head.

The head was in the gutter, and the machete was nowhere to be seen.

This was a fight over a girl.

They fought to the death for her, and only one head rolled.

So, if they're really going to behead someone who wanted the same girl, imagine how easy it would be for them to dismiss us from the planet.

i have even worse fears that go on in my mind, but i don't want this to get over the top serious with my mind's eye ...

My friend that reminded me that I, too, could possibly suffer at the hands of religious, homophobic people that have been brain washed.  "I'll give you 4 years," I was told, with an added, "you'll miss your queer community too much."

Yes, I will miss my 'rough around the edges friends', my Trust List and my biological and chosen family.

In terms of the Hen Peckers, I can't wait to get away from them and their Rah-Rah-Tranny cohorts.

Good fucking riddance.

I'd rather hang out with goats.

Anyway, I'm not going to get on to the 'ick' that are in our community, but rather get back on track about our haven.

Papi and I are city slickers, born and raised in Vancouver.

Some way, some how, we have to learn what it's like to be country bumpkins.

We will be building our own house, and will probably have to live in a tin roofed home for the first while.

That or a Winnebago.

At the same time, we have to learn how to live off the land.  I can see that my first 2 years are going to be an ample distraction from the fact that I'm nowhere near another queer person, other than Papi.

And the goats.

Goats are queer enough for me to talk to.

Not to mention, I've also been told, by some of my lovely Blogger Friends, that goats do make good listeners.

In my mind, I'm leaving the rain, snow, cold and Hen Peckers behind for good.

I know it's 20 months to 2 years away, but like I said, to me it feels like 'tomorrow'.

At this point, I'm not thinking about how much I'm going to miss my friends, because my romantic idealist brain keeps saying, "No worries! They'll all be coming by to visit you in those beautiful, luscious, healing, rolling hills of beauty."

... tomorrow ...

 

By the light of the moon ...

There's a very good reason for why I don't celebrate my birthday.

It's not because I've kept the secret of my age for so long and I'm afraid to admit I have a few crow's feet.

they're starting to look a little more like eagle claws with all the stress goin' on over here!!!! 

I don't celebrate my birthday, because there are so many expectations attached to the day.

It must be a fun day.

It must be filled with friends who adore me.

It must be a massive, positive celebration of how wonderful life is.

However, every birthday would come and all my expectations would be blown to bits, and I'd wind up crying in my beer.

That was, of course, in between chain smoking joints, and the beer could be exchanged with any other alcoholic beverage I could get my hands on, because it was my birthday dammit!  And I was going to be half lit so I couldn't remember any of it.

I stopped celebrating my birthday somewhere before I got clean and sober, and when that day would come along, I would silently tell myself how good my life is at that very moment in time.

Yeah, it hurt when nobody gave me a surprise party, but you know, nobody can give me a surprise party if they don't know when my birthday is.

See where I'm going with this?

Well, I'm shown again, that it's not ideal to place expectations on any day here on planet earth.  Life makes it's own decisions on how our day goes, and we have absolutely no control over it.

I was an utter emotional wreck, feeling like everything my love said was proposed in an angry manner.  The P.T.S.D. that I worked so hard to bridle was in full swing, and panic attacks were in abundance while being on the road, coupled with Papi telling me he had issues about this date as well.

This date represents so much for both of us, and I forgot that the other half of this relationship had to live through the motorcycle accident as well.

You'd think I would consider this, seeing as how I'm always fighting to be the other half that is respected in Papi's male transformation.

I mean really!  My love had to take care of me for a long time, from November 22, 2008 forward.  It's not that he is resentful for the time I had to be coddled, it's just that our life as we knew it changed on this day.

Mi esposo had a much different partner before this Living Day, as I was very strong emotionally and physically when Papi and I started dating.

On top of all of the above, this day is also the exact date that Papi started taking hormones, and I suppose I was too narcissistic about my Living Day, that I didn't pay attention to what was going on.

Consequently, I found out about the testosterone a few days later, and a psycho spouse was born, blubbering and catatonic in the La-Z-Boy, complete with drool and tears that could be confused for the epic snot from crying so much.

Not to mention the swollen eyes I'd wake to every day.

So, this is what this day brings for us.

My love and I don't ever fight, because we tend work things out with communication and humour.

However, on this day, Papi and I had the worst communication fail possible.  I wound up in tears and my love wound up feeling like he had to walk on egg shells, between saying the words I took as anger.

We had a ridiculous fights about nothing what-so-ever, really.

My day of gratitude ended when I swept The Golden's hair off the floor, and the rest of the day was a write-off.

Yet, it was still better than where I was 3 years ago.

And this, is the reason why I should probably take the same attitude with my Living Day that I take with my birthday: No expectations.

But hey, the evening got better, and I was also privileged to witness the full moon of the Tranny Terrorist.

That was Papi's way of making me laugh, and it worked.

Sorry I don't have pictures.

My Living Day Anniversary.

They postponed my discovery until February.

In doing this, they allowed me to enjoy this day for living, instead of pounding out the negativity of the past 3 years.

It is a great day to be alive.

I'm going to enjoy everything about my life today.

This includes cleaning up the house with a little help from my Medicinal Cannabis.

I'm grateful to have a pain med option that will allow me sweep The Golden's tumbleweeds of hair, that seem to have taken over the floor since my most recent flare up.

I'm grateful to be in love with a wonderful spouse, who is my soul mate and best friend.

I'm grateful I actually have a Fuzzy Family to keep me remembering that love is all you need.

I'm grateful to EI actually helping me out today, so that I may finally have income after one very long month without enough money for organic, luscious greens to help my body feel well.

I'm grateful that I can still play my instruments, even though I can't play as long as I used to.

I'm grateful that I have a creative ability, so that I have an outlet to deal with life on life's terms, not mine.

I'm grateful.

I'm just truly grateful.

It's a great day to be alive.

Today, I am a lot further than where I was at 3:00, 3 years ago today, when my life changed.

This is my Living Day Anniversary.

I'm going to use it's joy to it's full capacity.

This includes folding laundry.

Yes, I'm grateful that I can actually fold the laundry that seems to be piling to the ceiling.

I now realize house chores are a privilege.

They are.

They are, because I am able to do most of them now.

Today is my Living Day Anniversary and I'll be experiencing it with every moment I breath.

If you're struggling, I hope that today you will find at least one moment of gratitude, peace, joy or all of the above.

Everything always works out.

Everything.

You just have to keep your eyes open, so that you may witness it.

3 years.

I more than likely won't be writing to 'you',  my imaginary friend, tomorrow.

Tomorrow is my 3 year anniversary of my motorcycle accident.

It's not that I'll be too busy celebrating my life and thinking about how lucky I am to be here writing.

It's not that I'll be taking care of my emotions around this dreaded day I remember every year, for 3 years now.

It's also not that I'm taking a day off of everything and just letting myself 'be', knowing that I won the lottery of life, making it out of a horrid situation without being permanently stuck in a wheelchair, brain injury and P.T.S.D.

No.

I'll be sitting in a room with lawyers from my insurance company who will be doing their best to trip me up, in order to make me look like a liar.

They will badger me into answering too quickly for my now slow acting brain in an attempt to make me look like I'm making things up, and therefore, a dishonest witness.

They will make me out to be a lazy ass who sits around getting high on pain killers.

... even though i'm probably the hardest working, unemployable person you've ever met ...

Yes.

I am going to be in probably the most stressful event since my accident.

I've had to go to their doctors before.  That's been pretty stressful as well.

Last week, one of them practically dislocated my 'worst knee'.  Not to be confused with my other 'bad knee'.

I guess he didn't realize how fragile my body really is.

I suppose he thought I was a liar as well.

But when he almost had my knee cap flipping to the outside of my knee, with a knee jerk reaction ...

... yes ... pun intended ...

... I firmly grabbed his wrist and scared him a wee bit.

I'm pretty sure he thought I was going to get violent, considering the way he backed up and had the look of fear on his face, while trying to keep his hand from being ripped off at the wrist.

I think he believed me from that point forward, that I was telling the truth about my more than likely, permanently injured body.

From this moment forward, he allowed me to put my knees where they needed to be on my own.

I was grateful.

Anyway, the point of all this, is that my stomach is turning and I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to take a sleep aid tonight in order to keep my mind asleep.

I'm also pretty sure that they are completely aware of my P.T.S.D. and booked my discovery on the anniversary of my accident.

They're not stupid.

It indeed is the worst day for me to have to be psychologically poked and prodded.  I will have to go really slow ...

... story of my new life is 'everything slow' ...

... and think about what they've asked very carefully.

My biggest fear is that I will be forced to look at the pictures of my destroyed motorcycle, the hood of the car that I tumbled over, and the parked car I laid frozen beneath until they pulled me out.

Just writing that paragraph brings me the beginning of a panic attack, with many flashbacks to follow.

So, I'm positive I won't be writing to you tomorrow.

I'm pretty sure my hands will be shaking too much to tippity-tappity type about anything, because they're already weakening just writing about it.

I will be practising my breathing tomorrow like never before.

... in ...

... out ...

... in to my lungs as low as the air can go without passing out ...

... out very slowly so i don't get dizzy ...

Tomorrow.

I won't be seeing you.

But I truly hope your tomorrow finds you joy.

Good Hair Day.

"Do you want me to cut your hair?"

This has to be the most ridiculous question Papi has ever asked me.

Seriously.

My love was actually being sincere.

I don't pay over a hundred bucks to get my hair cut just because I like to spend money.

My honky 'fro definitely needs some professional attention right now, but after I've seen my love's D.I.Y. projects go a wee bit awry, I had to wonder if Papi had perhaps been nipping at my Crack Butter.

cut this hair?!?!?!  not a hope in hell you're getting near my honky 'fro with scissors

The only reason I know he hasn't, is because after my love tried the Crack Butter just once, in hopes that his anxiety would be relieved, he is almost ready to bid adieu to butter all together.

Every time I've had to ask my Crack Butter to dull my nerves' pain, mi esposo goes into a dramatic monologue that sorta goes like this:

"Oh, God!"

**gags**

"That is SO disgusting."

**dry heave**

"I don't know how you can eat that!"

**hacks**

Well, my love, it's a bit akin to how I hate bananas so much that I truly gag every time I eat them, yet I've eaten them when I've had insomnia.

bananas have tryptophan just fyi ...

Anyway, back to my hair, because it's really all about my hair.

I made my hair pretty, because we were supposed to go to a party last night for my sweet friend's housewarming celebration, but Papi had healing issues and had to stay home and rest.

Personally, I was afraid that haters could potentially be going to the party, or I'd have gone solo.

Today is not one of those times I feel safe to go it alone.

I guess I have been affected by the Hen Peckers without realizing it.

Yeah, I may be fine with their mean words on the internet, but actively seeing their dirty looks and jeers?

I have had to do it recently, and it just wasn't my idea of fun.

So, nah.

I can't play that game at this moment.

The saddest part is twofold: a) I let my fear win and didn't get the see one of the sweetest friends I have, and b) my good hair day went to waste.

Damn good thing I didn't get all dressed up with nowhere to go.

Instead, I got to pass by the mirror every half our to enjoy my good hair seeing as how Papi just let me know in a round about way that it's time for a cut.

Sure.

Just as soon I have regular grocery money coming in, a hair cut could happen.

However, there was also some drama time with Psycho Kitty.

Yes, it's that time of year again, ...

... it's been a relaxing 2 days without the g'ma ...

... where we leave the door open between floors, and the kitteh heads roll.

Well, it's really my kitties that get the beatdown.  So far, nobody's fur has been pulled from the root and strewn down the hall.

But tomorrow is a new day.

There may be feline drama tomorrow, or the next day, or the next week, but be assured, fuzzy heads will roll.

Just as long as it isn't The Mrs.

I'm married to a Werewolf

Papi told me my blog was boring yesterday.

It's always important to have a strong critique around our craft, isn't it?

I know that the 'boring' label was given, because my blog for the past 2 days hasn't been about mi esposo.

oh! btw ... i haven't had any more visits from jesus, g'pa, or the devil ... just fyi ... however, the tranny terrorist did stuff 'jesus on a stick' back into my jacket pocket for a giggle ...

The fact that it was probably deemed boring, strictly because Papi wasn't in it, was confirmed when my love asked, "Would you like to take a picture of my ass hair to talk about in your blog?"

No, I don't think you all need to check out the hair that is billowing from my love's ass crack now.

You'll be happy to know I stuck up for 'you', my imaginary friend.  I'm positive you don't need to see what I saw the other day.

To think I was concerned about facial hair!?!?!?

Oh, let me tell you, ass hair wins this one all the way.

There is also enough hair on Papi's upper thighs now to keep him warm all winter.  I'm pretty sure there is no need for long johns from this winter forward.

I'm also quite positive that the cloak of hair is going to be really hot for my love when we move to the Dominican Republic.

I've already informed my love that if there isn't any volunteering of hair removal after the thrill of looking like a werewolf has ended, that I will drug him in his sleep and wax that shit off.

Part of the reason I'd like to get rid of all the body hair is because my love likes to flaunt it in my face, while rubbing his thigh hair as if it was a prized dog, accompanied by a taunting, Tranny Terrorist smile that says, "How do you like this, my dear wife?"

My love is never short on props to use to his whimsical advantage.

It has indeed been quiet on the Tranny Terrorist front while my love is still healing from the hysterectomy.

Yesterday, when I was out for dinner with a sweet friend, we were talking about what's important in a relationship to each of us.  For me, I'll pick someone who can make me laugh over romance.

I can live without romance when there's a funny one in my life, however, I'm fortunate enough that my love is a massive romantic at heart, as well as someone who makes me laugh.

My friend said, "You must have laughs every day with that character."

I confirmed and upped the ante, "Yes.  Every day, and usually more than once a day."

I do love the Tranny Terrorist in a warped, sick way.

I'm a sucker for attention.

I was once labeled an 'attention whore' in a former relationship.

This label is not far off the map.

I was a little short on attention after my parents split up, and I'm pretty sure I've been trying to make up for it for the rest of my breathing life.

I'm cool with admitting it.

And it's probably why I fell in love with Papi so quickly.

My love gives me all the attention I could ever want, coupled with goofiness that keeps me laughing and rolling my eyes, not to mention gushing over what a romantic gentleman Papi is.

Well, that is of course, when my love isn't lying around healing in the La-Z-Boy.

Anyway, I hope this blog was much more interesting to Papi.

Even though I'm the one writing to 'you', it really is all about him isn't it?

Uh-Oh!

Now it seems that Jesus and the devil are fighting for my attention!

You see, I drink ionized water.

Here's my machine that has helped me so much!

People think I'm a kook because it greatly increased my cognitive healing after my brain injury.  After a year of brain games and following doctors' orders, within 1 month, my 5 minute attention span became 20 minutes

yeah yeah laugh away ... i'm telling you ... it's the truth bitches!

I'm a bit of a water fiend/snob.

Don't bother asking me if I'd like a glass of anything when I come by your humble dwelling.  Well, unless it's coffee, but then I probably have had my one cup for the day and will refuse that as well.

Yup.

Off track.

Again.

Anyway, you have to change both the filters every once in a while when the tracking number gets to 9999, and the numbers are displayed on the front.

So, I approached my wonderful machine to fill my super thick Ikea glass full of oxygen filled love.

 As I got right up to the machine, I saw this:

I suppose that if there is a 'God', and Jesus is hanging around with G'pa in the attic, then The Devil should have a few words in as well, right?!

I mean, we can't really just listen to one side of the story, right?

It's only fair.

All I can say is I hope I don't start seeing Jesus in my toast, or The Devil in my dreams.

But really, all I want to say is I'm still waiting for my phone call from 'God'.

If this phone call does come, you're allowed to legally commit me to an institution.

No, really!

You might as well, because I'll probably be sitting in the corner sucking my thumb.

That would be the final straw that would blow my mind.

In the meantime, while I'm waiting for 'God' to surface and prove it's existence, I'll just keep trudging along with life as I know it.

I mean, it's super important to get in my America's Next Top Model quota, not to mention I'm starting on the next film score.

which has me sooooooo excited!!! this one will be right up my industrial music alley!!!

Now that The Devil has made it's appearance for this agnostic verging on atheist, I can see that my life is balanced again, and I will be back to slamming the door on the zealots that come a knockin'.

There ya have it.

I thought I was famous here in Blogger and Tranny Terrorist land!

Nope.

Even Jesus and The Devil want a piece of me.

Either that or the medicinal marijuana has fried my brain, leaving me delusional.

But then again, I do have pictures for proof!

Jesus lives!!!

Ok.

I'm pretty sure Jesus is stalking me.

Let's back up for a sec.

Remember the sewage flood and The Great Sewage Flood Purge?

It's been a while since I've been to the attic to see what clothing I have.

Well, if I'm being honest, the brain injury didn't even allow me to know about all that existed up there.

I now have a brand new bunch of dresses to choose from!

The real reason I was up there was to find my winter puffy coat.

Found it!

And guess what I found in the pocket?

Seriously.

Of all the people that could receive this little gem, this agnostic verging on atheist is the last one to actually appreciate this gift.

I'm pretty sure that if I believed in 'God', I would be shouting from the mountain tops that he's sending me messages.

No.

It's just Jesus, and here is my gift:

I thought it was probably the Tranny Terrorist making a funny, but my love assured me he didn't do it.

Honestly.

Who's the one who keeps getting the zealots at the door?

Who's the one who incessantly has to explain to the G'ma that I don't believe in her 'God'?

Who's the agnostic verging on atheist who gets royally pissed when people try to push their beliefs on her?

And who's the one who has Jesus in their pocket?

Me.

I don't really get it.

It definitely wasn't G'ma who put this gem in my pocket.  G'ma can't get up the stairs.

g'ma has just left for 3 months!! my blood pressure has resumed normal levels ...

So, there's a mystery in the house, and I'm pretty sure I know who did it.

Yup, it's Jesus, and he's stalking me.

I don't deny that he existed, but I have a hard time believing that he's always hangin' around me.

Though I just have to wonder, who's the devil who keeps taunting me with all this!!??!?!

Hang on!!

Maybe it was the ghost of G'pa.  I occasionally feel him in the house, and apparently he was a real joker.

So there it is!  I just figured it out!!

G'pa has combined forces with Jesus and they're playing games with me.

Papi always says, "I wish you got to meet G'pa."

I have, Papi.

I have, and he's a cheeky bugger.

My Brag Blog.

You know, I have wanted to get a few things in here to brag about.

It's important to brag!

The Video

We have to get a few more shots done for the video, but here's some snapshots of the first half of the filming.

i'm so spoooooooky

we're so spoooooooky

The Rings

I recall back in July, my Blogger Friends wanted to see my bling-a-ding-ding, so here ya go!

did i mention i'm a princess?

On my left hand you see my engagement, wedding and our 1 year anniversary rings.

On my right index, you'll see Papi's engagement ring that he outgrew.

"Men don't wear engagement rings," my love had told me.

And that's ok, because I get to wear it hehehehe.

The Amber Ring is an heirloom of the G'ma who let me wear it as an engagement ring while it was being custom made.

Papi had bought a massive ring for me for the engagement proposal and it didn't fit.  Anyway, G'ma still allows me to wear it and I love it so much.

My First Published Article Paycheck

This is the first step in my venture as a writer.

I'm pretty damn proud to have the opportunity for my voice to be heard.  I have received so much acknowledgement from others who love trannies telling me they needed to hear my words.

gimme my money bitches!

Secretly Loves Trannies

I realize now that I'm attracted to transgender people and have not really recognized it for a long time.

It's taken me a while, but I can honestly say that I could wear this t-shirt with pride now.

it's true!

Papi had bought it for me way back in early January '11, but I have not felt that I could wear it, as I was in too much turmoil around the male transformation.

The difficulty in coming to grips with this journey of gender modification have seemingly become more clear.

I don't like the poison of hormones that are in mi esposo's system.

This is the drug that steals my butch.

This is the elixir that magically transforms my love into the male being he feels inside.

I'm really not sure I could wear the Secretly Loves Trannies shirt because of what's on the the back.

ummmmmm ...

Yeah.

This is the other half of the hardest part about this transformation.

Penes.

Don't like 'em.

to put it mildly...

I would have to be hammered or drugged to get me to go there.

Well, I've been wanting to get my brag list done, and now that's done.

Ahhhhhh ...

If you ignore it, it will go away ...

Well, you know how you wake up and the first thing that you need to do is have that morning pee?  It's kinda like we go on autopilot and walk like zombies with a penchant for brains.  We take each bleary eyed step to the throne, and while we're sitting there contemplating what business needs to be done, ...

... or like me, you wonder who will be the one to clean the bathroom floor ...

... and our ritual is over before we know it, coupled with our eyes being a little more open.

Well, I didn't get my morning 'hello' to the all powerful can on time today.  Here's everything I did before my piddling:

• Brought The Golden up for his morning pee

• Explained to the 96 year old why my face looks like this

... because i just woke up you crazy old coot! i get to say the same thing every morning when she asks me, "what's wrong?!?!??!?" in that panicked old lady voice, while she's secretly hoping the answer is something horrible so she can either say, "that's the bunk," or, "there's always something to take the joy out of living," followed by asking about the most recent disaster every 5 minutes ...

• Called to make an appointment with the Dr. for the G'ma

• Asked the zealots at the door, "Are you here to talk about your god? Because I don't believe," followed by a slam in their face when they confirmed my suspicions

• Explained again to the old fart why she's not allowed to put her own pills in her pill box and took them away from her

... this one has been a great repeating record this week ...

• Gathered the old bird's laundry so I may do her bidding

• Brought in The Golden who's bladder was more relieved than mine

• Fed the clan

 ... minus the sleeping patient papi ...

• Yelled back up the stairs to the task master that I don't care if the wild bird seed has run out, then muttered under my breath "Fuck off!" in the loudest whisper I could

• Called HandyDart to cancel the old poop's ride to the senior center, where all the blue, white and grey haired ladies talk to each other about different stories simultaneously, because nobody can hear each other talking.

I desperately jumped onto the latrine, so I may start my morning routine.  It was at that moment that I realized what my 'rough around the edges friends' told me yesterday.

I went out for a beautiful breakfast hang out with a couple of lovely friends, not to mention awesome greasy food that I'll be paying for for a few days.  They were checking in to see how I was doing around Papi's male transformation.

Throughout our conversation, there was a common theme that was abounding: I don't take care of my needs around this.

I'm busy making sure everyone else around me is ok, but I haven't really looked at myself lately.  It hit me while the tinkling was sprinkling that they may be right.

I have been pretending that I'm just doing fine around Papi's transformation.

But honestly, I'm not.

There are some key issues that need to be taken care of around the transformation, and Papi and I got to talking about it while tears were rolling down my face.  Not to mention, snot was adamant that it would roll out at the very moment I tried to speak.

classy! didn't i mention how classy i am?

I've been trying to pretend that I've just slipped into Rah-Rah-Tranny mode and everything is fine.

The other half of the equation is that the sun is pulling it's light and warmth away from our planet.  It's during this time of the year that I am subject to what a lot of people deal with: Seasonal Affective Disorder.

It's a little more difficult since the accident, because of the added pain from the cold and the rain, but I now grasp what these two Trust List friends were trying to get me to understand.

I need support.

Papi and I are going to find someone to be a mediator to help clean this up.  We need to have everything worked out before we get to the Dominican Republic.

It will be no good if I don't have a support group and am isolated with my shit.  Mind you, I'm sure the goats will be good listeners.

However, now that I see it, I can't ignore it.

S.A.D., unresolved transformation issues, the neglect of myself.

Yeah, I took a little breather from reality for a few months there.

... denial ...

Now I'm at a door I can't slam shut.

This monster just strolls right in without my permission.

Fuck I hate it, but it's here.

Guess I can't ignore it anymore.

I'm Getting Out the Cattle Prod

There was a little bit of panicked entertainment last night.

My dear Papi had a little scare from the post-surgery healing.

We phoned the nurse's line who directed us to go immediately to emergency.

Now, normally, that would be something to panic about, but unfortunately, we're sorta used to being there because of me.

However, I was overjoyed that we weren't going there as a result of my bitch of a back.

I've been in so many times, that I now have a 'rule'.  I am not to be taken to emergency unless my eyes, ears and nose are all bleeding simultaneously.  There was no blood spewing from my head, so I was happy to be going there for mi esposo.

Good times at the hospital.  Let me tell you.

Remember I told you that the nurses, docs and admitting people out in bum-fuck-nowhere could teach the Vancouver hospitals a few things about bedside manner and customer service?

Well, one of my friends who works in a Vancouver hospital said, "That's probably because out in bum-fuck-nowhere, they don't have all the assholes downtown that we have to deal with on an hourly basis."

So true.

I mean, even though my fellow bird of a feather crazies seemed to find me at the hospital in bum-fuck-nowhere, they weren't quite as intense as the people who visit emergency in Vancouver.

oops ... off track ... i'll get to the point ...

My first experience with bringing Papi, was that they weren't going to let me sit with my love.

You know how a cat will relentlessly meow at you for their food?  I was a bit like that last night with the volunteers, nurses and admitting people, because they weren't going to let the 'spouse' be with their better half.

c'mon people! don't you know i'm famous??!? you don't want me to write about you!

Eventually, Papi came out and I was back to happy again.  But damn!  They're lucky I needed a whole wackload of pain killers yesterday.  Those little drops keep me much sweeter to those around me while there's pain shooting down my legs.

Anyway, the most fun was when the admitting nurse saw 'male' on my love's identification, but that Papi was there for possible post-surgery infection due to a full hysterectomy.

This nurse addressed Papi, "Ok, so there's no easy way to ask this ..."

Before the question was answered, she looked up from her computer screen to two Cheshire Cat, shiny, brace face smiles.

Papi relieved her by saying, "I'm a transsexual female to male who just had a hysterectomy."

The woman was much nicer to me after having to ask her embarrassing question.

Well, I got mi esposo lying down to ease the pain, and Papi and I proceeded to spend some quality time together.  This was when my love decided to tell me that I didn't do as good of a job as the g'ma used to when it comes to taking care of him.

well my love, that's probably because i'm not a passive aggressive control freak ... ummm ... well not anymore, that is ...

So, when Papi told me that, I decided that I needed to be more forceful, and not ask if my love would like something.  I should tell my love he's going to have it.

So I tried at the hospital to make Papi drink more water.  I was presented with a stubborn mule who kept turning his head away, in an attempt to evade the glass.

Really Papi?!  This deserved the remark in mi esposo's face, "You fucking bugger!  Do you see?  I do try to take care of you, but you're a fucking manchild and don't let me!"

Yes.

I am a good caretaker.  My love, if you thought you saw caretaking before, you'll be seeing it now with a riding crop in hand.

Perhaps even a cattle prod.

Oh, yes.  I'll be making you drink your water and eat your meals.

Oh, by the way, Papi's going to be fine, as long as he complies with my orders, that is.

Introducing, The Hector-Browns

I suppose we're famous now.

The other day, a friend was with some acquaintances, who brought along another friend.

does that make sense? damn i hope so ... the friend that was brought along didn't know that my friend knew us ... god i think i've made it even more confusing ...

Well, my friend had this little gathering somehow get on to the topic of Papi and I.

It was at that point that someone who has no idea who we really are said, "Oh, you mean 'The Hector-Browns'?" with a forked tongue and a little bit of venom spewing.

I know people say when you're married that you become one, and damn.  We really are.

We are no longer independent human species.

We are one:  The Hector-Browns.

But the point is, we're fucking hated by people who have no idea about what is between the lines of our relationship and feelings toward one another.

I'm ok with this grand title.

You see, I've had pods of lesbians hating me for ridiculous rumours all over the city from the moment I came out of the closet.

It hurt at first, but I soon learned that if you want to have your creativity out in the world, people will love you and people will hate you.

It's polarity.

I actually dealt with cliques from a young age, so I'm used to it.  It doesn't mean anything to me.

Papi, however, has not.

Mind you, my love, had a stint with being hated while being an active drunk.  There was a while where my love really enjoyed getting a rise out of the uber-politically correct.

None-the-less, I really think it's pretty awesome that we are known as The Hector-Browns.

I love giving people titles.  It's easier than remembering names sometimes.

And I'm not talking about pronouns and sexual orientation.

For example: My Person, My boifriend, and now the most recent inductee: The Chef Extraordinaire.

I haven't really mentioned him yet, but damn.  Papi and I were given an amazing 5 course meal by The Chef Extraordinaire.

This was for My Boifriend's last Vancouver meal.

He's gone back to his island.

goddam off topic ... again ... where was i? o ya right ...

Anyway, what I was going to get at was that only a year ago, I was afraid of being hated by the Rah-Rah-Trannies.  This left me comatose, but I'm good now, and I'm ready for the people who may fart in our general direction as Papi and I walk down the street.

But honestly, to be given our reigning title was a huge compliment to me.

If my love and I were boring, nobody would even care.

Being disliked so strongly means we're interesting.

So, there ya go.

I'm pretty sure we're famous now.

We are The Hector-Browns.

We are one unit.

Now I will go tend to chores, in our Hector-Brown house and our Hector-Brown Fuzzy Family.

We got a whole lotta love over here.

Butterflies

So, these last few days that I was without 'you', my imaginary friend, were quite the blur.  There was so much work, joy, stress and blah blah blah ...

Do you ever just look at ...

... ahem ...

... life's lessons and you get figure out the moral of the story right away?

It's always nice when that happens.

Maybe I'm speaking cryptically, but it's because my brain has not quite opened up to what day it is right now.  I really pushed my injured noodle to the limit with this fucked up adventure I just went on.

I will get there and tell you a little bit more about my whirlwind of the film score mania week, but let's just say, one of the lessons learned is that we should always take time for our lovely friends.

In the meantime, I will talk to you about my love.

i mean, that's why you're here anyway, isn't it?! it's not really about me ...

Papi is healing very well, and it's been nice getting to have my love awake and laughing, even if it does hurt.  I mean really, laughter heals, doesn't it?

So anyway, I'm a hypochondriac, and Papi teases at me about it.

seriously ... i'm positive i have my mother's cancer even though it hasn't shown on any tests ...

Well, Papi was also convinced that there would have been cancer in my love's woman bits.  It's not really too far off the cuff to think that, considering my love did have pre-cancerous cells.

I do believe this is part of the reason why I'm doing so much better with this most recent surgery.  I, too, was also afraid that Papi would have had something going on there.  Plus, I didn't have to experience the gore of changing dressings on this round.  It's all hidden away, tickity-boo.

phew ...

And besides, Papi's fear is warranted, not only because my love lost his mother at the impressionable age of 10, but also because my love has a horrid pop addiction, and probably the worst diet second to The Beast.

oh ... don't bother asking about the beast ... that's way too long of an epic life lesson to share ...

So, when they did indeed remove that last portion of woman bits from mi esposo, I was probably just as relieved as my love to get that bitch gone!

Something that I'm really learning about my life with a transgender person, is what being in love really means.  Papi really is that same person I married, minus a few less 'bits'.

So, when people commented on Papi's 'changing' voice this weekend, I had to look at them like they just might be imagining things, because I just don't see it.

You see, in the beginning, when I was all fucked up about this transformation, I was thinking I wouldn't be very appreciative of the Helium Voice.

The Helium Voice is a rite of passage that every bio-male and transguy must venture through.  The cracking of the voice is definitely not music to my ears.  However, there is a lesson in this.

When people say my love's voice has changed, I just don't see it.

It's possible that if I wasn't so adept in Papi-land, I would hear it as well, but when you live with someone day in and out, some of the changes aren't as apparent.  I really don't notice my love's voice being any different than it was before.

Oh, here's another one!  A week after Dr. Scissorhands had his way with my love's uterus ...

and ovaries ... fallopian tubes ... and cervix ...

... I was looking at my love's side angle face and I noticed side burns.

Yes.  Sideburns.

I thought I just wasn't paying attention before, and they just popped up to flaunt their tentacles at me.  However, my love said, "Have you noticed how all of a sudden my side burns have come in since the surgery?"

No.  I just don't accept that removing that womanly body part would change mi esposo into the male my love sees in the mirror, but there is evidence, and you know what?  It's kinda cool in a fucked up reality kinda way.

We, who are in love with the transgender person, really have a world to exist in that not many others get to experience.

Through the tears, fears and anger, we get to watch our morphing butterflies reach for freedom.

I guess that caterpillar fuzz on my love's upper lip is no longer going to be a fledgling.

Nada

feverishly working on a film score ... will return in a few days

in the meantime, you may give praise to the fuzzy family

So, then that's a 'no'?

"I don't know why the nurse would have to tell me, 'no sex for 6 weeks'.  I can't imagine anyone who would feel like having sex after a hysterectomy."

I would have to agree with you, Papi.

However, I had to ask, "So, do they mean no action with the vibrator either?"

Papi was horrified that I would even contemplate having sex right now.

But you see, it's not so out of the ordinary.

I mean really, I get amorous at the worst of times.

Seriously.

I can feel it coming on like I'm a bitch in heat when it really shouldn't be happening.

I think the worst time ever was when I was at a funeral.

Mind you, that was a bit of a mind fuck, considering I was contemplating suicide at the same time as this teacher died.  Seeing so many people grieving over their loss of this beautiful person, I decided that I couldn't put those who love me through that, even if I felt so doomed, yet somehow, horny.

... blah blah blah nervous breakdown yadda yadda suicide is selfish ... yawn ... my maelstrom of a mind ...

But still, I had to ask Papi if it meant absolutely no hop on action, when I was greeted with the most energetic words I've heard all week, "No fucking way are you bringing anything near me!"

Hey, wait a minute!

Wasn't it you, Papi, who just weeks after I was brain injured and unable to walk in a straight line, never mind feel any pain from all the straight codeine I was hopped up on, decide we were having sex, even if it meant I may be a little more fucked up for physio the next day?"

Yeah, I think I deserve my tit for tat now!

Although, after all that thinking, the inkling went away.

Yeah.

It flits about like that.

catch me if you can!

Like I said, completely inappropriate.

I managed to get Papi out of the house today.  Took him for a little drive downtown when my love asked, "Do you ever think people are listening in on you?  Like you're being bugged?"

I had to stop and wonder if I'd been giving off the air of another nervous breakdown. 

Was I talking psychotic babblings and perhaps didn't know it?

Was Papi witness to me having some weird ass freak out and was trying to break it to me that I need to go 'see someone'?

However, I couldn't help answering honestly, "Yes."

Oh great.

Now Papi knows.

I heard my love toss words like it was just an everyday conversation, "Oh.  So do I."

phew! we're in this nuthouse together!

But I do!

Sometimes, I turn on my computer and the little light by my built in camera comes on.

I desperately reach around for the closest piece of paper I can find to cover up the camera.  Then I turn the computer off and reboot.

Not because I'm afraid of my privacy being happened upon, but because when I blog, I don't look so 'fresh'.

And besides, I'm not just paranoid, it's also a fact that I'm followed by insurance people trying to catch me doing the limbo or dancing en pointe for the next ballet troupe.

and people wonder why i never leave the house unkempt ... i'm a star i tells'ya! papirazzi everywhere!

Anyway, it was sure nice having a few moments of my love back.

Even if I made things worse by making mi esposo laugh too much, I do know that even though it hurts to laugh, it helps with healing.  So, bring on the smiles my love.

It's all working out just fine ...

Sperm.

They really shouldn't allow 2 brain injured people who get confused to lead each other around, or they will simply go in circles like a dog chasing it's tail.

Like yesterday.

I drove downtown to meet My Boifriend, who happens to be gay, but has now found a femme love interest, which I suppose would now make him bi-curious?

Anyway, like the classy lady I am, I pulled up to the curb and had him throw his house, or rather stuffed duffel bag, and even more stuffed computer case into the backseat of our vehicle.  The entertaining part was when he bellowed, "You're making me hold up a bus!" with a panicked bark.

of course my dear, that's the way i roll... i like pissing people off ...

After we laughed about the lack of comfort we just encountered, we decided to find somewhere to have our hang out.

Well, here's where it got fun.

We spoke about where we should go before he had to meet up with the next friend.  I'm sure it will be like that for him the entire weekend.  You know how it is.  Too many people who love him and too little time to spread it around.

We decided on coffee and I started driving to my favourite, ethical coffee joint, JJ Bean.  I then realized I'm a little hungry and perhaps he was too, as it was dinner time.  So we aborted the coffee trek and headed to find something wheat and dairy free for my finicky body.

Sounds pretty normal, right?

Well, with 2 brain injured people trying to make choices, we wound up exactly where we started from.

Yup.

One big 360 degree circle of driving.

Next was the decision of which million dollar parking lot to park in.  In downtown Vancouver, a buck will get you a cool 10 minutes.

Anyway, I had decided on a falafel plate for my sinful meal, but when we parked I changed my mind.

such is the life of a brain injured person ... please don't give me options ...

This was fine with My Boifriend.  He's pretty easy.  Well, when it comes to food that is.  I wouldn't know about anything else, considering he's my platonic boifriend.

Mind you, I did have a dream that Papi and him were making out.  Is that weird or what?

Usually I dream about Papi having sex with me, but somehow my mind said it was ok for them to have a go.

Good thing it was a dream.  Wouldn't know how I'd feel about my monogamous soul mate sleeping with my gay, and/or bi-curious-ish, FTM boifriend.

Oh, there I go off topic.  Again.

Topic: food.

We ...

or rather i ...

... did manage to make a decision on Mexican.  We went to Mucho Burrito, where My Boifriend treated me to an evil meal of wheat and dairy free, sodium exaggerated junk food.  It was deliciously bad for me.

The sad part is, this restaurant is on the outer edge of the Davie Village, so the gays, trannies, dykes, and all the other people who will be going to hell with us, tend not to make it into this restaurant.

too bad for you guys! cross the burrard boundary and give it a go! i recommend it!

We had a little extra time before his next social gathering, so we went for a walk in the cool autumn, verging on winter, air.

it was about at this time that i was truly grateful that i had indeed taken 'too much' crack butter.

We went somewhere that I haven't seen yet.  The Vancouver Convention Center at the Burrard Inlet.

And here's what we found:

A big blue sperm.

I'm pretty sure that if Papi and I used this bugger ...

... we would have gotten pregnant and stayed that way!

Anyway, I guess we didn't do too badly for two brain injured people.

We ate, got to where we were going on time, and then I got to come home to Papi, who said more than one word!  It was almost like normal!

It's an improvement.

heal papi heal ... i miss your silliness ...

Now who's the old fart?

So, I'm feeling a lot less homicidal.

I was trying to limit my pain killers to see where my pain level was at, and I realize it's not time to do that yet.

When I'm in pain I'm a fucking hag.

The day I went down to The Yank's birthday, a few people had said, "It's so nice to see Andréa smiling again."

I felt horrible that people saw me as miserable.  I hate being miserable.

The point is though, while in the neighbouring country, I was smiling because I had pain relief.

So, yesterday I decided not to suffer just to see where my pain level is and took the pain killers.

I was much nicer to the G'ma after that point.

I spoke with one of my sweet Blogger Friends yesterday, when I realized that I was suffering for no reason.

I was telling her not to suffer and yet, there I was suffering.  So I changed that situation.

Then I realized taking care of Papi is not so hard.  He's been sleeping 99.9% of the time since we've returned from the hospital.

Not too much 'caretaking' to do there, eh?

Not to mention, when Papi is actually awake, there are no words coming out of his mouth.  Well, other than, "Can you get me some soup?"

We now have the Galloping Gazelle come to stay for the weekend.  I'm sure I'll be more than busy now.  The object of the game is to stop the Galloping Gazelle from jumping on Papi's stomach.

Which is hard.

The Galloping Gazelle is quite the jumper.  Fortunately, Sir Bark-A-Lot is usually guarding Papi from the footrest of the laid out La-Z-Boy.

Most people who have spoken to me about my lack of understanding my 'feelings' lately have had a unanimous vote.

I'm healing.  I'm feeling better about Papi and the male transformation.

I suppose they're right.

It feels a lot better than trying to pull out 'bad' feelings, if I'm having them.

I guess in some ways I am having them, considering Papi keeps asking me, "Are you sure you're alright?"

I'm very agitated lately, and I have to imagine, it's my way of working out whatever it is I have to work out.

Apparently, now that my love has no female bits, the transformation will start to really kick in.

I can say, the one thing I'm happy about is that Papi will be going through menopause before me.

My love is constantly teasing me about being the older woman, ...

... hmpf ... i look younger than anyone my age so piss off ...

... but now that Papi is going to have hot flashes before me, I have ammunition.

The next time my love chooses to tease me about being the older one in the relationship, I can easily say, "Yeah?  Well, who just went through hot flashes baby?!  Who's the older one now?!?!"

One thing I did realize today after briefly speaking to My Boifriend who happens to also have brain injury, ...

... and who i get to have a hangout with today yay! ...

... is that rushing anything with brain injury is not going to work for us.  He proved that theory by trying to pack his cat in the suitcase for his venture to the big city.

I realized that part of my homicidal tendencies this week are because I have too much on my plate for one brain injured person.

When I feel stressed, I just can't deal.  I can't even figure out how to log out of a page on this here computer.

I need to go slo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-w.

Anyway, point is, Papi is now the older man, regardless of the number.

Feeling sweaty yet my dear tranny?

Mwahahahaha ...

gramma dramma

Every once in a while I get a bit coocoo from the dealings of a 96 year old with Alzheimer's.

For the longest time after my accident, I heard, "You're still not quite right, are you?"

It's bad enough that I tell myself I'm not perfect, but to hear that negative question day in and day out, I was going a little nuts about it.  She's laid off of that one a bit, but there is always a replacement question to deal with.

I'd go up the 'my they really did a great job with the carpet on your stairs', and open the door handle as quietly as possible, tip-toe through the kitchen, and move like a burglar out the door to my salvage of a vehicle.

Never will the old bird admit that I'm doing much better than I was when I first got hit.  I'm walking, remembering most things and happy, ...

when i allow myself to be hehe ...

... so shouldn't I hear, "Wow, you're doing so good and look how far you've come!"

Anyway, my point is, after the diagnosis of Alzheimer's,  I felt a lot more able to care for the old fart emotionally, because I felt so sorry for her.  She needs us.

However, in the past few days, I've been thinking of renting the movie, "Throw Mama from the Train."

They may have some suggestions of how to deal with the old poop who thinks that every breathing moment in my life is to be spent tending to her needs.

I don't mind tending to her needs, but when I have to have the same conversation 4 to a thousand times a day, I lose it just a little bit.

Ok, maybe it's because I'm having a wicked PMS and want to kill everyone.

Or it could be the fact that I'm taking care of my spouse who is healing from a surgery, I have 2 film scores to work on and one of the composing programs still hasn't made it to my door, 5 critters to tend to, 3 days of physio a week along with 3 more visits to the gym to practise what they've told me to do, and the wing nut 'gma to deal with.

Somethings gotta give, and it seems to be my patience.

But when an old lady asks your spouse, "Is Andréa mad at me?" it makes me feel like the biggest ogre on the planet. 

wtf is the matter with me?!?!

And here's where I gotta wonder what goes on in my own brain though: I walk in and hear the same questions from the g'ma, without so much as a 'hi' first and I want to run and hide from her.

So in order to run and hide, I walk down the 'my they really did a great job with the carpet on your stairs' to our basement abode, and after a quick, "Hi honey," I launch into, "I'm going to lose it," and proceed to repeat the same story I repeat every day: the story of the g'ma who repeats every question, every 30 minutes of every single day.

Who's the one here who is losing their marbles?!?!?!  Seriously?!?!?!

and now you get the joy of listening to me vent ... lucky you ...

I should be able to just buck up and figure out that she's not doing it to make me lose my mind.

that's what the assholes in life are for ...

Maybe I should go up the 'my they really did a great job with the carpet on your stairs' and answer every one of her questions before she's even asked me.  The monologue for this week's answers would go something like this:

a) the man across the street has cancer and is going to die, and you're not allowed to call his grieving wife 5 times per day anymore,
b) you're going to Alberta for 4 months so that I can handle taking care of Papi, the 5 animals and the house,
c) my love is healing perfectly fine from the surgery, and yes you did see him today, yesterday and the day before,
d) psycho kitty will be fine here while you're gone, and no he's not coming into our basement dwelling to kill my cats,
e) my cats are doing just as well as they were 30 minutes ago when you asked me,
f) your sherry is in the same place it's always been, and no we're not rationing it to torture you, it's just that you forget you've already had a glass and drink too much,
g) the tv is not broken, you've just pressed the wrong buttons,
h) your phone is not broken, you just forgot to charge it,
i) yes I still have pain from 3 years ago and I'm not quite 'right',
j) the stove is not broken, we unplugged it because you were leaving burners on, and now, after you've flooded us out of our home, we don't want you to burn us down next.
k) yes, I know how to load the dishwasher I've been loading for 3 years now.

all done with a fake 'i'm the sweetest most patient person' smile on my face and suppressing the urge to say fuck off.

Well, I could go on, but these are just off the top of my head.  We've tried writing down everything for her, but she'll just ask anyway.

So, is it PMS?  Homicidal tendencies?  Too much pain?

One, or all of the above?

Someone pour me a tall dark glass of 'fuck-it-all'.

On the count of three ... one ... two ...

There's a lot going on.

I can always tell there's a lot going on when I go to write to 'you', my imaginary friend, and I'm stupefied.

It's all pretty good stuff, but the icing is a little bitter.

Working on 2 short film scores, taking care of the wounded tranny, taking care of the 96 year old coot, taking care of the 4 legged Fuzzy Family, 3 days a week at physio to get this bitch of a back to shut the fuck up so I may be employable, and preparing to prepare for the panel of ICBC lawyers whose job it is to convince everyone that I'm a liar.

yeah ... people just t-bone illegal maneuvering cars with their motorcycle, tumble over the hoods of said cars, then fly 15 feet through the air and land on their head all the time! there's nothing wrong with me ... right?

And at the same time, try to figure out what these feelings are.

I have no idea, really.  I mean, it's not every day we watch our loved ones go through sex changes.

There's just a feeling attached to it that I can't put my finger on.

I know we're very primal beings who, when connected to our instincts, can sense a lot more than we choose to admit.

It's just that as we go along, someone, somewhere tells us we're nuts for thinking our instincts are true.

I'm told I'm paranoid all the time.

Even still, I'm usually the one to say, "Told'ja so."

So, being connected to my instincts, I'm feeling something about Papi's most recent change, but I just can't figure out what it is.

Is it just the fact that I know my love has had the last procedure and the feeling of loss is final?

Is it that I'm sensing the shift in Papi's hormones now that they've taken away the last reminder of being born a female?

Is it that I can smell my love has changed?

I like to think I was a dog in a former life.  Maybe it's like in their world, where once a dog gets their 'bits' taken away, the other dogs can smell it and they are shunned from those who still carry their balls and ovaries?

It's a bit of a mind fuck thinking about my love as this new person.

I was so afraid of who this person would be that I'm married to.  I'm not afraid anymore.

I can safely say that.

But this other feeling?

It's almost like a letting go of some sort.

Perhaps my heart is finally speaking to my brain, "See, everything always works out.  Papi is still the sexy person you married."

Yet my brain is so damn stubborn that there is a battle ensuing.

'Stubborn' can be useful.  Like when you're learning to walk again.

In this case, stubborn is a curse.

My heart knows better than my brain.

Yet still, as I watch my wounded soul mate heal by way of rest, fluids and an arm to hold him while he tries to get up out of the La-Z-Boy, I don't know what this feeling is that looms.

I can't tell if it's happy, scared, content or indifferent.

Seriously.

I remember once an ex pissed me off, and I held in the anger.  It brewed and festered until they then did something as small as leaving the cap off the toothpaste and I lost it.

It wasn't about the toothpaste, and I can't even remember what it was that pissed me off, but I do know that if I had have figured out what irked me faster, I wouldn't have looked like a loon ranting about a cap and drying chunks of toothpaste congealing with air.

Maybe I'm just feeling that sigh of relief we feel when someone says, "Ok.  On the count of three I'm going to rip the bandaid off.  Ok!  Ready?"

Once it's no longer adhered to our skin, we get a rush of adrenalin, and the knowing that it's all over.

Well, the bandaid has definitely been ripped off.

Perhaps that's what's going on?