the creep

your sunday sillies

So, I really wanted to sleep in today, but Papi was up to talk about what happened to me the other day, still processing the anger he feels, and the need to defend me.

I can't get back to sleep once I've started talking, so here I am.

Up.

Thinking about my experience.

I knew the guy was a creep, but I had to deal with him to teach piano to his daughter.

He was always commenting on what I wear.  I wear clothes that keep me cool.

Apparently, it's not right for a gringa to wear clothes that are to help with the heat here.

He would say, "I like your shorts," or "I had to laugh when you came in, because the wind lifted your skirt."

I would just take it, because I know that Dominicans are very forward that way, but thought that if I didn't give any indication that I was interested, he might get bored and cut it out.

Then the other day, I went to go in to teach, and when I let myself in the front door, there he was, sitting on the couch with his 'man zone' standing at full attention, sticking out of his pants!

I averted my eyes, thinking that the 'poor guy' would be embarrassed that I saw 'his issue'.

Looking down at the dog, I diverted all my attention elsewhere, giving him a chance to put that thing away, and went straight in to teach the child.

However, I learned the other day that his boner was NOT an embarrassment.

It was intentional.

Friday, having finished teaching his daughter, it was time for me to get paid and go home.

He walked me to the gate, with his usual comments about what I was wearing, "I like THAT dress you have on."

I tried to take it as a compliment, "Aw!  Thank you!" the way any polite Canadian would.

That was the wrong thing to do.

He immediately pointed to his crotch, "Look!  This is because of your dress," and there it was; his fucking pecker pointing straight out of his nylon pants that are meant for the gym.

I suppose they're great for an erection too.  They show the full meal.

Then as I shook my head and walked away as quickly as possible, he pointed to it again, saying, "This is all YOUR fault!"

I drove away as fast as I could, but I realized that I still have a lot to learn with my P.T.S.D.

I freeze when predators come too close, and can't defend myself.

I get this ridiculous nervous laugh and I can't control it.

I've always done it.

I get nervous, I laugh.

Some fucking defence mechanism!!!!

"Hey Andréa!  What's your super power?!?"

"Giggling."

Yeah.  Really good.  Couple that with the flashbacks I've been having all weekend and we're close to a Hurricane Andréa sighting.

Now, I see him as a full on predator.  That's what predators say, "It's YOUR fault I raped you, because of what you were wearing.  I couldn't help myself."

I can't go back, and I feel bad for the kid, because she was just getting somewhere with our lessons.

Then what we learned from the people on the DR1 Forum is that because I'm white, I can't wear tank tops, shorts or skirts above the knees.

If this was Canada, I could report the guy and be done with it.

Here?

They'd laugh me out of the office and do the same, or worse to me.

We are not in Canada.

I am a white woman.

I am fair game for the huntsmen.

i take comfort in the fact that i can always leave this situation

and they judge me for having a wall ...

I just saw a man in his underwear!

And it wasn't Papi.

It was my Plumber Friend, and no he didn't have butt crack.

He's in our pool, putting in a piece that has fallen out.

Here, in the Dominican Republic, men don't always use a bathing suit.

Definitely, the majority of the children don't.  Mostly because they don't have enough money for one.

Men and children just strip down to their boxers or tighty whities and jump on in.

The first time we invited Our Unadopted Child into the pool, we were a little taken aback that he just pulled down his pants and in he went.

We understood pretty quickly, that it's because this family doesn't have money for a swim suit.  They're used to it.

Most toddlers don't have diapers, they just run around in their little undies until they have an accident, mom pulls off the offending ginch, dips the child into the communal bathtub and puts on a new pair of drawers that had been drying from the last piddling episode.

A lot of toddlers just run around naked.

Gotta pee?  No problem.  Do what all the other males do.

Side of the road, in plain view.  No, don't try to hide your 'man zone' or anything.

This Canadian Queen will get used to it.

Prince Papi just laughs as I cringe and wanna click my heels to get back to Vancouver, for just that moment.

Maybe I need a teleporter.  That would be faster, and I could just come back when they're done.

In Canada, they'd be fined.

Here, the police don't care.  They probably do it too, when they're not in uniform extorting people.

Anyway, I'm not used to it.  At all.

It's fine with the wee ones.  They're not going to trigger my P.T.S.D.

Especially the cutest one I ever saw, running around with nothing on but gumboots, that were definitely a size for an adult.

Sometimes, I wish I could have my video camera perched 24-7 to have caught that one.

However, it's not a good idea here.

It will get nabbed and there will be no more YouTube show.

Papi has decided that we need to get more dangerous with our videos and go into places that are potentially a threat to our well being.

He says we need to up the ante on our movies.

OK.  Fine.

You wanna do that, YOU are the one holding the camera.  They might not think of stealing it from you because in this country, tattoos mean you've been in jail.

Imagine their first thoughts of me?  A female criminal?

It's not the same as in Canada, where there are many women desperate enough to be corrupt and wind up in jail.

Here, the men do the big stuff, with guns and masks, and the women do it covertly, like stealing your toothpaste one squirt at a time.

Yesterday, the women in my village made sure I knew that the night before, there was a gringo bound and gagged at gunpoint, while the thieves stole everything from her house.

She lives just a few doors down from us.

She doesn't have a gun.

She doesn't have a wall.

She doesn't have cameras, or dogs and she was all alone.

They got her and there are no police here to come and help her.  They'd probably send Mr. Extortion to tell her to give them money just to rub salt in the wound.

I know that everyone in Vancouver's 'community' who judged me, then abandoned me for putting up a wall probably don't read this blog anymore, because I'm now labeled a horrible person.

But you know what?

It wasn't me that got attacked.

So fuck all of you, who think that just because you read a book or went on a holiday to a developing country, you know how it works here.

I'll be holding my gun a little closer.

i stand firmly in my belief in myself

Gratitude List, Last day.  Have you been keeping up with yours?
1. I am grateful we have security in place to deter the thieves.
2. I am grateful for the rain to feed the plants in the yard.
3. I am grateful to have electricity for 2 days in a row!
4. I am grateful for the warmth to heal my back.
5. I am grateful for the good people here who restore my trust.
6. I am grateful to have eaten well for 2 days.
7. I am grateful to be feeling stronger.
8. I am grateful for the love of puppies.
9. I am grateful for the love of friends.
10. I am grateful for this list and that I doubled it up for a bit.  It really helped.

yeah! so fucking what!

Let's talk about offense.

Or rather, let me vent about it while you read and chuckle at the way I deal with my mental illness.

In the beginning of the creation of this blog, I had something to say that I felt I couldn't say to the world, lest I be judged harshly and made to be a part of The Pariah Club.

I did it anyway.

I gained so much from being an outcast.  I found people who also felt the same.  I found my strength from people who allowed me to speak my mind, but not diss me for it.  Instead, they allowed me my freedom of speech until I could heal from my pain.

I also found, I had said enough that I got the shit out of my head, through my mouth and therefore, out of my soul.

I grew.

I found that I didn't need to say much more, because I had the majority of my own shit worked out.

Now I have another level of my shit pile to work on, but this one, I'm tending to be very careful with my words, lest I 'offend' someone.

Then I read an awesome quote that was floating around Facebook.

Meet Stephen Fry, if you already haven't.

I immediately felt connection to this person.

I immediately shouted from my proverbial rooftop, "YES!!!!!!  Exactly!! So fucking what!!!!!!"

Some are offended by what I say, yet I, being part of The Pariah Club (not to mention the minority in my minority of a community), were to say what I really feel, I'd have even fewer friends.

I get offended by things people I love post, however, I don't berate them.  Rather, I allow them their freedom of speech and deal with my own shit.

All I do is I graze past their pics and statuses, so that I can move on to more non-offensive pics.

Like LOLCats.

I mean seriously.  I have fucking issues.

I have such horrid issues, that I bravely called a psychologist today, to plead for help with my P.T.S.D. from past abuses.

I see things that people comment on with ease, that put me into a tailspin, and give me the most fucked up dreams.

Like the dream the other day: the punishment for everyone else in my dream was to be pelted by volleyballs, yet MY punishment for the same error was to have to watch my love pretend to piss out of a hotdog held in his 'man zone'.

Sound fucked up enough?  Yup.

All because I saw a picture of a jello mold in the shape of a penis and balls with great hairy bits dangling from it.

Sound harmless enough?  Sure!  For everyone else, except this wacky brain that jumps into places that no cranium should go.  From a fucking jello mold people!!

Me?  I had 'offense', but it wasn't attached to my Great Non-Judgmental Friend, but by what my brain did when I saw it.

And that's MY shit, nobody elses shit.

So do I say I'm 'offended' by that?  Nope.  I just write a blog about how I need to get this fucking P.T.S.D. out of my life.

I hope my friends can keep getting much more enjoyment out of their happy, healthy brains.  I'll just keep grazing past it, and go to therapy.

Are you offended?  So fucking what.

i see each part of my life as a lesson

Naming the baby.

Ok.

Here are some of the options I've been given thus far:

~ Casa del Boomboom? Villa del BoomBoom?
~ Mi esperanza por les putas. 
~ Villa des puma

These three were donated by a very cheeky, yet pervertedly creative friend of mine.  I'm not sure we'll be using these.  But thank you for your hard work and input.

Oh, before I go any further, you do know about Google Translate, don't you?  Go there to check out translations so that you get the full effect of some of the options.

Next one was from The Yank who knows us oh so well!

~ however you translate "furry family" into spanish (following "casa de" of course)

Then there was a very exuberant friend who had all kinds of options, who I think should go into marketing with the amount of ingenuity in that cranium:  

~ Casa de los peros y gatos...cause let's face it, they've got you outnumbered

~ Casa de la ausencia de dolor

~ La casa feliz

~ Casa de los gringos

Next up was a friend who really understands where we're coming from:

~ Casa ante paz/relajación/ House of peace/relaxation

Then a few from another pal who was very excited about the game:

~ Villa NO COLD DRIVE, MOI BIEN!!!

~ CASA DE LA EASTANDREA VILLA
(editor's note: you won't be able to translate this one.  it's a combo of our names.  cute, eh!)

And one from one of my very first Blogger Friends who decided to make us think for ourselves:

~ You should use a word that means something to you. I like Villa better than Casa. Maybe hope (esperanza)

This one from a family member who wants to make sure we represent our Canadian heritage!

~ Casa de los Canucks!

Here's a Blogger Friend who had me thinking.  Couple this with guns and I'm sure we'd be safe:

~ I suppose the dark humour of "Villa Loco" might be misconstrued ? On the other hand, it probably would discourage unwanted guests ;)

Lastly, a Blogger Friend who has really listened to the journey Papi and I have had:

~ If I had to sum up what I know of your life in one word, it would be "change". Extreme change. Even drastic change. And your casa is the latest instalment in that long line of changes. So,

Villa Cambiar

These are all such great suggestions and have really had me thinking about how we want to present ourselves to the village we'll be a part of.

Good god!

This is harder than naming a baby!  When I was trying to have one, I had names picked out with ease!

Not this time.  I feel like I want all the suggestions written around our wall from one end to the other.

... well, i have to admit, except for the first ones ... sorry sweet pea, but i don't need people jacking off in front of our ocean view ...

We have some time before Papi has our massive wall built around Casa Paraíso, so there's a lot to digest.  Of course, we'll still be accepting ideas to give our villa it's spirit.

And now, I have to prepare for Ladies Night!  Yes!  Ladies Night! 

If it's your first time visiting my blog, I'll just let you know it's not the type of night where I sit at a table with my 'rough around the edges' friends who may or may not be drunk enough to look at men stripping in front of them. 

At my Ladies Night, the only guns being slung will be held by me and pointed at a target of an imaginary predator's 'man zone'.

Gimme the guns baby!

i courageously sell my ideas

killed that dummy dead.

Oooooooh!  That was so much fun last night and I did good.

Of course, my 'rough around the edges friend' that joined me was REALLY good because of the shooting she did previously in the wilderness.

So there we were, 2 members of The Pariah Club, having the best time ever.

I did good for only my 2nd time ever shooting a gun.

Check it out:

I really need to give you a close up though to really see that only 3 shots went out of the lines!!!

 

At first, I used a .22 pistol to get my bearings on the zombie, but that blue, decaying wrongdoer was no good for my target practise.  His different tints all over the place made it too hard to see where I hit.

When the shooting ranger pulled the blue offender closer to take a look at my work, he giggled when he saw that I was aiming for the zombie's 'man zone'.

I just shrugged and said, "Well, yeah ... ya know."  We didn't need to talk about it.  I have the feeling I'm not the first girl who was aiming for zombie junk.

I then moved on to the 9mm for the target you see up above.

I can only get better!  My intention is NOT to hit someone, and only give warnings.

If I need to use to stop someone, I want to be able to aim for a leg, so that I don't kill a culprit, but only to maim them to keep them from doing anything to me.

I don't think I need anything more than a .22, but I want to practise with more so that I'm able to use a .22 properly.

I do the same thing with my practise bass guitar.  It has the highest gauge strings there is, so that when I play my performing bass, which have a lighter gauge, my fingers last for the full show with full power.

Now I can't wait to go gun shopping when we get to Casa Paraíso.  I kinda want to go window gun shopping here, just to look at those beauties.

I remember my grandfather had a collection of rifles.  They were kept in the attic in their very safe chest, but I was able to look at them all the time, which I did.  I can still see the brass engraving on their hilts in my mind.  They were so beautiful and I felt I could touch them with my eyes.

Papi and I realized that there is a possibility that I won't even be able to have a license, because of all the labels of mental illness that have been placed upon me by the ICBC case.

That's ok.  I don't need my own license, because I can still practise.  Having 'no license' doesn't mean that I'm not going to protect myself.

I found out from the pretty li'l gun toter behind the counter that at this particular range, Friday nights is Ladies Night!!  All I pay for is ammo!

So, you now know where I'll be every Friday night.

Don't bother stalking me.  I'll have guns.

success comes effortlessly in my direction

welcome to the jungle

Alright.

So, I know it's a little different living in the condensed area of the city, but damn.

We've got this building next door to Our Closet that is half of our view.

The other half of our view is a school yard.

Damn those brats are loud!!

However, it really is sweet to hear the screams and giggles.

Anyway, the building to the west of us is not so sweet.

It's got a lovely area of brick, which is nice, but then there's this aluminum siding.

Not like the pretty aluminum siding you buy from the fancy stores.

Nope.

Aluminum, as in great gads of sheets of it, plastered on the exterior walls.

Then there's the windows.

I assumed those windows were for the washrooms, considering they were so small and skinny.

I was validated yesterday.

There I was writing my blog, and I instantly had the topic for today.

At first, all I saw was his male pattern baldness to confirm it was a dude.

Then he stood up.

Creepy, naked guy in the bathroom.

The window was wide fucking open.

Seriously?  I'm neurotic about never being even HALF clothed by windows!

Papi always reminds me that nobody cares to look at my nakedness through our windows. 

I know that I've matured a little since my days of constantly being donned with stalkers and voyeurs, but I still have the P.T.S.D. from it.

I'm actually quite happy having a few wrinkles and a little more age showing.  It really cuts down on the predators.  It's really quite awesome.

Most women can't stand aging.  I like it.

It's a bit like I now have freedom to wear my skirts as short as I want, because the predators are too busy watching the teens.

It's also a little like when I was younger, I shaved my head for the first time and was INSTANTLY rid of the gawking creeps who would assume that just because I unintentionally looked like a bit of a Barbie Doll with my long blonde hair, I was asking for them to prey on me.

... shudders at the man who masturbated on the bus while stroking my hair ...

Anyway.  Dude next door.

As much as he's completely comfortable with letting it all hang out for the world to see, I'm not so comfortable with seeing him and his 'man zone'.

Seriously!  Do you have no shame, man!?!?

Ok.  Maybe he's a nudist and is so used to it that he assumes that everyone else is good with it too.

Nope.  Not this femme.  Not comfortable at all.

I've moved my seat for blogging now.

Now I watch the screaming children as I write each tippity-tappity on this 4 year old, little laptop that is slowly hinting at it's departure from my world.

However, when I'm sitting in this spot, I'm not able to see the cats that are circling our balcony down below.

They're trying to figure out how to get up here and kill our cats.

You can see it in their eyes.

Anyway, my view of screaming children are better than the nudist next door.

Welcome to the jungle.

i have inner peace

grow papi, grow

Oh how I'm reveling in the goodness that is my Dominican style coffee.

For my grand return, Papi and I didn't get to have much quality time, considering the whole afternoon was spent at the casino with the old fart celebrating her 97 golden years.

She can't even remember how to push the buttons on the machine, but she only lost $40 which is better than I can say for Papi and I.

I don't really get the addiction to gambling.  I could go out and hand someone $20 and they'd smile.

Yet, when I watch that little bill slink or slither into a machine, it just disappears, somewhat like Java the Mutt would eat the treats I'd give him.

There's no joy as we watch the $20.00 nonchalantly dissolve into 5 cents.  How can someone get addicted to throwing away money like that?!?!

Oh, but they were there, and we saw them.

My favourite was the one who, every time we'd finish our $20 spree on a machine, would briskly glide in to our seats right after us.  She must've thought that we were lucky.

Maybe with my hair up and fluffed out on top of my head I looked like a lucky bingo troll?

Then we watched her whispering to each other, "If she wins I'll be really fucking pissed."

She lost as well, but onward she went to the next $20 to throw in again, thinking that this would be the winning round.

Then, when we got home, Papi decided to inform me that he has finally healed in his 'man zone' from C. difficile and is indeed again, packing.

Packing as in a Plastic Penis, the grand PeeCock.

Packing as in it's time to start putting out the seat wipes again.

Which reminds me of what I found fascinating about hanging out with the dudes from Gender Odyssey.  I was enthralled at how they mentored the younger, newly arriving dudes.

I had wished that Papi was there, because he would have appreciated the conversations.  I mean, I know he reads a lot about trans issues, and he's very verbal ...

... understatement ... ahem ...

... when it comes to getting people talking about things on his Facebook wall, but he really would have enjoyed listening to how these guys advised others.

"You have to figure out what kinda guy you want to be.  Then you have to study their walk, their clothes, their gestures.  It's about making that decision, then eventually growing into the part."

I suppose we all do that to a degree, we just don't honestly think about it.

Human behaviour can be learned, and we can become anyone we put our minds to.  We can be happy if we choose to be, by simply following the steps a happy person would take.

I studied the harshest, meanest people around me for quite a long stint in my life.  I wanted to come across as strong, because I felt so weak, meek, and had the self esteem of a gnat.

So, I learned how to act the part of a rock goddess, to entice the world to listen to my music.  It worked, but when I'd step off stage to find people wanting to shake my hand to say, "That was so awesome!" in my post performance procession line, fans would be confused.

They thought they'd meet that girl that was on that stage, but once I took a step off that platform, I was no longer the rock goddess.  What I found was, people were let down that I was actually shy and sweet.

People were attracted to that girl up there.  Hell!  So was I!  Why do you think I chose her?

Well, she left the day my head hit the ground after flying 15 feet through the air at 50km.

I can't hold that bass and rock out since the motorcycle accident, but more so, the whack to the head changed me.

It's taken me a bit, but I've figured out how to be who I am now, and I don't need to study who to be next.

I don't need to emulate someone new.

No, now I get to settle in to my new life, and serenely allow time to help Papi grow into his.

people like me

Aping the apes.

A wedding with guns!  Well, the groom had a knife, but the rest of them had guns.

I felt so much for Papi, as it was a difficult social time in the 'man zone'.  He's still learning how to fit in with the bio-males.

He relates more to the women, and sometimes, the man on the arm of a woman will react a little adversely, confusing my love's 'relating' with more than friendly chatter.

My love expressed his feelings about his strife and all I could come up with was, "I think you should just ape them.  Whatever they do, you do."

He had good practise with the suffering addict at our reception table.  That poor soul was so hammered, he just kept giving mi esposo fist bumps along with the occasional, "Dude!  Right?!"

Sometimes, for no reason at all.  He'd just come out of his stupor to join in the conversation for a moment and agree with whatever was being presented at the time.

None-the-less, he was a great practice person for Papi.

My love looked so handsome.  I was proud to be on his arm.

Especially, when the typical 'mean girls' in the parking lot didn't like the fact that my dress was hugging and exposing every curve of my healthy figure.

Oh, how I had my booty out proud yesterday.

I suppose those catty girls didn't like it, and when they were being the usual 'point and gossip bitches', my love silenced them with an aggressive, "Knock it off," in Papi's way of meaning business.

I couldn't be bothered to look and see if they adhered to his warning.  All I cared about was that my love was proud of how I looked as well.

I'm getting more accepting with being seen as the straight couple.  At least we're donned in tattoos, and don't look like the 'normal', conservative couples that were looking toward us with curiosity.

It will definitely make life easier in the Dominican Republic.

On our last visit, I was accosted by homophobic bible thumpers who told me if I prayed, their god would take away my being gay.

It took everything I had not to fight with them.  I know that this will be my biggest challenge when we're there.  The religious zealots are everywhere.

Even at the wedding last night, I had a very difficult time, when before we ate, they gave a prayer for food.

They asked us to stand and bow our heads.  I cringed, sarcastically sighed and rolled my eyes at their 'oh heavenly father' thanks for food.

I would rather thank The Chef Extraordinaire for their hard work.

I seriously just found my ability to understand my own spirituality over the past couple of years.

The accident woke an aspect of my belief system, but when faced with the crap I had to grow up with, I get a rather repugnant taste in my mouth.  Not to mention the little grunts of 'oh for fucks sakes' will sneak out when I'm not paying attention to my mouth.

My love will give me the eye of 'don't be a bad one, honey', coupled with a nudge, that will nip my discourse in the bud.

So, I stood.  I bowed.  I behaved.  Still, I cussed them all in my mind, while concealing it with a smile.  I find it quite offensive that anyone would force another person of a different belief to pray to their god.

That's another reason I'm grateful to have found such connection with Judaism.  Their belief is that you don't actually say 'god's' name.

That's perfectly fine by me.  I'm happy when I don't have to follow the rules of my upbringing.

I remember being knocked upside the head for saying the usual teen phrase of, "Oh my god!" with that valley girl drawl we would all have.

"Don't you use the lords name in vain," I would hear as my head took a whoopin'.

Anyway, I survived their prayers to zombie Jesus and ate their amazing meal, appreciating every bite with my own gratitude for food, and the enjoyment of sharing a beautiful day with two people who allowed Papi and I to hear wedding vows all over again.

I found us nodding our head to some of the words during the service.

For better or for worse, in sickness and in health.

Love is all you need.

i feel fulfilled and joyful

No Rest for The Wicked.

I'm sleeping so good now. 

So, there I was waking from a non-withdrawal stricken, peaceful sleep and I realized, "Hey!  It's only 9 a.m.!  Papi might still be up from the graveyard shift!"

I jumped out of bed excited to have a morning hug and opened our empty shelled, echo-istic pocket door.

I whipped it open with fervor, like a child opening her door for her very special birthday and my first vision of the morning?

Papi with a needle stuck in his ass.

Now, I haven't really been talking about my issues with hormones lately.  I think I just needed to breathe a little bit about it.

Those hormones are still the thorn in my side with this transformation.

I'm getting used to Papi's ever changing 'man zone'.  I guess I just ignore how it's happening.

Point is though, it never fucking fails.

My love does his very best to keep this vision away from my delicate eyes, and time and time again I walk in on him.

This time had to be the best though.

The face on both of us.

He, looking with a side view, lip pierced glance of, "You've got to be kidding me."

I, doe eyed with a gaping mouthed face of, "You've got to be kidding me."

I know that I've come so far in this journey.  There's so much more to go for me.  But to see this vision first thing in the morning feels a bit like I'm being sent a message.

Deal with it?

No.

How about, it's time to start processing it?

Maybe.

All I know is, first thing in the fucking morning?!?!?

Yeah.

This could prove to be an interesting day.

When these little nudges of 'hey Andréa, how about we look at this now?' start coming, then the fun really begins.

There truly is no rest for the wicked.

i trust in the process of life

What's up yer kilt?

Papi's body is changing.

I didn't see it before, but it's happening.

I've never seen anything so weird in all my life.  This truly is a trip!

I can't even tell you what it is that is changing, but there are changes.

He almost seems taller.  He definitely looks more masculine than before.

My love asked me, "Am I looking more muscular?  I was told all my fat will turn to muscle now."

Yeah.  You male fuckers really have an advantage there.

It takes us ladies 5 times more work to get the same result as you.

Then there's the wrinkles.  You get wrinkles and you look distinguished, but we are judged for our age.

You get grey hair and you look wiser, where we just look over the hill.

Anyway, we have one advantage over you.

Clothes.

Our clothes are way better.

There's only so much you dudes can do with your bottom half of your wardrobe.

Enjoy your fucking pants.

I hope you secretly pine to wear a kilt.

But please wear your whitey tighties under that outfit.  Nobody needs to see what's going on in the 'man zone'.

Well, at least I don't.  I'm sure I know quite a few more ladies who feel the way I do.

Let's get back on topic before I start having a panic attack about penes.

Papi.

Well actually, I'm done on that topic.  I wanted to tell you about our car.

We've been having electrical problems and finally brought our traveling advertisement to get fixed.

They called us back to let us know what the problem was.

Rats.

We had a colony living under our hood.  Every once in a while, we'd get this stink coming from our car and we couldn't figure out what it was.  It was a bit akin to that Seinfeld episode.

However, now we know.

Fricassed rats.

I'm horrified!  I love rats!  I know they're troublesome, but I could never intentionally kill them.  They're one of the smartest critters on our fine planet!

Alas, they removed their nest and we now have lights back on the inside of our car.

The other thing I wanted to tell you is that I'm not dead.

Just thought I'd let you know.

Throughout the day, I managed to hold down 8 crackers, a quarter cup of apple sauce, one can of ginger ale and have lived to tell the tale.

You bitches didn't get rid of me that quickly.  Remember?  You can't kill me.

But nice try.

fake it till you make it

I'm now straight.

What a day yesterday!

I started out with my physio who is more like a Master in an S&M role play.

I managed to squeak past him without much notice and head straight for my strengthening regime.

I then ran around and got goodies for an awesome family visit last night.

My baby sister and her family joined Papi and I at my aunt's house with my cousins.

It was a riot!

There were 2 very exciting parts of our visit that were out of the norm and a gay ol' time!

One of my sweet cousins is now a full fledged hair stylist and was eyeing my hair up all night.

You could see the shears in her mind just waiting for the opportunity to start clipping.

My hair does have this affect on hair dressers.  The scary part is with the bad Honky 'Fro hair cuts I've had, I won't go to new hairdressers for fear of leaving the salon looking like Roseanne Roseannadanna.

I won't go into stories about that or I'll be here all day and I won't get to the Papi part of this blob/blab.

yes ... it's alllll about my hair ...

However, she did ask if I've ever had it straightened, and because I hadn't, she decided to show me what it looks like.

I will do my best to get pics for you for tomorrow.  I need to have the full femme face on to really let you see the glory, and that's not going to happen until I've finished my coffee and done some work on my film score.

Never in my life has a comb gone through my hair without losing a few teeth.

It was pretty cool!

Now for the intersting moment.

Like I had told you, my nephew is going through puberty.  Well, Papi, and this now taller than me nephew, were having a great ol' time all alone in the 'man zone' chatting about electronics and boy stuff, while all 7 of us girls got to the make-over part of the evening.

When my love came out around the corner to ask the legitimate teacher in the house for some help with my nephew's homework, ...

... yes ... you heard right ... another story ...

... the two of them standing there like nothin' else I'd ever seen, I'll tell ya.

There they were.

Matching caterpillar moustaches, to go hand in hand with the matching 'Fox' sweatshirts.

The two of them were the epitome of awkward teen-ness.  I mean really!  Papi even has Brace Face to drive the effect back to home plate!

Now, when I call Papi a manchild, it's going to have a whole new meaning for me.

That was when it dawned on me.

My love had told that the transition takes a few years.

I didn't understand why, but I get it now.

My love truly is a teen with peach fuzz, and it will take a few years to get through the teen-ness and into adult manly-ness.

i'm having a few issues at this moment thinking of the scary man ogre i thought about a year ago ...

A teen?

Seriously?

I'm truly living with a man-child.

Fucking hell.

Save me.

i yam what i yam

The funniest part about me asking Papi if he is gay, is that he's now backtracking everything he says in terms of the topic.

"I'm just saying I find them attractive, but it's not that I'm gay."

That is just one of the examples.

My love doesn't understand how much I trust him.

If he tells me he's not gay, then I believe him.

However, methinks thou dost protest a tad too much.

hmmmm ... maybe my love needs another panicked wake up to me hovering over him in bed, after accidentally taking too much medicinal cannabis crack butter, and bark out ridiculous questions ... that would be fun ...

But you see, I'm not even asking Papi anything about it.

He'll be speaking sweetly about someone who he admires and out will blurt, "But I'm not gay!"

It's a bit like a game now.

Last night, we were discussing My Boifriend.

He claims to be gay, but is now in full throws of love with a woman.

That doesn't make any sense with the statement that he's gay.

When it comes to being transsexual, it's really only a one sided sexual preference term anyway.

Seriously.

If Papi is now in the 'man zone', and he loves me, outsiders would consider him straight.

But I'm not straight, and I don't consider myself so.

I'm coming to terms with the fact that I'm always going to be who I am, and nothing that Papi has done to his body and chemistry has made me change into someone I don't want to be.

I am a butch loving lesbian.

I have been so since I was a teen.  I've been so since that time that I couldn't really understand the feelings that I was having about the girls on sports teams.

Hott!!

I'd watch them be masculine in their own way.  They didn't know the feelings I had about them being butchy with their basketballs and soccer balls.

good god ... that was wayyyyy too many balls in one sentence ...

The ones I thought were sexy turned out to be straight anyway.  It was only the idea of them being butch that I was attracted to, but I honestly didn't even know what I was feeling back then!

I'd see bull dykes on the bus and wonder why I was getting so hot and bothered.

I thought these emotions were because I wanted to be like them, but this femme could never be butch.

As much as I'm more like a tomboy in every day life, I like playing dress up too much.

I like to sashay my way through a crowd of dykes, in my best ass outfits, in hopes that the butchiest of the butches will notice my overly round booty and appreciate it.

Yes.

I'm a true femme.

And just because I still love mi esposo despite the changes that are taking place does not make me any different than I was when I fell in love with the world's most perfect butch.

Well, I do have to admit, I think a bit differently since the bomb was dropped last year.  I'm growing, learning and accepting so much more about this male transformation.

I guess I'm the lucky one.

I got the last tidbits of the world's most perfect butch.

'She's' all mine.

I see her light in the twinkle of love in mi esposo's eyes.

Nobody will ever take that away from me.