Do you know who I am?!?!

We frequent an awesome li'l taco joint: Gordito's.

It's affordable, fast and damn good.

I've only been in once with the cast on, and the owners weren't there, so they didn't see me.

Or so I thought.

Also, Papi wrote them an email about an employee who had put her hands into the cheese and had a snack.

This actually happened months ago, but Papi felt the need to say something anyway.

He thought it would be more or less anonymous, because there are SO many people that go into that restaurant.

They do very well for themselves, and rightly so.

So, the day after the email we went in for some lunch and one of the owners was there.

Upon seeing me hobble in on crutches, he held the door for us.

When I came through the door, he said, "Hey!  No more cast!  Great!"

I was wondering how the hell he knew I had a cast in the first place.

He didn't see me before, right?!

Then he turned to Papi and said, "I got your email.  Thank you.  Did you read my response?"

All of a sudden I felt like our car and house were bugged.

Maybe I've been watching too much Breaking Bad, but I'll tell you, it was really creepy.

Papi and I have never lived in a small town before.

Forget about ME being the Papirazzi, we have a whole small town to do the job.

Lots of people now know everything we do.

People know who we are.

Talk about paranoia.

It was a bit shocking for Papi and I who could live without anyone knowing our business in Vancouver, with the exception of course that Papi likes to blurt out everything about our lives on Facebook.

And me?

Well, I blurt it out in much greater detail here on my blog.

But still.

There are plenty of people who don't know us in Vancouver.

The other day, I made a new friend who said, "Yeah, I've seen you around.  Hard to miss someone with as many tattoos as me."

We're not used to this.

All of a sudden I feel like I'm in a fishbowl.

We better behave, I'll tell ya.

That whole lunch at Gordito's, Papi and I offered options as to how the hell he knew I had a cast and how the hell he knew who Papi was by his email, when we've never given the man our names.

Besides, everyone here calls Papi, 'Hector'.  Not, 'Easton', which is how he signed the email

I'm sure if you live in a small town, you'll be giggling right about now.

We city slickers have a new culture to get used to.

Everyone knows everything.

It's the strangest thing ever, to me.

I don't know anything about anybody, but I'm sure, hanging out long enough we'll be part of the crowd and know what our neighbour a mile away had for breakfast and when they have their bowel movements.

This is something to get used to.

It's a whole new level of 'get to know your neighbour'.

They seem to already know me.

i am beautiful and smart and that is how everyone sees me

Gratitude 7/10
1. I am grateful for nice people.
2. I am grateful for a good sleep last night.
3. I am grateful there is less swelling in my ankle.
4. I am grateful the dogs slept so much last night.
5. I am grateful to have Spanish teachers everywhere.
6. I am grateful for my homemade toasted coffee.
7. I am grateful to be feeling like I can do more.
8. I am grateful my depressed moment has lifted.
9. I am grateful we are getting the house bombed for ants and termites today.
10. I am grateful I live in a village with such sweet people.

no hiding today

Here's yesterday's YouTube show.  There were some technical difficulties, so some of what I wanted to get on there didn't, but it's here none-the-less:

I cleaned my kitchen.

The counters are no longer sticky.  Most of the dishes are no longer globby and greasy.  My stove is spotless, including the years of stuck on grease that were never cleaned off.

I couldn't handle it anymore.  PMS does that to me.  I can't keep telling the Housemaid to clean it with Borax and she just wipes it down with plain water, regardless.

I can't ignore it, or get used to it like some people have suggested.

When I'm PMSing, I can't live with grime.  It's gotta go.  So, I did her job I've been asking her to do.

Today, we're going to talk to the Housemaid about trust and thievery.

She's going to pull out the aligator tears, in exactly the same way she did to convince us to keep her hired on in the first place.

My 'I'm sad and let down' face will trump her tears.  I promise you.

I am sad that I allowed myself to listen to people and give her a chance.  I am sad that she has ruined the majority of my clothing.

Oh, here's the newest one.  She ruined my bra.  No chloro needed.

Nope.  Ripped the wire right outta that bitch and left it hanging there on the clothes line.

It was my all function bra.  Not the pretty one that I sparingly use.  Not the earthy one that I don't mind the world to see, because it looks like a top.  And not the black one that I can only wear under certain clothing.

My white, all function bra.

It's not like I can just zip down to Change and grab another one.  Maybe I can get one shipped to me and hope for the best?

Today, we're going to talk about trust and honesty, and about how we have no more.

Then we're going to give her husband, the Dominican Daddy, a raise, because he's a really good worker.  Next the locks get changed so that she can stop thinking this is her house to do what she wants, then finally, fire her.

The thought of having our house back has Papi and I in a state of joy.

So much so, that Papi did The Happy Papi Dance yesterday!  The Papirazzi was in full form yesterday, so I got to catch it on film.  This means you will be able to enjoy it as well.

We do like our space alone.  We're two peas in a pod that way.

We don't feel like we've had our space, because we're looking over our shoulder all the time.

Papi's depressed.  He feels it's because his space is invaded as well.

He hides in the bed the whole time she's here, leaving me to deal with her on my own.

I got him back the other day.

Papi was sitting on our little outdoor seat, I was in the hammock, when all the kids arrived, screaming at the gate to be let in.

Sometimes, I equate them to a scary movie where the vampire is at the window tapping, "Let me iiiiiiiiiiinnnnnn."

But anyway, back to the story.

I slithered into the hammock so they couldn't see me and left Papi holding the brunt of it.

I was just lying there giggling as he waved every time they yelled.

At least he didn't give my cover away.

When they see me, they're be relentless.  "Andréa!  Andréa!  Andréa!  Andréa!" they yell, nonstop.  Kids seem to be drawn to me and won't leave me be.

Probably because I have an immature energy and they relate.  It's also because they know I really do genuinely love them, just not when they're not invading my space when I don't want them to.

Anyway, there will be no hiding in my hammock or the bed today.  We have to do a job that neither of us wants to do.  It will be good for us though.  We need to learn how to do it.

Today, we talk dishonesty, set boundaries, then when the time comes, we take back our space, and my clothes.

Did I tell you how clean my kitchen is?!?!?

Today, I'm moving on to the little nooks 'n crannies in the bathrooms that have me cringing every time I go to pee.  There's nothing else to look at but the 'ick' when you're stuck there.

PMS.

I need to clean.

i deserve to have boundaries, and my boundaries are respected

death is really a new beginning

Sometimes, I stare blankly at this li'l, white, blog page and wonder, "What the hell am I going to write about today?"

Other times, I have such pressing news about vomiting cats or silliness of the Papirazzi, that I feel I have to write it the night before and do my edit check in the morning.

Today is the, "What the hell am I going to write about today?" kinda day, which to me, is a good thing.

What that means to me, is there is no pain going on emotionally for me right now.  Perhaps I'm feeling some peace?

I won't bore you with the physical pain.  I'm sure you all know I could go on about my bitch of a back until we all die in 5 days.

I'm kinda excited to see the 'end of the world' on Dec. 21st.

While others may think we're going to implode, I'm actually thinking it's like the deck of tarot cards.

The death card is something people are afraid of, but it's not something to fear.

Death of one thing means birth of another.

What if all of a sudden, there was the birth of peace on earth?  Wouldn't that be a mindfuck?  We wouldn't know what the hell to do with that.

With my new found spirit friends, I actually ask them for this.

Peace on earth.

No massacres.

No wars.

No predators harming children and women.

No gangs.

Well, that gang one could be tamed a little if our fucking Prime Minister would get on the marijuana legalization train.

There would be less for those morons to fight about if people could freely get their peace pipes puffin' without the hassle of getting their goods from a dude named 'Spider' down on the corner.

Anyway, back to death.

I'm so not afraid of death, it's life that scares me.  If I'm here living, I want to feel like I've left behind something before I pop off.

I need to feel like I've made a change somewhere, somehow, to something or someone.

I need purpose.  I mean seriously, I didn't survive that motorcycle accident for nothing.

I'm here for something.

Every day since the Soul Activation happened Tuesday, I feel like I'm ready to find out my purpose.

I have so many ideas of how to help people, animals and the planet, that I think my mind is a bit obsessed and overwhelmed with all the options there are out there.

For myself, I need to feel what it was like before I got hit.  I have a yearning to be able to play my instruments for more than the half hour to hour I can do currently, before the pain sets in and I'm back to lying out flat asking, "What's my fucking purpose?"

Playing my instruments is my only version of meditation.  I'm taken somewhere that doesn't exist on this luminous body we call earth.

The Countdown to when I get to experience life without pain killers and without the exhaustion of pain is dwindling.  Day by day I'm closer to feeling my meditation again.

I'm feeling the pull of my next door opening.  It's as if it was a suction of air that drags me out of the plane door at 19,000 feet above the earth's crust, only in slow motion.

Yet first, we have to get through Dec. 21st and our new beginning.

If you could think about the new beginning for you, what would it be?  You know that you can choose whatever you want and make it happen, right?

I can't wait to see mine come to light, whatever it may be.

Well, I suppose I figured out what I was going to write about, and somehow, I still don't know the answer to my own question.

i believe strongly in my powerful, positive self-esteem

our dead dog's urn.

Can you recognize what this is?

And no, it's not just ANY Xmas decorations.

It's a fancy decorated walker.

G'ma is going to be the most popular old fart in the home.

Seriously!  All those other blue hairs only have decorations on their door.  But our G'ma?

She has a rockin' walker!

Her reaction to her fancy walker?  "You two do such nice things for me."

Melt my heart much?!?!

Papi got in the way, so the Papirazzi was there tonight as well.

Gotta love a pic of Papi's ass!

Anyway.

We had gone out earlier with her to the Old Spaghetti Factory for Papi's birthday dinner.

It's kinda an annual thing.  Always on his birthday.

He loves it there!

Well, this time, we brought along G'ma and a very, very special guest.

It was his first visit to a restaurant.

Ever.

Yup.

We sat with our dead dog's urn at the dinner table.

G'ma didn't like it much, "Why are you doing that?  You do such strange things," she said as she shook her head.

I'm sure the li'l lady who helped us will be talking about that one for a while.

After the dinner and decorations were done, Papi and I broke into the old house's yard ...

... wasn't so hard ... it was open ... but i felt badass as i was the lookout in the lane! ...

... and sprinkled The Golden's ashes there in his favourite places in the yard, then went up to his most admired, roll in the mud park and sprinkled it all along the path we'd take.

It was fun for all!

Dead dog and decorated walker included.

i am my own unique self - special, creative and wonderful

THIS is fucking ridiculous

I'm hiding in the bedroom, doing my best to write to you today.  This is one of the days I wish I was already video blogging.  You really would have enjoyed Papi's baboon-like behaviour.

Seriously.  Arms were flailing.

I have to remember, we both have a lot of emotion around losing The Golden, but for fucks sakes!  He pissed me off enough to have me lose my sleep last night, and then I get up to more of his antics this morning when he came home.

He's on a rant about what I'm bringing to Casa Paraíso.  He says it's ridiculous.  Let me tell you what ridiculous is.  I couldn't even make my coffee without him trying to tell me how ridiculous my reverse osmosis water system is.

I need to drink water.  I can't drink their water.  Water heals me.  I'm bringing a system so I can drink the water.

So there I was trying to put my coffee into my urn and he was actually body blocking me, as if we were in a basketball game, "I won't let it go until you admit how ridiculous it is to bring this system," while I was grinding beans for my 2nd round of coffee, because he distracted me so bad on the first round, I fucked up the process.

Round 2: Pivot, water.  Pivot, beans.  Pivot, cinnamon.

Yes, he had me cornered in the very small of Our Closet, with his peacock tail fluffed, puffed out chest body, like a fucking dude in a bar showing who's boss.

To appease his nonsense, I tried to test the 'I'll let it go, if you admit how ridiculous this is' theory, so I told him, "OK.  I can admit that it's a bit large."  But do you think that was enough for him to now 'let it go'?

Oh, no.  He moved on to acting like a girl in that bar fight, snapping his fingers with, that 'bitch, I told you' attitude, all the whilst, spilling my coffee as he pranced about with every single thing I want to bring.

What's ridiculous?  Dragging it all out into the living room so that I could put it on my blog, in hopes that everyone would tell me I'm being ridiculous in wanting to bring things I can't buy there along with me.

I honestly can't even convey the act that's going on right now.

I can't even write without the feeling that he IS the Papirazzi.  The camera bulb is flashing, Papi's stomping around like an anger gnome, and the cats are nowhere to be found.  He's one step short of running to the mountain tops to scream out, "This is ridiculous!!!!!" in hopes that his bellowing echo could be heard all the way to the Dominican Republic.

Oh, here's the newest one he's brought out.  He's telling me they're going to think I'm bringing a bomb, which has quickly gone into him telling me it's just going to get wrecked.

THIS?  Is letting it go?

No, like I told him at the very beginning of his rant, "Even if I DO say it's ridiculous, you'll probably go on about it for the rest  of our 56 days."

Don't worry, I have ammo.  I'll just bring up the hissy fit about me wanting me to stop the medicinal cannabis because we're going somewhere they won't accept me using it, but then he goes on taking HIS medicinal cannabis for another fucking 3 weeks!!!

Yup, I'll be hearing about this until my dying day.  There I will be lying in my bed, all wrinkled and old, trying to gasp out my last breaths, with Papi telling me, "I won't let you die until you tell me how ridiculous it was."

Ridiculous is him purposely trying to get me to get pissed off.

He worked his magic of trying to piss me off all night last night and all morning today.  He just can't accept that when he goes into an anger rant, I shut down and don't say much, because I need to keep myself from showing my anger.

However, onward Papi went to test the theory.  Right down to, every time I poured myself a glass of water, he'd drink it.

Well, now I've locked myself in the bedroom to escape his shenanigans and enjoy my cup of coffee without it being spilled all over the floor every time he stomped by, ranting about how ridiculous this all is. 

This was seriously nothing you could ever capture in a few words.  Oh, how I wish I had a video blog up and running.  You'd understand my pain.

Here's his ridiculous photo:

 

You see that pink spot on the very right of this photo?

That was me trying to enjoy my mother fucking coffee.  You don't mess with my mother fucking coffee.

 i drink plenty of water to keep myself healthy

cringe.

Stress will make you sick.

Grieving will make you sick.

Any kind of emotional upheaval will make you sick, really.

Papi's sick.

One of the best ways to increase your immune, is with ginger tea.

Papi hates it, but I force him.

Then he makes faces.

But to truly get the effect, you'll have to see it up close.

See what I'm saying?

Wait!  I'll have to get even closer!

Much to Papi's dismay. 

At this point he was getting a little upset with me, but hey, we haven't had a good Papirazzi shooting for a while, so I couldn't help myself.

And finally, the pic for the finale!

At least it took my mind off the sadness in the household for that moment ...

i allow myself to feel all emotions

Papirazzi!

I don't really have much time for a long drawn out conversation about my brain that thinks a little differently than most.

All I really have time for, is to give you a link for Papi's pics in TransLand.  I sorta slept in hehehe ...

There is some nudity, but if you've been honest about your 'wish to continue' click before you got to this blob/blab, then you're fine for taking a look at the pics.

If you're a sneaky underage person, well, guess you'll be learning what an F-M looks like.

Personally, I think that's more than ok.

But I'm not everyone's mother now, am I?

i'm pretty sure i just heard a sigh of relief from someone out there!?!?

Papirazzi!!

Right HERE!

At the very right, you'll see a tab for 'more'.  From that drop down menu, there you will see 'transitioning' with the nudity warning.

Enjoy my love in his birthday suit.

Oh, that and the thigh hair I'm always going on about.

i am attracting powerfully positive people into my life

Papi's Birthday Suit.

The Papirazzi was in full swing yesterday.

Papi is getting his male transformation documented by a great friend of ours, who was our wedding photographer, as well as official BlueLight photographer.

She has a nifty ability to capture my love's masculinity.

The first picture took me a while to get used to.  That was one quite some time ago, near the beginning of the bomb drop.

I wasn't really ready to see the 'male' to appear at that point, so I just chalked it up to good angling.

And of course, I didn't go the first time, because I was too far into the Pit of Doom to think about it being 'fun'.

No, I don't know what I did that day, but it had nothing to do with seeing Papi in his ever changing birthday suit.

Well, yesterday I went along like it was any other day, excited to see my sweet friends and their family.

And really, it was like any other day, except my love was completely nude, as opposed to his usual upper torso being the only skin barer, at which point under age, short people were sent to another space in the house.

I love Papi's body.

Honestly, I see his butt as one of the sweetest visions ever.  It's why I have such a great time smacking it, with a flat palm to achieve maximum sound and contact, whenever I get the opportunity.

My absolute fave, is when I've done it on the exact cheek, on the exact day that my love has given himself the hormone injection.

yup ... still not into knowing who, what, where, when or why about anything to do with that poison that stole my butch ...

I can tell I've done this to precision, when I don't get an 'argh' out of my love.  I get a great breath in, then those eyes that widened with my hands contact on his ass slowly make their way toward mine, and I quickly cover my mouth with an 'oops, sorry'.

But mostly, I'm just giggling.

yeah, every once in a while, the masochist becomes the sadist ...

Yesterday was eye opening to me.

I got to sit behind the camera, and with every click, the photographer would take a peek at the pic, but didn't know I was doing the same.

Papi looked great.

And masculine.

With every day that passes, my love is growing into a person that is nowhere near the ogre I was afraid of appearing as my spouse.

He's looking like my love, only more confident.

There's someone in there that I got to see yesterday.

I was silent as I watched.

It was calming to see my love look so proudly courageous, with not a stitch of clothing on.

This would terrify me, for ridiculous reasons that my brain sees as enemy number one.

They asked if I'd like some pics with Papi.

"No, not this time.  I'm not feeling so 'hot' today."

I had on one of my prettiest bra and undies matching outfit, beneath my pants that disguised my angst.

But no, no pictures today.

Let me hit the gym for a few weeks and trick my mind into accepting I'm a healthy weight.

The virus has ended, and now it's time to fight that monster that dogs me so.

Then, maybe I'll be ready for nudie pics again?

Anyway, the whole point.

Papi looks great.

Mi esposo just keeps looking better with every week that passes.

It's proof that beauty comes from within.

when i believe in myself, so do others...

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 ...

Papi's DIY mojo is back.

It's DIY time again.

Papi will be in for his surgery on Friday.

o god, my heart just skipped a beat ...

After my love's uterus has suffered the art of Dr. Scissorhands, I will be taking care of mi esposo until Papi can care for himself.

So, while we're preparing, we did the obligatory massive shop at Costco, so mi esposo could carry heavy things that we may need.

ah for fucks sakes, we forgot kitty litter!!! aaaaarrrrrgh!!!

Furthermore, there's also a few things around the house that need to be taken care of before Papi is down for the 6 weeks.

One such thing?  Putting up curtains.

It's crazy, but since the sewage flood, we haven't had curtains on our window.

Being no stranger to stalkers, ...

and a few restraining orders required to keep me safe ... yikes there's scary folks out there!

... I figure that because the coocoos have come out to play, it's time to put the curtains up.  You never know, said scary folks may also be homicidal and feel the need to watch us before fighting their way past 6 animals to carry out instructions that the voices told them to do.

... nah ... me paranoid? i can't imagine why you'd think that!

Off we went to the cold room and found all the necessary tools: hammer, leveler, screws, chiprock anchors, and of course, the power drill.

Papi has been certified for medicinal cannabis for anxiety now, because my love has been getting panic attacks from fear of the surgery.  Well, yesterday was my love's first attempt at getting friendly with the little drops.

It was probably not the best time to think about putting up curtains.

The last ones we put up, someone pulled them down while we were in the Dominican.  I thought it was fine, because the curtains were crooked anyway.  It would give us a chance to put them up properly.

I asked if I could help, and of course was granted a, "Yes!" but it didn't work out that way.  I'm pretty sure the happy drops had  something to do with the manner in which Papi went full bore into drilling without measuring.

Well, here's the first attempt:

So I asked, "Are you sure you don't want to measure things baby?"

"Nah, It's gonna be fine."

After putting in the anchors, my love said, "Oh, that didn't work out so well."

At this point, I decided to document the famous Papi DIY project with the full fledged Papirazzi, because it's just so entertaining for you all to feel my pain.  Then I heard, "I thought we were going to do this together?"

"Yeah, so did I," I giggled with a reply, "but then you went all commando and started drilling without my help."

I thought I'd add in this pic just for the full effect.  Notice the cord dangling from Papi's thigh.

my what a big drill you have papi!

Next I heard, "Well I didn't mean for that to happen."

oh, you mean this?

I think there will some new 'rules' in the house:  No power tools while under the influence of medicinal marijuana.

Papi put the anchors in anyway, and as we put the curtains up, Papi said, "Ok.  So just don't pull on the curtains and it will be fine."

Ok, but I'm pretty sure the hole is supposed to be round to hold in the anchor, no?

Well, we have curtains.

But if you ever are invited to come to our house, don't touch them, or look behind them K?  We'll just pretend that they're perfect.

And that concludes Papi's DIY for the day.

There will be more.

We still have 4 days.

oh my stomach ...

And now, I'm back in the closet.

The Papirazzi was in full swing yesterday.

You see, this blog of mine is supposed to be about me.

It's called: Andréa's Healing Journey.

However, it seems that the majority of my posts are about the Tranny Terrorist, or the DIY phenomenon I occasionally experience.

Yeah, sometimes I hijack this blog and actually make it about me, sneaking in a little bit of wining about my bitch of a back, or ghosts.

Well, the point is, it's still much more entertaining to talk about mi esposo and the amusement he brings.

So!

I'm getting my article published on Thursday, and the paper didn't want a picture of only the actual writer.

No!

They want Papi in there too.

Why?

Because it's alllllllll about Papi.

And that's ok.

Takes a bit of the heat off me.

Anyway, we got these pics done and the sweet photographer we met yesterday will choose the best one.

Hopefully, she won't choose one of me that looks like I'm in trauma.

Or worse, choose one of me that looks like a beaming, braces infused, bucktooth grin that only a mother could love.

I tend to do these things with my mouth:

nobody said the brace face was going to be sexy ...

So, we'll see which one makes it into Xtra on Thursday.

After our photos were done, we didn't celebrate.

No.

Papi drove me around the city, and changed all his I.D.

You see, my love received a birth certificate that has been changed to a male gender.

It has been quite the process for Papi.  All his ID has to be changed; driver's license, SIN card, medical, you name it.

However, there is one that I'm not happy about: Our marriage license.

It now says I'm married to a man, and I begin my first step to becoming an invisible queer.

I can't really accept that part yet, and I'm still grasping with all my strength to the butch I married.

I don't want my marriage license to be ambushed, so I did something slightly wrong.

I kept our old marriage certificate, and we told the lady at the counter that we lost it in the sewage flood.

Right now, it's sitting beside the sexy picture of the butch I married.

Pretty much looks like I'm starting a shrine to remember my dearly departed butch.

is that so bad?!?!

It's right there in my composing room, so I get to see it every day as my eyes wander around the room, listening to my musical mind about what note, sound or feeling I need to find to portray the essence of a film.

I keep my love frozen in time to keep me company.

one day at a time.

Biker Granny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No questions asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well.

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

Yes, indeed G'ma, Papi does.

No matter.

Papi got the picture he always wanted.

Kumba-fucking-ya

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

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

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

Fine then.

Possibly.

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

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

There it is!

The Papirazzi.

That's what my love is after.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey.

I can take it.

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

Now fast forward to where I am now.

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

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

But I digress.

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

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

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

I don't need to relive this.

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

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

I can only learn from a place of harmony.

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

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

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

Purge.

The Papirazzi is on full force today.

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

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

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

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

I giggled while I prepared my Dominican Republic Coffee.

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

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

Oh great.

Don't drag me into this!

"It's bigger."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haters.

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

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

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

My love does this.

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

I answer, "It's huge."

"No it's not."

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

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

you have to ask a performing extrovert this?

"Of course!  Why wouldn't I be?!"

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

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

Truly.

Purge.

Oh ... so ...

... hungry.

My body isn't quite back on track on my food cleanse.  I went crazy the last few years after my accident eating every food I'm allergic to ...

except dairy ... I just can't damage myself for that one ...

... and finally, my body told me to cut it out.

So I did.

But the caffeine, sugar and carb withdrawal is brutal.

And I'm bitchy.

Over the top 'I can't handle it' bitchy.

I have to do the 'breathing' thing to make sure I don't verbally abuse the G'ma.

who incessantly talks about how bad the attic stairs are, how she can't turn the tv on and the bird seed needing to be removed ... 

It always starts like this: 

please use your best old lady voice in your head to make sure you get the full effect

G'ma watches me come up or down our dungeon stairs and says, "My they really did a great job with the carpet on your stairs.  Why can't we put that carpet on the stairs going up?"

Every fucking time.

I've tried to explain that my brain injury doesn't work well with narrow stairs and how I fell down them a few times because the carpet didn't hold my unstable footing.  I've tried saying, "If you don't like the look of them, don't look."

Oh, I've tried everything.

Today?

As soon as she got as far as, "My they really did a great job with the carpet on your stairs.  Why can't we ..."

I gave her the hand, then, "I don't want to hear it."

She kept trying with, "But," and I kept the hand up saying, "No.  I don't want to hear about the carpet every day.  It's not going up and if you don't like it don't look."

"But," and the hand came up again.  Then the old bird laughed, "I'll try not to say anymore about the stairs."

It was a nice gesture, but I know that it will only last 10 minutes.

Regardless, my cranky 'I'm so hungry' moment got a little overheated and I was thinking I did really well with Papi yesterday when I was off work and ready to keel over from starvation.

There stood my love with only boxers on and a camera in hand as soon as I came down those 'My they really did a great job with the carpet' stairs.

As I walked past my love I asked, "What's this all about?" in regards to my au naturel esposo.

I need you to take pictures of the 'after' pictures for the clinic.

the papirazzi is ready for their action shots!

Papi stood proudly, exposing The Great Breast Disappearance, and I snapped pictures with every shading of flash I could find via it's adjustments.

Again I was surprised.

My love and I giggled through the process and I didn't have any moments where my hair stood on end with the ouch factor looking at the still pink scars.

I'm coming along.

I think what I'm realizing is that because my love is going through the changes with me, I'm ok, because Papi is still here by my side.

I know I wouldn't do this again, because I wouldn't do this for just anyone.

Only my soul mate.

This is an amazing person who wants the world to know that **enter pronoun here** not slut-phobic and that **enter pronoun here** loves sluts.

Papi likes sluts.

There ya go Papi.

I fixed it for you.

listen ...

The Gramma Drama has just about taken it's final bow.

She's going completely loopy and she's dragging us along with her.

Yesterday, I composed a text to Papi in an hysterical state, where my heart was going to slam straight out of my chest and said, "I almost wrote to you that I've had it and I'm moving out."

My caring love said, "Oh dear, you sound like I did this morning."

This morning when I woke up, I read a very early morning text from Papi that read, "I can't take much more of G'ma either.  I think I may move out!!"

It's hard let me tell you.

If you've ever taken care of an elder, then you know what I'm talking about.  If you haven't, you have no idea what you're in for when your time comes.

be afraid ... be VERY afraid ...

No need to go into detail berating the old fart here for my 'good morning, let's sort out my brain' blogging episode.

Let's just say that between my emotions about Papi's male transformation, working 10 hour shifts, preparing for a massive show in 3 weeks, ...

gasp!!! wtf?!?! 3 weeks?!?!? there goes that chest pain again ...

... trying to keep up with the Fuzzy Family and having the Gramma Drama unfold with every breathing moment I'm at home is taking it's toll.

sometimes, i replay the Supertramp Song in my mind ... exchanging the wife for the g'ma

Hence, I thought I was going to have a heart attack on the bus to pick up our now fixed car.

One good thing is, I don't have time to wallow about my love's male transformation.  It's really a good thing.

I get to think about what a goofy spouse I have.

I'm pretty sure I told you that Papi thinks my blogs are boring if they don't include my love.  Well, when a couple of my Blogger Friends mentioned they'd like to see pics, Papi read the comments and just about jumped for glee.

There went my love, faster than a cheetah to grab the camera, scattering the Fuzzy Family.  We had to give every picture the once over to be sure it was the perfect one to display to the world.

It was like Papi was a star and I was the paparazzi.

or rather the PAPIrazzi.

I couldn't stop giggling at my love.

We were taking pics of mi esposo's progress, and for that moment, I didn't see the scars or the angry nipple.

I saw my soul mate.

The one that I married.

When I think about that, I realize that being here in this moment is really ok.  I don't need to think about those fears that are welling up in me that I'll have a balding, pot bellied, hairy middle aged man as a companion for the rest of our lives together.

It's now coming to light that all the changes mi esposo wants to make are really not going to change the silly, gorgeous, loving, understanding person I married.

I will always see my butch.

As much as Papi gets frustrated when I glaze over as mi esposo starts talking about the caterpillar that isn't growing in fast enough, I do listen.

I may not speak, but I listen.

I listen to these words that are important to Papi.

Then I slip back into what's important to me.

My love.