man hair. everywhere.

I must be done with the processing, as the conversations we have are just plain silly and effortless about things that I didn't think I'd ever be able to handle.

Like hair.

Chest hair, belly hair, armpit hair, ass hair, thigh hair and chin hair.

Just plain ol' man hair.

Well, of course I'd love to talk about my hair, because it's usually all about my hair, but my hair is a fucking mess right now, because we have no heat in our suite, and I'm not going to sit around in the brrrrr chill while my mane air dries.

That doesn't make me feel comfortable and being such a hypochondriac, I'm too afraid of catching a cold.  So, it's hats and pins and pigtails for my hair.

Oops.

It all became about my hair again.

Oh, how I digress.

Ok, back on track.

I look at a picture of Papi and I on our engagement day in Cuba.

This picture is so full of happiness, yet also, it's full of uncomfortableness.

On both of our parts.

I remember on that day, that Papi had said to me, "I wanted our picture to look like the other people's picture."  You see, they were more comfortable.

I get very affected by homophobic people, and we never know when they're going to pop up.

Like the man behind the camera that day.

I don't know if he was or not, but two lesbians in front of him was a good opportunity to show his true colours.

Of course, he didn't, but still, I waited for it.

Then there was Papi, uncomfortable in his own skin, because he had a secret that he needed to tell me, but was too afraid to say it, due to the fact that I would say negative things about trans people.

My transphobia scared Papi, and rightfully so.

I would go on about how we're losing all our butches to male transformation, not to mention go on about how people were brainwashing younger people into thinking this was the 'in' thing to do.

It does happen, but I've only known about one pusher who did this.

So there we were.

Both of us were so happy because it was our engagement, but you could see we were both awkward.

Now, you'll find me in Costco asking some guy, "Hey!  You're a guy!  Which of these electric shavers would you recommend?"

They would steer Papi in the right direction saying, "I like this one.  For the money, it's the best one you can get."

Then there was last night.  Papi said, "I also need to get a new man-scaper.  That one also didn't make the trip out of the Dominican alive."

Off he went to get it and I didn't even think about it beyond that.

Until of course, later on when he lifted his armpit to show me how nice it looked because it was tamed with his new toy.

Then I had a moment that was epic.

We were going to get our criminal check done so we could apply for residency in the DR, and while I was at my wicket, Papi saddled up behind me.  The woman behind the counter asked in a very stern voice, "Ma'am, do you know the gentleman who is now standing behind you?"

Like flowing water, I looked, then turned back to say, "Yes, that's my husband."

My husband.

It's all very normal now.

Who knew I could do this?

i am a hero

Noodles in the sink.

OK.

So we all come from different cultures, and I suppose we sometimes need to learn more about other places.

Like for instance, upon reading more about the Dominican Republic, I've learned that as a gringo, when we are at a grocery store, we may be given candy instead of change if the cashier runs out of money.

They figure, that we being honkies, we're obviously tourists and don't need the change.  They assume we have a lot of money and that we'd rather have the candy.

Sweets for the sweets.  You know?

Well, I've been taking my Spanish classes for a few weeks now, and I saw last week that the washroom I would use had a broken sink.

We were left a note on the mirror to use the sink downstairs to wash our hands.

For O.C.D. folks like myself, it was more than an inconvenience to go to the lower floor to wash our hands after being in such a dirty, dirty room FULL of germs.

Anyway, my point is not to bitch about having to go to the lower floor to wash my hands, ...

... which i didn't btw ... i chose to obsess about my dirty hands and be distracted in the class instead ...

... it was to let you know about the new sign I found this week.

Now, I know that we all have differences, but what I don't know is, what are the sinks like in other countries!?!?

Here's a picture of the note in the bathroom of offense:

Perhaps you're not getting the point of the sign.

Maybe I need to really get it up close for you to see:

Now, what I'm thinking is, if this was a one off, they wouldn't have a sign.

I'm thinking, there have been more than one noodle experience in that washroom to warrant a sign.

The school has many different languages being taught at the same time, so I don't know which country would have sinks with drains big enough to handle noodles.

Which country would that be?

Does anybody know which country has drains big enough to handle noodles!?!?!

Our drains can't even handle the 'wookie' affect of hair.

Ass hair, armpit hair, belly hair, chin hair, thigh hair.

OK.  I may be exaggerating.  Papi is really good at grooming his man hair.  He's got all the fancy gizmos and even trims his armpit hair.

He's metro-sexual.  Besides, it's always about my hair, no?

Anyway, back to the noodles.

I'm seriously confused about it.

Is it just me, or is this just new to me?

I found this an odd thing topic that I felt the need to write about.

Tomorrow, I'll be putting up one of my super duper positivity posts up on that mirror.

i am interested in others

Candida!!! Horror of all horrors!!!

You may be pleased to know that I've showered.

It's amazing how much body hair can grow in a week.

Wow.

I think the only time in my life that I've had longer armpit hair was when I first came out and noticed all the lesbians around me grew their pits.

So, I thought, "Hey!  If they don't care then neither do I!"

That was short lived.

I'm not that kinda girl.

They were shaved.

I remember the performance I had and I exposed my newly shaved underarm to the club.  "I shaved just for you!" I belted out between songs.

As soon as I flashed my flesh, one of my silliest friends came to the stage and licked my freshly barbered pit.

I squealed with laughter!

Today was not as monumental.

I just shaved that shit off.

But you'll be happy to know I'm less stinky now.

AND!!

I can open my mouth wide enough to take pills without squirming in pain every time I tried to shove those horrid little bastards in my yak.

I was told yesterday that I wasn't drinking enough liquid or getting enough nutrition.  They said I was malnourished and dehydrated.

They told me I need to be drinking orange juice, pop and any other kind of sugary liquid I can get my lips on.

This is problematic in so many ways.

I have candida.  I've never really talked about it to much with 'you', my imaginary friend.

I mean really, when I started talking to 'you' about Papi being a transgender person and ...

... oh whoa is me ...

... how the fuck am I ever going to get over it?!?!

... hehehe ... silly wife ... we'll always love papi no matter what ...

How the hell would I make a segway from my love going through male transformation into, "Hey, by the way, I have candida."

Well, I guess I did today.

I don't eat sugar in my diet and I only eat one serving of fruit a day.  I've always just told people I'm allergic to it, because it's easier than talking about what it really is.  Not to mention the fact that too much sugar makes me a lunatic and homicidal.

But now?   I'm shoving in Canada Dry Ginger Ale, Tropicana OJ, SunRype apple juice and coconut ice cream by the litre.

My body is telling me it's not impressed.

And it's not just the sugar I'm cramming in my belligerent beak.  It's the fact that I had to be on antibiotics for a week.

Both of these add up to a nasty time in candida-land.

Oh.

Dearest boys, if you don't know what candida is, stay in your little bubble of ignorance.  You don't want to know.

Dear girls, stop squirming with the thought of a yeast infection.

Dear helpful healthy tips people, yes, I'm taking my acidophilus.

Anyway, I don't stink.

Now I just have to deal with the fact that I'm fucking hungry and have been craving bacon for two days now.

you never know how strong you really are, until being strong is the only choice you have

Goggles of Denial

I've never like glasses so much as I do now.

They're hindering my vision for anything up close, because of some physiological decaying, that is a gauge of age.

Yeah.

I'm en route to 'old' I guess.

don't tell anyone, k?

Well, anyway, I have to take my glasses off to see up close.

Papi goes on about 'this hair' growing and 'that hair' growing and I just don't see them.

My love parades around with these fledgling spurts of teenage maturing feelers that are sprouting out all over the place.

I hear, "Do you see my sideburns?" or better yet, "Do you see my chesthair?!"

no ... as long as i keep my glasses on, i don't.

However, my love is hip to my trick and told me to take off my glasses so that I can see it.

I begrudgingly did it, and sure enough, there they were: 5 or 6 dark course hairs on my love's chest, and little bristles of stubble directly beside Papi's ear. 

Yes.  Here it comes.

So, we were at a beach the other day, and Papi blurts out, "Should I grow my armpit hair?"

This question came about because of the men that were obviously having their very own pageant of: 'Who's the Hairiest in the Sand?'

There was hair everywhere!!

Back, armpit, chest, facial, leg and even this line of hair down the middle of their stomachs!

Mi esposo is realizing that men don't shave that shit off.

So, now to become integrated into the male world, there must be hair.

HAIR!!!!!!!!!

I have to admit, I'm not the best at my upkeep for my lady bits to look perfect every day.

Nor my armpits.

I'm pretty low maintenance, and it's good.  I couldn't imagine primping and prodding myself to perfection like I did when I was a teen.

Back then, it was like I lived in the bathroom trying to get the perfect eyeliner curve on my lid.

But I digress.  That's a whole other blog about ego.

Papi looked at the guys on the beach and said, "He has a nice amount of chest hair," in an effort to show me that this is what my love wants.

"No.  He doesn't.  If you get hairy like that I'll be waxing you in your sleep."

It was then that I realized how bloody bizarre this whole thing is.

I have a prepubescent for a spouse.

Most 'men' have their hair in place before they meet 'the one'.  This guarantees that the other half of the relationship knows what their getting.

I don't know what I'm getting when it comes to the hair.

As an adult with an adult spouse who's going through teenage puberty, it's fucking comical!

This is seriously the weirdest thing I could ever imagine happening in someone's life.

Now that I'm able to actually speak to my love about things ...

well ... if i'm being honest, it's really listening to papi ... then rolling my eyes because it was too much information that i'm not ready to hear ...

... it seems like the strangest conversations.

These dudes on the beach have finished their maturing, and I suppose that some women may like the hair, but dammit, I don't.

Really.

So, in answer to the armpit hair question, I'm the wrong one to ask.

Yet, I'm always the one to hear these questions.

Man hair.

It has completed it's journey reaching my love's groin and is now continuing it's trek to higher elevations.

I think I'll keep my goggles of denial on until I'm ready for the fuzz.