in my element

That was the most fun I've had since we got here.

I went to Dream Project to watch the music class and get a feel for it.

Getting there was entertaining enough.

Our damn jalopy over heated.

I wanted to get there early, so I left an hour early.  They said to be there at 9, but being the eager beaver I am, I wanted to be there at 8.

Damn am I grateful that people start work so early here.

When the car overheated, I basically coasted for half an hour, then pulled into a garage that was open to get more water to add to our coolant.

That did the trick and I was off again.

I got there 20 minutes early.

I still looked like I was rarin' to go.

Then when I was there, the teacher saw me and was so happy, because not only did it mean that I could possibly drive down the road to get him a keyboard at a local bar, but it also meant I could help him teach.

There is one teacher for 5 guitars, a bass, 2 drummers and 2 keyboard players.

He was so happy that I could take over for the keyboards and teach them while he went and taught the rest.

I was so happy, because it was the first sheet music I've played in a year.

A year!

A year ago, we started into the mania of the gramma dramma and there was no time for me to make music.

Then it was all about prepping the house, selling it and moving into Our Closet.

There was no sheet music.

No piano.

So, today my brain had to work overtime to get back into the swing.

And swing it was.

These kids were learning jazz for crying out loud!

I was so incredibly impressed at their talent and ability to just copy what I played them.

My heart pounded with the excitement of a challenge, and the joy of seeing how I could help those wee, short people.

Then I looked around and realized, I was in my element.

I was back to me.

Of course, being a keener, I also have low self-esteem and didn't know if I did a good enough job.

Afterward, the teacher asked me how I like it and I told him I love it, then said I wanted to know if I did a good enough job.

I asked him, "I don't know how much you wanted from me, but was it good enough?"

He was happy with what I did and more than pleased for me being there to help him make his job easier.

We thanked each other about 20 times back and forth.

I guess I did good.

I go back on Wednesday to work for free, but fill my heart with glee.

Then when I arrived home, some of the sweet children in the village stopped me to give me a flower, a mango and a frozen treat that I'll give Papi.  It looks too deliciously sugared for my body.

However, it was then that it occurred to me that I said I would teach music to them in July.

We're getting awfully close to July and I haven't started to prepare for the kidlets!

So, I asked one of the older girls if she would help me.

As soon as I'm finished with this blog and finished my salad, off I go to count heads, and spread the word that on Saturday, we start our choir.

I also realized, that damn, I'm going to have to spend money on a keyboard that I can practise on.

I didn't anticipate this opportunity at Dream Project, so the keyboard I bought was strictly for programming music on my computer.

Wow.

This was my kinda day.

It reminded me of who I was before the motorcycle accident.

The vibrant girl who is eager and ready for the joy and challenge of music.

when i believe in myself, so do others

home = heart

Anyway, back to regular biz.  I'm preparing to go home today!

I'll be leaving temporary home #2 to go to temporary home #1, to prepare for our move to temporary home #3; our closet of 454 square feet.

With 5 animals.

Regardless of where I go, I go home to Papi.

I don't get to see him much when I'm home anyhow, because I'm usually watching him sleep the Graveyard Coma.

That's fine by me, because when he's sleeping he can't deny that I'm always right.

Or drink.

... hehehe ...

Tried another anonymous meeting yesterday.  Guess what the fucking topic was?

Faith.  Yup.

Of course I got asked to share, and again, I told them, "I have utter faith in myself, not in your god, but somehow coming to these rooms kept me sober, so I'm going with it."

I spoke for the struggling alcoholic who approached me afterward to say, "I'm so glad you said that.  Can I have your number so I can talk about how I feel about this?  There's not too many people who understand."

Oh, I understand.  Still, the most important part of her calling me will not be about all that zealot bullshit, it will be about how we get a wonderful life because we don't drink.

I guess it's imperative because that's where all this keyed up chaos started 2 weeks ago.

I have great gratitude for being sober.

So do the people who still cross the street when they see me, because all they can remember is what a nutbar I was on the bottle.

Now that Papi has mightily worked through his 2 weeks, I get to go home, however, not before we take the G'ma out for her annual gambling birthday celebration.

The old fart is now 97!  97 man!

Not that it matters that we'll be celebrating her day, considering she's been 'neglected and thrown into a home so that everyone can take her house away from her'.

... oh the gramma drama ...

Back on track.

I'm leaving my temporary roommate, Java the Mutt and my Eternal Friend who has been so gracious in providing me space and comfort for 2 weeks.

I leave this peaceful, hotelesque, accessible condo, complete with a full body soaker tub.  I leave this for cats who are trying to kill each other.

And Papi.  Home.

I'm actually really good with transition and being transient, since I've been doing it from a young age, but goddam I have to tell you that living out of a suitcase fucking sucks.

Especially when you only have 3 skirts to choose from!!!  Good god it's been hard to be a femme these 2 weeks!!

I've never liked that, unless I'm somewhere beautiful and tropical.  Then I'll do anything to stay.

But here we are in the city that gets about 9 days of true summer, and today, it looks like winter's back again, so all those mother fuckers who complained those 9 days can gloat now because they have their fucking nasty weather again.

Whatever.  I'm going home.

Home is anywhere our hearts feel whole, peaceful and part of a family, no matter what that family looks like.

Papi and I could live in a grass hut for all I care, and I would call it home, because it's with Papi.

And 2 cats that are trying to kill each other, not to mention the other 3 critters who have to live with the furry fury.

Oh!  And my Dominican style coffee, my morning ritual, my awesome ionized water and my greens.

I've eaten enough junk food and carbs to get me through the apocalypse.

i share my feelings with others and they accept me

needles in my ass ... again.

I'm usually alone when I'm writing my blog.

Today I have company.

The humming Uncle.

Normally, he's the new recipient of Dungeon Syndrome, but today he's upstairs taking advantage of the bright space to do his work in.

Problem is, this house is so old, there's only a few plugs to choose from, so we're sharing this here table.

Well, he talks while I'm trying to think, and when he's not talking, he's humming, or muttering to himself about what he's going to do next.

Not good for my brain first thing in the morning.

My brain hasn't fully woken up until I've had my coffee and my blog is written.

So, here I sit, trying to figure out what the fuck I was going to write about, but I keep getting distracted.

Oh, the fucking joys of brain injury.

And company.

This weekend, Papi and I get to have our first weekend alone in 3 weeks.

We had a small attempt at 'alone time' when The Uncle was away for 24 hours, but there was so much to do, and there was so much gramma drama, that we didn't really get to appreciate it.

Anyway, what I wanted to write about has finally come to mind, now that I'm halfway through my coffee.

Needles in my ass.

Did you know that Botox became a household name because of migraines?

Let me explain.

They first used it for migraines, and when they noticed that people's wrinkles went away, they marketed it for cosmetic surgery.

Well, this is what was shot into my ass yesterday.

The first one was really painful, but the second and third seemed like they were just an annoyance.

However, for the rest of the day, it seriously felt like someone had taken a tenderizer to my ass.

That, or a baseball bat.

Today, after my usual sitting to do my blog, I had to do the coffee tinkle.

You know the one?

That black gold makes you run to the washroom.

Well, upon standing from this here table, I anticipated the usual horrible pain I get, but it didn't happen!

I braced myself to stand and cringe, only I didn't!

Then I walked and it feel great!

I've been told that sometimes, this feeling only lasts a few days, but what the hell!  A few days without pain killers would make me so fucking happy.

I don't enjoy the feeling of stupidity and sloth, so perhaps, today is a non-pain killer day?!?!?!

Oh for fuck's sakes.

Just as I wrote that, I felt the pain begin to shoot down my leg, and up my back again.

What-Fucking-Ever.

It was a good moment.

Don't mind me while I go mope.

 i deserve to be in perfect health

red flag

If you weren't pissed off enough from the G'ma predator post, this will make your blood boil for sure.

Upon speaking to one of her friends, we found out that he had done the same thing to her.

He intimidated this other lady by forcing her to sit with him at functions they both attend, he constantly came on to her, and when she refused his proposal of sex, he got angry at her, because she wouldn't let him come up to her apartment.

Red flag much?

That was enough for me to get the police involved.  They said that given her age and the fact that she has Alzheimer's, that they'd definitely set up a file for her.

Normally, the victim would have to be the one to report, but in this case, we could do the deed in her place.

We've set up the file and the other ol' fart is going to use the file case to make her complaint as well.

They now know where he lives, what he drives ...

... while he's drunk ...

... and what he's up to.

Turns out, they already have him on the radar.  They didn't specify as to what it was for, so we're assuming that it's for D.U.I.s.

I asked if he had a record of being a sexual predator, but he doesn't have a record for that.

Yet.

If he makes one more move, he WILL have a record as an offender.

We have no proof that he's done anything to our G'ma, but at least he's banned from the home and is on the radar of the police.

We're allllll watching you asshole.

I dare ya.  Make a step and test me.

After all the gramma drama of the police, and G'ma not really understanding why they were there, Papi and I had a much better evening.

We relaxed.  Everything is done, and now we just wait for the house to sell.

That was when I felt I could take a phone call from My Boifriend.

Sometimes, I just can't have a conversation, because I can't focus on anything other than the stress I'm freaked out by, but last night I did.

I'm so excited!  My Boifriend knows how to start the process of finding my big brother!

I feel the need to find him before we take off.  We have a bit of time.  The house has to sell and I have to finish up with my legal stuff in December.

So, we have a few months to find him!

I can't wait!

I really feel like this could happen.  The power of energy is important to remember.

Getting the energy out there that I'm looking for him may allow that beautiful positive energy to help me find him.

I believe I can.

I wonder if he's looking for us as well?  I wonder if he looks like me?  I wonder if he got the same Honky 'Fro that I got from our father?  I wonder if he has the same horrible crooked teeth? 

Oh, I guess I can't say that about myself anymore.  They're lookin' pretty straight and pretty now!

My Brace Face has really come a long way.

Anyway, as I sit here and write, I watch all the people walking past me and wonder, brother, where art thou?

It could be that man I just saw walk past. 

It really could be anyone.

i am stress free

a restraining order will be the LEAST of your worries

Everyone should just understand I'm always right, then there wouldn't be any problems.

Our dearest ol' G'ma has a 'friend'.  This 'friend' has been a part of G'ma and G'pa's lives when G'pa was still around.  This 'friend' propositioned her for sex when she was 95 years old after the G'pa passed away.

When she told us he did that, we kept a close watch on him.

... i watched a little more aggressively ...

He actually wanted to bring her away for a weekend outside of the city.  Well, not only do we know about the proposition, but he also carries a flask with him and drinks and drives.

Papi was diplomatic in saying, "No."

I would have other words for the creep.

Since she was put in the home, he was instructed that he is not to be taking her out of the building.

Like any typical asshole, he didn't listen.  No, he completely disrespected our words.

He strolled right in to the home, and took her to lunch.

Sounds harmless?  It's not.

She was drunk when we visited her.  That's not the worst part.  She had her clothes half on.  She would never allow herself to look like that.  She's a perfectionist.

Of course, having my experience with predators, I jumped to worst case scenario when she was so drunk she seemed as though she'd been drugged, then put that together with her disheveled clothing.

I'm sure you know where I'm going with this, and if you don't, you live in a much better place in your mind than I. 

... lucky you! keep it up! enjoy your bliss! ...

However, we've gone down and banned the guy from the home.  If he actually gets in there again, there will be a restraining order.

Our little family, who are trying our very best to make sure our almost 97 year old G'ma is safe, are livid and terrified.

I'm so grateful that the woman in charge could understand the severity of the situation and was stern with The Uncle enough that he listened.

Because we don't usually listen to family, do we?

She is an unbiased individual who's responsibility is to be sure she's safe, as well as keep safe any other potential victims.  She managed to get the job done.

I am sickened.  I am disgusted.  I've never liked the guy from the get-go.

I told Papi, from the moment I met this guy, my spidey senses have informed me that he's a creep that shouldn't be trusted.

Predators can smell a victim, this is why they go after said victim.

What people don't understand, is that I can smell a predator.

I feel as though I'm a dog.  The moment I sense the dangerous person, the hair on my back stands up.

Occasionally, I feel the need to let out a growl along with a snarl of my fangs.

People just call me paranoid.

My instincts are not paranoia.

I'm no longer a victim.  I can smell YOU mother fucker.

I don't recommend playing games asshole.  You have nooooo idea who is on her side now.

Momma bear is angry and she has you in her fucking radar.

If a restraining order gets put into place, then you won't have to deal with me.

Trust me.  You'll wish for your fucking restraining order.

i trust my instincts

sadness is leaving us

Yesterday was the day and we told her the night before.

I can't tell you how hard it was to see her have to go through the acceptance that she has to go live somewhere else.

It's her home, where she wanted to die.

No longer.

Now she's moved to a much safer place for her little old lady legs to walk around.  Everything is accessible.

Except her house.

We have Papi's uncle here to help, and they've gone through a lot of G'ma's stuff.

Some of the memories of pasts are damn sweet!  We found Papi's kindergarten report card G'ma kept.  It was so fun to read Papi was a shy one in the beginning, but soon opened up to the rest of the class.

So hard to believe!

There is so much stress in this house, and we're all trying so hard to hold it together.

Lord knows my bitch of a back is not complying.

Between losing one of my besties, gramma drama, and getting all of our belongings out of the house, my back has forced me to take the worst of the worst drugs.

Morphine fucking sucks.  Let me tell you.

The craziest part is, G'ma is doing better with all of this than we are.  All three of us are one bundle of mess.

Tears.  Stress.  Sadness.  You name it, it's under this roof.

All I can look forward to is moving upstairs into the light and get my brain out of the Dungeon Syndrome.  We've been living in this dark basement for too long.

Papi's used to it.  He's been here since birth.

Me?  I never enjoy the darkness.  It brings too much crud to the surface.

Soon, we get to enjoy bright open windows of sunshine.  That is of course, if this damn city would stop raining.

Our home in this vault is pure chaos.  Our belongings are all leaving and we have nowhere to put our stuff that was in it.

Hence, it's hanging off the ottoman, my piano bench, our kitchen island and surrounding floors.

Mess.  Kinda like our minds.

One thing I can look forward to, is the moment the Uncle has left the building, we're moving on up, into the light.

Anyway, back to the G'ma.  She was amazing at taking the whole experience in stride.

When we went back to the home with a 2nd load, I couldn't find her.  She wasn't in her room, and she wasn't in visiting her sister.

I inquired of the nurse, "Would you have any idea where G'ma went?  She's already M.I.A.!"

She giggled, "She's probably up at the 106 year old's birthday party on the 2nd floor."

Off I went in search of the old fart, and sure enough, there she was, eating cake, drinking tea, and already organizing an evening game of crib with 'Dorothy', who said to G'ma, "You're the answers to my prayers!  I have the table, the board, the cards and the money!!"

G'ma is going to be just fine and will probably be running the place within a week.

Of course, it's going to be hard for her at times, but the fact that she's already mixing in with people had my heart filled with so much joy for her!

No longer will she have tears in her eyes from loneliness.

Hell!  They even bring a cart around a couple times a day with cookies and tea, just in case the old folks need a little sugary love.

Love.

Plenty of it there in her new home, and she's a two minute drive for us.

I'm so happy she's doing so well.  It takes one of the stresses out of the equation.

You hear that, bitchy back?  Now calm the fuck down and behave!!!

i am willing to let go of the past, so that i can create health now

Carnivore.

Ok.

So, now I'm ready for the Brace Face to leave my mouth.

I have a good few months left.  Maybe around 9 or so.  So wanting them off now is really not good for the attitude.

I've done well though.  I've enjoyed the future outcome up until now.

Really, it's all about food.

I love food.

I especially love steak.

And corn on the cob.

And freshly cooked veggies that are not overdone.

This whole damn weekend was filled with food I couldn't eat.

It was kinda like I was a carnivore-ian this weekend.

Couldn't chew veggies done on the BBQ for our garden party, nor could I chomp on the ones they had at the brunch.

So, I just ate chicken, fish, eggs and sausages.

Not that I'm complaining about that part, but damn!  A piece of medium rare steak would have been nice!

No.

It's hamburger meat for me if I want to indulge in beef.  It's not that good for us anyway, but goddam, watching everyone enjoy was a bit of a downer.

Oh for fucks sakes, now I'm on a food tangent.

I really wanted to tell you about my weekend because I was so busy having fun I didn't get to write.

The garden party was fantabulous!!!  The happy gardeners plugged their way through weeds and overgrown pretty plants, and these amazing friends dressed our yard to the 9's.

Now the G'ma will have to find something else to nag about.

Don't you worry.

She will.

The next day was the Mother's Day Brunch!

Of course, Mr. Homophobia did show up, and pretended to like us to be sure everyone else around him didn't know he was a homophobic piece of shit.

That's saved for my mother to listen to.

There's nothing worse than a two faced person who is nice to your face and hates you behind your back.

I have always fallen for it in the past, but since the 'mean girls' did their two face trick, I'm not so gullible, nor do I give people the benefit of the doubt anymore.

He gave the fake hug hello and good-bye and pretended to care about how we were on this day.

But I have to tell you what the most fun of that day was.

You see, we were at my biological G'ma's old folks home for an extravaganza of a brunch.  My bio-G'ma was seated at the head of the table.

My live in G'ma was seated at the other end of the table.

Bio-G'ma kept staring at the old bird at the other end.

You could read her mind!  Gramma drama was in full swing!

"Who the hell is that asshole down there?!?  It's my table!  I've never seen her around these parts.  Doesn't she know this is my family?  Who let her sit at the end of my table?!?"

It was truly something to behold.  I couldn't stop laughing at the face she was donning.

... or perhaps that was just the pain meds?...

And at the end of the day, we had a really nice family picture to remember the visit.

No.  Mr. Homophobia didn't make it into my picture of love.

But look at those two old birds!!!!

Happy Mother's day indeed.

Complete with my baby sister, her lovely family and Papi.

And pain killers.

if it were easy, everyone would do it

Here it is.

The day G'ma returns.

If you don't hear from me in more than a week, call the authorities and the mental institutions, as it may cause my love and I to tilt.

It's going to be a rough one folks.

She's decided for us that we're not entitled to our own lives.  She's decided, "They can't leave until I'm gone, and they have a nice basement suite they should be grateful for."

Yup.

In her house.

Not ours.

Here it comes.

This old bird is never going to die.  She's 96 and her bodily system is as healthy as a 30 year old.

Only thing is, her mind is reverting back to being a toddler in their terrible twos.

We can't wait out our lives in the dungeon.  We need to start our married lives together.  We haven't really done that, because of a few minor setbacks.

Motorcycle accident, brain injury, miscarriage, male transformation.

You know, just the usual life stuff.

However, now that I've broken my mirror, it's time to get a move on.

A big amazing adventure awaits us.  We never know when life is going to be ripped from our existence.

Just like in my accident, 2 seconds in time can change your life forever.

We need to start living our lives together before we lose it.

So, no, G'ma, we can't live our lives for you.

I just saw an old fart on TV that is 105.

105.

Minus 96 would be 9 more years in this dungeon of a basement.

No.

I will not be living here for 9 more years while the crazy old Alzheimer's patient barks out orders and gramma drama homophobic rants.

A big amazing world awaits Papi and I.

It's time to be selfish.

It's time to have that wonderful life that the G'ma repeats stories about minute to minute.

It's really time to start living and preparing for our move to the Dominican Republic.

Sorry old bird.

Things are about to change drastically for you.  If only you could think positively about your own life. 

I feel for you.  I really do.

you can press on long after you think you can't.  it's a matter of wanting it bad enough

I was wrong. Lesson learned.

I'm pretty excited about today.

I get my very own vocational counselor to help me find a job that this beat up body can do with success.

Gonna try, anyway!

I just have to keep trying.  If I don't have something to do, I'll go crazy.

I'm so afraid of being fired from a job because of someone else doing a U-Turn and changing my life 3 years ago.

I'm a very hard worker when I have a job.  Any job.  Home, music, healing, or whatever is thrown at me.

Even Papi's male transformation.

Upon starting my novel, I've had to read through from the beginning.  I had to go back and see if there was anything I was missing, or optimistically forgotten.

As I wrote, I felt the tears well up for that sweet, broken femme just over a year ago.

I felt every feeling that I had sitting in the La-Z-Boy Pit of Doom.

I can see now that I was really only scared.  I'd never been through this kinda thing before.  I didn't want to fight a battle.  I just wanted my love.

However, I gave myself my very own war.

Nobody gave it to me but myself.

I need to remember how it felt, so that I can help someone else who's feeling desperate.

Yet, I also need to feel how it felt, so I can see how far I've come.

When I embarked on this journey, I didn't know what 'that time' would feel like when it got here.

Now I do.

I never would have expected I'd get to where I am.

But I did.

Despite my fears.

Yesterday, I saw an article, '10 Handsome Men (Who Were Born Female)'.  I looked expecting to see people I would be able to say, "Nope.  I can tell you were female before."

Yup.

I'm one of 'those'.

One of 'those' who believes I'd be able to see the female in their eyes.

I was proven wrong.

Indeed, these were 10 men that I wouldn't have blinked an eye at, as seeing the female prior.

All of this journey with my dear Papi has proven me to be so wrong on so many levels.

And again.

I have to rethink my attitude.

Gender reassignment is really only a tad of the whole discovery.

I have learned that it takes a good 6 years before the transformation is done, thanks to the hormones injected.

still having a bit of an issue with this clear little poison ...

I can honestly say, that when I saw these men in the photos that my mind shifted.

It shifted to, "Hang on!  You don't have Papi in there!!"

Mi esposo guapo.

We are all here for lessons.

Mine seem to be a bit drastic at times, but such is the life of a drama queen.  How can I have center stage if I don't have something to act on!?!?!

Anyway, I am yet again having to switch my thinking.

It's a challenge every day.

I invite being told I'm wrong.  It gives this hard working, psudeo-dog, Type A personality something to do.

If I don't have something to do, I'll go crazy.



today, i will only say nice things to myself.

Gimme all your turkey and nobody gets hurt.

You can really tell someone's level of homophobia by their X-mas cards.

People who are accepting of us will send a card to both of us, by either Mr. & Mrs. Hector-Brown, or Andréa & Easton Hector-Brown.

But then again, there's those who choose the latter, because their level of transphobia won't allow them to put a 'Mr' on that envelope.

That doesn't bother me as much, because at least they feel that we're one married unit.

Together.

As one.

Alas, then there's the others.

Homophobic #1 will write us each a separate card, without any reference to Mr. or Mrs., enforcing their belief that we are not 'one' in our relationship.

They continue to view my love as female, and myself as a 'pretend' wife.

They won't accept that we are just like any other married family member who deserves the same treatment as the straights in the clan.

They are passive aggressive in nature and won't budge on their stance.

However, Homophobic #2 is even worse.

We will receive separate cards, and on our cards, both prefixes will say 'Miss'.

'Miss.'

Both.

Not even a thought that we're married, or that my love is going through male transformation.

She got both painful digs in at one time.

Crafty, that old fart.

To the elderly, religiously brainwashed, old coot of 96, we will remain single women, even though she actually walked Papi down the aisle for our wedding.

But to even add more salt to the wound, the G'ma will put my love's chosen ...

... and legal for fucks sakes!! ...

... name, then Papi's birth name in brackets with 'aka' written before it.

I don't know.

I really don't think the old fart is doing this because of Alzheimer's.  She's just an abusive, manipulative woman, who grabs any opportunity to show us how she really feels.

Even though we're miles away in another province right now, the miserable old poop has to find a way to irk us.

There's really no break from the g'ma's nagging either.

She has to call and make sure that she belittles our levels of responsibility.

In other words, we are both stupid and immature, we had a pretend marriage, and are just roommates.

And people wonder why I don't celebrate X-mas?

Because the sheep who talk to imaginary beings in the sky can be so full of hate, and g'mas level is so deep with hate that even her pastor is trying to persuade her to be more loving and accepting.

Why the fuck would I want to celebrate some dead guy who has followers with this behaviour?

No thanks.



But I'll still eat your turkey.

gramma dramma

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

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

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

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

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

when i allow myself to be hehe ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

wtf is the matter with me?!?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One, or all of the above?

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

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.

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.

Grant me the fucking serenity!

So there I was, having some sweet 'goodnight my love' texting moments and what do I receive?

"Will you be upset if I get a pump for my clit?"

excuse me?

I just didn't have the brain power to ask wtf or even entertain this inane question.

I honestly have no fucking idea of the whys and whats my love is talking about.

To me, it's humongous, ginormous and colossal enough without any help.

my brain is still assimilating the sexy time situation ...

What the hell is a clit pump needed for?

When I told my love I just can't deal with the question, Papi told me we'd talk about it later, "My poor lil 'no tranny understander'.  Later convo I will explain."

But do I really want to know?  I'm not really over the 5 Foot Clitoris yet.  Do we have to go for 11?

Papi is right.

I don't understand.

I'll tell you, sometimes I just don't want to.  I really like my bubble.  I get to just pretend none of this is happening.

This is how I cope.

Yesterday, my blogger friends Tricia, Dirty and Bio all commented on how good Papi's chest looks.

All I see are flat breasts; The Great Breast Disappearance.

When I look at the pic I posted yesterday, it almost feels naughty.  Like my love is bearing breasts for the world to see.

dear blogger; don't delete me for nudie pics!

Not that it is any different than real life.  My love would flash those babies any opportunity anyway, so why would it make any difference here?

I still see my love the way I want to see my love.

My cushy bubble is tepid, pillowy soft and always smells like sweet lilacs.

Please don't make me leave by talking about a clit pump!

for fucks sakes!!!!!

Papi is right though.  I really don't understand the secret world of F-Ms.  I'm very certain I'm going to know it inside and out before this is all done.

don't burst my fucking bubble!!!!

I understand this is just a journey on my path that I have to accept.

Hell, it's what I tell the G'ma every day, all day, over and over again, ad infinitum, "We have to accept the things we cannot change."

Oh, that doesn't mean we forget.  It's just that if we don't accept whatever is going on for us, it will eat us alive.

or drive us to drink.

But wait!

What's the other part of that serenity prayer I would whisper for years on end?  Oh yeah, right; The courage to change the things we can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Acceptance.  Courage.  Wisdom. 

Oh, speaking of G'ma,  we have found a way to possibly deal with the gramma drama.

Papi told the G'ma about the sex change.

Hopefully that will be the topic for the next few weeks until something else comes up that she will dwell upon.

Still searching for my wisdom.  I'm sure I left it here somewhere ...