and the phoenix has risen!

So, anyway, Papi and I were blessed by the Rabbi a couple of weeks ago.

Here were my opening words:

I've always searched for the place where I belong.  What I've learned is, that I'm a wanderer and I have been exploring since childhood, but never really realized it.

The greatest adventure that crossed my path, was when I fell in love and married another wanderer. 

These opening words are really all I need to know about life to this point.  I know that no matter what anyone says, like for instance, "When it comes to losing your dog, the way you're feeling is really only selfish."

... seriously! some people's kids! ... ok, that 'kid' thing is an inside joke ... that you'll never know about ... but that's ok, because i don't have to tell you everything, got it? ...

Or how about, "There are people suffering more than you, so you really have nothing to cry about.  You just have to move on."

Yeah.  Those words are really going to help me feel better, bitches.

Anyway, I'm learning that nothing anybody says or feels really has anything to do with me, because they have no fucking idea what it's like to be me.

I just laid for a week trying to breathe my way out of a 4 day stretch of choking on my own breath because of flashbacks of every trauma that has ever happened since I was 7 or 8 right up to my fucking motorcycle accident.  All of which just so happened to be triggered by the loss of The Golden.

Those people will never understand what it's like to have major P.T.S.D.

Well, fuck you and your fucking self help 'wisdom' mother fuckers.

I'm back.  And I'm feeling like I'm ready to take on that nasty mother of a world again.

I had some fierce little pills that took me for a scenic little stroll of La-La-Land for a few days.  You see, if you're so zonked out that you are close to a coma, you won't choke on your breath from a 4 day long panic attack.

There ya go.  You learned something new.  Glad I could help.

Anyway, I'm back and I'm pretty sure, bitchier than ever.

With a little hint of gratitude.

What can I say?  I'm a fucking Gemini.  Only this here Gemini has more than 2 sides.  You don't wanna mess with me.  I can wreck your whole day.

Good fucking g*d I got off track.

... what else is new, brain injury girl? ...

I wanted to share about 'what really matters'.

All that really matters is I'm on track in my life.  Where I am is where I'm supposed to be; with my wandering spouse who has taught me about love.

He has taught me that love isn't about cuddling up to a couple of funbags, or stroking a soft chin, chest, thing or stomach that has no hint of hair.

Love is mi esposo, who nursed me through my lack of oxygen for all those days and helped me come to the conclusion that it was time to stuff some pills down my yak.

That or bring me to the loonie bin for a little 'respite'.

I chose the pills, but I know he would have come to visit me if I was in my 'special' place with padded walls.

And that!!  Is all that matters.

He's cool with that psychosis of a Gemini that periodically pokes her head out to stir things up a bit.  I think he finds her a bit entertaining.  You know?  That someone could possibly be as crazy as him?  Or dare I say, crazier?

Yup.  I'm his girl and he's my guy, and we're makin' plans to wander a little bit further.

We're on an expedition on this eternally bumpy 4x4 ride, each on a sexy little quad.  Mine's all decked out in sparkles and boa feathers and his is decked out with faux tattoo shadings and great metal fangs on it's front bumper, ready to chomp the fuck out of the next hill that tries to tell us 'no'.

I suppose now that I'm back from the depths of my Pit of Doom, it will be Papi's turn to take a nose dive.

Hey.

At least we share.

i am valuable

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

Heavy Petting.

"You can play with it too," my love said as we were driving to drop more crap off.

I feel like crap, so I was only a body to keep him company while he ditched more stuff.  I have that fucking summer cold that everybody is getting.

Anyway.

Have I ever told you about how Papi doesn't think my blog is interesting unless it's about him?

I guess he liked my blog yesterday.

Liked it enough to comment on my voyeurism.

Then the next question, "Have they started to turn black yet?"

No, thank god.

They're still little unoffensive blonde-ish strays that don't scare me, like this:

So, yeah, without him even knowing, I have petted them.

I like to pet my love's scars from The Great Breast Disappearance.  I like to think that if I give them enough love, they'll stop looking so angry.

One part is looking better.  It's not raised and angry as the rest of it.

So, as I stroke mi esposo's scars, I usually get a little pinky-full of those itty bitty chest hairs.

I figure when we get to the Dominican Republic, his hair won't continue to get more 'manly', because it will be too hot.

I know.  Sounds ridiculous.

But I think that if it's too hot, his body will stop growing hair because it can't handle the heat!

No?  Ok.  Fine.

It's a good theory anyway.

The Great DR Purge is doing very well.

I've never had so few clothes in my life.

You know what's fun?

The fact that all my clothes are my favourites.

There isn't any clothing yet that I say, 'meh', about.

Sparkly, shiny, short ...

... skirts ... yes ... i like them short ... while i still got it i'll flaunt it ...

... and superb.

It's like living in a femmes dream!

The only comfy clothes I have are my P.J.s and my work out clothes.

Even with my work out clothes, I've only kept one pair of sweats that are baggy.

I call them my Haagen-Dazs sweats.

When I'm having 'that' day where I am depressed or in too much pain, out come the sweats.

I can't eat the Haagen-Dazs, so I wear the sweats.

They're kind like something George would wear from Seinfeld.

Not femme, classy or hot.

However, they're still in my wardrobe, but I won't be wearing them in public like Brittany.

you'll rarely be 100% sure it will work, but you can always be 100% sure doing nothing won't work

i'm truly a voyeur ...

Papi is my chauffeur.

As much as he gets a little ruffled at the fact that he has to periodically drive me when I can't get a 'short bus', once we're in the car, it seems to be our only quality time alone these days.

Between The Uncle, The Yank and the many visitors we've been having due to The Great DR Purge, we don't get much alone time.

Yesterday, I thought I would accompany my love to the dump.

We make a lot of trips to the dump lately, and I know what those smelly dump boys are thinking when I don't get out of the car to help.

'Princess'.

No, it's not that, it's just that I had my sparkly silver flats on.  I don't need garbage gunk on my fave summer shoes!!!

Well, it's really because I shouldn't be shucking heavy items out of the car.  My bitch of a back would protest greatly.

Anyway, on our way yesterday, I noticed mi esposo smiling as he drove.

I didn't question it.

It's not unusual to see Papi smiling when he's getting rid of a load of crap.

But then I hear him say, "I like playing with my chest hair."

There he was pulling at his little chest hairs.

He wasn't pulling them all the way out of the root, he would just pull and let go, pull and let go, ad infinitum.

He was like a little boy sitting there in his comfort of playing obsessively with a toy.

I got a moment of sitting back and merely loving who he is.

He's just mi Papi, with a few changes to his body.

He used to pull on the facial jewelry he had, but he let those go.

Now it's all about his man hair.

It also gave me a moment to take stock of my current feelings about The Great Breast Disappearance.

I'm growing more comfortable with the loss of those pillows.

Still, I miss them.

I'll never get to touch them again.  They are only a memory of the feeling of that cool nipple against my cheek and the fullness of those perfect breasts in my gentle hands.

Even though my love has told me I could touch other people's breasts, it's just not my thing.

I love Papi.

I loved his Butch Tits greatly.

I had a dream the other day that we were at some swingin' party that Papi wanted to go to, and all I could do was look at everyone and say to myself, "But I don't want to do anything with any of them.  I only want mi esposo."

I made Papi chose for me in the dream.

Fortunately, other things happened so I didn't have to get busy with anyone else and wake up all fucked up like the time I dreamed I got down with Keith Urban.

Keith Urban?!?!?!

Really?!?!?!

I mean he's handsome, a great guitar player, has a gorgeous voice and great sense of melody, but I wouldn't be into anything more than a concert from him.

Back to the hair.

He's got these little teeny weeny hairs that are so damn cute.  They're not taking over his entire chest leaving him to look like a walking carpet.

Just some teeny tiny little whisps of hair that poke out in the sweetest, most innocent way.

He likes to play with his chest hair.

I like to watch.

i am becoming better every day

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

Turning the corner.

It started with consoling my love, by stroking his naked thigh.

You see, 'someone' has a touch of hormone madness from the hysterectomy.

I can't remember why Papi needed comforting, but that's how it began.

I didn't realize it, but I was stroking mi esposo's man hair leg, and to my surprise, it didn't feel like a nasty Brillo Pad, raring to cut my flesh like a knife through butter.

I was enjoying the feeling, as if it was a member of our Fuzzy Family.

"It actually doesn't feel so bad.  It's pretty soft!  I think I'm getting used to it."

Papi responded with, "Yeah, I'm finally getting used to it too.  It was weird at first."

It shocked me, that Papi had to get used to it as well.

I really thought he would feel connection with every aspect of the transformation.

I suppose all the joking and terrorizing was really my love's way to deal with the changes.

I guess it's an adjustment for everyone that takes getting used to.

I mean, it must be!  It's huge for me, so it must have some impact on the person who's morphing, leaving their prior 'self' behind.

One of the most amazing therapists I ever had, once explained our reactions to loss, change, hurt and even joy.

She explained that every person is unalike, and is therefore cut from a different cloth.  We all have distinctive strengths and weaknesses.

When you press an iron at a high setting on varying materials, they each have individual reactions.

If someone is made of silk, well, you can imagine what the heat will do to them.

Honestly, I'm 100% sure that there will be more challenges in life, because that's just the way life is.

But perhaps, my silky fabric has changed into denim.

Anyway, I thought about how lucky I am to have found this person I love, who loves me as deeply.

I no longer care if my love has extra hair, although there will be waxing in Papi future.

I mean really!  I keep those areas tidy for sexy time, skirt exposed legs and armpit stink.

So yes, there will be waxing, Papi.

However, I really don't care if my love talks, walks, acts, or looks different anymore.

I've had a good year to get it out of my system, and at the same time, grow with the changes.

I'm still attracted and madly in love with mi esposo.

Hey.

That doesn't mean I'm going to let go of all my opportunities to share TMI about his antics here in my blob/blab.

There's just too much fun to be had with the DIY exploits of the Tranny Terrorist.

But what I do get to let go of, is that comatose, weeping wife of an F-M.

Over the past week, I've unconsciously started to rub Papi's chest.

Through my love's t-shirts, I let my fingers softly rub over the scars.

There may be loss of pillowy softness, but that loss doesn't compare to the love I have for Papi, which was really my worst worry.

Now that I know my attraction and love are here to stay, I'm ready to get on with life and talk about other important things.

Like my ass.

My love thinks it's imperative that I get a pic of my ass in this here blob/blab, because, "It's a great ass," my love pleaded, "You have to show everyone your ass!  Look at that ass!  It's better than a 20 year old's!"

Yeah it is, but no.

Other than when my cheeks are nicely tucked into a pair of yoga pants, or skin tight Dominican Republic jeans for the world to see, my butt belongs to Papi.

Well, except for when I lend it to the Needle Master.

I'm married to a Werewolf

Papi told me my blog was boring yesterday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm a sucker for attention.

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

This label is not far off the map.

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

I'm cool with admitting it.

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Gimpy giggles.

Papi and I are really meant to be.

I was terrified that the hormones were going to create a monster of a spouse.

I've been proven wrong.  People will get extra boisterous because of the testosterone factor, but there really has to be an already existing anger management issue.

Papi and I laugh our way through most of the 'issues' people have in relationships, and I didn't want that to change.

The 'angry' person has never arrived, other than the fact that my love is a little more aggressive in terms of road rage, but mi esposo has promised to work on this.

At the same time, I have to work on believing Papi's truths vs. myths.  I'm slowly letting go of my own crazy ideas that pop into this overly creative brain.

I'm not so worried about the anger issue coming up anymore.  My love has proven to me that I still get my silly spouse, even if he is growing man hair.

Now to Papi's side of the fence.

My love abhors pot heads.  This is why mi esposo would rather have me taking the pharmaceutical companies drugs instead of nature's offering for pain.

Well, if I'm going to be stuck with this pain for the rest of my life, then I really need to look at long term pain management, and pills that would rot my liver are not really a great option in my books.

So, I got approved for medicinal marijuana and took a trip to the The Medicinal Cannabis Dispensary here in Vancouver.

They don't really know what kind of dose I need to get past the point of pain, so they gave me a bit of a starter kit.

They gave me an infused iced tea and a 'Budder' bar, where the infused honey is what's holding this delicious looking edible together.

I was also recommended being given Snake Bite Oil for the nerve issue specifically.

Sounds gross, tastes gross, and at first made me a little nauseas.

However, all it took were two little drops per hourly dose of this magical serum, and I actually felt like I could cook a dinner for myself.

I've been snacking for the past couple of weeks.  Really not eating healthy, just trying to get the most nutrients I can without moving too much.

So, to be able to cook was great joy for me.  Getting those lush, organic greens into my body instantly gave me more energy, and I had more mobility to use it.

Ok.  No problem, until the 3rd dose.  I had a moment of pot head snickers and Papi was not impressed.

The giggle attack.

My love doesn't want to see the giggle attack, because then I'm a full fledged pot head.

I removed myself from the room to try to contain my giggles, but inevitably I would snort out a chuff.

Then I heard it, "Andréa?  What are you doing?" in such a tone that it felt like I was a bad little girl who got caught sneaking cookies before my dinner.

I couldn't hold it in any longer and the bursts of laughter came out.  Papi wasn't happy, "See!  This is what I didn't want!  I don't want a pot head for a wife!  I hate pot heads!"

Well, that just made me laugh all the harder, because whether you're on something or not, when you're not supposed to laugh, it makes you laugh all the more.

I needed a time out.

I had to sit and get serious, or my love will not be impressed.

way to harsh my mellow dude ...

Eventually, the giggles calmed down and Papi said, "Well, I guess the non-stop giggles are better than the non-stop whining."

irk! i prefer to call it wincing in pain, not whining.  this femme doesn't whine!

Exactly my dear.

And you know what?

If this femme's perfect butch is replaced with a Tranny with man hair for a spouse, then Papi can deal with a gimpy, limpy, pot head for a wife.

Tou-fucking-ché and somewhere, we'll meet in the middle.

My love soon realized where the issue with pot heads came from, and we had a long txt chat about it.

It's my love's turn to work on this fear, just like I had to work on the hormones fear.

We were really meant to be here for each other to help each other over our 'issues' aren't we?

Taunt me baby, you know I love it.

So, here I am, sitting at my blank blog screen, doing the same thing I do every morning: asking myself where do I start with my words and what am I feeling?

The moment I begin to type, I hear, "Honeeeeeeeee ... d'you wanna see something?"

"Oh gawd," I muttered, expecting to see something that I know is going to be too much of a struggle for my indolent eyes.

my new nerve pain medication is whipping my ass ... open eyes ... please open!

"Why do you say it like that?!"

As per usual, I answered in all honesty, "Because I'm sure it's going to be something I don't wanna see."

Papi laughed and walked toward me with only a t-shirt on, giggling all the way.

the tranny terrorist has come out to play ...

My love stands straight in front of me, with a Brace Face smile of grandeur, and lifts his ...

**shudders** ... still cringing with that word ...

... leg up on to our chocolate, leather ottoman in a Captain Morgan pose.  Papi then proceeds to stroke the new fur that is growing like an out of control ivy on the inside of his leg.  It's like it is an alien being, who's only purpose in life is only to inch toward the groin, then continue beyond until it has completely taken over mi esposo's body.

"Do you wanna touch it?  It's soft," my love teased, while stroking this new found coat like a beloved treasure.

"No, I think I'm good."

i'm sure it will distract me during our next make out session ...

As I write about the Tranny Terrorist and today's harassment, I can hear Papi in the washroom trimming the peach fuzz that is my love's minute, facial trophy of pride.

I'm pretty sure my love believes that if you trim it, it will come.

Man hair!

Seriously!

I keep checking the top of Papi's head in fear that there may be a male pattern balding spot.  It haunts me every day!  When I see a part in my love's hair, I panic!

My Trust List friend had asked me what my fear is around the changes, and this is what I described:

If this is what I desired, I would have stayed in the closet.

However, my friend said there are plenty of really good looking F-Ms who want to look their best, and that perhaps, I should look at some of those pictures.

i guess it's true that i'm not happy unless i'm worrying ...

Papi has gone through The Great Breast Disappearance and I still love mi esposo, even though I no longer have a pillow to rest my head upon.

The poison, that my love injects into the already perfect body I adore, is edgingly invading his body.  Every new hair mocks me yelling, "Helllooooo Andréa!!! We're coming to git'cha!"

Yet, I still love Papi.

I'm pretty sick.  I love the Tranny Terrorist who likes to flaunt these day to day changes in front of me, with the sole intention of razzing his wife.

I remember when I was a little girl, and my grandpa used to tease me until I cried.  My family said, "If he didn't tease you, it would mean he doesn't love you."

I'm pretty sure I married my 'grandpa'.

He was bald, fat and hairy.

2 differences however.

My love never insults me, and I don't need to deal with a penis.

These would be deal breakers.

hair-phobia

I am a 96 year old's watch dog.

I'm so sick of the fuckers who call trying to trick our old fart into giving away her information.  They figure out who's old and feeble, then work every angle to ambush her while we're not looking.

However, in this world of civil anxiety where there is mob flash looting, throngs of riots and utter starvation, I think my life as the g'mas guardian is goddamn good.

I was quite disturbed yesterday by watching The Real News and their segment, Austerity and the Destruction of Democracy.

It sounds pretty much like we could all be heading towards WWIII.

Do you see it out there?

I do.

good gawd get me to the dominican republic where i can live off the land and my goats ...

Yet, here I sit fretting about such small scanty subjects.

Like Papi's ever expanding leg hair.

Seriously.

My love's man hair is creeping like an ivy, up those thighs toward mi esposo's perfectly smooth stomach.  If this leg hair is any indication of what Papi's chest hair will be like, this male transformation is seeming like it's teeming with tenacity.

Now that I've been given the green light to lie upon my love's Great Breast Disappearance, I better get in there while the going's good.

It won't be a pleasure to lie on Papi's chest while coarse hairs probe to find my nostrils.

Yesterday, my love says in a panicked flutter, "I see a hair on my back!  Can you tell me if it's coming out of my mole, or just becoming back hair!!!!"

Back hair. 

oh for fuck's sakes.

"No," I said after a horror filled examination, "it's just coming out of the mole."  We both sighed with a breath of comfort.

My love then proceeds to tell me that there is a hair starting to grow on The Great Breast Disappearance.  "Can you see it!  It's right here," my love said with a smile.

"No," I said with a quick sideways glance, continuing to wash the dishes.  I didn't really look.

I didn't really want to.

All I could think about was the conversation we had after I calmed down from the anaphylactic crying session the other day.

I had accepted that Papi isn't the manly monster I thought I would be married to, when my love pipes up, "You do realize that it takes a few years before all the changes stop happening, right?"

fucking yay.

So, I just get used to the idea that I'm still in love with my butch, who happens to look slightly more masculine, and now?

Now I have to think about all of the changes I've grown used to possibly being exacerbated?

My love was in the local newspaper the other day, along with another F-M, speaking about how human resources in the work place have to make way for changes in peoples' gender.

There was Papi's gorgeous fledgling F-M face underneath someone who had obviously been going through the procedure much longer.

He was bald.

Honestly, I can't see my love being bald.  It won't look good.  When Papi would use the clippers and shave that salt and pepper hair too short, it didn't look as good as it usually did.

But bald?

Why the hell does everyone have to go bald?

Why the fuck does the face, leg, chest and back hair have to be the replacement for locks on their heads?

Seriously!!!

So, like I said.

Here I sit fretting over small little problems with hair ...

omg.  am i hair-phobic?!?!?!

... and the world is making it's way towards a modern day fall of the roman empire.

Pretty ridiculous eh?

Ok.

I have to do it at least once in my blog:

He.

There.

I said it.

Fucking baby steps.

Zap!

"Do you think my nipples look sexayyyy?" Papi asked with a tongue in cheek.

I was about to say, "No," but when my love heard the 'N', Papi seemed to be hurt.

I quickly turned the 'N' into, "N-n-not yet."

That seemed to work.

That also could very well be true.

Not yet.

Seems to be the essence of any journey really.

I've definitely learned that 'never' really isn't a healthy part of anybodies vocabulary.

Really!

If you're still using 'never', then you haven't lived enough to learn that there are better words to use.

I mean, I said I would 'never' be with an F-M.

Blammo!

I've been told by the cosmos that I have to change my vocabulary.

It's almost as if the moment we say 'never', some strange force creates a reason for us to be proven wrong.

It took me years to come out of the closet, because of my horridly religious family having their talons into my flesh.

Living around nuns will fuck you up big time.

But when I finally did, it felt like my life just started.  I would never have to go near bristly, immature facial hair.  I would never have to deal with that man stink.  I would never have to encounter chest hair during sexy time.

"Honey, I found something that I think you're not going to like."

Papi didn't have to tell me out loud.

I knew what it was, because my love had that chin resting as close to chest as possible, creating the quadruple chin, looking at what I thought was a soft, bare chest.

here comes the never

"I see 2 black hairs coming up."

Oh yay.

That looks to me like the end of snuggling to my love's chest.

It's no fun cuddling up to a chest while there's a brillo pad hair threatening to crawl into your nose.

My love has been grooming leg hair too.

I have to say it does look better.  I was really in fear of just how thick and long those bitches could get!!

Oh, there will be waxing in my love's future, even if I have to drug Papi and tie mi esposo to the bed.

hmmm ... this is sounding more fun by the second ...

Gawd!  I hope that the leg hair that has reared it's ugly head is not an indication of the possibility of chest and back hair.

I'll have a full time job waxing!!!

Maybe I should invest in an electrolysis machine?  That could be hours of fun too!

ZAP!

that one's for putting my cotton t-shirt in the dryer.

ZAP!

and that one's for letting Psycho Kitty down to beat the crap outta my cats.

Hmm ... I may have found a bundle of fun here ...

It's possible I may have fun being a Tranny Lover.

**enter evil laugh here**

this moment brought to you by the letters W,T,F

It's a strange phenomenon.

You know how men just can't help but stare at breasts?  Or more precisely, cleavage?

I get it now.

Papi parades around topless and all I can do is stare at The Great Breast Disappearance.

It's so damn weird.

I can talk to Papi about 'who knows what' and my eyes leisurely gravitate lower, and lower to the nipples that seem much happier than they were a month ago, not to mention the scars that look less ablaze.

My love is using serum meant to diminish the scarring.  Every morning, when mi esposo comes home from the graveyard shift, it's applied with love after the, "Yikes that's cold!!!" healing water cleans off the area.

I actually haven't seen the wreckage (or lack thereof) for a few days, as the morphine oblivion has had me in quite the state of lassitude.

However, after my IMS treatment yesterday, I haven't had to take the nasty drugs that make me look like a hippy from the 70's, with meager slits for eyes and a pseudo-grin.

dude, pass me another ...

All I've needed to are my usual muscle relaxants and anti-inflammatories.

Hence, today when I got up, I had a glimmer of the spirit of Andréa, and there they were.

The flattened, AWOL breasts in all their glory.

As I speak to Papi, my eyes keep lowering without my intention.

I stare.

I look back up at my love and again my eyes start falling like a moose in quicksand.

Lower.

Lower.

And bingo!

Nipples.

Man nipples to be exact.

What the hell?  I just can't keep from staring at them.

Well, there is one thing that will keep me from staring at them.

Papi using the brand new beard trimmer.

Here's another unavoidable casualty for my eyes to lay upon.

My love now has what is a small mass of fur at the chin's end.

Just at the tip.

Can't really call it a beard, but there's something there and it actually is growing on me.

hehehe ... sorry ... couldn't resist ...

I'm not sure what's happening to me, but I do believe I'm starting to either a) get used to it, b) am entertained by it, or c) thinking it's kinda cute.

WTF?!?!?

It actually doesn't offend me, and it suits Papi.

again, WTF?!? and who just said that?!?

So there stands my love in the bathroom mirror, shaving and trimming so that it looks like an intentional mass at the chin's end, and I watch.

I watch mi esposo making it look perfect.

I don't cringe.

I smile.

who is this person?!?

Honestly, because it's on Papi, I don't mind it.

Is this what they call unconditional love?

The Princess and the 'T'

"Honey guess what I'm getting?!?"

i'm afraid to ask ... so i won't

"I'm getting sideburns!" Papi said and jumped onto the bed.

I honestly looked with all the bleary eyed vision I could, but I didn't see anything.  Then Papi continued, "You'll have to get a magnifying glass to see it but it's there!!!"

I rolled my eyes and laughed at my love, and I was immediately reproached, "Don't try to say you can't see it!  Don't lie!  Honey can you see it?!?"

I finally spoke, "All I see is mole hair."

"HONEY!!!!" Papi yelled and the bed seemed to be having it's very own earthquake as mi esposo crawled up close as possible to be sure there was a cheek stuffed right in my face.  Even Sir Bark-A-Lot felt the fear and his eyes widened in fear of the possibility of a giant human trampling him.

No.

I didn't see it, but all of a sudden, Papi was at an angle that enabled me to see something else.  My eyes must have bugged out of my head, because my love could tell what I was looking at.

"Yeah!  See!  Under my chin, I've got more hair!!"

Indeed.  There was more hair under my love's chin.  Coarse, black hair that was definitely the beginning of my fear of the beard.

I couldn't deny this one.  There was definitely hair there, "Yeah, I see it," I said with not as much enthusiasm as my love wished for.

I just can't be happy for it.

Shaggy, stubly, smelly, dirty beard hair is not on my list of 'likes'.  We all know that by now.

My love only wants a soul patch, and it seems that's where it's not growing.

i still don't see the sideburns

A soul patch is much different than a full on man hair beard.

I get reports daily about the various people that will either call my love a girl or a boy.  It was the same before all the poisons started being injected into my love's body.

I still don't like the hormones.

I still don't like that stuff careening through Papi's blood.

I still have moments where I feel like bargaining.

I guess this means I'm still not past the 5 stages of grief.  I'm definitely in a better place than I was in December, but damn!!!  I have yet to find utter peace at the end of the path.

rainbows and puppy dogs and my butch back in my arms ...

I know that everyone who has followed my journey says I'm doing well, moving fast, being strong, but I just don't know if I will ever be out of denial.

all i see is my butch

I still don't have pronouns down, and I'm not sure as to when I will.

Well, other than when we get to the Dominican Republic.  I'll be speaking in Spanish, so I will be using the proper pronouns there.

But here?

Nope.

I just keep repeating my love's name.  I sound like a teen who can't stop talking about her first true love.

And I'll tell you, saying Papi's name over and over, in front of every sentence, non-stop is a bit aggravating to me, so I can't imagine how annoying it must be to others!

None-the-less, I continue to work through this.

My bargaining stage flows in and out, and I never speak it out loud.  I just think it, "Maybe you could just be without breasts and forget about this male transformation thing as a whole."

No.

I never say it out loud.  I just imagine it.

I envision my love saying, "These hormones aren't giving me a soul patch that I want so there's no point in being on them anymore."

i am a princess in a fairy tale land ...

Stroll vs. Sprint

I'm so glad I'm not the only person who doesn't know what a clit pump is.

I thought, "Damn!  What kind of lesbian am I?!"

But apparently I'm not the only one, as another of my Blogger Friends, Psycho pointed out.

I have yet to come face to face with the clit pump, and I'm good with this.  I need some quality time with the 5 Foot Clitoris before I jump into this gismo.

Now that Papi is back to work and our schedules clash, there is only one good thing about not being able to see my love frequently: I will have more days to get over any current torment from the Tranny Terrorist before the next wall of 'OMG!!' comes at me.

I have enough to stop my mind reeling from prior conversations with Papi.

Like for instance: "Can you check my back to make sure I'm not getting hair there?"

Oh.

My.

Gawd.

Seriously?  Do I have to look forward to that?  All I see in my mind is this:

But with better head hair.

Yes.  Here what my mind's eye sees ^^ when I think of it is the main hair I'm terrified of.

right now i feel like typing anything i possibly can just to get the picture to move up and out of my view on this blog entry. i guess i should've waited to put that in.

Anyway, if you haven't figured it out, I'm not a fan of man hair.

I'm also still dealing with another statement from Papi that made me crawl in my skin: "I want to get my nipples pierced again, but I'll have to wait a year.  I don't want my nipples to fall off."

jeeeeeeeezus fucking christ!!!!

Does this:

look like it wants anything to hang off it?!?

Really?!

Leave the little fucker alone!  Can't you tell it's pissed right now!?!?

Can we just take one step at a time my love?

Oh wait, I forgot.

That's just one of the things I love about mi esposo.

Papi can't do one step at a time.  One of my Trust List friends described Papi as 'A Bull In a China Shop'.

True.

Too True.

It really is one of the things I love about Papi, but damn!  Let this little bugger of a nipple be healed before you start talking about what you're going to do to it next!!!!

And hey!  How about you let me catch up to what's going on right now?

I need to get used to The Great Breast Disappearance, The 5 Foot Clitoris and my love's change of scent due to the hormones.

There is no room in my bubble for clit pumps, back hair, and nipples falling off and floating down the drain.

It seems I'm always trying to catch up to the train that's left the station.

It hurts to run.  Please just let me dawdle.

Papi's reality show

Ya know?

I think Papi enjoys being the Tranny Terrorist a bit too much.

When Papi dropped me off at work, and I was harassing my love in regards to the leg hair, "Farewell hairy monster," my love revealed a new area that was growing man hair that I never even thought about.

Stomach.

Not impressed.

I guess if I'm going to irk my love with cheeky words, there will always be a comeback that doesn't even require words now.

Later on, while Papi was changing massive bandaids on still raw looking nipples, I was yet again awarded another look at them.

"Look!  The nipple is going to look like this when the scab falls off!"

Nice.

That's lovely my dear.

I tried so hard to look and have actual interest, but my face unfortunately, cannot lie.

"The look on your face is hilarious!"

Is this why Papi torments me?

Could it be that this is mi esposo's entertainment every day?  The object of the game is to see just how puckered my lips can get, how many wrinkles I can extend on my forehead and how much I can raise my nostrils as I crimp the skin between my eyes.

Maybe my love is enjoying being the star of the blog show.  Really, I say it's my healing journey, but most of the time, it's all about Papi and the ridiculous antics I have to endure.  This is possibly like a reality show you read and mi esposo is addicted to the attention!

Or, perhaps this is my love's way of giving me something to write?  Yesterday I received a review of my blog from Papi, "Your blog was boring today."

Well, damn!

I better get something better to write about then.

the moral of the story is, if my blog is boring, then so is papi, no?

Enter stage left: the nipples.

The doctor appointment Papi had yesterday was great for Papi.  My love came bounding out of the office, "She said they looked incredible!"

I'll have to have a word with my doctor. 

please don't feed the animals

I guess to a doctor who's having one of a very few F-M patients, she has probably seen worse.

I mean, this is really why we flew all the way to Florida; to get the very best surgeon.

There are some that are really awful.

We have seen some really bad jobs where people have gotten tired of the top surgery wait list, and gone to someone they could afford.

Goddam!  You don't want to be mucking about with top surgery!

Anyway.

Just got my paycheck from that unpaid time off from said surgery.

No cash and a kick in the teeth.

There ya go.  Papi gave me something to write.

how many stars will i receive today i wonder

papi's pride.

So, I was corrected by Papi.

"You think I'm excited about getting man hair?  I'm not excited!  Nobody tells you about the ass crack hair that grows like crazy, or the horrible oily skin!  Nobody tells you about the unibrow.  If I get a fucking unibrow I will FREAK OUT!!!"

I giggled and quietly kept typing out my love's word for word monologue for your entertainment.

Papi continued the tirade, "So no I'm not HAPPY about the hair or how about the hair growing on my toes and the tops of my feet.  Did I say I was happy about that?!  No!!!!!  Who's happy about that?!?  Well other than the F-Ms that like that shit."

Well!

I'm glad we got that sorted out.

I stand corrected!

and now apparently, so do you.

Right now, Papi is in the U, S of A for Seattle Pride with one of our very good friends (and Trust List member) who has my love hopped up on Vicodin.

party on papi ...

I guess being in a crowd with those nasty nasty wounds would be painful.  One jab to the chest and there would be tears I'm sure.

My love is unhappy though, because the absence of a moustache is now having everyone call mi esposo a female.

That is of course, other than the woman in the washroom who told Papi, "You're in the wrong washroom," and proceeded to chat my love's ear off about her friend leaving her alone while they were peeing.

ahhh ... pride ... what joyous mayhem you provide for us ...

So my love is whooping it up in Seattle and I'm cursing my fucking back because I needed to to a 'refresher' course at work.

and from what i hear, i haven't fed the cats fast enough. if The Mrs. yells, it's serious business. i'm pretty sure i hear her getting ammo ready ...

Papi said the dyke march was today, but, "I won't be marching because I'm not considered a woman or a dyke so you don't have to worry about me getting yelled at by anyone there."

This really was just a dig at me for my reasoning that Papi shouldn't be riding in Dykes on Bikes.

Whatever.

I just laugh at mi esposo's attempts at sarcasm.

I know that when Papi is snarky like this, it's only because my love wants to see me smile.

I wonder if my love wanted me to smile when I heard this, "I wonder what people will do if I take my top off?"

Now, my love usually goes topless for Pride, but I can't imagine what people would do seeing the horrendous wounds on my love.

I really hope that was just for smiles as well.

ok ... now i'm just rambling ... sorry

In all honesty, I really only wanted to get on here to give a massive CON-GRAT-U-FUCKING-LATIONS to New York for having people get their heads out of their fucking asses.

but instead blathered on about papi ...

If you live under a rock, New York has now allowed all us gays to be legally married there.

It's absolutely ridiculous that there has to be so much dialogue about this, but at least we're going further in teaching people how to be human beings to one another.

It is a beautiful day to see the world take another step closer to love.

hairy business

It's gets messy to share the same experience with my love, yet we come from polar opposites on the topic.

"Look!  My arm hair is getting thicker!" Papi said with excitement.

"Do you say these things just to torment me?" I asked my love.

"No!  Can't I just talk about things with you?  I just want to be able to say things that I think."

I suppose mi esposo has a point.

What's the harm of letting Papi yack about all the things I don't like?  I can have an internal eye roll I guess.

Then I think, if Papi's allowed to express joy in man hair, then I should be able to express my dislike, no?

My love started to talk about chest hair and I almost crapped myself right there.

fucking chest hair?!?!?!??!?!

I guess I've managed to deal with all the other issues.  I assume I'll take each step of this as it comes.

That doesn't make it any easier.  In my mind, I'm just getting over The Great Breast Disappearance and it will be replaced with great gobs of man hair on that smooth silky chest.

One of my blogger friends Rafa, said I was honoring my vows more than anyone.  That this is the sanctity of marriage.

I just blew it off as my stubbornness.  Give me a challenge and I'll see it through.

I'm worse than a fucking mule.

Hell, I challenged myself for 2 years with brain injury.  In the most pigheaded way.

no. i don't accept ANY of this. heal goddamit. ah crap ... thank you brain injury, here I go again getting off topic.

Ok.

So, the point is, if Papi gets chest hair, I'll have another fucking meltdown and have to get through that as well.

There's so fucking much to deal with after each part of healing that it's like being in the ring with Mike Tyson.

The hits keep coming and coming, and I keep blocking them.  I never get in a jab or an upper cut.  I'm too busy in blocking hell.

When the bell rings, I get a short reprieve.  I can wipe the sweat from my forehead to keep it from stinging the fresh wounds on my skin.  I take a gasp of air along side a chug of water, then I'm up again and preparing for the next hit.

How the hell is a lesbian ...

that's me btw ... don't you DARE consider me straight just because my spouse looks like a man.

... going to enjoy a fucking hairy man chest?

The caterpillar moustache is slowly growing on me.  Obviously, because everyone notices it and I can't even see the difference.

It was funny when the 95 year old G'ma came home and said, "What's that on your lip?!  It looks like a moustache!"

Then it was even more entertaining watching Papi wriggle through the conversation of why my love can't lift anything.  "I had chest surgery."

The G'ma panicked, "What?!?!  Do you have cancer?!"

"No grandma, nothing major to worry about, but I can't lift anything for a month."

No use explaining though.

G'ma has no memory.  We have to go through the same conversation a few times a day.

But at least Papi shaved that shit off the lip so there's no more harassment from the old bird.

Ahhhhhh ... thanx G'ma.

Touché

I may have found the first way to joke about Papi's top surgery.

I wanted my love to change the channel last night, but mi esposo was too busy with the tippity-tappity of a Facebook chat to respond. 

oh, no no no. you know better than that. i will not be ignored.

"Change the fucking channel or I'll poke you in the ribs."  I made a gesture that was at least 10 inches away from my love, but it worked.

"Ok!  Ok!  Just gimme a sec!  Don't come any closer!"

I crept a little closer, "I'm coming in for the kill," I said with my best Hannibal Lecter impersonation.

The channel was changed.

There was no need for me to jab an area that has left Papi without the ability to raise arms any higher than the elbow.

Aha!

I have power!

I think Papi and I both know that I would never intentionally cause any pain to mi esposo, but damn, this could be fun.

do my bidding.

After the channel was changed, and the remote handed over to me, Papi headed for the shower.  Yet mi esposo was again terrified to get in, for fear of nipples sliding down the drain.

I'm pretty sure we're past that point, but Papi hasn't really let me see them since I last saw them and gave the cringe face.

"Don't make that face!  You make me feel ugly!"

My love, it is not you that I'm cringing at.

It's the thought of stitches all around my very own nipple.  The look of the raw, red, angry looking areola that I just know must be painful.

That's what the cringe is for.

It's also for the new scars that inhabit the majority of my love's ribs.  Hell, it even took out a small portion of the sugar skull tattoo on Papi's right side.

It is not my love who I cringe at.

It is the thought of the pain.

It is the thought of how it must obviously hurt to raise those arms, because that would inevitably pull on those bitter red lines that look so precarious, they could actually just split apart with the simplest of reaches.

like changing the channel?

The tape that holds the last portion of those ruby lines is now a darkened brown.  The evidence of sacred blood escaping Papi's body.

Yes.

This is what the cringe is about:

How about you?

Does it send shivers through your stomach thinking of how it would hurt, pull, ache?

did you cringe?

It's so difficult to think of my love going through this to feel better within a body that I found already perfect.

Anyway, the point is, I am getting used to The Great Breast Disappearance.

I must be, because I found a way to torment the Tranny Terrorist, and as long as I can do that, I know I'm healing.

My next mission is dealing with the man hair that is squatting on Papi's legs.  Great black furry bristles.

"Touch them!  They are smooth and silky!"

No, Papi, I don't see the softness of female hair.

I see evidence of an F-M changing into the person I didn't marry.

hmmmm ... shave it or I'll poke you in the ribs!

Oh wait, it was me who said it would look ridiculous for a male to have shaved legs right?

Even I have troubles keeping up with my 'rules'.

Grant me the serenity ...

Papi says it was all a joke.  "I sat there with it waiting for you to see what I'd done, but you never looked."

fair enough, i do get a little obsessed on the coffee shop, and i was overjoyed watching the baby eagles too ... so maybe it's the truth

"By the time you saw it, I'd forgotten I'd done it and would have gone to work like that.  But you freaked out and started doing my hair."

hell fucking yes i did!

I'm a little more calm about that now.

Yes.

Now I can focus on the other things that are testing my serenity.

testing? i don't think so ... you're already gone. weren't you plotting how to kill the cat?!

I googled some nice chicken purée soups and veggie smoothies, then promptly went out to buy the ingredients.  When I came home however, there wasn't a clear spot on the counter to make anything.

oh i'll make a spot ... i'll just shove all you bastards to one side! haha i win!! goddammit!! where'd the mother fucking knife go?!

We're still living in the mayhem of boxes.  The Great Sewage Flood Purge is taking a long time.  Papi's down for the count with a never ending, tooth extracted, bleeding gum, and I'm too tired to do anything from lack of nourishment.

or at least that's my excuse ...

Fucking boxes.

Everywhere.

I managed to make myself my very first, raw food, vegetable smoothie.  I did exactly what they instructed.  I really need to get my greens in, and they recommended stuffing as many leafy beauties into my new VitaMix as possible.

After I blended up the fruit, I stuffed in my gems.

And stuffed.

My anticipating eyes were thrilled as I added the luscious, lovely greens!  My waiting mouth was ecstatic that they would soon be entering my anemic blood stream.  I'd be feeling better in no time!

I took a sip.

uh-oh

Honestly, I had to nurse that fucker for 3 hours.  Oh, I consumed it, but I had to take itty bitty sips through my straw.  It fooled my stomach into believing that I was full.  That was a good thing.

But the flavour?

Um.  Dirt milkshake anyone?

I still have 2/3 of a blender to drink.  It's going to be strictly a labour of love for my blood stream to finish off this puppy.  My body better fucking well thank me for the suffering I'm about to endure.

After I finally finished my healthy, veggie smoothie that tasted like I'd eaten the lawn, I ate a smooth, chocolatey, sweeter than sweet, bucket of coconut ice cream.

Yup.

Reward.

 How do these raw food people do this?

Thank god I still get my coffee.  There would be a police situation in the house if I couldn't.  It just might have to be double coffee days until I can find the counters and chew food.