Naming the baby.

Ok.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ Casa de la ausencia de dolor

~ La casa feliz

~ Casa de los gringos

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

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

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

~ Villa NO COLD DRIVE, MOI BIEN!!!

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

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

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

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

~ Casa de los Canucks!

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

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

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

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

Villa Cambiar

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

Good god!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gimme the guns baby!

i courageously sell my ideas

Shit kickin' boots.

I channeled my inner redneck for Ladies Night.

I dressed for the part, right down to my dog tag I wear every day with utter pride.  It's the one I received from the Queer Arts Festival this summer.  You remember the one?  The Queer As Fuck award!

One this day, I felt it was the perfect accessory for my power suit.

Every day, I dress in my prettiest clothing, sometimes wackiest colours, to make my femme presence known.

This time, I didn't want to wear it for shooting guns.

I did the last few times.  It's fine to wear a skirt, but from this point forward, I feel that I must don my jeans and boots.

I pulled every little eyelet of my 'Sidekick' Dayton Boots taut.  I exerted myself, as I wrapped that stout leather around my ankles and shins.

That of course was after I'd slithered into my tightest, most badass jeans I have.

This was not a night for my Dominican jeans with rhinestones on the ass pockets.

No, this was a night for Diesel Indian, Bootcut jeans.

They pull my figure into a tiny little package of strength and 'don't mess with me' attitude.

You could never pull the femme from me, so I still felt pretty with my locks hanging down around my shoulders.

In order to fit in the with the bio-boys, I especially chose my camo sweatshirt to wear nice and snug under my riding leather.

Of course, I no longer have a license to ride my motorcycle, or any other vehicle for that matter.  Even if I did, my dearly departed bike was killed in the motorocycle accident.

Still, I kept my leather jacket.  Only problem is, as I went into the closet in Our Closet, I realized it's in storage!

I had to settle for my black jean jacket with a few lacy bits behind the buttons.

No matter, because all together, they give me a certain amount of strength.

My boots hold my feet firm on the ground, with their sturdy heels.

Not to mention their pointy tips, that are seriously good for the off-chance that I may need to kick someone in the balls.

Strength.  I'm searching for my strength.

It's my power suit.

She means business.

When we arrived at the shooting range, I walked in with confidence.  Every boot step sounded as I crossed the floor.

It was like I was wearing a red dress.

It was my space.

My night.

When I shot those tiny silver bullets from my .22, the gun ranger realized he didn't need to help me, saying, "you're really doing good!" then turned his focus on My Gratitude Buddy and my friend I got to know a little better.

They're another member of the Pariah Club.  They fit in just fine.

The only thing I needed the gun ranger to do for me, was load me another cartridge so it was ready for my next round.

Of course, my two buddies were in it for the fun, as they shot their 357 Magnum.  I stuck to my .22 and 9mm.

If you didn't see the outcome of my new shooting expedition, you have to take a peek at it from yesterday.

I'm getting better.

I'm finding my strength.

I'm finding more confidence.

I'm finding that I WILL be protecting myself without any hesitation.

With that, I'm finding more peace.

I'm also finding a new bond with my shit kickin' boots.

i have only positive mental pictures

killed that dummy dead.

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

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

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

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

Check it out:

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

success comes effortlessly in my direction

i love you to the pit of my bowels

I've begun a positive relationship with my migraine.

At day 14, I may as well make peace with it, so I'm pretending that I like it.

Hey!  It's cool to walk around with my eyes half slit and bloodshot!  I look like I'm an active alcoholic again!

Now, I get to have the look whilst being sober.

I'll fool everyone as the old ladies 'tsk tsk' me for being a louse in broad daylight.

They'll especially enjoy the staggering that accompanies my swollen brain.

It's a bit akin to when I first had my brain injury.

People will just think I'm drunk and clear the sidewalk as I wobble on by.

Ooh, I'll get lots of dirty looks while I resemble someone passing out from last night's bender.

The morphine will help on that end.

Involuntary naps.

Maybe I'll just look like I'm on heroin as I'm nodding off on the bus, or in today's case, the SeaBus.

Morphine, heroin, same diff.  Both are meager attempts at blocking the suffering.

Both will be equally as difficult when it comes to withdrawal.  Oh, how I look forward to that.

For today, I'm going to pretend my anguished head is really just normal and carry on with business as usual.

It's my Thursday Lunch day with my mother, and later, on I've made plans to see my Eternal Friend.

I've canceled on every plan over the past 2 weeks, except for family on Xmas and our special dinner with my baby sister, husband and kids.

My family are used to seeing me in this state, considering they were there for me during the brain injury.

However, today, I've decided to push through the feeling of my brain trying to seep through my skull.  It's not too much different than the roots of a tree breaking through a sidewalk.

I'll just put my sunglasses on and turn my headphones up as high as my poor little spasm brain can take.

Tune in and tune out.

This change in attitude came from my massage session last night.

He made it feel like it's ok to be in this much agony.  "Sometimes, it's better to acknowledge the pain, rather than will it away."

So, today, I'm going to acknowledge it.

I'm going to cake on the makeup to hide my pale face, and slather on the eyeliner to give my eyes the illusion that they're actually open.

I'll wear soft soled shoes so that as I walk, the 'thud-thud-thud' of my steps won't echo in my head.

I know there's no point in praying to get better.  I might as well pray to win the lottery.

Praying is really quite useless, unless it's for a change in our thinking, then it becomes a change in our brain mechanism that switches to another route.

We have the ability to think stronger and more positive, if we wish to.

So, today, I'm going to think positive as I embrace my migraine.

Dear migraine,

I think you're absolutely wonderful and I cherish your presence.  I hope you stick around until my dying days so that I never have to feel like I did 2 weeks ago.  

Being pain free is really over-rated and I'm glad you've come to show me this, and show me that light and sound are the enemy.  I was living a lie before you came along.

I'm grateful for your existence in my head, and that you make me feel like my brain is 10x it's normal size.  I get to pretend that it's because I'm so smart that there's no more room left in my skull, so my noodle is pushing it's way through the bone.

Thank you for being a part of my life.

Please don't ever leave me.

Signed,

Andréa, your love slave

There.

How's that?

there is a great reason that this is unfolding before me now

chemo cat & cake

G*d I love peanut butter on toast.  It's gotta be the best treat out there.  I sometimes go to bed anticipating my morning glory, peanut butter celebration.

Just had to share that.

Don't worry.  This is not a blog about peanut butter toast.

Nor will it be a blog about complaining of how little sleep I've been getting this week, yet last night was the first night I slept all the way through without drugs to help me.

I will also spare you the details about how I'm suffering through the weather erupting my bitch of a back.

So what's left to talk about?

Cat's on harnesses and Papi's birthday.

Let's start with Papi's birthday.

Every year, I buy him his favourite cake.  Of course, it's very difficult for me to keep in mind which is the flavour he likes, because it's only once a year I buy it for him.  My brain injury does not do me justice in the memory department.

There I was staring at Safeway cake, ...

... just fyi, it's the only one he ever asked for ... i would never buy him this by choice ...

... trying to recall which vanilla cake he prefers.  Is it the one with the filling of vanilla icing?  Or the one with custard filling?

I banked on the custard, because he has such strange taste buds.

Only one problem; there were no 'single' slices of the vanilla custard cake.

Only one thing left to do!  Buy a whole cake!  Yeah!

I proudly took the bus with his cake, with onlooking passengers drooling at the sight of a flat of sugar.  I prayed my brain injury didn't give me balance issues, as I limped with the weight of the package.

I waited patiently until Papi slept off the Graveyard Coma, and, "Happy birthday!" I screamed at him while he was still wiping the sleep from his eyes.

Oh, I got the right cake!  I was so pleased.

Alas, there was one 'wee' issue.  I forgot that last year, he asked me not to buy him the cake anymore because his tastebuds have changed since starting on hormones.  He doesn't eat sweets anymore.

Well, I hope the ladies at his job enjoy it.

Let's move on to cats in harnesses.

We have to train them to be on harnesses so that we can bring them outside for their piddling.  This is how they'll be traveling on planes.

Pee breaks on leashes.

Well, I got the harnesses on the cats, but the cats were not impressed, to say the least.  I can't tell you how many bite marks I'm nursing, but I did it.

Now picture this: Cats walking with their belly so low to the ground you'd think they were hover cats with legs 1/4 the size of a normal feline.

It was odd to witness our cats not moving from one spot for hours at a time.

Oh!  But when they did move, it was in reverse, as they were trying to back out of the nylon, pseudo straight jackets they were in.

Then there was Psycho Kitty.  He was so distraught with the prospect that he started to lick his fur off his body.

He already has a kitty version of male pattern baldness from the stress of being trapped in Our Closet of 454 sq. ft with The Bastard Prince.

Now?  His loss of hair has extended all the way to losing some of his tail fur.

Good thing we never made it onto Psycho Kitty TV.  This hair issue just won't do for his national debut.  He would need a toupée.

Normally, he's such a pretty kitty with all that long grey fur.  However, he now resembles a cat on chemotherapy.

I figure he'll look really good with a shaved lion cut.

Silver miniature lion!  A rare breed.

So there ya go.  Papi's birthday and cats on harnesses.

Aren't you glad you stopped by?

everything i do turns into success

OK Mr. Lumpy. Bring it on.

... your sunday sillies are HERE as blogger just wont let me share them on my damn blog ... but they can't stop me from linking them mwahahahaha!!!  um ... yet ...

Sometimes, when you're worried about a health ailment, the WORST thing to do is Google information about it.

However, in this case, some of it was a good thing.

80% of breast lumps are non-cancerous.

94% of women who get biopsies find the bastard offender to be benign.

So I'm going with that.

I'm also going with positive thinking for the worst case scenario.

'They' keep trying to kill me.

Whomever 'they' are.

I can't tell you how many times in my life I've been inches from death, but I never die.

Only the good die young.

You can't kill me.

So, I won't die.

That doesn't mean I won't agonize.  Sometimes, I feel that my lot in life is to suffer and show other people how to do it.

Never-the-less, I haven't really spoken about this because there's never been a need to, but since I was a budding adolescent, I've never wanted my breasts.

I've wanted them gone.

If this little bastard on my lymph node is sinister, the presence of my fat sacks will be dismissed and the Hector-Browns will be on round two of The Great Breast Disappearance.

I'm perfectly happy with that.

Get rid of them.

Because of the cancer in my family, they've been nothing but a fear trap anyway.

I guess that's why I'm so good at giving myself self-examinations.  I learned young and have been avid enough that I found a lump that wouldn't even show on the mammogram.

They had to use the sonogram to see it, even though they could clearly feel it's inhabitance beneath my tissue.

Ladies, check yourselves.  Every day.  Every goddam day.  Thoroughly.

OK.

Off my soap box.

So, with knowing that nothing can kill me, and that worst case scenario I finally have the reason to lose these dumpy duffels, really, is there anything to worry about?

I slept without too much help last night.

I used the natural stuff; Rescue Remedy.

When I woke up in the middle of the night and my first thought was that bastard leech on my pouch, I zotted myself with another dose and quickly fell to sleep again.

So, I'm feeling much less afraid today, and tomorrow is the biopsy.

Then I have to wait 2 days for results.

What's the point in freaking out?

It won't change any outcomes.

Every time I start to get scared, I'll just think, "Bring it on bitch.  I've been through enough in my life that you don't scare me for a second."

I'll also think, "You can't kill me.  Many have tried."

I've already moved into joking about it, as if Mr. Lumpy is a separate living being.  If Papi isn't doing something I want, I say, "But I have a lump."

From now on if I want him to do something he doesn't want to do, "Mr. Lumpy says to do it."

Fuck it all.

I've cried, I've been nauseas, I've been depressed, I've obsessed and none of it has changed anything.

You can't kill me.

But damn, this headache and exhaustion can certainly take me down a few notches.

i have abundant courage

Urinal training 101

Here's something I never, ever thought that I would have to think about.

Men's washrooms.

Apparently the men have different 'rules' in regards to waiting for the cubicle toilet than in the ladies do.

We ladies line up, and in a civil manner, we wait for one of the stalls to open and the next in the queue is granted their turn.

This phenomenon is different in the men's.

You know how when you go to the grocery store, you look for the 'perfect' lane?

We think, "Ah-ha! This is the fastest lane!" and we make the choice to park our overfilled buggy, in hopes that we'll move faster than the lane beside us.

Sometimes, we're the winner in the race, and other times, we realize we have a dud and start ogling the other lines in hopes that we can still make up the time we've lost.

Well, I've learned that men eye up the stalls in a very similar manner, choose the perfect one, and wait in front of the door.

So, even if the dude next to you was behind you in the line, and they chose the fastest stall, they get in first.

Sounds a bit barbaric to me.

Anyway, last night my love went to a football game and found himself waiting in a men's washroom line up.

This is where things could be dangerous for Papi, and where fear could set in.

Men are mostly oblivious to the fact that Papi is transitioning to a man.

However, there was mi esposo, waiting in the men's line that wasn't moving fast enough for his liking.

As a knee jerk reaction, Papi scooted over to the women's line, forgetting that this is no longer an option.

When Papi realized this, he removed himself ...

just thought i'd let you know that i now feel more comfortable writing male pronouns ... i just realized it myself, so i thought i'd share mid-thought ... because that's how i roll ...

... and proceeded to park his ass with the boys again.

They probably didn't notice, because really, all they want to get in and out of the washroom fast enough to refill their bladders with beer again.

This is when my love finally got into the washroom and saw the bathroom stall phenomenon.

My love is still a bit nervous about his PeeCock craft, so he uses a stall until he feels confident that he can tinkle just as good as the next.

Also, that brings us to the other moment of 'hmmmm ...'.

Mi esposo asks me, "When men go to the urinal, how far down do they unzip?"

i'd like to point out that my love asked me ... how the fuck would i know?!?!  remember?!?!  penis phobia over here!!!

However, Papi has a good point.  You can't just go in and study men at a urinal.  Especially at a football game!

The testosterone is flying high in these kinda settings.  Mi esposo would be due for a beat-down if he stood there studying manly mens' actions at a urinal.

Seriously.  They're pumped full of liquid courage.

So there I was, listening to my love's verbal pondering and thought, "Damn!  Someone needs to help F-Ms out!"

There should be some sorta grooming school.

I know that some people will coach M-Fs with their fledgling female swagger and womanly nuances.

Papi needs some male coaching.

I'm definitely not the one to ask.

So, if you care to leave your suggestions in the comments box down below, I'm sure Papi would be happy with the support.

But really.

This lining up at the stall rule.

Dear males: What the fuck is that about?

**update, i thought i'd mention something about the Rah-Rah-Tranny issue ... well, this is my blob/blab and i think i'll stick to my guns and keep my blob/blab the way it always has been.  sorry charlie ... but i'll only be restricting it when it comes to outside sources.  thank you.  you may now resume you previously scheduled reading**

Gun Slingin'

I didn't really want to get out of bed today.  I was afraid of what this new day would bring, as over the past couple of days, we've had more stress and anxiety from more li'l fuckers to deal with.

Let me tell you about Mr. Extortion #2.  He decided that he would stroll on to our property and demand we pay him to remove our garbage.

Fortunately, the Housemaid and the Our Translator (aka the Pool Man's wife), were here to tell him to piss off.

The Housmaid's husband, the Dominican Daddy, takes our garbage as part of his yard care taking we pay him for.

Mr. Extortion #2 shows up with a fancy document that he demanded we sign, and those ladies gave him a piece of their mind and then some.

I'm telling you, I couldn't be more happy to get that damn wall finished.  All you bitches fuck off and don't come back to my property again!!!

Then there was the water delivery.

You see, we didn't want to fill our pool with water from the house, because it's well water and it is very dirty.

So, the Pool Man hired someone to go to a river and get us some nice, clean water.

They filled the pool while we were sleeping and we woke up to a concrete tub of mud.

They just grabbed it from the bottom of the river bed.  They didn't want to work for the clean stuff.  They just wanted a quick buck.

There was our the Pool Man, Our Translator, Papi, and our temporary evening guard, all telling the guy to return it and get the clean water we asked for.

He wasn't budging.

So, I filled up a clear plastic container with our house water, marched over with Pissy Face and said, in very broken Spanish, "This is our house water and it dirty, so we to ask you to bring clean water, but you to bring water that is more dirty of our house water.  Why I to pay for dirty water, when I to have free dirty water in my house?!?!?!"

Still wasn't budging.

So, I tried the next offer, "I to pay your gas and no more."

It was around that time that our Translator, the Pool Man and his son were clocked out for the day, so they left us to haggle with the dirty water brute.

Good luck!  The guy was body blocking them from getting into their car!!

We don't have any more bullets for our gun, as we used them up when we were test driving it, but dammit if I wasn't ready to go get it and fake the guy out.

Oh, did I tell you how funny it was to give that gun a whirl the other night?

There we were on the balcony, and POW! it went into the ocean.

Right afterward, the 2 guards with the rich man next door were on top of their wall with their gun and POW! they shot theirs off too amongst the laughs and arms in the air.

Gun slingin' in the Dominican Republic!  It felt like I was in a segment of the Beverly Hillbillies with all the 'woohooing' and cheering that was going on.

It was like a regular night in Alberta!

Anyway, I digress.

After much scuffling and yelling, the Pool Man's son came back and said, "Just pay the guy.  This isn't worth it.  We'll just make sure everyone knows he's a crook."

So, yet again, we were bamboozled.  We paid $250 for dirty mud water that is currently being soaked to the bottom of the pool by way of chemicals.

Now, we all know what a bubble girl I am.  I'm afraid to swim in that water after all is said and done, but not because of the dirty water.  Because of the chemicals.

I'll probably singe.  You know me.  Allergic to everything.

Anyway, the water is starting to clear after 3 treatments, but the next problem is that we have no electricity to get it to move around.

We have a 2nd electrician here today, who we're hoping will fix everything the first one didn't.

It seems every 'professional' person our Housemaid has recommended has had to come back to double dip and 'fix it' again, then she indignantly asks why we won't hire her friends to paint our wall.

We learned.  All the workers here will say they can do anything you ask them, no matter if they've never done it before.

People are really gung-ho to work, so they say, "Yup!  I can do that!"  But they can't, and they don't.

We're slowly learning to trust a professional to recommend a professional.  Not to mention, this new electrician today is giving me Spanish lessons on top of doing the electrical.

It's a beautiful day in the neighbourhood.  The waves are crashing and inviting me saying, "Come!  Let us tickle your toes!"

But I'm too afraid to swim in that rip tide from hell on our segment of the island.

nervousness is only a sign from my intuition that i will listen to 

The crest of the wave is coming ...

I'm realizing where I can feel safe is amongst strangers.

These outsiders don't know what the hell is going on with me.  These unknown people are not going to ask, "How are you?" or become one of the brutes who may think my love is a freak and I'm an aberration for loving a transitioning transgendered person.

New-comers will talk about things that are funny to entertain each other, or light conversation to keep the flow of company going, sans white noise.

I went out for dinner last night with a person on my Trust List, and a bunch of her friends.

I got myself all worked up about going.  Stomach turning, hands shaking, legs weak, the conversation in my head of why I shouldn't go ...

When I got there I noticed there were 3 foreigners with that dear heart I love so much.

(and two more that i've met a few times, but they never speak to me anyway, wtf is that about?!? what ... ever ...)

I sat myself down and started chatting up a storm.

I was fine!

I was having fun! 

I had no fear because they didn't know my secret, giving them no reason to be mean or start a serious conversation that might make me get sad, angry or scared.

I just enjoyed myself.

I was a little more reserved than I usually am in groups.  Being an extrovert, I would normally need the attention on 'me'.  That entertainer will rise up wearing the boa, arms raised in a 'V', eyes to the sun, inviting that luscious light to shine on me, and those lucky enough to be around it.

it's all about 'me'

Last night, it was just a great time of banter, about 'us all', minus the 'secret'.  I got to call my love my 'wife', 'she', and other things to be sure the ladies there all knew I too was a lesbian.  I needed to keep my identity strong in the face of similitude.

I needed to prove I was no different.

I didn't get to see Papi yesterday, and that's probably part of the reason I found the strength to go.  I hadn't dealt with 'it' and wasn't a maelstrom of emotions.

My dear soul mate is again working too hard.  Not sure when my love will realize there's a reason for the non-stop sickness; overworking.

(note to Papi if you're reading this, "you're not 20 anymore my dear!!!")

Anyway, I didn't have to download and talk about 'it'.  'It' is still deferred to another day.

phew!

I have to come to terms with the fact that the surgeon recommended Papi go up in the hormone dose to help stop Papi's menses.

My stomach just sunk thinking about it.

More hormones means that my love will be stepping further into the 'man zone'.  There will be more changes.  More to deal with.  More to work on.

More to accept.

I was just getting used to this point in time.

I don't know how this will play out for my injured, limping ego, but currently I'm back to shaking, feeling nauseas, and fear is ripping through my blood.

oh, i see you, my demons, i see you ... you don't need to pull so hard at my wrist

I don't want this, but it's going to happen.  I had a nice month and a half of coasting on no more changes.  I suppose that was a small gift of a brain break.

It's time to deal again.

fuck.

testosterone pageant

It was the testosterone equivalent of a beauty pageant.

They flaunt their machismo.

Before there were really musical instruments, men would sing and dance to show their strength and sex appeal to attract the ladies.

Their peacock tail feathers in full display.

Who was the fairest of them all?!?!?

Now we've got men in panties, flexing their muscles, along with their mouths.

Flaunting their machismo, winning the hearts of boys and girls all over the world.

They have different levels of belts, so they work their way up to the tiara and catwalk strut with roses.

Walking down the aisle to the ring with their fashion advisory's suggestion for costumes, you know they practised their own 'walk' in front of the mirror, just like the pageant contestants.

I saw a man in panties with a t-shirt that was provocatively covering his man bits.

At first glance, I thought he was wearing no pants, and thought I might be triggered.

I guess it's the equivalent of the high side slit with low cleavage.

Where the women stand with their duck faces in a form line, these guys flip around their hair, furrow their brows and throw their fists in the air for the most ultimate of bravado possible.

It's really no different.

Testosterone pageant.

So, when I look at it that way, it was a little easier to watch the 'show' of wrestling with Papi when I'd finished my practise for the day.

The production was brilliant for it's purpose.

They have quite the choreography.

I'm sure there's a lot of man stink up in that ring, even though there is NO body hair to be found.

I wonder how many are actually gay?

I'd love to know.  They stuff their heads in men's crotches on a regular basis.

Just like when the women lose their outfits and don their swim suits, they strip down from their cloaks and bare their skin, pointing their sinewy breasts toward the camera.

There's even a panel like judges.

They are there to give commentary, perfectly groomed to be sure that when the camera is on them, they are just as primed as the contestants.

They definitely are contestants.

Who's going to win the crown?!?!

Just like working your way up to Miss 'enter your city here', you get your banner with 1st, 2nd, 3rd Princess and of course, Miss Congeniality.

Which I'm sure are the announcers.

"He is very upset."

Thank you for clearing that up for me.

I was a little confused, because they were beating each other.

Are you sure they're upset?

"The 400 pounder, like a junkyard dog."

Yup.  The guy is big and he won his belt.

Banner.  Tiara and roses.

Oh, then there were the 7 on 7 women.

I don't have to much to say about that, because I was too busy watching them.

I remember a few Vancouver nights with my 'rough around the edges friends' that looked something like that.

How many times do some of these girls pop their silicone?!?!!

At least these girls eat and take care of their bodies.

It's much nicer to see than the anorexia fueled ritual.

It gave me permission to eat more last night.

This battle with the Anorexia Monster is heavy on my mind.

From now on, when someone from this country tells me I am fat, I'll just put on my SuperGirl Panties and tell them I'm a wrestler.

It's kinda true, only I wrestle The 6-Pack.

And sometimes Papi.

i build lean muscle and i burn fat

Paradise is NOT a 'place'.

The party.

Unlike any baby shower you'll find in Canada.

Canada?  Ladies only for the most part.

Silly games to keep us entertained, refreshments with a few tame drinks.

Music on, really only for ambiance.

Baby shower in Dominican Republic?

Co-ed, rum being chugged before it's poured into the glass.

Music so loud, there's no point having a conversation.

I filmed people dancing instead.

Our Fave's Mom looked so damn beautiful.

I've never seen her look so good, because the poor thing is so damn pregnant, she doesn't have the energy to fancy herself up.

Damn she's beautiful with her hair down and those massive breasts spilling out of her Spanish style top.

I actually didn't recognize her at first!

I had a tour of their fruit trees, pigs and chickens.

We're talking at least 20 fuzzy, baby chicks too.

Holding them to give me so much love that I need right now.

They chirped in my ear, "I love you, it's really good to be alive!"

Yeah, you're not old enough to know how bad life really gets.

Oh, but you won't be saying that when it's YOUR turn to be in the pot of food they were cooking for the party last night.

I was also the tester of the food to see if it was good.

Good?!?!

Oh I can't even tell you the flavours they use here.

I was grateful to be the tester.

Papi kept disappearing.  Understandable.  His social anxiety is worse than mine.

He was supposed to be behind the camera to keep himself busy so he didn't feel uncomfortable, but people were shy in front of him.

He handed it back to me.

The 2nd time he disappeared, I went to the house to get the flash for the camera.

I saw it.

A pint of beer poured.

My heart stopped, my stomach erupted through my head and the tears were being held back with all my force.

I was supposed to go back and take pics of Our Fave's Mom opening her gifts.

No time to cry.

As soon as I was done however, I went home to find that Papi didn't drink the beer.

Not because he came to his senses, but because he was caught in the act.

His way of dealing is to relapse.

My way to deal with depression is to get so angry that my yelling actually scares away all the animals, for fear that they will be pulled into the eye of Hurricane Andréa.

Normally, they see me as all love.

I'm hurting and scared and feel so isolated, so when there were no friends to speak to by way of internet, well, I lost it.

Papi's grieving.

Today we put down Psycho Kitty.

Poor little critter has had enough.  I keep begging him to go to the angels on his own, but he's just too much of a fighter.

I've had enough of watching him suffer, not being able to even open his mouth enough to eat.

Papi's had enough of watching his little love slowly die before him.

Beyond the dying cat, there is so much exhaustion and trouble to deal with that we're at the point where we half heartedly spoke about the convenience of there being two guns for a double suicide.

This is not paradise.

Paradise is not a place.

Paradise is in your heart.

A beautiful view of the ocean does not cure a mental chemical imbalance.

i offer a sincere apology to those affected by my anger

the greatest day of all

Wow what a day.

Indeed, something to write home about.

Let's start with Mr. Majestic.  The new guard dog.  AKA: Cat Killer.

So, as per instruction from my friend, The Super Googler, I've been keeping Cujo on a leash, tied around my waist.

Everything I do, I do it with him.

He's lovely, other than the cat killing thing.

I've had to put him into submission already, but I learned that I've lost a lot of strength since my motorcycle accident.  I couldn't quite wrangle him to the ground, but still, the intention was felt and he understood I am alpha.

So, yesterday, the Housemaid came and we were ready for our deed, pay out and papers in hand.  The moment I saw her, my fearless protector started barking and scared the shit out of her.

Mission accomplished!

She will not be the person to come sneaking on to our property unannounced anymore, and word will get around about our scary guard dog.

I was shocked, amazed, and so damn grateful, you wouldn't believe.

He didn't like her and he protected me.  He hadn't even been here 24 hours and he protected me.

Then it was time to do the nasty deed, and we did it with love and hugs and everyone was happy.  Of course she wanted to work for free like I knew she would, but I told her, "You are my friend, not my employee."

Then something magical happened.  That friendship grew yesterday.

She invited us to her house.  Of course we saw the fresh white paint, but we didn't say anything.  We're swallowing our pride.

Then she invited us to sit in her garden area.

It was beautiful.  Spacious.  Fresh.  Cool.  Kids were in abundance, playing with 'guns' made out of wood someone had specially crafted for them.

I met the Dominican Daddy's cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, mother, and anyone else who was remotely related by way of babies.

Oh, there was also a parade of everyone's chickens, roosters and dogs, and did we meet babies!  All that was missing was a donkey and a goat.

Our guard's baby was placed in my lap without even asking.  He was so damn sweet and looked just like his papa.

Then more ladies brought another baby, children squealed all around us, people came and said hi and I'll tell you, THIS is what I expected in moving here.

THIS was getting to know the village and becoming part of the community.

It was the nicest time I've had here.

I was welcomed, I was grateful for their congeniality, I was made to feel like I wasn't a stranger.

I felt love, and the possibility that we could have our DR Family.

I was invited back anytime, and I will take her up on it.

Probably the most beautiful part of the experience, was when the little critter who comes to our yard unannounced saw me in his house.

His mouth gaped open from the surprise, and I said, "Now I'm in YOUR house, my friend!!"

He ran over to me and gave me the biggest hug, so filled with love and respect, I almost cried.

It was the most amazing feeling ever.  Love from a child who has accepted me whole heartedly.

Prior to this day, I felt that I was only seen to the village as money on legs.  Now that we told the Housemaid that we don't have anymore, we were looked at differently.

We felt we were actually looked at by the Housemaid as a friend, and that this is the start of a new dynamic.

We're still not going to be stupid.  Everyone is an opportunist, but we definitely can have friendship and get to know our neighbours.

I had a thought last night, that with the amount of children who are back in our village, I'm going to start a children's choir!

I'll start small, by just learning some songs and the solfege scale, then I'm going to create a monster!  I'm going to have the children be the voices of instruments and song and make a vocal children's band!

It will keep me happy, keep the kids busy, and allow me to give music to their community.

It was a day to write home about.

i know that i have a choice in the work that i do in this world