Back in action!

Hello! Remember how I've been all boring since my transition has been at a stand-still the last few months? Well, things are moving ahead! Well...hopefully moving ahead.

My dealings with the most highly recommended gender services department in my area were absolutely miserable, and left me feeling bitter, hopeless, and morose for a long time. But now there is a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel!

Okay, so, to backtrack...

In July

Me (into phone): Yes, is this the University of _________ gender services?

Employee: Yes, it is. How may I help you?

Me: I'm transitioning from female to male and I'd like to make an appointment with one of your doctors on staff to discuss my HRT and surgical options, please.

Employee: We'd be glad to help! Just give me your name and number, and one of our doctors will call you back in the next 24 hours or so.

Me: *gives name and number* Thank you very much!

For the next 24 hours...

Me: *waiting for phone call that never comes*

The next day...

*repeat of the same phone conversation*

*repeat of waiting for nonexistent phone call*

THIS HAPPENED EVERY DAY FOR TWO F***ING WEEKS.

Literally. LITERALLY. I called THE MOST HIGHLY RECOMMENDED GENDER SERVICES CLINIC IN MY STATE on a DAILY BASIS.

NOT ONE SINGLE PERSON EVER CONTACTED ME.

It still makes me angry just to think about.

Tangent!:

Trans life is not the easiest thing in the world to do. You meet with a lot of opposition. There are, however, people who are obligated to be on your side. Those people are doctors. Doctors whose paychecks will increase significantly if they work with you. Doctors whose credentials will are also constantly on the rise. Doctors whose job it is to give medical attention to those who need it.

So being blatantly ignored by an entire team of doctors did not make me a happy camper.

Eventually, frustrated and broken, I called the gender services clinic in hysterical tears, bawling my situation to a very uncomfortable employee on the other end of the phone and begging to be allowed to speak with a doctor so that I could please, please, PLEASE take the steps necessary to move forward in my transition, promising up and down that I really am trans and I'm not lying, and desperately pleading to know if anyone at the clinic cared about me or my situation. I made quite a spectacle of myself.

The bewildered employee promised me that someone would call me back very shortly.

Again...

THE CALL NEVER CAME.

So I gave up.

This weekend...

A friend of mine came home from school. This friend of mine grew up in my area, but he goes to school out of state, so I don't get to see him very often.

This particular friend is also a transman.

He went through the gender services clinic that had blatantly ignored me for weeks for several steps of his own transition.

Trans Friend and I met up for dinner this weekend. I won't lie; it was GREAT to see him again. We spent more time than necessary in the restaurant, talking about our families and school and not actually eating the food we had ordered.

Trans Friend was aware that this particular gender services clinic can be a bit difficult; he was one of several people who recommended the clinic to me, with the forewarning that you have to call them on a regular basis in order to actually get their attention. However, even he was surprised at the treatment I received.

Having been in my position (confused, with very few resources, desperately reaching out for help), Trans Friend very generously got me the contact information of a doctor with this clinic, so that I could contact her directly instead of calling the clinic every day.

So, hopefully sometime soon, I will be starting HRT!

My goal is to grow a beard.

My Nephew Laughs in the Face of Gender Binaries

I have an 18-month-old nephew. Nephew is head over heels for cars, sports, and tools, which is generally acceptable for a male toddler. But Nephew has a feminine side! What I love about the kid is that he's too young to care what other people might think about him, so he doesn't bother to hide said feminine side.

Nephew has an older sister. Niece was having her nails painted one day by her mother. Nephew, who should have been playing nearby, did NOT continue to play when he saw what his mom and sister were doing. He wanted his nails painted, too. Nephew bawled until his mother painted both his fingernails and his toenails.

I saw Nephew very recently after he got his nails painted. My reaction was: "Wow, buddy! Your nails are green! That's cool!"

He grinned and showed them off to me.

I told him, "They look lovely. Very pretty."

My "normal" 12-year-old brother walked by and informed us (very loudly) that Nephew's nail-decorating desires were weird.

But Nephew didn't care! The next thing he did was show me his new baby doll. Well, technically it wasn't new. It was one of Niece's that she had donated to him, due to the fact that she has her own favorite doll (and a favorite truck and a favorite toy dinosaur and a favorite toy dragon), so she really didn't miss her old doll.

I was surprised to find how careful Nephew was with his doll. He would grab her and hug her, but he would make sure that her head was up before doing so. He would carefully lay her on the floor and pretend to change her diaper. He would cradle her in his arms and feed her from a toy bottle. And he absolutely beamed when I told him what a wonderful daddy he was. Not even Youngest Little Brother again informing us that Nephew's enthusiasm for a doll was weird could make Nephew any less thrilled.

And so, Nephew, I salute you. May you forever disregard gender binaries and enjoy whatever the f*ck you enjoy!

Things!

Things I didn't have before I moved back in with my parents:

1) a dog

2) patience

3) a job I hated

4) roommates I hated

5) sanity?

Things I don't have now that I live with my parents:

1) patience

2) sanity

3) pets (they have become community property)

4) sleep

5) a job I love

6) housemates I can stand

7) any possessions of my own

The Jellyfish

No matter how much I try to deny it, I'm relatively sure that my mother and I are actually related. Remember how I said I tend to unintentionally get myself into ridiculous situations? Well, my mother has the same tendency. So last week when my dad called me from Florida, where he and my mom were vacationing, he gave me some interesting news.

Dad: Did you hear what happened to your mom?

Me: No. What happened to Mom?

Dad: She got stung by a jellyfish.

Me: Again?!

Although, if you ask my mother, she'll claim that this was the first time she's been stung by a jellyfish, because her last encounter with a stinging water animal was with a man-o'-war, which isn't technically a jellyfish.

It's close enough for me to count it.

The last time she was stung by a jellyfish--or stinging water animal--was in my senior year of high school. She still has the scar to prove it.

I've commented before on my very stubborn aversion to beaches. So when my family and another family, who are very good friends of ours, took a vacation to Florida in the spring before I graduated the pit of hell that pretends to be my high school, a trip to the beach was inevitable. I stood my ground and told my mother that no force on earth, heaven, or hell could make me go to that horrendous span of sand and water. After a brief argument, which my dad ended by telling my mom that it was no good forcing me to go if I didn't want to, as I would only serve to spread a bad mood around, I was allowed to stay back at the house.

I enjoyed several hours to myself, having my version of a real vacation, which involved watching cartoons and reading Jane Eyre. I was rather disappointed when the rest of the group came home from the beach and ended my little personal vacation. The disappointment, however, soon changed to concern when I noticed that my mother was wearing a large gauze bandage all around her right arm and shoulder.

My concern very rapidly turned to amusement when the story of what had happened came out.

The group had arrived at the beach only to be warned by the park ranger (this particular beach is part of a park) not to swim, as the man-o'-wars were migrating. Many of them, in fact, were migrating right through the shallow waters of the beach. This point was emphasized even more by the numerous signs that had been put up all over the beach, all of which read 'No Swimming.'

My mother, dead set on a day at the beach, talked the others into finding a comfortable spot on the sand and sunbathing for a while. Soon, however, this wasn't enough for her. She wanted to go swimming. Despite warnings from my father, she managed to talk the woman who came with us, one of her best friends, into going into the water with her.

Everyone else watched apprehensively from the beach.

It wasn't long before my mom's screams were heard from the shore. She came staggering up onto the beach, clutching at her shoulder and arm, which were sporting huge red welts from where the man-o'-war's tentacles had wrapped around her.

Her best friend's son happened to be nearest when my mother emerged, howling, from the water. She managed to regain her senses enough to ask the boy to pee on her, and continued to ask as the boy got more and more uncomfortable.

As a nurse, my mother was well aware of how to treat a jellyfish sting. After being talked out of getting peed on, she was brought to the local Winn-Dixie, where she purchased some gauze bandages and ointment that she immediately applied to her wound. Then she was escorted back to the house, where the only thing I could think to say was, "Well, we're not going to ignore the 'No Swimming' signs again, are we?"

So when my dad informed me that my mom had got stung by a jellyfish--AGAIN--my immediate hope was that she had not ignored the 'No Swimming' signs yet again.

I asked what happened.

When I was told the story, I tried not to laugh. It was a futile effort, but I'm taking credit for making the effort nonetheless.

My family owns a house in Florida. We also own a boat. My parents had gone out for a ride in the boat, and my mom had found a nice spot that she wanted to snorkel at.

Aside from beaches, I cannot escape a vacation with my mother without going snorkeling. It's her second favorite thing in the world. Her first favorite thing is BEACHES.

After getting her fill of snorkeling, she was ready to get back into the boat. But first she decided to rinse her mouth out with saltwater (I don't know why she thought rinsing her mouth with saltwater was a good idea, even before the jellyfish entered the picture).

According to her, just as she filled her mouth with ocean water, she saw the jellyfish floating next to her. Then she felt the pain as the jellyfish's tentacles stung her.

My mom practically inhaled a jellyfish. She was stung across her chest, on her shoulder, around and inside her mouth.

My first reaction was to laugh. And then I remembered...

Ecuador.

I'm a tacky lesbian!

Remember a while ago when I went on a rant about assumptions? Apparently my message hasn't reached everyone in the world yet.

On my way home from dinner the other night, which I had wound up eating alone because the person I was supposed to be with is more graceful than me and fell and hurt herself, I was walking back to my car. I just so happened to reach a crosswalk at the same time as a big group of people, who happened to be heading in the same direction as me. We walked alongside each other for a short distance, and then I turned left into the parking lot my car was in and, as a result, was separated from the group.

I'm not sure if the guy realized I was still within earshot or not. Either way, it caught my attention when I heard him say sarcastically, "I'd LOVE to be a tacky lesbian like that."

I turned my head and realized that he was pointing his thumb at me over his shoulder as he walked away with his friends.

I was hurt for a moment, first at the assumption that I was female, and also at the assumption that I was exclusive to women. But then I was just amused. The person who had accused me of being tacky was, for one, probably as straight as a rainbow. I can guess, from his choice of clothing, manner of walking and talking, and the considerate attention he seemed to pay to his hair (as well as the attention he paid to the guy walking beside him), that he fit a stereotype. Not that stereotypes are always right, of course. But he outwardly gave the impression.

Secondly, this man was wearing a pair of the tightest jeans I'd ever seen, that did nothing to compliment his toothpick-like figure, and a pair of canvas shoes.

I'm sorry, but no matter how popular they become, skinny jeans and canvas shoes will never look good together.

That's not an opinion. That's fact.

So, Stuck-Up Flamer who seriously lacks consideration for anyone but himself, take a good look at that hand you were pointing at me. Your thumb was directed towards me. Where were the rest of your fingers pointing? At you.

I win at grad school!

So, Significant Other is no longer Significant Other.

After laying in bed and crying for three days straight, I decided to throw myself into school as a distraction. Broken hearts heal best when overloaded with information.

Okay, I've been taking graduate classes for a week, and already I've done more homework than I did in a whole semester getting my bachelor's degree. Well...maybe that's a slight exaggeration...maybe it's more like I've done more classwork in a week than I'd do for one class in an entire semester for my undergrad. Yeah, that sounds about right.

With my THRILLING accounting job on top of all this school work, I worried for a while that I was becoming one of the world's most boring people. That right there nearly gave me an aneurysm. I pride myself on not being boring.

Fortunately for me, it seems that I have not become boring at all.

In fact, I'm already facebook friends with half of my introduction to library and information sciences class.

In this class, we're supposed to do a few group projects. We only meet once a week, so most of our communication is through some online source or another (Skype, facebook, email, discussion boards, etc.). I briefly talked to a few people at orientation, and I held conversations with five people in and around class last week. The conversations were relatively short and not very in-depth. So I was a bit worried when the professor told us that we had to form groups by the next class period. My thought on it was, Great. I'll have to beg to be allowed to join a group, as usual. No one will want me in their group, as usual.

So imagine my surprise when, a mere day after class, a group already containing five people invited me to join them!

In class, we had split into pairs and gone around the room introducing our partners to the rest of the students. It made me a bit more comfortable to feel like I was back in elementary school. Hell, I've already mastered that!

Many people in my class were impressed when it came up that I have a pet hedgehog.

Harold has helped to rocket me to popularity!

Our group has been dubbed "Team Hedgehog." We have a facebook group, with a photo of Harold as the group profile picture.

I have no problem whatsoever exploiting Harold for my own selfish ends.

Significant Other is turning me into a geek on purpose

I've been fairly quiet lately, due to the fact that I've been insanely busy. I no longer work for Nanny Family (which is very sad, but it just wasn't working out). I'm working at my dad's hardware store again.

I worked at the store for about six years, and I absolutely hated it. My coworkers are fantastic and most of the customers who come in are both familiar and friendly. But let's face it. I know absolutely nothing about hardware. Folks, I have enough trouble figuring out how to turn on the radio in my car. You just can't expect me to fix your leaky sink or help you put together your own creation of a multiple-purpose swing set, leatherman, lawnmower, and dishwasher.

So I've settled for a job that I'm equally incompetent at: accounting!

Bear with me. There is a point to this.

I have no experience with accounts. BUT, instead of being normal like every other retail store in the WORLD, this particular hardware store originates from the stone ages or somewhere around there on a timeline. Instead of price scanners where all the information is neatly organized on a computer, this store has roughly 1,000-year-old cash registers where you punch the prices in by hand. And if someone has a store account, don't plan on going anywhere for at least an hour because you have to handwrite on a slip every item a customer is purchasing, how many of that item, the prices of each, the total of each, and a grand total.

The benefit to this is that floor employees don't ever have to worry about the account slips again. Because I get to deal with them!

I get to check the math on each and every individual slip, add up the total sales for each day, and then double check that total.

But wait! THERE'S MORE!

Then I get to file each and every handwritten account slip.

This

takes

HOURS.

It is not fun. It is boring, tedious, and particularly stressful when I have a lot of other sh*t on my plate. Such as, oh, I don't know...GRADUATE CLASSES.

To help me de-stress, Significant Other got me playing a computer game.

I have never been particularly thrilled by computer games or video games. In fact, way back in the day when I was a kid, some family friends got the brand-new NINTENDO 64! And we played Mario Kart on it. A LOT.

I was the one who always drove in circles until the race was over, or else repeatedly fell off the road into the lava or off the rainbow or whatever, until I was just holding up the game for everyone else.

Eventually, I just wasn't allowed to play anymore.

So now Significant Other has me playing Mass Effect 2. I've completely stunned myself by having something similar to minimal competency at this game.

I have also been playing nonstop.

Dude, I used to be SO COOL. I read books like it was going out of style. I worked in a library. I spoke two languages. I watched British TV and dinosaur documentaries. I would pretend to be a zombie or a pteradactyl or a werewolf. It was AWESOME!

And now I'm a complete geek over this computer game.

I know Significant Other did it on purpose.

Watch yourself, buddy. I know where you live.

Revenge.

The Political Convictions of an 11-Year-Old

Youngest Little Brother: I hate Obama.

Me: Why?

YLB: He's a bad president.

Me: Why do you think that?

YLB: He's no good at the job.

Me: What makes you think he's not any good? What don't you like about him?

YLB: He's got bad policies.

Me: Which of his policies are bad?

YLB: All of them.

Me: What's wrong with them?

YLB: They're bad.

Me: What's bad about them?

YLB: They're not getting us anywhere.

Me: Which policies aren't helping?

YLB: None of them.

Me: Why not?

YLB: They're bad.

Me: Which policies don't you like?

YLB: I don't like any of them.

Me: Is there one policy in particular that you have a problem with?

YLB: I don't like any of them.

Me: I got that, but is there a certain one you don't like most?

YLB: No. I don't like any of them.

Me: Can you tell me any of his policies at all?

YLB: They're all bad.

Me: Yes, but WHY are they bad?

YLB: They're ruining our economy.

Me: The economy was f*cked up before Obama got into office.

YLB: But he made it worse.

Significant Other (trying to be helpful): The economy is a few years behind the policies, you know. The economy won't improve significantly for a few more years.

YLB: Yeah, and it's Obama's fault.

Me: Not really...

YLB: Yes, it is.

Me: He's trying to help, you know. You don't get to be president and purposely screw over the country.

YLB: He's making everything worse.

Me: Think what you want.

YLB: Democrats are stupid.

Me: Thank you. I appreciate the insult. You know, the people you support contribute to the issue of me not being able to marry who I want.

YLB: Huh?

Me: I'm a boy. Well, I think of myself as a boy. And as a boy, I can't marry another boy.

YLB: Why not?

Me: Because certain politicians have enforced certain policies and actively tried to stop other policies that would allow gay people to get married.

YLB: Republicans don't like gay people?

Me: I wouldn't say that. Not all Republicans think that way. But a decent amount of Republican policies do slow down the progress the gay rights movement has been making.

YLB: Don't insult Republicans!

Me: Do you understand the politics of the people you support?

YLB: Yes. Democrats are bad and they'll ruin the country.

Me: But do you understand the POLITICS you SUPPORT?

YLB: Yes.

Me: Okay. Which policies do you like?

YLB: I like Republican policies. I don't like Democrat policies.

Me: Which policies do you like? Which ones don't you like?

YLB: I like the Republican policies and I don't like the Democrat policies.

Me: But which policies in particular? Name one.

YLB: Democrats are stupid.

Me: I give up.

How do I relate to this kid? *sad sigh*

Why my driver's license lies

I turned 23 years old yesterday. Well, legally, at any rate. But I am absolutely not a grownup and this is why:

1) I've spent the last few weeks trying to arrange my schedule so that I'll have a full day at home to wear a homemade toga

2) A good friend and I had a dinosaur fight at my party yesterday

3) I read Calvin and Hobbes comics all day today

4) I got totally psyched and forgot about my task of buying thank-you cards when I realized that the pharmacy sold dinosaur stickers and that my life could not continue if I didn't own said stickers

5) I've been practically living in the children's section of any bookstore I visit

6) I freaked out when Significant Other was over the other night when I thought I heard velociraptors down the street

7) In a totally separate incident, I freaked out on Significant Other because I thought I heard a tyrannosaur down the street

8) I am just waiting for the monsters in my closet to get me

9) I got ice cream and refused to share it with anyone

10) I sleep with two dollar-store baby dolls that have been painted as a cyborg and a devil, who I have named Betty and Chloe, and who I blatantly refuse to part with

11) I sleep with my TV on because monsters shrivel up and die when light touches them

12) I take frequent naps

13) It's not even 9:00 and I'm already getting drowsy and cranky. It's clearly past my bedtime.

A flaw in the literature system

Why is it that there are no children's books about transgender parents?

I'm not talking about teen/adolescent/young adult lit. There are more of those that touch on and/or address transgender parents than I can count. But I've been scouring the internet for days on end, trying to find books directed at young children that address transgender parents.

I've found some good ones dealing with gay and lesbian parents (the most well-known being Heather Has Two Mommies and Daddy's Roommate and And Tango Makes Three. All are very well written and have been enjoyable to me since I was finally able to lay hands on them once I got to college and it dawned on me that the real world does, in fact, include LGBT people, and that I was one of them).

Family is one of the most important things in the world to me. Whether I wind up married or not, to a man or a woman or someone off the spectrum, I intend to have children.

If I wind up single and adopting/artificially inseminating/somehow getting children, then any children's books I own about gay parents will most likely be useless in relation to our specific family.

If I wind up married/committed or whatever, and my partner and I have children, any children's books I own on lesbian parents will be useless in relation to our specific family.

*However, if I mary/commit to a man, any books I own on gay male parents WILL be useful.

BUT...

Regardless of who I wind up committed to, if I do wind up committed to someone, what resources will my young children have? It's difficult (and pointless) to keep a secret from my child(ren). What good would come of claiming to be biologically male? My family is huge and gossipy and the so-called "secret" couldn't be kept for more than thirty seconds.

My children WILL know that I am trans.

But how can I show my young future-children that they are not alone in having a transgender parent (specifically a female-to-male transgender father)? As far as I've discovered, there are a grand total of zero--at the most--publications for young children on this subject.

I would love to read my kid a bedtime story that starts out, "Bobby's daddy wasn't always a boy..." or "Mary is from an unusual family, because her daddy was born a little girl, like her..."

So what do I do?

You tell me.

Perceptions

I've been on a Harry Potter kick lately.

Anybody who has read the fifth book onward, or seen the later movies, will be aware of a character named Luna Lovegood. She is absolutely one of my favorite characters in the books. She is never anyone but herself. But in the stories, a point is made that Luna is regularly judged and targeted by her classmates because she is perceived as weird or abnormal.

Why do I bring this up?

I had an interesting experience last night.

Best Friend and I were both bored and frustrated with our mothers (neither of whom are very accepting of us as we are). So we decided to spend an evening together in a bar, drinking and chatting and just relaxing.

So Best Friend and I picked a bar in the heart of the city and made an appearance. We chose a table in a corner and settled down at it. We weren't intending to bother anyone; on the contrary, we were planning to have a bit of food, drink a bit, and stay out of people's way. The evening was about us, after all, and spending time with each other.

The bar was rather crowded, and the only available table we could find had only recently been vacated by another group. So Best Friend and I arranged the previous group's dirty plates and empty glasses on the open side of the table, to make it easier for the waitress when she came to clear them away.

It only took the waitress a few minutes to come over and clear the plates and glasses away. She didn't look at us initially when she arrived; she focused on cleaning up. But she had a polite smile on as she said, "I'll be back to get your orders in just a second." Then she looked up at us, and the smile vanished completely from her face. She made no attempt to hide the fact that she was quite displeased at the sight of us. She hurried away with the dirty dishes and glasses. She didn't so much as look at us the rest of the night.

Best Friend and I waited a while, and when the waitress proceeded to take orders from the tables on either side of us while continuing to ignore us completely, we were a little miffed. I managed to catch the waitress' eye and smile at her, attempting to give the message that Best Friend and I were in no way dangerous. In fact, neither of us is terribly intimidating at all. I'd go so far as to say that I look completely harmless. But the waitress did not return my smile. Instead, she dropped her gaze like I had said something immensely rude to her, and shook her head. SHE SHOOK HER HEAD, in what was clearly a dismissal.

A few moments later, a second waitress approached our table and proceeded to take drink and food orders from Best Friend and I. Second Waitress was very bubbly and happy and polite. She kept coming back to Best Friend and I, asking if we wanted more drinks the moment we'd finished what was in our glasses, chatting with us, even flirting with the both of us bit (I was quite flattered, although I didn't return the flirting, as I happen to be quite attached to Significant Other).

Now, I did like Second Waitress. She was very nice and she got Best Friend and I what we ordered with a speed abnormal to such a crowded place. She was very attentive to us. But when she started to flirt with us a bit, I began to see what was going on.

Best Friend and I were being perceived a certain way.

It was quite apparent that First Waitress had asked Second Waitress to serve our table, as Best Friend and I were clearly smack in the middle of First Waitress' area and she wouldn't get anywhere near us.

My best guess is that Best Friend and I were being perceived as lesbians. Whether people thought we were a couple or not, I don't know. But I believe that First Waitress perceived us as being lesbians, did not like that, and wouldn't serve us, so she sent Second Waitress over to serve our table; then, Second Waitress, also having perceived us a certain way, proceeded to happily tend to us.

Now, I'm much more pleased with Second Waitress' attitude than First Waitress' attitude. However, what is very clear to me is that both of them were acting on how they PERCEIVED us.

Once again, I can only guess that they perceived us as lesbians. And while Best Friend and I are indeed on the LGBT spectrum, neither of us is a lesbian. As Best Friend's identity and orientation are Best Friend's own business, I won't post them for the world to see. But I myself am transgender (duh) and when it comes to my orientation, although I don't like to stick a label on it, the best word that fits it is "pansexual."

Perceptions aren't a bad thing, in general. Hell, if there was no such thing as perception, how would we interact with anybody? It would be impossible to separate anyone from anyone else. The problem comes in when we JUDGE people based on the perceptions we have of them, and/or treat them in a certain way, when in reality, the perceptions we have of them may not even be true.

As an example, bullying has been a problem in schools for YEARS. Unfortunately, some kids who are the target of bullying go to the extreme and take their own lives as a means to escape the torment of everyday life. This is particularly apparent with LGBT and LGBT-perceived youth.

I say LGBT-perceived youth for a reason. Kids seem to think that calling one another "fag" and gay and whatnot is the worst insult you can give. And unfortunately, as much as this country has progressed in the last few years, LGBT is still quite widely unaccepted. But what people seem to overlook is that this bullying is often a matter of PERCEPTION.

Yes, sometimes kids will target other kids who are open and out about being LGBT. But often, kids will target someone who either isn't out or isn't even on the LGBT spectrum. They PERCEIVE someone as being gay, lesbian, trans, whatever, and they act based on those perceptions.

Now, Best Friend and I weren't the target of stupid kids who aren't even worthy of our time. But at the same time, we did get treated a certain way because of how two people perceived us. One of them was much more positive than the other, and we did enjoy her company and her enthusiasm, but in the end BOTH perceptions (or what I can guess were their perceptions) were wrong.

I don't mind being asked questions about my gender identity or my sexual orientation. On the contrary, I'm always open and willing to share. But often people are surprised at what I say because they had assumed something about me, and the reality of how I am doesn't match up with what they had assumed.

Do me a favor, folks. Don't judge. Even with the best of intentions, it may wind up more of a hindrance than a help.

Who am I?

PETER

Pete; Petey

To parents: Squirt

To Oldest Little Brother: Cursed

To Best Friend: Anjo

To Significant Other: Tomato

To Nanny Family: Manny Petey

To Ecuadorian Friend(s): Pedro; Gringo

To Samantha: Laser Rainbow

To Coworker: Sunshine

To Devout Friend: MC

To Super Genius Friend: Poop Face

To Theater Friends: Kiki

To People 2 Grades Below Me in High School: Mike

To Aspirin: Ponder

To People Who Knew Me in Middle School: Lavender

My dad has been insisting for a long time that my life should be about WHO I am, not WHAT I am. I think he may be on to something.

How NOT to Handle Transition-Related Stress in Public

1) Agree to go to a family friend's wedding (people you have known since before you started to transition) when stress has been building up for the last week and you haven't had the alone time you need to deal with it

2) Decide to be polite and ask the groom if he has a preference how you sign the guest book (guarantee: you will get an answer you don't want!)

3) Admit to your mother that you're angry when she asks you why you're acting grumpy

4) Suppress your anger rather than let it out in a healthy way

5) Have two glasses of wine and a glass of champagne at the reception when you know you're a lightweight

6) Refuse to answer your mother's questions when she wants to know why you're pissed

7) Take every reference to you as your biological gender as a personal insult

8) Leave the reception, go to the nearest bar, and drink shots by yourself

9) Confide in the bartender, who notices that you are very upset, that you're transitioning

10) Go back to the reception and leave again within 5 minutes, the first time you're referred to as your biological gender

11) Go back to the bar and drink alone some more

12) Tearfully thank the bartender when he calls you your preferred name

13) Go back to the reception, now relatively drunk

14) Confess to your mother why you're really upset when she asks for the umpteenth time

15) Get royally pissed when she responds the way you expected her to ("Well, everyone here knows you as a [biological gender]...")

16) Leave the reception and cry in the hallway

17) Stumble tearfully back to your hotel room, passing several friends on the way, and not stop to talk about what's wrong

18) Yell at your mother when she comes to your hotel room to check on you

19) Yell at your father, who your mother has called and insisted you talk to on the phone

20) Take the argument out into the hallway

21) Yell at a man in the elevator who politely requests that you quiet down when you want to go outside and smoke a cigarette to calm down and your mother is trying to pull you back to the room

22) While outside smoking, sob into the phone (which your mother made you take with you) to your father that everyone hates you

23) Cry all over a groomsman who finds you, bawling and distraught, in the parking lot

24) Leave the gathering with little or no word to the other guests

Transitioning is INCREDIBLY stressful. On EVERYONE, family and friends included, although I will say that the people transitioning are the ones under the most stress. And we all do stupid sh*t in the process of transitioning. You don't get through it without multiple breakdowns and fights, unless you're Gandhi or something. But public breakdowns = not good. Alone time to deal with stress = GOOD.

Shopping is a pain in the @$$, yet again

Yesterday was splendid. I got to see Significant Other. We went out for chai at my favorite coffee shop, and he took me out for a delicious dinner, which he insisted on paying for despite the fact that I could have afforded it, seeing as I now have a job. Then we sat at home and giggled over the wonderful graphics of Hitchcock's Psycho.

The only hitch yesterday, which transferred to today, was when Significant Other and I went shopping for dress shirts. A family friend is getting married next weekend, and I fail spectacularly at dress clothes. Significant Other is very good at fashion, so he wandered through the men's section of Kohl's with me and helped me decide on a shirt. When we found a decent-looking one, I went to the dressing room to try it on.

(Note: the dressing rooms at this particular Kohl's are NOT gender specific)

Granted, I was in the men's section. That specific dressing room was occupied by males only at the time. But I waited patiently for an available room, and went in to change. I popped back out briefly to make sure that Significant Other was still going to be in the area, so that he could judge the shirt on me (seeing as I can't for the life of me figure out what actually looks good on me).

Another man happened to be entering the dressing rooms as I stuck my head out and called for Significant Other. The man did a double-take, backtracked to the entrance, and asked loudly, "Is this the men's dressing room?"

I scowled.

I heard Significant Other say, "Yeah, I guess...although I don't think they're gender specific..."

The guy shrugged and walked back in.

Normally, I'd ignore this kind of thing. But under the strain of everything happening lately, I thought that it might do more harm than good to bottle up my rage. As the man passed me on his way to his room, I stared at him and asked pointedly, "Problem?"

He wouldn't even look me in the eyes. He stared at the floor and muttered, "Oh...no..."

As he went into his room, I held up my middle finger at the closing door and hissed, "Douchebag."

I doubt he heard me, but a small part of me hoped that he did.

I wanted to rant and rave to Significant Other, but I held my tongue, for the most part. The subject did get brought up while we were in line to pay, and I mentioned that this sort of thing happens on a regular basis. Significant Other apologized to me, although he didn't need to because he wasn't the problem.

Which leads me to today. I regularly go through my closet and pull out all the clothes I don't wear very often. I did so this morning. Then, looking at the pitiful selection of clothing that was left in my closet, I decided that today would be a shopping day.

I spent quite a while deciding where to go. I did try Kohl's again, very briefly, before realizing that I still don't know what looks good on me and that I should not be allowed in a store that sells nice clothes without a shopping partner. So I resorted to what I usually wind up resorting to when I have no one to shop with: Hot Topic.

Being nearly 23 years old, and seeing as Hot Topic's primary customers are teenagers, it's not exactly an ideal place for me to shop. I wind up with 800 cartoon t-shirts in my closet and none of my paycheck left over. That store is f*cking expensive. But the other benefit to shopping there is that it is THE ONLY STORE I have managed to find where I don't get weird looks and comments when I shop in the men's section. Most of the employees know me now, at least by sight, and they're aware of my transition. They've been very helpful in directing me to clothing that covers up my ample chest and hides my curves.

The down side to this, as I mentioned, is that I wind up with 800 cartoon t-shirts. Don't get me wrong; I LOVE cartoons. Plus, the alternatives to the cartoon shirts are:

a) Twilight sh*t (which I refuse to let disgrace my closet)

b) band shirts (mostly of bands I don't listen to)

But the cartoon shirts make me seem even younger than I already appear to be. I mean, I went to the store the other day to buy some alcohol, and the cashier stared at me for an uncomfortably long time before asking for my ID. Upon seeing that it was horizontal, meaning I am 21 or over, he said, "I'm sorry. You just don't look 21."

Read the ID, dude. I'm almost twenty-f*cking-three.

So I'm not in any dire need of anything that will encourage this concept of me. Unfortunately, that's the price I have to pay: immature and expensive clothes vs. harsh judgement and rudeness.

I'm a MANNY!

My sense of humor has diminished lately, and I haven't wanted to publish a post in which I bitch and moan about everything awful going on, so I avoided posting for a while.

On a happy note, I have a job! I got the nannying job and I am LOVING it, despite the fact that the first thing Baby likes to do when he sees me in the morning is spit up on me. He also loves to smile and giggle when I change his diaper. I'm relatively sure that he's very proud of the fact that he made a mess and I have to clean it up. But Baby is a baby, and that comes with the territory.

Despite the fact that my abject insanity is now presenting itself to Significant Other, he still hasn't run for the hills. I don't know why. But I'm glad that he's still around. I can complain to him all I want and he doesn't mind. He also sent me flowers when I was having a bad day once. He didn't seem to mind at all when I freaked out and locked all the doors in the house because I thought I heard zombies in my backyard, and he was very supportive of me when I decided to go on an adventure without my GPS. Either he is very devoted to playing his role so he can eventually cook me for dinner...or he might actually like me, despite the crazy.

Little Sister has been driving me batshit insane. I've actually been physically ill lately because of the stress of her. We won't go into that because this will turn into a pages-long rant about my home life and how badly I want to move out.

The big thing lately, relating to my transition, is that Baby's parents found out about my transition. I had kept it quiet while being interviewed and trial running for the job, because I didn't know how they'd react to it. Also, my name has not legally been changed, so there would have been issues if I gave them my preferred name and it came out that way. But, thankfully, everybody is totally fine with it.

I'm a bit forgetful on a few occasions...so, a long time ago when I wasn't taking business calls, I changed the voicemail on my cell phone. If the phone goes to voicemail, you get a polite (I hope) recording of me saying, "Hi, this is Pete..."

I didn't think about this when I gave my number to Nanny Family. It didn't even occur to me when I got Nanny Mama's voice message asking me if I'd like to do a trial run with them. The issue only came up a few days later, when I was at the house and she subtly asked me if I had a nickname or anything else I'd like to be called.

I could tell that she was getting at something specific. I knew that lying would be pointless, so I laid everything out and said that I was perfectly comfortable with them calling me (legal name) and using female pronouns with me, if that's what they're comfortable with. Both Nanny Mama and Nanny Daddy went right to calling me Petey and using male pronouns.

I don't suppose I should be surprised, seeing as this is one of the most liberal and open-minded areas in the state. But I've said before, people can have pretty bad reactions when this sort of thing comes up.

I have to appreciate that I REALLY got lucky, working for a family who doesn't have a problem with it. They even laughed and joked that they get to tell people that they have a manny now. I'm very flattered. :) And proud that I also get to call myself a manny.

Home again

Well, I've officially moved back in with the parental units. My last few weeks have been a flurry of business. I got my cats declawed so that they could live inside at my parents house, and Maggie has been pissed at me for a full week and a half because of it. She'll still climb all over me and be obnoxious as hell, but she keeps giving me this glare that I feel says, "I hate you for having my fun scratchy pointy feet that I used to destroy the things you love reorganized."

There was an episode in which Little Sister took a book from my shelf without asking, very nearly causing me to break down completely. Luckily, I was able to go outside and smoke an angry cigarette to keep from yelling at anyone and entirely collapsing mentally. The fact that I reacted so strongly is probably the only reason I got the book back.

I'm still jobless. I now spend my days at home watching endless episodes of Doctor Who, reading like it's going out of style, and practicing piano until I'm quite sure the entire house is sick of it and wants to hit me if I strike one more note on the keyboard.

I did have a job interview a few days ago, for a nannying job with a family that lives very close to me. The parents seemed to like me (they clearly don't know I'm insane yet) and the baby that needs nannying is just about the cutest thing ever. This is looking good for me, so I'm keeping my fingers crossed that it will work out.

The best thing that's happened to me lately is that I met someone who thinks I'm beautiful and funny and smart and wonderful (I'm not sure if he quite realizes just how off my rocker I really am....) and we've made the relationship official.

Significant Other, who makes me happier than I've been in a very long time, treats me like I'm the most important person in the world. I still don't quite know how to react when he stops kissing me to stare at me and tell me I'm adorable, or is full of compliments for me, or insists on paying for dinner even though I asked him out.

One of the best things about Significant Other is that he keeps his word. For example, the other day, he and I were talking about Doctor Who. Oh yes, he is a Whovian and I love that about him! Anyway, we were talking about some of the most recent episodes, and I mentioned in passing that I hadn't seen any episodes from the newest season. A few minutes later, I got a text that said, "Okay. In about 2 hours I'll have them on a DVD for you."

I think I died from excitement.

To top it off, Significant Other and I both like a British series called Skins. There's an American version of this that I refuse to let disgrace my television. Anyway, we were discussing favorite characters, and I again mentioned in passing that I hadn't seen any of the most recent episodes, because Significant Other brought up characters that I wasn't familiar with. The conversation continued about characters we both liked, and I didn't think anything of it, until about two days later when I got a text from Significant Other reading, "Oh, by the way, I'm working on getting Skins on a DVD for you, too."

I never have to ask the man for anything. He treats me like I'm the most important person in the world, and he still insists that I deserve better than him.

I'm very happy with what I have. If there is better, I don't want it.

New beginnings

Well, it's official. I've graduated from college with a bachelor's degree in literature and a minor in children's literature!

I got into graduate school for the library and information sciences program!

AND...

I'm jobless.

What a combination!

Technically, I'm not jobless until 1:00 this afternoon. Today is my last day at work and I've been holding back tears all morning.

The last few days have been a unique combination of elation and sadness. I f*cking GRADUATED from COLLEGE! I got into f*cking GRAD SCHOOL, which I have been stressing about for a year! I met somebody who's sweet and wonderful and doesn't mind my abject weirdness, and it may very well go somewhere!

The highlight of this entire month, really, was on Sunday. There was a small gathering at my parents' house to celebrate my graduation and acceptance into grad school ("small" being about 20 people--the REAL party will happen later in the summer, when my house will be jam packed with 100+ people who won't leave until the sun rises the next day).

I thought the high point of the evening was when my parents informed me that they had put ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS in my checking account!

But no. My amazing, wonderful parents one-upped even that phenomenal gesture.

Side story: When my biological mother was alive, she had collected Barbies. Not just any old Barbies, but expensive, collector's edition Barbies. When she passed away, all these Barbies went into storage. Over the years, they got lost track of and relatively forgotten. But not by me. I don't have many things of hers, because I never lived with her. I saw her occasionally, yes, but she worked, married, had two kids, and had a fairly active life. I have a few pictures of her, and a letter she wrote me, and a bracelet she made, but that's about it. So when her husband passed away and my parents got custody of their two kids, the subject of her Barbies eventually came up. I had asked my parents if they knew where the Barbies were or who might have them. They said that my birth mother's brother would probably know, but that they doubted he'd be willing to do anything about it because they were either:

a) in storage
b) lost
c) rightfully my half-sister's (my birth mother's daughter)

This was a major disappointment to me. But I didn't want to fight with my parents about this, especially since they didn't seem to think it was a big deal and I didn't want to be accused of making a mountain out of a molehill. So I've been mute on the subject for roughly a year.

On Sunday, after all the guests had left, my parents took me out to the garage and showed me the two boxes of Barbies that they had requested that my birth mother's brother bring over for me.

I was completely overwhelmed. I cried for most of the evening. I called my birth mother's brother to thank him, but I doubt he understood me through the sobbing.

My half-sister and I resolved to share the Barbies. We feel that we both have the right to them.

In the midst of this joy is incredible sorrow to leave a job that I've had and loved for the last four and a half years. I'm not just scared about not being able to find a new job; one chapter of my life is ending. A new one is beginning and I'm absolutely terrified because I don't know what's going to happen.

Well, as a last resort, there's always Antarctica...

I'm a drag queen!

I've been going thoroughly insane the last few days. Well, more insane than usual...

It's exam week for me and I've been taking 400-level literature classes, which require me to read a thousand books per class and create infinity final projects and portfolios, so I stopped existing for a while. But I'm back! You're all terrified, I know.

For one of my classes, we had to do a final presentation. Mine was on Leslie Feinberg's Stone Butch Blues and Drag King Dreams. Transgendered characters run rampant throughout these stories. My angle on the two was that the novels, which were published 13 years apart, address a lot of the same issues, such as corrective rape and violence toward the LGBT community.

I decided to give my class a little taste of what it's like being transgendered.

My teacher said we could use visual aids. She did not give limits. Professors really need to learn not to give me this type of leeway.

I think everyone in my class very nearly died of shock when I came sashaying in wearing a short skirt, a tank top, a very visible lacy bra, high heels, and makeup.

I received a lot of comments, not just from classmates but from friends who saw me staggering around campus in those g*ddamn heels. Mostly, "What the f*ck?!" and "What's going on?!" and "Why?!"

I think a lot of people jumped to the conclusion that I had dropped my transition and gone back to being a girl.

I had to stop and explain to everyone.

Shocked Friend: What the hell?! Why are you dressed like that?!

Me: I'm doing a presentation for a class.

Shocked Friend: On what?!

Me: Transgender.

Shocked Friend: So...you decided to dress in girl clothes? Why not wear what you usually wear?

Me: Because everybody in my class knows me as a guy. Seeing me in drag will be a shock. I'm trying to make a point about what society expects as far as compliance with the gender binary. I think this will help get the point across.

Shocked Friend: Whatever floats your boat...

Not a lot of people actually believed that going to class in drag would help get my point across. I think they thought I was just being weird for the hell of it. But seriously, my costume DID help get the point across. In fact, it drove the point home completely.

I got a lot of compliments on my presentation after it was done.

Dressing in girl clothes absolutely did NOT feel natural to me. This wasn't a case of, as a lot of people assumed, me going back to what was natural or normal for a bit.

People, I am a GUY.

I was in f*cking DRAG.

I felt like Angel, from Rent. It was pretty cool because Angel is the most kickass drag queen ever and I got to enjoy feeling totally kickass. Oddly enough, the comparison to Angel made me feel MORE manly because Angel wasn't biologically female, either.

I also got to laugh at all the straight guys who stared at me. Every time they did, I had to turn my head away to hide my smile and resist saying, "Ha! You think I'm a girl, you little queer!"

Dating websites sick/rock

So yeah, I joined a dating website because I have nothing else to do with my time...

Besides graduating, making a resume, planning a presentation, studying for exams, still applying to grad school, trying to keep my insane cats under control, going back and forth from my parents' house (moving things in slowly), applying for jobs, working ridiculous hours because my college insists on doing this stupid thing where the library is open 24/7 for students to study at all f*cking hours (not taking into account that the student employees are also STUDENTS--you hear that, college?!--and don't WANT to stay up all night when we could be doing something important, like doing our own studying. Or SLEEPING.)

How is it that I manage to have free time?

But yeah, I got bored and joined a dating website. I love filling out the info about myself. I love talking about me! As you've probably gathered...

What sucks, though, is this website only gives you so many options to choose from when listing your gender and sexual orientation.

When it comes to gender, this website gives two: male and female. Surprise! So which do I choose? Uh...? Is there an option for those of us who don't fit? Or who are all over the f*cking spectrum?

I wound up choosing female.

My rationale for this is that I will probably be more accepted in the gay community, so rather than shocking some poor girl with my strap-on when she was expecting a real cock, I figured I'd give people the heads-up and let them know what to expect. So I listed myself as a female looking for another female, and wrote in my profile that I'm a transman. Also, my profile name has Pete in it. That should give people fair warning.

Then it came time to list my sexual orientation. This site gave three options: straight, gay, or bi. What the f*ck, website? What about those of us who are, again, ALL OVER THE SPECTRUM? I'm NOT bi. I think I've made that clear by now.

Bisexuality implies a gender BINARY. Binary means TWO. As in, two genders. It only recognizes male and female. I like EVERYONE. I'm not kidding. Male, female, androgynous, multi-gendered, two spirited, third gender, fourth gender, FIFTH gender, FTM, MTF, MT-whatever, FT-whatever, I don't care! If you're human, I'll go for you. And, as a little hint at what gets my motor running, if you are a man in drag or a MTF, watch out because I will be on you like glue.

Digression.

This website only gave three options. I wound up choosing bi, but seriously...isn't it a little silly to try and neatly organize things that have no order? It's science, folks. Yeah. That is TOTALLY science. And math, because you can't divide something that can't be divided. Logic.

I rule at school.

UPDATE: I changed my gender on the website to male because I decided, f*ck it.

Library patrons can be more annoying than my transition. Also, I accidentally hit Marine.

My brain still hates me. Last night, it tried to surprise me by the insomnia torture rather than the nightmare torture. So I was awake at around 3:30 this morning, when Marine surprised me by following through on a text he had sent me earlier that said he was coming home. I almost didn't believe it when he came stumbling into my room to wake me up. Good thing I was already up.

We sat around for a bit, talking about what's been going on in the last week and a half. I admitted to having briefly doubted his existence.

We talked for a while, but eventually the valerian root I'd taken kicked in, and we both fell asleep.

My brain was pissed at me for forcing it to sleep, and immediately went to its last resort when it can't torment me with insomnia: nightmares. I don't remember what exactly I dreamed about, but seeing as I spent most of my lazy Sunday watching dinosaur documentaries, it probably wasn't pleasant. I remember being scared in the dream, and swinging my arm to hit someone or something in front of me.

I was awakened when I felt my hand collide with something soft.

Marine: WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?

Me: Huh...?

Marine: What the f*ck just happened?!

Me: Oh my god! I am SO sorry! I was having a bad dream!

Marine: What did you do?

Me: Um...I accidentally smacked you in the face.

Marine: ...go back to sleep.

He didn't talk to me for the rest of the night.

Anyway, that little anecdote has absolutely nothing to do with my next topic: WORK! Yay work! Except I don't love my job when I have to deal with people who insist on being dumb. Yes, I understand, some people are unfamiliar with the library and/or our systems, and questions that may seem simple get asked a lot. I have no problem with that. It's my job to help people. What I DO have a problem with is people who seem utterly incapable of any kind of thought process whatsoever insisting on asking me the same questions repeatedly, expecting my answer to change.

One of my numerous jobs is to ring patrons up for multimedia items (posters, color copies, copies of non-standard sizes, etc.).

PROCESS:

Step 1) Patron asks person at multimedia desk to make their copies/posters/whatever.

Step 2) Person at multimedia desk makes copies/posters/whatever.

Step 3) Person at multimedia desk gives patron a receipt.

Step 4) Patron brings receipt to me at the circulation desk.

Step 5) I make a photocopy of their receipt.

Step 6) I file their receipt.

Step 7) I ring them up.

Step 8) I give them the photocopy of their receipt.

Step 9) Patron brings receipt back to multimedia desk.

Step 10) Patron receives posters/copies/whatever.

Yay!

Fairly easy process, right? You'd think. But this is how the interaction between a patron at I went once we reached Step 8:

Patron: They said I had to bring something back to them.

Me (assuming that "they" are the people at the multimedia desk): Yes, just bring that receipt back.

Patron: How will they know it's mine?

Me: Because of the receipt. They gave you a receipt.

Patron: But you took it.

Me: But the one you have there is a photocopy of the same one.

Patron: But how will they know it's mine?

Me: Your name is on it.

Patron: So what do I take back to them?

Me: The receipt I just gave you.

Patron: So what do I give them?

Me: That receipt.

Patron: You took my receipt.

Me: I had to file it. But you have a photocopy. It's a photocopy of the same receipt.

Patron: So what do I do?

Me: Give the people at the multimedia desk that receipt and they'll give you your poster.

Patron: How long will it take?

Me: I don't know. It's probably done by now. You'd have to go over to the multimedia desk and ask them.

Patron: I don't have time for that.

She stuffed the receipt in her bag and walked away, shaking her head like she didn't believe me. Because I had every reason to lie to her? Lying to her benefited me how?

I love most of my library patrons to pieces. I know the people who come in all the time. We laugh and talk and I ask them how their kids/spouses/pets/jobs are, they ask me how my pets/family/job is/are doing. We talk about Doctor Who and Sherlock Holmes and equal marriage rights and whatever subject they happen to be checking books out on. But some people...I swear, there should be a quota for stupidity and once it's used up, I vote that they should be banned from the library.

SHE didn't have time for that? Does she think I did?

I hate it when people think the world revolves around them. What about the rest of us?

Two interesting experiences

I've had two interesting experiences over this weekend, which I think are important enough to share. If you don't think so...please don't kill me.

Interesting Experience #1

I was out drinking the other night with a friend of mine who just turned 21 in December. He's a super genius and one of my best friends in the world, but he's busy finishing his undergraduate degree early, taking graduate courses, working on getting his master's degree a year earlier than me (I fume with jealousy. He was two grades behind me in high school. That is utterly unfair), and getting internships with major computer companies. I feel so much less successful compared to him...but I comfort myself with the thought that, when the zombie apocalypse comes, I'll survive and I can laugh when he gets eaten because I read The Zombie Survival Guide and he thought it was pointless. Ha! Take that, Super Genius Friend!

Anyway, I hardly ever get to see this kid. And we hardly ever drink together. That's the part that made him upset. Not the fact that he rarely gets to see me, but the fact that he even more rarely gets to see me DRUNK.

So we went to a bar in the city he lives in, which is sandwiched between the city in which I now live and the town in which we both grew up. The town in which I grew up will become vital later.

So, Super Genius Friend recently had some good luck financially as well, and when I had exhausted my own monetary means to gain alcohol, Super Genius Friend liberally provided me with more.

I am a lightweight.

Put that together.

So I was pretty trashed when I needed to pee for the eighteenth time that night, and I was intoxicated enough to decide, f*ck the womens' room! I was sick of walking past the men's room, sending it jealous glances while I ashamedly used the ladies' room because of my stupid body and its inability to produce the anatomy I desired, no matter how hard I wished.

So I deliberately walked into the men's room.

The problem was, it was already occupied.

Beneath the stall door, I could see a pair of legs. The feet attached to the legs were wearing black high heels and there was a short jean skirt around the ankles.

The girl in the stall said, "I'll be out in one second! I'm sorry! I know this is the men's room but the line for the women's room was long and I REALLY had to go!"

"I'm a tranny. It's okay," I told her.

"Really?"

She came out of the stall and looked me over. I did my best to appear as manly as possible while still leaving no doubt that I was on the same page as her.

The door opened and a guy about my age walked in. He stared at us in bewilderment, then asked, "Am I in the wrong room?"

"No," the jean-skirted girl assured him. "The line for the women's room was too long."

The guy stared at us a bit more. He looked almost disgusted, like the restroom that was rightfully his was infested by some kind of ugly, disfigured insects. Insects that are even more repulsive than regular everyday insects.

I found myself scowling at him. "I'm a f*cking tranny," I told him.

He stared at me more.

"Everybody thinks I'm a f*cking girl but I'm NOT!" I yelled.

"It's okay," the jean-skirted girl told me.

The guy, without another word, used the urinal, in plain view of the jean-skirted girl and myself. To my alcohol-disoriented mind, this seemed a direct insult. He was just showing off! He could use the urinal and I was still resigned to using a damn stall, even in the sacred men's room.

I stormed out of the bathroom and held my bladder until Super Genius Friend and I went to another bar, the bathroom of which was located in a crowded game room and I couldn't get to the men's room without a thousand and two people seeing me. I was sentenced to the women's room for the rest of the night.

This is why I shouldn't be out allowed in public when I've been drinking.

Actually, I probably just shouldn't be allowed out in public in general.

Interesting Experience #2

My parents are currently on vacation with Little Sister and Youngest Little Brother. I've spent the last day or two at their house, taking care of their liberal supply of pets (I am not the only one who loves animals! They can't judge me for taking on a third cat!). Oldest Little Brother and I are dividing up the job, him taking care of the animals one day and me doing it the next.

A few days ago, I gathered up all of Marine's beer cans from my apartment, loaded them in my car, and decided to keep the money for myself since he hasn't been home in over a week and he no longer qualifies as a resident, to my mind. In fact, I've gone so far as to decide that Marine is really like Santa Claus and I just don't believe he exists anymore.

So, while on my way to my parents' house, I stopped by the grocery store in the town I grew up in. I'm familiar with their bottle and can return machines, and I hate going to places where I have to complete a task with machinery/devices that I'm not familiar with. Seriously. I hate going to gas stations I haven't been to before, because I like to use gas pumps that I know I can use and not f*ck them up. It's the same with can and bottle returns.

I managed to return most of Marine's cans and bottles, except that for some reason the machine didn't like ten specific cans. It kept spitting them back out at me. I tried reminding the machine that it had just taken a can of the same size and the same brand, but the machine still decided to play its little "game" with me. I was getting inordinately frustrated. But, as I had the nagging suspicion that the store's owners would not be pleased if I destroyed the machine, I resorted to speaking with the nearest store employee.

This particular grocery store employs a lot of disabled people. A friend of mine has an older brother with Down's syndrome, and this grocery store employed him for a long time. The employee that I spoke to also happened to have Down's syndrome.

He was very polite. He got me store credit for the cans that the stupid machine wouldn't let me return.

We got to talking more in depth. I love meeting new people and he was very friendly. I asked him his name. It happened to be Peter.

"That's my name, too," I told him.

Peter: Oh! I didn't know it could be a girl's name, too.

Me (unbothered by the mistake): I look like a girl, but I'm really not.

Peter: I'm looking for a girlfriend. Do you want to maybe hang out sometime?

Me: Hanging out would be fun.

Peter: Maybe we could go on a few dates.

Me: Well, I'm a boy.

Peter: Oh! I'm sorry. I thought you were a girl.

Me: No problem. A lot of people think that.

I took the situation lightheartedly, as the guy clearly meant no harm. He wasn't deliberately insulting me. In fact, I was flattered by his interest. Seeing as I'm not exactly a romance king, it's unusual when someone expresses interest in me. But, as it was clear to me that the guy was straight and he didn't quite wrap his head around my transition, I politely turned him down.

An experience like that might normally make people uncomfortable, but oddly enough, I left the grocery store feeling pretty good about myself.

Once again, maybe I just shouldn't go out in public.

My brain needs to behave or else I'll have it removed

I am currently in the midst of a losing battle with my brain. See, my brain does this thing where it decides that it's going to either torment me with insomnia or torment me with nightmares. It's one or the other. I haven't had a good night's sleep in TWO G*DDAMN YEARS, with the exception of the nights when I get drunk. Alcohol is a natural depressant. It's good at knocking you out. Unfortunately, substance abuse/addiction was a problem for my biological mother (have I mentioned I'm adopted yet? I can't remember...) so I'm very cautious about how much and how often I drink. I can't rely on alcohol to put me to sleep otherwise I'll wind up an even bigger mess than I already am.

Last night, my brain had no choice. I took valerian root (in case anyone is worried, it's a natural herb that helps your body produce melatonin, which is a chemical that your body is supposed to produce naturally, but some people don't get enough. Melatonin puts you to sleep. I'm not popping a sh*t ton of sleeping pills).

My brain put up a fight for a while, but eventually gave up, and I fell asleep. But I was not free.

No, my evil brain was like, "YOU CAN MAKE ME SLEEP BUT YOU CAN'T MAKE ME LIKE IT!" and gave me nightmares.

One particular nightmare from last night stands out to me.

As you've probably gathered from previous posts, I wear men's clothing. Sorry for stating the blatantly obvious, but I promise there's a reason I bring this up.

When I first started to transition, I kept all of my girl clothes. I would look at them hanging in my closet and hate them and love them at the same time. I hated feeling obligated to pretend to be what I wasn't; I missed being someone my parents loved.

My parents DO love me, as a side note. I wasn't out to them at the time and I was relatively convinced that they'd stop loving me and shun me forever if they found out. I started taking medication for my anxiety a few months later, and this illogical worry basically went away.

I went full steam ahead with the transition in January of 2010. I bought a binder and a bunch of guy's clothes, practiced talking with a deeper voice, and started introducing myself as Pete. But I kept my girl clothes in my closet, partially as a reminder of who I had been, but mostly as emergency backup clothes if I had to go to a family function or hang around people who I knew weren't okay with it.

In April of 2010, I moved into a new apartment with Purple-Haired Roommate. I packed up my girl clothes into big trash bags and prepared to move them to my new apartment. I looked at the bags containing my girl clothes, of which there were at least six. My boy clothes took up a mere one and a half bags. I thought to myself, "This is pointless! I don't even wear these! I'm clinging to them like a security blanket!"

I donated every item of female clothing I owned, with the exception of one Alice in Wonderland t-shirt (which I kept because Alice in Wonderland is my favorite book and not because it was a girl's shirt) to Salvation Army that afternoon.

The point of that long and (seemingly) useless story was this: last night, I dreamed about those clothes that I had kept.

In my dream, I had the bags of clothes in my closet. I never touched them, but I knew they were there. And then, for some reason, a little girl who was a friend of one of my siblings, was playing at our house and she found the bags of clothes and took them. I'm not sure if she lost them or gave them away or what, but my brain was quite insistent that those clothes were GONE and not coming back.

Dream Me apparently has a much worse temper than Awake Me. Dream Me dragged the little girl to my parents' swimming pool and held her underwater while she thrashed and cried.

I don't remember if the girl died in my dream or not. I don't think she did, but don't take my word for it. I have a worse memory than Dory from Finding Nemo.

I woke up terrified. My brain had turned me into a murderer!

A friend of mine, who has quite a bit of experience in the medical field, stopped my panic when I told him what had happened. Doctor Friend knows a decent bit about psychology. He told me that under no circumstances was this dream a reflection of my homicidal capabilities; instead, I was informed that, most likely, my mind was trying to deal with the clash between my male self and my female self.

Apparently, this dream was my mind's way of trying to "kill off" that girl part of me that I wish wasn't there.

I didn't get why Dream Me got so mad that my girl clothes were gone. If I was trying to kill off a girl part of me, wouldn't the clothes being gone NOT spark homicidal tendencies?

Doctor Friend says no, that I still have lingering attachments to the girl part of me, but on the whole, I have a lot of suppressed rage and guilt and this is my body's way of handling the entire trans situation. In a nutshell, I want the girl part of me dead and buried and forgotten.

I think he's just waiting for me to really snap.

SAMANTHA IS HOME FROM JAPAN!

SAMANTHA IS HOME FROM JAPAN! I'm so excited!

One of my best friends has been studying abroad in Japan for nearly a year. She just got home and I'm really, really excited! I missed her so much!

One of the things I love about Samantha (that is her name preference) is that she's trans as well. I've gotten to know a lot of trans people throughout my process of transitioning, but there are two that I met before I started to transition who have been behind me every step of the way. Samantha is one of them.

She was born biologically male, but identifies as female.

One of the awesome things about her, though, is that when we're hanging out, all of the trans stuff goes completely out the window. We're so wrapped up in being weird with each other that all the LGBT issues become secondary. For me, at least, I've always seen Samantha as a girl. Some other people may not, but she's always been a girl to me. It doesn't even occur to me to see her any other way, especially when we're hanging out and being ourselves and attracting strange looks from people nearby who have no clue what the f*ck we're talking about.

The conversation between Samantha and I gets so ridiculous that sometimes even we can't follow it. It usually goes something like this:

Me: (random story)....the end.

Samantha: Well, that was random. And pointless.

Me: I hate you.

Samantha: No, you don't. You love me.

Me: No. I definitely hate you. I'm gonna set Sniffleface on you.

Samantha: You can't. He works for me.

Me: Then I'll set Laser Rainbow on you!

Samantha: Nuh uh. He's too scared of Sniffleface to come near me.

Me: I'm gonna hit you!

Samantha: (Japanese)

Me: (random unrelated Spanish)

People nearby: What the hell...?

Did that make any sense to you? Because it made very little to me, and I've been in the midst of those conversations.

My point is, Samantha and I see each other for who we really are. Absolutely insane freaks. Gender has nothing to do with the fact that we're both f*cking crazy.

Why are bathrooms gendered?

My GRE is finally out of the way! I got a 420 on the quantitative section and a 530 on the verbal section. For those of you who (like me) have trouble discerning how exactly the GRE is scored, in simple terms, I could have done better on the quantitative part but I ROCKED the verbal part!

So, instead of knuckling down and studying the night before my GRE, I figured it would be a good idea to go to a gay club with Oldest Little Brother and a friend of ours (who is a totally awesome femme lesbian) who had just turned 18 and never been to a club. I know how I work. I would have been stressed all night and not slept at all if I'd stayed in. I figured that going out and taking my mind off things would be best. Which, it turns out, worked out perfectly.

The only blemish of the night was when Oldest Little Brother, Femme, and I went to Starbucks before heading to the club.

This incident is probably so meaningless (to them) that they don't even remember it. But it's another one of those things that seems meaningless to people who aren't trans, but that stands out like a sore thumb to those of us in the club who have gone through it.

Bathrooms.

Those of you who are trans are probably cringing right now.

Those of you who aren't may be a little confused.

You see, stores and businesses usually have bathrooms for public use. To the untrained eye, this seems convenient. You don't have to run down the street to find a place to pee. And even on a deeper level, this may still appear to be a good thing, because most public restrooms are gendered. One for women, one for men.

The problem comes in when you get gender-queer people like me who can't figure out which restroom to use.

I still appear feminine enough that walking into a men's room earns me weird looks and glares and sometimes even questions. Yes, I have put this to the test. BUT, it's very awkward for me to use the women's room. I feel like I'm walking in on something private, something that I should not be privy to because I do not fall into the elite group allowed to use that particular restroom.

My college is quite up-to-date on these issues and in a lot of the buildings on campus, they have family restrooms. This kills two birds with one stone, because parents can bring their children in there without having to worry about which-gendered-parent and which-gendered-child are allowed in which restroom, and also because the gender-queers on campus can use them freely and not have to worry about choosing a gendered restroom, both of which can be equally uncomfortable.

Unfortunately, a lot of public businesses are not quite there yet.

I informed Oldest Little Brother and Femme that I had to pee like a racehorse, and took about two steps toward the restroom before freezing up. I turned around, started to say something, stuttered incoherently, and finally stopped and resorted to looking helpless.

Oldest Little Brother: What's up?

Me: Um...are these single-person restrooms or do they have stalls for lots of people?

Oldest Little Brother: Single-person. Why?

Me: Um...will I get murdered if I use the men's room?

Oldest Little Brother: This is the most liberal city in the state. What do you think?

Me: Oh yeah.

And I used the men's room without incident. Turns out, nobody in Starbucks cared.

The advantage to living in one of the most liberal and open-minded cities in my state is that I can do stuff like that and generally not have to worry. The downfall is that you still get some intolerant people who have a problem with it.

My trouble is this: men in particular can get hostile, if not downright violent, toward people who don't meet gender stereotypes. I don't meet gender stereotypes for men OR women. I'm kind of my own category. But physically, I still look rather feminine, and regardless of where I am, there is still the risk of being hurt and/or killed if I don't choose carefully when it comes to the gender binary. It sucks, but it's real.

Like I said, the incident probably didn't even register to Oldest Little Brother and Femme. But for me, I'm seriously thrilled that I managed to use public restroom and didn't wind up in the hospital for it.

Invader Zim has no pronoun

This post may very well take a while for me to complete because Mia has taken "attention whore" to a new level. She's figured out that I have to pay attention to her if she stomps all over my keyboard while I'm trying to type.

I had a very interesting night last night. I forgot that I'm a real person and can actually make a choice to socialize (however bad at it I may be).

So I have a class with a girl who I had a class with last semester but didn't get to know very well until we had this class together this semester and recognized each other. This friend is a huge fan of Invader Zim, as am I. Actually, she likes most of the same things I like. I was at her house yesterday and I fell in love with her bookshelf. I think we're made for each other and she just has yet to acknowledge it. You know who you are...

So Invader Zim Friend and I met up at a restaurant for dinner with some of her friends and her boyfriend, none of whom I had met before. Meeting these people was almost like being back in Ecuador.

Sorry, Invader Zim Friend. You have to share my heart with Ecuador.

People met me, and didn't question my transition AT ALL. I think I got one question about it the entire night, and it wasn't even a nosy one. I'd be bitching and moaning about it right now if it was, but it was such an unfazing question that I don't even remember it. Yeah, everybody was like, "Hi, Pete. Nice to meet you," and fell into conversation about somebody's wife and somebody else's friend and going to anime conventions.

One thing I love about Invader Zim Friend is that she makes no distinction between pronouns. At first, I kept pointing out when she called me a "she," and she'd be like, "SHIT! I'm sorry!" and I'd tell her it was no big deal really, I was just noticing that she said it. And then she made a reference to her boyfriend and referred to him as a "she." I thought it might have been a slip of the tongue, or perhaps a subtle insult. But it turns out not to have been. Later, we were talking and she referred to one of her female friends as "he." And then she referred to another male friend as "she," and I finally asked her about it.

Me: I noticed you really don't make distinctions between gendered pronouns...

Invader Zim Friend: Yeah. I told you, it's nothing personal. It's just what I do.

Me: Cool. As long as you're not doing it to be mean.

Invader Zim Friend: No! Of course not! I just don't pay attention to pronouns.

It feels nice to fall under the same category as everybody else, for once.

I'm brilliant when I'm drunk!

Just when I thought things were calming down, I have to go and make a move that shoots my stress level back through the roof.

I'm taking my GRE on Saturday. I STILL haven't finished the application to my grad school of choice. And I'm also working on starting a business in Quito with Ecuadorian friend. You'd think that all of this, on top of dealing with trans issues, would be more than enough stress for one single human being, right?

Wrong.

It seems I just can't get enough of it. Because I'm paranoid that the business with Ecuadorian Friend will go under, and because I'm also paranoid that I won't get into my grad school of choice, I made the decision at 11:00 the other night (while drunk) that I need to apply to ANOTHER graduate program in case I don't get into the one I'm already applying to.

The college I currently attend has quite a good literature program. And, as I mentioned before, I am pretty much addicted to school. My initial plan had been to get my master's degree in library science, work as a librarian, and use a portion of the money I made at that job to get my PhD, hopefully while continuing to work. Yes, this is a very long-term plan.

But lately I've been worried that I'm not smart or efficient enough to get into that graduate program. The logical part of me says that I am and I'm worrying for nothing, but the insane anxiety-riddled part of me still screams that I'll fail the GRE (which is actually impossible to fail), I'll graduate college with no job prospects, my parents will kick me out of their house because I'm an opportunity-less loser tranny, I'll wind up living on the streets and die in a dirty box, and also get eaten by rabid sharks while I'm at it.

Thus, backup plan #3 was born.

So I called my dad at 11:00 at night, drunk, to ask his permission to apply to my college's literature graduate program.

Me: Dad?

Dad: Yeah, honey. What's up?

Me: I was wondering...because I'm applying to library school and all, but that's the only place I'm applying to and I might not get in and the business in Quito might not work out and I don't want to wind up working at Borders or PETCO forever even though I'll have a college degree--

Dad: What do you need, hon?

Me: Can I apply to my college's grad program for literature?

Dad (after a long pause): Well...what sort of opportunities would that open up for you? With library school, you could be a librarian, but what sort of job could you get with a master's degree in literature?

Me: It would be a step toward my PhD, and with a PhD I could teach college. And with just a master's degree, I could teach community college.

Dad: I thought you didn't want to teach. Isn't that why you switched out of the teaching program?

Me: College is different, Dad! People WANT to be there. And I'd be teaching about books.

Dad (after another long pause): You can do what you want, honey. And it's good to have other options in case something doesn't work out.

Me: So I can do it?

Dad: Yeah. That's probably a good idea, actually.

Me: Yay!

I actually said, "Yay!" to my dad on the phone. I'm pretty sure he picked up on the fact that I'd been drinking, but did I really need to drop my immaturity level even more? Probably not.

I can't decide if I should stop drinking altogether because I do stupid sh*t when I'm drunk and get into trouble, or keep it up because I get brilliant ideas when I've been drinking and also because I can speak absolutely flawless Spanish when I'm drunk but not when I'm sober.

I think I'll keep it up because I'll need the Spanish for starting the business in Quito.

This is why I'm moving to Ecuador

So I learned the hard way (yet again) that when I can't sleep, watching a movie that will evoke any kind of emotion whatsoever is a BAD idea. I woke up in the middle of the night unable to sleep, and Marine had just arrived home from whatever the hell it is he goes out and does during the day. He was bored and I was wide awake, so we watched Repo Men, which I had never seen. Yeah. GREAT idea, Pete. And then when I woke up from nightmares about people ripping out other people's internal organs, all I could do was berate myself for watching the damn movie in the first place. And of course, when I woke up from these nightmares and went and woke Marine up crying that I was scared and I'd had nightmares and there was definitely a serial killer in bed with me, he was like, "Mehhhhhh, you're fine, I need to go back to sleep. I gotta be up at 9:00." Which is SO early. Because I DIDN'T have to be up at 6:45 for my 7:30 work shift. I envy him working nights. I'm also a little bitter because if someone really did sneak into my room and rip out all my organs and leave me bleeding and dying, Marine would have failed magnificently at his job. Why does he think I keep him around? It's so he can beat up and/or scare off any criminals who come my way. Because he's a former f*cking MARINE and he's terrifying.

I didn't even like the movie that much. I wasn't scared of it. I was mostly grossed out. I like Repo: the Genetic Opera better. It has Sarah Brightman in it. And I worship her.

So after yet another horrible night's sleep, I had to get up and come to work. I am currently sitting behind a desk in a mostly empty building helping NO ONE because only insane people who sit in a corner by themselves and don't talk to anyone come to the library this early in the morning.

But I know that, when people do start arriving, I'm going to have to deal with everyone thinking I'm a girl.

Because a kid sitting behind a desk with a flat (as much as I can make it) chest and short hair and men's clothes is DEFINITELY a girl.

Okay, so I fit the standard of some butches. But honestly, short of pinning a note on my chest that says "I AM A BOY," I have no idea what else I can do to give people the impression that I am, in fact, male.

I lower my voice as much as I can. The problem is that I have an unnaturally high-pitched voice. Like, high-pitched even for a girl. I answer the phone and people think they're talking to a 9-year-old schoolgirl. I think maybe they think that I'm one of my supervisors' daughters and I've been given the task of answering the phone to keep me from tearing around the library in a hyperactive fit or something. And then they realize that I'm actually an employee when I'm able to answer their question. They probably hang up either very confused, or thinking that I'm an adult woman with some kind of speech problem or vocal cord issue that pitches my voice even higher than is normal and socially acceptable.

I'm also very short. I've tried and tried to grow, but it doesn't work. It's not like I drink copious amounts of caffeine and it's stunted my growth. I don't even like caffeine much. I drink tea like it's going out of style, but even then I usually drink caffeine free tea because I'm scared that if I drink caffeinated tea that I won't be able to fall asleep. Which, really, I shouldn't bother to worry about because I'm never able to fall asleep anyway so the tea probably won't make worse what already isn't happening.

But I also drink milk like nobody's business. Not the gross fat free milk, either. No, I drink organic whole milk. A LOT of organic whole milk. You know how parents tell you that you'll grow up to be big and strong if you drink lots of milk? That's a LIE.

I drink roughly 8 glasses of milk a day. And I'm still just barely five feet tall. What the hell, Mom? What was the point of that lie?

So people see short person and they're like, "Ooooh! Short person! It must be a girl because females are naturally shorter than men!" Even though Ecuadorian Friend is a man and about an inch taller than me. Maybe. An inch might even be an overestimate.

I've also mentioned before that my breasts are more like continents than actual breasts. Unfortunately, there's nothing I can do about this beyond wearing my binder, which doesn't flatten them enough to make them unnoticeable. Eventually I'll get the double mastectomy I've been dreaming about for years, but I can't do that until I'm on hormones and I can't get on hormones until I've seen the right doctor and I can't see the right doctor until my other doctors all figure out what the hell they're talking about and actually manage to give me valid advice. And I also need to quit smoking, because I have to meet thoroughly unreasonable health expectations before I can start HRT.

The problem, I've realized, is that I was born a GIRL. And I lived as a girl for TWENTY YEARS. I wouldn't have these issues if I'd been born the way I feel that I should have been born.

This is why I'm moving to Ecuador. There, nobody cares how I identify and they won't question it and they'll just offer me more whiskey/rum/anything alcoholic and we'll all have fun and I can start my business and be a rich Ecuadorian bookseller forever.