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Bigender Transition: The Switcheroo Times Two

bigenderMy employees at work are delighted for some reason when I refer to my transition as “my little switcheroo”. To give perspective, they are equally delighted when I leave for the day and say I’m making like a shepherd and getting the flock out of there. More likely the delight is in my departure rather than my corny witticisms. The reason I bring this up is because I have a friend who is executing the very difficult switcheroo times two. To be clear, male to female and back to male again. Let’s talk about that. This entry has been vetted by him, just so you don’t think I’m pulling the ultimate dick move.

To give some history, he identified as transgender some time ago and began formal transition in recent times. By the way, I’m going to flip-flop pronouns a lot here, so try and keep up. He now is living as a he, but when he was living as a she, I’ll call him her and she. Good lord, I’m already more lost then if I woke up wearing banana pants. Screw that, let’s go with ‘he’. He got as far as coming out at work, going to battle on the bathroom issue, changing his name, and living full time female. I think we can all admit that in the grand scheme of things, that’s pretty far, and required no small amount of chutzpa. I’d say cajones, but you know.

Over the summer he reconnected with the love of his life. She had tolerated his female side, but generally preferred him seven shades more butch. As star-crossed lovers are wont to do, they re-committed and bought a house together. Feeling more at home as a male in the relationship, he made the epic decision to transition back and now going through the undoubtedly onerous process of detransitioning. Name change again, frequent visitor to the men’s room at work, and what must be the worst, uncoming out to people. I’m not even sure how someone does this without a PowerPoint presentation and Rubik’s Cube for handy visual references and analogies. Here I will say that it must take major cajones and big brass ones at that; the kind that roll down ancient mountains and try to crush Indiana Jones.

Now that I dropped this little bombshell on you, I can feel some of you starting to bristle from here. Easy there hoss, let’s talk this through. Some are of the opinion that a single instance of detransition makes every trans person out there a suspect of future waffling. Some think we are arming the opposition with cause to believe transition is a lifestyle choice and not a medical necessity. Some will be inclined to predict dire consequences resulting from a future realization that a grave mistake was made. Those who fall into any of these fun little pools are probably going to argue strenuously with what I have to say next, but hear me out. I think these assumptions are wrong like Chong without a bong. Hard to argue with someone who uses obsolete rhymes, isn’t it?

Here is how I see it. Transition is a journey, a road, a path one takes to find the way home to feeling comfortable in one’s own body. There are as many roads as there are people. Some are straight, others curve, some go in circles, figure-eight, rhombuses, and even loop-de-loop. The whole point of traveling this rocky, ankle-breaking path, in heels nonetheless, is to make it to a safe place where obsessing about our gender identity takes a backseat to a life more ordinary. It’s really the whole point of it, isn’t it?

Most of us in the trans community have embraced the idea that gender is a spectrum. Where we fit may be more masculine, feminine, in between or off the scale altogether. We embrace each other as transgender, gender neutral, genderqueer, two-spirit, and even bi-gender (which is what this person identifies as). How we arrive at the sweet spot is our own journey, and one that often involves landing hither and thither a few times before finding Goldilocks. In that spirit, I find it impossible to wish him anything but joy and happiness for taking a very long and hard journey and embracing what he is meant to be. How can we do otherwise?

Finally, it’s worth remembering that people who incomprehensibly pour their energy into denying our clearly established existence and any semblance of human rights will continue to do so. Someone finding their way and ending up somewhere different than you or I is not going to make a spit of difference. In honoring our brother-turned-sister-turned-brother’s journey, we only validate the twists and turns our own takes. As for his future, who can say? Only he can determine what that is, and we can safely acknowledge that he’s put far more thought, care, and effort into understanding that than the rest of us combined, just as we have for ourselves.

Lionessess, More Grad School, Oh My

Hand RaiseThis is going to shock the bejeezus out of most of you, but I’ve been a wee bit too busy lately to keep up with this blog. Strike that, I’ve not been busy enough. I generally do my best writing when attempting to procrastinate items of consequence. Now that I have a number of those piling up, I expect you will be tortured on a regular basis by my bizarre notions, questionably accurate recounting of events past, and long confusing sentences that I still hold to be grammatically perfect, invented words and all.

I wanted to share with you all, including both of you who actually give a frog’s buttery behind, about my excruciatingly told exploits. I had the opportunity a few weeks ago to meet up with the Lioness of Edinburgh herself, my spiritual sister Becky of lost lamented ‘I Hate Roller Coasters’ fame. She still hates them, by the way, albeit being a compulsory rider of some note(1). We walked the length and breadth of Manhattan, although I’ll share that the Lioness wore more sensible shoes than me leading to the introduction of new mighty scars to my ragged dogs. It didn’t matter that it was our first real life meeting; it was as if we grew up together. Some people you understand from first encounter that you are simply supposed to know them. I love it when that happens.

Spending the time with her was inspirational, and could not have come at a better time. Here I was scribbling a sporadic opinion or two over the year, while she, though brilliant maneuvering, exceptionally hard work, gracious heart, and frighteningly effective interpersonal skills, is now hobnobbing with the upper echelons of government and enacting positive change for LGBT people in the UK and affiliated Commonwealth. While her stories are awe inspiring, they made it abundantly clear that this was exactly what I didn’t want to do. Ugh, I’m just so glad someone else is picking up that fun little horse chestnut. Look, after decades of introversion I’ve only worked my way up to co-chairing a monthly Spectrum meeting and sporadically eating lunch with new people instead of crawling into the bushes to read(2). Give me some time people; my spirit animal is a goat, so there is only so much to work with.

In keeping with the tradition of living a life punctuated by incomprehensible changes, I’ve enrolled in a Master’s program for Marriage and Family Therapy. I truly have no idea where this is going to take me, but the breezes are a blowin’ in the right direction. Not only do I find the material frighteningly engaging, but I also managed to emerge from a marathon weekend of back to back 8 hour classes feeling elated. This is new. Having the attention span of a coked up housecat, I found it nearly implausible that I remained mentally present the entire time and even participated. Instead of pulses of glowering disdain and bits of malevolence at my cheerfully engaged classmates, I truly want to get to know them all better and even establish friendships. I’m not sure what the hell is wrong with me(3).

The truth of the matter is that I have changed. Instead of adhering to the lifelong pattern of pursuing avenues my warped perception indicated were suitable for my misfit gender expectations, I’m simply following my calling(4). If only I had known the road to new directions(5) was as easy as gender transition(6), I would have paid a lot less attention in math.

  1. The Queensferry Gazette recently featured a glossy cover photo of her descending rapidly, hair fanned out in a magnificent mane, with a look of perturbed irritation on her face.
  2. Generally with a book, as I cared little for reading bushes.
  3. Then again, my last program was an MBA with night classes after long workdays with scads of dreary subjects like finance and accounting. I think that’s enough to make anyone not forged in the corporate kiln want to mosey into an ISIS training camp and bust their balls a little bit.
  4. For the last time, no, I’m not hearing voices in my head. When I say things like, “the dog told me to have that last piece of pizza”, I don’t mean literally. It’s just that she’s so obvious about wanting it, and I’ve had enough of tomatoey dog farts ruining my enjoyment of ‘Outlander’.
  5. Not a ‘Glee’ reference. That ‘New Directions’ has been dead to me since they killed off Finn. Yes, yes, I know, but they could have seamlessly replaced him with Drake or something.
  6. Compared to that last Accounting project (that I still don’t fully understand), therapy, second puberty, hundreds of hours of electrolysis, major surgery, and stumbling around looking like Strawberry Shortcake on a bender until I figured things out were cake.

OK, So I Was a B About the Tree…

Witch on WheelsYes, I know, I know, I know. It’s been about ten years since my last post. I hit a wall a while back after I assumed that I covered every major topic I could possibly think of. I have about a dozen or so posts still in the half-completed state, mainly because I was either really reaching to make it trans related, or the topic was covered to death and I didn’t have anything new to add. Plus I have been slowly cranking on the book that will likely see publication only after J. Edgar Hoover rises from the grave to crush us all beneath his massive Christian Louboutin’s. Good times for all to be sure.

Today I’d like to talk about a pretty big change in myself I’ve come to notice over the past few months. No, I’m not talking about the Zetti’s pizza induced two or three stone of extra weight I now carry. Sorry, I know you have to look that up, but I’m not about to go and advertise, am I? Nope, something much different. Seems old Michelle went and grew herself a pair. Not in the “they seem to have come back, Dr. McGinn!”, thank goodness, but in the mental way. Who’d have thunk it?

For the vast majority of my life, I’ve been what you would call a “people pleaser”. Not that I was so wonderful at succeeding all the time, but boy did I try, even when there was no sane reason to do so. At work this is a very good thing because most bosses like see a healthy brown color when deciding who to give the big raise to or mark for promotion. In every other area of life, it simply means getting the rotten end of any deal. Generally, in any situation I could screw myself over just to ensure people often of no consequence in my life, or even reprehensible, might like me for the supreme benefit I was providing them. Contractors, doctors, veterinarians, waiters and waitresses, mortgage brokers, car salesmen, and all manner of affiliated scum all thought dealing with me was just the cat’s ass.

A few years back we needed a new roof and called the biggest name in town, Rott and Son (or Rotten Son, as I think of them) and we joked about how this guy, who asked us up front if we were getting any other quotes (to which we answered no) was going to slide a jaw dropping sum scribbled on a folded piece of paper across to us. We told him this, thinking it was funny, to which he laughed and did exactly that. Thirty-three THOUSAND dollars for some plywood, tar paper and shingles. Our house isn’t even very big. He was very nice though, so we signed and filled out the complex loan paperwork with interest rates that would have equaled a total value of about $50K paid, nearly half the value of the place. For a roof. I did say he was nice and we wanted him to like us? Fortunately pushing the loan through would have required some tricky business with name substitution on the deed, and my laziness overcame my desire to make him deliriously happy. The roofer we eventually got cost less than a third of that with full tear off and torch down rubber on the flat part to boot.

I was a little worried that my GRS/ GCS/ GAS would serve to make me even more of a well scuffed carpet beneath the muddy hobnailed boots of people I pay to do things. Not even close. As Phil Dunphy, the Count Chockula looking dude from ‘Modern Family’ once said, “Looks like this kitty has claws.” I think that sounds a little nicer than what people are really thinking, which is that I’ve gone and become a real bitch on wheels. When Tivo rolled out a software update that suddenly disallowed Netflix to work on my now antiquated CRT TV (look, I want a new one, but I can’t lift the old one out of the way anymore), I got on the horn and negotiated a rock bottom monthly rate in perpetuity. When my neighbor’s tree guy smooshed half my blackberry bush, I marched back there and gave the foreman an earful. When that wasn’t to my satisfaction, I left nasty messages on their phone service and website. I was about to go apeshit on them on Angie’s List when the owner himself came over, offered to fix everything and gave me a hundred bucks cash just to make me happy. Gotta say, I’m not hating this.

I had to think about it a bit before it came to me. Why did the total lack of testosterone suddenly turn me into a confident, non-green She-Hulk when it came to dealing with people? The truth is that I get stared at every day, everywhere I go. My ability to care in the slightest went up in smoke. I used to be filled with existential angst that people would look at me and judge, and it wasn’t even really the real me when I was doing so as a dude. Now for sure they do look at me in judgement, but their thoughts just don’t mean a thing. I am me now, the real me, and even when I leave the house looking like Benny Hill in drag (most days), I have the confidence in knowing I am interfacing with the world as my own true self.

Note: Just so you don’t get the wrong idea, just because I no longer walk around with “sucker” stenciled on to my forehead doesn’t mean I’m any less polite or nice to people. I also tip waiters and waitresses at least 20% unless there is clear evidence they sneezed on my chimichongas. This note probably wasn’t necessary, but even if I don’t care if you like me or not, It’d still be real peachy if you did.

They Slushied Unique!

Unique slushiedWell, it looks like they went ahead and shitcanned Unique, the first trans character on ‘Glee’. Relax everyone, this wasn’t an anti-trans thing where they quietly shoved out Alex Newell and then leaked a story to the gossip rags about “creative differences” while publically touting that he went on to pursue new opportunities. They also shitcanned the rest of the hated new class as well: Marley, Other Puck, New Quinn, and that gangly kid. Clearly they were all memorable, but none so much as Unique.

For those of you familiar with my other posts, most of them written in my young and fiery days as a newly transitioning woman, full of vim and vigor, piss and vinegar, and vitameatavegamin, I’ve gone on and on about Glee quite a bit. I was elated when they introduced Unique, had some heartache about the way they explained the character, defended her against conservative bullies like O’Reilly, but overall kept up the gushing. That was then. Now, after the fabulous 100th episode and a lackluster gay bashing very special episode, I’m somewhat incensed and want you to join me in my misery.

A quick aside, like I never do. I’m glad Ryan Murphy tackled the still very relevant topic of gay bashing. I am. But holy shit, could the show have done a shittier job of it? While I’m 100% certain this still takes place in tolerant old NYC, and probably every day, but by a couple of good old boys in a battered old pickup? I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a pickup truck in New York City. Assuming they aren’t there on vacation, I would think it would be remarkably easy to track down these losers. Just look for the only pickup registered to Jim Bob Jethro on Manhattan and go arrest the sonofabitch. I think it’s a safe bet that it was probably him. Aside from that, even the event itself lacked the emotional depth we had long grown used to.

Remember when the show had Karofsky, the closeted gay bully who forced Kurt to change schools, then later got bullied himself by the evil leader of the Warblers and tried to commit suicide? I just described three episodes in one sentence that made me cry. Or when Kurt’s dad had the heart attack and Kurt sang to him? Or Quinn giving up her baby? Even Grilled Cheezus had more heart and he was just a sandwich. This was my thought process while the credits rolled. Glee no longer has any heart, and without heart, the apathy grows.

OK, I’m going to stop waxing nostalgic for the evil Vocal Adrenaline, lovely guidance pamphlets like “You and Your Hag, the Zizes-Puckerman romance, and guest stars with awesome names like Brian Ryan. And the slushies. Oh, the slushies. These stories are done and told. That’s fine, turn the page and life goes on. But they still had a character they could have used to inject some life back in to the show, that in my opinion, really died with the Mighty Finn. Unique still had a story to tell and huge challenges to overcome. Given the history of the show, it really wouldn’t have been all that hard to grant her early admission to NYADA and stick her in the unrealistically spacious Manhattan loft with the drearily self-involved remaining cast.

To Ryan Murphy and the writers of Glee, I thank you for the awesome work you did, especially in the area of promoting LGBT issues to the great unwashed. I think your efforts went a long way toward bringing America to the tipping point on rights and equality and no one can ever take that away from you. At the same time, you just brought your beloved platform into ‘Saved by the Bell: The College Years’ territory, or worse yet, ‘Showgirls’, and it just breaks my heart to see it. No longer unique, no longer effervescent, like a ginger ale that sat open on the counter for a good week, please, close your eyes and have a slushie on me.

Fosters Guy

FostersRemember when not too long ago I said I was going to move on to other things and write about those here? Yeah, yeah, that’s all going to happen, but give me a minute. Jeesh! As my son used to say at 2, “Don’ pooosh me!” For the record, we never did in the literal sense and were gratified that he was able to use the phrase in the correct cultural context. We are proud and all, but wish he would have stopped once he got to the ‘F’ word and other little horrifying utterances when grandma is around. Great, now you got me all off topic.

Today I want to gush about one of my new favorite shows out there. “The Fosters”. It’s airs on ABC Family one of the nights of the week. I’m never really sure since we filter everything through Tivo and constantly surprised by the weather as a result. Don’t tell me who the Oscar winners were, not to mention who got kicked off the island in ‘Survivor’, ‘Hell’s Kitchen’, or even ‘Lost’. I love ‘The Fosters’ for a number of reasons, all of which are worth mentioning, but mainly because they recently introduced a trans character and managed to do it way better than ‘Glee’. Just in case you tend to shy away from ABC Family because you think it’s going to be all ‘Walton’s’ or worse, ‘Family’, it’s a lot more progressive than I originally assumed. Once I determined that they featured ‘Kyle XY’, the first genetically engineered super being who is clearly gay, I was willing to give them a shot.

‘The Fosters’ is about a lesbian couple, the Fosters, who have one biological child, two adopted children (who are biological brother and sister), and for whatever contrived reason I can’t remember, end up fostering a girl and boy, who are also biological brother and sister. That the fostering couple is named the Fosters is clearly intended to double justify the name of the show in a clever little unsubtle way. Now in the second season, after undergoing the appropriate amount of drama, the fostered girl ends up in a group home for wicked girls. Sorry, I forgot it’s not the 1940’s anymore, and they did replace a paddle wielding Miss Hannigan type with Rosie O’Donnell, who is arguably a teensy bit nicer.

In the home for wicked girls exists a trans man, and to my gratified amazement, he’s treated like a trans man. Not a butch girl, not a confused rebellious chick, and not a scheming meemie out to fool everyone. He says he’s a dude, dresses like one, and acts with conviction and in accordance with his gender identity. While not allowed any privacy or accommodation, the subject of pronouns comes up more than once and reinforced positively by Miss Hannigan. Sorry… Rosie. On a field trip, they even portrayed a bathroom issue where the young trans man is blocked from entering a men’s room at a zoo. The scene is poignant and the outraged humiliation one generally feels when being denied access to facilities is well portrayed.

What I think I enjoyed most about this character is that they went with a trans man for a change. I’ll be honest, as a trans woman I’m often gratified at seeing my own up on the screen, either being portrayed with heart and elegance or being butchered. I’m also very well aware that trans women have more of a ‘freak factor’ that makes more interesting TV and is probably the reason we are seeing an increasing number of iterations. It’s time our brothers got a little more time in the sun, and it pleased me to no end that they got the main issues and characterization down very well. Well true, someone in a home for wicked girls usually doesn’t have the wherewithal to sneak out and obtain a huge dose of black market injectable testosterone and OD on it, it is an ABC Family drama, so some dramatic license is expected.

I really hope they keep the character. He is the most accurate trans man I’ve seen since ‘Boys Don’t Cry’, and it’s such a boost to Tribe Trans when the media somehow goes and gets is right for a change. The show is worth watching anyway, so long as they don’t cancel it on a cliff hanger like they did with ‘Kyle XY’, which in spite of including a “girlfriend”, was shaping up to be the best gay melodrama since ‘Queer As Folk’.

Ride’s Not Over Yet

CometOK, my last post was really all about schilling for a worthy endeavor, but the spike in my traffic reminded me that I seem to have maintained a readership in spite of going silent for a few months. Huh. Well, that’s a surprise. Here I thought everyone was here for the jokes or seeing what crazy way ol’ Michelle managed to publically humiliate herself this week. Therein lies the rub. The huge cascade of interesting things that had been happening to me for almost two straight years has finally become a trickle of molasses in January. Or this year, I guess March. Let’s talk about that for a minute. Not the weather; I haven’t gotten that pathetic just yet.

Somehow, in spite of my best efforts to remain in Neverland (the good one, not the one with the evil Peter Pan from ‘Once Upon a Time’ who is somehow related to 43 other fables), I went and kind of grew up. Ugh. I hate even saying the words! A few years ago, before I took my first Estrodial or Spiro, before I ventured out in daylight to anywhere but Belles or Spectrum meetings, a post-operative trans woman said to the table of transsexuals and cross-dressers, “It’s feels good to be in the right body, but it’s also depressing.” I asked her what she meant and she just held it out as a certainty without really explaining. Because of that, I chalked it up to bullshit. I mean who can’t explain their own experiences? Apparently she couldn’t, but it didn’t make it any less true.

The early days of self-discovery are so exciting. You don’t know what’s going to happen, what you are going to be doing, what the consequences will be, and what you will be at the end of it. Every single day is a roller coaster of exhilaration of crossing a new inch stone and mortal terror of discovery and repercussions. Every tiny step of it is something you just could not have imagined a few years, or even a few months prior. A trip to the grocery store becomes a major achievement, not to mention hitting the Allentown Art Festival or Taste of Buffalo, surrounded by thousands, some of whom you are bound to know, and wondering if you will be recognized, outed and have your secret self thrust into the spotlight of harsh judgment or warming embrace. Every outfit is a dare, a new expression of your personality. Every intervention: hormones, electrolysis, laser and surgery becomes a new high, a new heady plateau in rarified atmosphere, closer to the golden glow of achieving the nirvana of self-realization. Scraped, bloody, humiliated, and filled with the holy spirit of feminine righteousness, we clamber to the peak. I am woman, hear me roar.

That was all really freaking awesome and all, but after enough roaring to necessitate a trip to the corner for some Ludens, the rest of life has to go and continue. Because I was lucky enough to keep my job through transition, and living situation, it’s basically the same life I’m continuing from before transition, except with more hassles. I still have to get my little guy to school every day and pick him up, do the grocery shopping, write the same performance reviews, and attend the same staff meetings. I still take out the garbage every Wednesday, snow blow the driveway, mow the lawn, and help my mom with her taxes. The difference is that it now takes me longer to get ready for work, I’m still dilating three times a day, and the supply list of shit I need every day is considerably longer. It’s all very routine, mundane, and not worth of being mentioned, even though I just filled your eyes with it all and made you wonder if you should just unsubscribe to this already. Seriously, don’t though. I’ll know, and make it a point to write some knockout material just to piss you off.

I miss the excitement. The uncertainty. Doing things that could radically change my future and lead to dizzying heights and soul crushing lows. This is a good thing. I lived through transition and the world didn’t end. It didn’t break me, or even really come close. OK, yeah, I had some dreary, weepy days in there over the past year, but I’m going to conveniently blame hormones on that, evidence or none. I had a little rest, and now it’s time to climb some new mountains.

Am I still going to maintain this blog and share my experiences? In the words of Tina Fey in one of her minor roles, “you betcha!” What I can add to the body of knowledge regarding transition is probably more limited, though I’ll still write trans posts. I’ll also be vectoring into other areas as I see fit, and promise to try to keep up the funny schtick as much as possible. All the transition knowledge I have to share is conveniently accessible if you access the ‘Topics’ tab up at the top where you can find my blathering on almost any topic, or will once I get around to updating the damn thing. Ride’s not over yet.

PS – The picture, in case are wondering, is in homage to one of the greatest trans blogs ever written, “I Hate Roller Coasters”, by my sister, Becky Kent. This one’s for you sis. :-)

PPS – Um, just so we are clear, Becky is still with us and doing incredibly well. Her blog is gone, hence the homage, but seriously, she’s fine and if I can ever convince her to do a guest post, I’ll prove it.

Inside Out, A Trans Documentary

InsideOut Photo 1Contrary to some hopeful rumors, I continue to breathe and move about the world. Not in a Kwai Chang Caine way where I skulk about the countryside involving myself in strangers lives and use to slow paced Kung Fu to solve all their problems, but nevertheless, I am here. I did take a little hiatus from blogging after I ran out of things to say that I haven’t already covered. In the mean time while I dream up and concoct some new spins on things you were only dimly aware of and not that interested in, I’d like to use my now cobwebby space here to let you know about a way you and 79,999 of your friends can change the world. Without further ado, I present your golden opportunity join the burgeoning crowd sourcing industry and lend your support to a worthy trans project.

Wanted: 80,000 People to Change the World!

 Inside Out – The Documentary is a feature film that will follow for one year the lives of five transgender and gender non-conforming children and youth. On Valentine’s Day Inside Out launched a 30-day campaign on its website (www.insideout-thedocumentary.com) asking 80,000 people to donate $10 – the price of a movie ticket – to fund the film.

 This campaign marks the first time in history a community of this size has come together to fund a documentary. Achieving this goal will: ·      Make a newsworthy statement about the breadth of support for transgender and gender non-conforming people ·      Deliver a strong message about the size of the film’s audience that no distributor or festival can ignore – ensuring the largest possible mainstream reach.·      Make a difference in the lives of transgender and gender non-conforming children. Organizations supporting Inside Out include: NCLR, TYFA, Trans Youth Equality Foundation, TransActive, The Pride Foundation, Gender Odyssey, and Gender Diversity.

 Inside Out is the first film to take us deep inside the lives of these children and their families. It will inspire empathy, increase awareness, and broaden the public’s understanding of all trans* people.  Your donation will help make a movie that will really make a difference! I look forward to seeing your name on the big screen!

Website:        www.insideout-thedocumentary.com

Facebook:     www.facebook.com/InsideOutTheDocumentary

Twitter:           @InsideOutTheDoc

And with that we successfully conclude today’s public service announcement brought to you by Schweppes*. If you won’t drink something imbued with the great taste of Schweppervescence, well then who the hell will? Seriously though, I’m donating, and if you do, I promise to read through all the film credits on ‘pause’, stop, and nod appreciatively when I see your name. It may not be much of a reward, but still a far sight better than those bowling trophies you garbage picked a couple decades ago.

Peace, my brave little Vikings, and talk soon.

 

*Not really. Seriously, please don’t tell them I said that. The last person who ran afoul of the powerful ginger ale industry was forced to seek asylum in Walla Walla, Washington and endure a lifetime of restrained snarky chuckles while explaining to family and friends.

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