Lionessess, More Grad School, Oh My

This 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…

Yes, 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.