August 3, 2003
The following is an article I wrote on spec. I have not shopped it around, though I probably should.
July 30, 2003, Puebla, Mexico. A 65-year odyssey that spanned Nazi Germany, 1960s psychedelia, and third-world mobility came to a close. The last Volkswagen Beetle rolled off of the assembly line, on its way to the VW factory museum in Wolfsburg, Germany.
Since 1938, more than 21 million Beetles have been built. Originally a project of the German National Socialist Party to provide affordable transportation for the masses, the Volkswagen was in part a collaboration between Adolf Hitler and Ferdinand Porsche. The car was designed to carry 4 people at speeds of up to 100km/h (62mph) and cost no more than 1000 Reichsmarks, but met with uncertainty soon after the first models left the factory floor, as World War II took over most aspects of the German economy.
Because most production was diverted to the war effort, only a few of the cars (renamed Kraft-durch-Freude Wagens, for a Nazi Party slogan translated as “strength through joy”) actually made it to the hands of ordinary citizens, though several derivatives did see action on the front lines. Among them were a cheap, light, Jeep-type vehicle called the Kubelwagen, an amphibious vehicle called the Schwimmwagen, and a four-wheel-drive variant of the standard sedan used by officers for transport along the front called the Kommandeurswagen.
After the war ended, the KdF-Wagen factory and tooling fell under the jurisdiction of the British Sector. Most of the British authorities saw no use for the plant, but a man named Heinz Nordhoff saw an opportunity to put the ideal of affordable transportation to work despite the idea’s fascist origins. Returning to the Volkswagen name, and with the factory town of KdF-Stadt having the new name Wolfsburg after a nearby castle, the first post-war cars rolled off the line in 1949 (there were a few cars assembled before then from parts built during the war). Very shortly thereafter, a Dutch entrepreneur named Ben Pon imported the first of them to the United States.
Throughout the 1950s, the Volkswagen—it was never actually formally given any other model name—was at best a marginal player in the US automotive field. The low price of gasoline and the public’s desire to have larger, more luxurious cars kept it that way. The VW also bucked the trend of the time toward yearly model changes, as year-to-year changes of the car were usually very minor.
This began to change in the mid-1960s, as gas prices rose and the counter-culture revolution began. Conspicuous consumption and materialism were rejected in favor of the VW, or “Beetle” as it became known, and its spartan utilitarianism. US car companies tried to compete with the VW, with the Ford Falcon and Chevrolet Corvair, both smaller cars with minimal year-to-year changes, and the latter with a similar rear-mounted air-cooled engine. The Beetle weathered these competitiors, and gained a reputation as a reliable and inexpensive car to own. Plucky advertising by Doyle-Dane-Berbach featured self-deprecating ads that humbly touted the VW's reliability and grotesque charm.
With the gas crunch of the early 1970s, the Beetle truly made its mark, and while US car companies tried again with the Ford Pinto and Chevrolet Vega, the Beetle remained steadfast. It wasn’t until safety and emissions regulations became more and more strict that Volkswagen stopped importing the Beetle to US shores. The last Beetle sold in the US was in 1980, as a 1979 model convertible. By that time, Volkswagen’s water-cooled, front-engined vehicle line had taken over most of the marketplace for small, economical vehicles.
By that time, Beetle production had moved from Germany to the plant in Puebla, Mexico, where the Beetle remained a force to be reckoned with in the arena of affordable transportation. Along with a plant in Brazil, the Mexican plant provided inexpensive access to automotive mobility to millions more in economically disadvantaged countries.
With the introduction in the 1990s of the nostalgic New Beetle, based on a front-wheel-drive, front-engine, water-cooled platform, the Beetle’s days were numbered. And finally, in 2003, Volkswagen announced that the last of the cars that had seen thousands of tiny model changes, but was still recognizably the same car as the first KdF-Wagen, would drive away in July, right before the traditional August model year change.
No, there will be no 2004 Beetle.
The Volkswagen, a.k.a. “Beetle.” 1938-2003.
July 29, 2003
Well, I went with mom to one of the preliminary hearings for the divorce, this one was a motion for temporary support and exclusive possession of the marital residence. The motion was granted, so she gets to stay in the house, but he continues paying for it.
Also, there was another support group board meeting at R and A’s house, but this time there were no hottub festivities. I brought my copy of Robert’s Rules of Order so that future meetings, both of the entire group and of the board, can be held in accordance with established parliamentary practice. Am I not just the ever so prepared one? While there, I also helped proofread the newsletter, and was given a small article assignment.
I would imagine that one or two of you readers were rather taken aback by my last entry, since I had given the URL to this page to a couple of people who were not yet aware of my situation. But now I feel better, because I don’t have to keep skating around the issue when it comes up. To be honest, with the exception of my love life and my work with the support group, it doesn’t come up all that much. It only comes up in my love life in terms of my own perception of it being a handicap, not because it necessarily is one. And it only comes up in my work with the support group because it’s a support group for transgendered people, but otherwise it’s just like any support group or club.
So, now I have an assignment. Something to do, to work on, to keep my mind occupied. Hopefully I’ll be less likely to dwell on the negative since I’ll have less time to do the dwelling. And besides that, I have other projects I could work on. I’m trying to write a science fiction novel, but I’m a bit blocked on it right now. There’s also this page, which I could certainly stand to keep updated more often. Then there are the non-writing projects that I have been thinking about for some time.
My non-writing projects are designs. I have about four design ideas percolating right now. I’m not thinking they’re money-making ideas, so I’m willing to share them. The first idea is pretty simple. I worked in the retail food industry for about 12 years, and it seems to me that there is far too much emphasis on the megamondoultrasuperdupermarket size of store, and not enough attention being paid to the small, “corner market” type of store.
So the idea is basically to have a chain of small full-service grocery stores. They can fit on small lots, or into existing medium-sized retail spaces, and slide into parts of cities that aren’t well served with grocery stores. They can also serve small towns whose residents would otherwise have to travel to the next town.
The second idea came about as a result of the relatively harsh economic times we’re having, with so many people being unemployed or under-employed. The idea is to resurrect the concept of the old boarding houses. Find a large house, or even build one, and set it up as small efficiency apartments, and charge an affordable rent. What is considered affordable rent depends on the location, of course.
The third idea is related to the above, in that the efficiency apartments need to be able to offer as many features as possible in as small a space as possible. So the idea is to determine how best to arrange a small apartment, say, a main room / bedroom 10′ × 10′ with a bathroom 5′ × 7′. Bigger bedrooms and bathrooms will simply add space rather than additional features.
The fourth idea is to build a vehicle based on a semi chassis but that is only as tall as an ordinary passenger vehicle. Imagine a vehicle that could be used to pull a full-sized trailer, but can fit in a normal-height garage. Then imagine that vehicle’s excess available torque and horsepower when it is not pulling such a load, run through very tall gearing. Can you say zoom? I knew you could.
That’s all for now...
Mood: inventive
Music: GNOMUSY - Virtuality II
Link of the Day: (to be retired as a regular feature)
July 26, 2003
I don’t fit.
I don’t fit my body.
I don’t fit this society.
I’m 33 years old and I have had voluntary sexual encounters a total of three times in my life, and one (perhaps two; memory is unclear) involuntary sexual encounter. All the voluntary encounters have been since I turned 30.
I’m a transsexual, of the male-to-female variety. For the amazing number of people out there who don’t know what the word means despite Jerry Springer’s efforts to “educate” the populace, here’s what it means. I present myself online and in person as a woman, but I was born with male genitalia and assigned the social role of ‘boy’ which I was uncomfortable with as long as I can remember, had specific thoughts of wanting to change my body as early as age nine, but didn’t do anything about it until age 29. I’ve been going through the process of making the transition to the social role, and bodily approximation, of a woman for the past few years.
I have no confidence whatsoever in my appearance, and create a self-fulfilling prophecy by not making much effort to look nice. My opinion is, “Why bother? You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.” When I force myself to look honestly at my face and body, I acknowledge that I am actually reasonably attractive for someone of my weight and height, though I certainly can stand to lose weight. But in daily life, I cannot seem to maintain such perspective.
I am intelligent, articulate, and have a great sense of humor, and while I am inexperienced in sexual matters, I feel I make up for it with enthusiasm and willingness to learn. I am kind and understanding almost to the point of being submissive, though I do not wish to be dominated, and desire a partnership of equals. These things should make me a reasonable candidate for at least a short-term romantic partner, but I cannot muster confidence in these qualities either. Therefore, I am largely incapable of attracting a mate, nor am I capable of making the first move—that elusive confidence being required for either.
I do have an undercurrent of anger. I harbor great resentment toward the person who molested me at age 15. Learning of anyone being subjected to injustice causes me to think violent thoughts. I do try to steer my mind away from such ideas, but I am afraid that I can never be as free of such animalistic urges as one of my favorite erotic writers is, for example (hi oosh!). But I continue to try each day. I almost never exhibit any outward signs of anger, to the point of being passive. At least, in person I’m that way. Online, I’m much less inhibited at expressing my anger.
I prefer the company of women. It can be very difficult and mind-bending, when encountering an attractive woman, to simultaneously wish to BE her and be WITH her. But that’s the way it is for me. It is less so now that I begin to recognize the changes in my own body as the result of the hormonal treatments, and begin to consider myself more as a woman and less as a pretender or poor ‘wannabe.’ But I’m still a bit jealous of beauty, even as I find it attractive.
Where does that put me, in the spectrum of sexual orientation? I would call myself a lesbian, but there are women who would strongly argue with my use of that word, especially since I have not yet managed to afford the considerable sum it takes to reconfigure my naughty bits. And it’s no picnic finding oneself among the doubly untouchable. Can’t find love among the straight women because I look too much like a woman, can’t find love among the gay women because I have too many remnants of being a man. Where do I turn?
Here, let’s complicate things further: All three of my voluntary sexual encounters have been with people in my same condition; that is, male-to-female transsexuals. As it happens, a feminine personality and bearing are much more relevant to me than genitalia, though I admit to a preference for congruent anatomy.
There’s no place for me. I have been lucky enough to find support among my family and in my workplace, so I have not been displaced; many others are not so lucky, and I recognize that. But the support comes at a price. Among my family, I am called by my birth name, with only the occasional and inconsistent use of “Kelli,” along with the discordant use of male pronouns. Work has been better at dealing with my new name, since they have known me for less time, but they too insist on using male pronouns.
I will admit that I don’t make it easy for my coworkers to see me as being feminine when my work environment discourages wearing anything but utilitarian clothes. I deal with chemicals, large pieces of equipment, and maneuvering around inside cramped spaces, and therefore usually wear shortsleeve shirts and jeans to work. And who would want to come home from work to get more dressed up, unless there were a special occasion?
Visiting family after work, then, means that they see me in the same utilitarian garb as my coworkers. Special occasions among family? There’s always some excuse to require me to either dress masculinely or not attend. Children being present who “won’t understand,” or family members from out of town who aren’t aware of my transition, or even a recent situation in which it was my niece’s wedding and to make it the first family occasion to come dressed appropriately to my gender identity would mean competing with the bride as the center of attention. Lately I’ve been choosing, more and more often, the option of not attending.
Lately I’ve also been quite lonely. But even if I could figure out where to turn for companionship, I think it would be asking a lot, perhaps too much, to bring someone into my life when I am in such an in-between state. Having that thought running through my head does me no favors in attracting a mate nor taking the initiative.
Faraway Girl helps a lot with feeling less lonely, but there’s the long-distance aspect. I really do want someone to touch and to hold and... well, you can imagine the rest.
The support group meetings and the social activities afterward do help a lot, but that’s quite a closed environment, and it doesn’t put me in as much of a position to interact with the general public as I’d sometimes like.
Mood: way too introspective
Music: none
Link of the Day: none
July 22, 2003
I wish I could stop complaining, nobody wants to read that all the time, but there’s another lovely little problem. I’m going to be out of money before the end of the month. I’m on rations, basically ramen and/or whatever I can find on sale.
This is not a new occurrence; I’ve run short before, usually when unforeseen expenses hit. The money I spent on my car last month probably has something to do with my current situation.
I need a secondary source of income. I don’t have a degree, I’m a bit shy of finishing it. So, professional jobs are going to be difficult to come by. And I’m picky; since I have a good first job (even though it doesn’t pay very much), I’ve got high standards for whatever other job I take. A climate-controlled environment is a must, because I get hot very easily. That means that I can only deal with occasional low- to medium-intensity manual labor. It also means that I won’t do well with wearing uniforms with high synthetic content.
See? I told you I was picky.
Anyway, any secondary source of income I get is likely to be a matter of either shacking up with someone (unlikely), or some form of self-employment. As a third possibility, Mom has proposed, in the event that she gets the house in the divorce, that I move back in, and rent out my condo. That would be okay, except I don’t want to move back home if I can help it. Mom and I get along very well, but what 33-year-old wants to live with her parents?
I would like to be able to make money by doing something creative, but the success rate of creative people is rather discouraging. Think about how many self-described artists, musicians, and writers there are out there, and then think about how many of them actually make a living at it.
I guess my situation is not yet desperate enough for me to take action; usually I only get motivated to get out of the way when I’m near enough to read the numbers on the oncoming train. I get much less picky then.
Mood: mildly anxious
Music: The Captain UK Experience - Love You, Hate You
Link of the Day: none
July 15, 2003
I want my car to work right, darn it. None of this having to fiddle with it trying to get it to start. Last Thursday when I was trying to leave the office and go home for the day, it wouldn’t start. Oh, sure, it would crank fine. It just wouldn’t turn over.
It did it again yesterday afternoon, too, though not as badly. It started after only 7 or 8 tries. It mostly does this when it has a half tank or less of fuel, so I went to fill it up once I got it running. Unfortunately, that means it’s not likely to do this again for a while, at least until I use enough gas to get it below half a tank again, so taking it to the mechanic would probably be unproductive. You know, “Could not reproduce problem.”
Anyway, I went hottubbing again. Same people involved, plus one more, nothing more happened than last time. Heck, A never did put her clothes back on even after getting out of the tub. After a while, it’s just people, nude or not.
Faraway Girl has been largely incommunicado lately; she has a busy life, what with baking cakes all the time for unappreciative coworkers and other such things. As much as I like her, and as much as we have in common, and as much as what differences we do have are of just the right sort to make life interesting instead of causing conflict, I am beginning to wonder if a long-distance romance is even possible to develop, much less sustain, when the people involved have never laid eyes on each other in the flesh.
I’ve considered seeing if I could make the 800-plus-mile trip, but there’s no way I’m doing it without a reliable car. All I’d need would be to get stranded out somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and hear the drifting strains of “Dueling Banjos” from somewhere in the distance.
But I do want to wish her a Happy Birthday, even if I don’t get to chat with her much, and don’t appear to have a chance in the near future to visit her in person.
Mood: pensive
Music: Micronaut - Northern Style Kung Fu
Link of the Day: http://news.google.com/
July 7, 2003
Just a quick note to start: Yes, I got better. Over the next couple of days after my last entry, my emotional stamina improved markedly. Alas, too late—my behavior during the down time resulted in the playfully intended nickname “Basket Case,” or just “Basket” for short. Fortunately, I’m feeling well enough to be able to laugh about it now.
I’m even feeling good enough that I’m not too worried about having yet another round of car problems. I came home after work Thursday, and didn’t go anywhere for the Independence Day holiday. I don’t like fighting crowds nor driving on holidays, so I just stayed in and watched the fireworks on television.
Saturday I got in my car at about 3 in the afternoon, drove it about 30 miles, and parked it at JP’s house. We went out in his van to see a couple of movies (Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines, and The Hulk), and stayed out very late doing so. I drove home at about 4:30am, got home about 5am, and didn’t drive the car again until Monday morning.
Or should I say, didn’t attempt to drive the car again until Monday morning. The darn thing had a dead battery. I just got the battery replaced not two weeks ago!
I called up the shop where I’d had it fixed, and they said, “Sure, bring it on in.” I called Mom to help me out with a jumpstart, too, so I could get it there. That was at 11:30am.
Mom finally got to my office around 11:45am; she had gotten on the interstate going the wrong direction, because she’s not used to coming from my Aunt’s house. In fact, she was a little bit thrown off by that, and she seemed slightly disoriented while we were driving around from the office to my house to get the car, and also from the mechanic back to the office. I worry about her.
Ah well, at least she’s in good physical health.
So, given that I was so freaked out less than a week ago, and now I’m so calm and collected, I can only blame chemistry. Last week, I had some foods that are rather high in potassium, and I’m taking a couple of medicines that slow down the body’s flushing of potassium; it’s very possible that the buildup was what made me irritable and easily upset. After all, calm and collected is pretty much my usual state of mind.
Thanks to all who were solicitous of my health, including a friend from high school that I’d known since kindergarten. (waving) Hi E!
Mood: calm
Music: Charlie Parker - Bluebird
Link of the Day: http://garfield.ucomics.com/
July 1, 2003
Oh, woe is me.
You know what they say, though. Existence creates a negative pressure gradient, and then your metabolic functions cease. I may have just about exactly as much in my boat as I can handle, and any more than that might just pull me under, unless it’s something positive that can help bail out some of the bilgewater.
To a great extent, my online friends and acquaintances are that positive thing. It’s sad that I don’t have much real life outlet, but most real-world stuff takes money. That is simply not a commodity that I have in any sort of abundance. Every time I get my head a little bit above water financially (hey, let’s continue the water metaphors), something happens to sap all the extra.
I’m feeling seriously stressed. SERIOUSLY. With Mom getting ready to divorce Dad, and all the conflict there, and her health being in a somewhat unstable condition, and his health being in a very unstable condition, and my financial situation, and my feeling a bit lonely lately, and a few issues related to being queer, I’m probably about one more crisis away from sitting in a corner, drooling, twiddling my lips with my finger, making a “be-be-be-be” sound.
But being in situations like this makes me latch on a little too strongly to those positive things. Have you ever tried to help a drowning person? They cling with such force, and try so hard to raise themselves that they wind up pushing you down. I don’t want to do that to my friends. Especially not my newer friends, who haven’t known me long enough nor well enough that I could reasonably expect them to take on such a burden.
And yet, my behavior with some of my friends has been erratic of late. Overenthusiastic one moment, overapologetic the next. Acting like an emotional basket case. I’m right, I know what I’m talking about—I’m wrong, I’m an incompetent idiot.
I’m really in a mode right now of fearing loss. I can hardly even type about it without my eyes seriously tearing up. I have so many things that I rely on, both actively and passively, that I’m afraid of losing, and instead of trying to learn how to reduce my dependencies, I’m just substituting other things.
Please, those of you who are my friends, don’t let me bring you down, okay? It’s not that I don’t think I’m worthy of your love and support, I know better than to think like that. Self-esteem is not the issue here. I just want you to know, ahead of time, that if I lean on you, I’m going to lean on you HARD, and if you’re not ready for that kind of burden, don’t pick it up.
I think I’m having an anxiety attack, or a series of smaller ones. It’s not a panic attack; I don’t feel closed in or anything. But there’s a very small pain in my chest (it literally is very small, I’m not trying to minimize it, but it’s there), and it goes away but recurs whenever I allow myself to think about these issues. And I keep having crying fits.
I have a therapist. But honestly, I’ve kind of used her up. I can’t afford to properly pay her for her time, and every time I have tried to get my employer’s mental health benefits to cover my sessions with her, they say they can’t find her on their lists of approved providers, yet she tells me that she definitely is on the list. She used to see me pro bono, but I have been sufficiently incommunicative with her that she probably feels that I am not putting enough effort into the sessions for her to put up with me on a pro bono basis anymore.
So, since family is not an option, and I’m hesitant to lean on friends, and therapy is beyond my resources, and yet I’m behaving erratically enough lately that I know something’s wrong, guess what gets to be the shoulder for me to cry on? Yep, you guessed it. This journal.
Now, you, as the reader, have two options. You can be emotionally invested in me, and let this tale of woe affect you and/or upset you, or you can be detached, let me blow off some steam, and see if everything doesn’t just get better as these situations in my life start to resolve themselves.
Right now, I’m recommending option #2, because even though I’ve never been in quite this amount of emotional turmoil before, I have no reason to believe it is a matter of grave concern in the long run. I’m still pretty sure, deep down, that I’m going to be all right.
Just keep an eye out for me. If it gets worse, that surety of mine may dissolve, and so you’ll need to watch those corners for the drooling, babbling candidate for the rubber room.
Mood: Beside myself
Music: Press - Over the Moon
Link of the Day: http://venusenvy.keenspace.com
June 30, 2003
“What we have here, is a failure to communicate.”
—Strother Martin as Captain of Road Prison 36 from the motion picture Cool Hand Luke
Don’t you just hate it when you are pretty sure you understand what someone is trying to tell you, but when you say it back to them in your own words, it comes across as totally wrong and the person gets mad at you?
I know I hate it.
I feel stupid, and worthless, and as if I’m not being a good friend. Maybe they should just stick me in the hole so I don’t escape. Just as a preventative measure, y’see.
Melodramatic? Moi? Never!
Anyway, there was another board meeting last night. Alas, there was no borderline debauchery to take place, just a meeting of board members and a couple of folks from the general membership (such as yours truly). We discussed the board stuff and then devolved into general chitchat after the formal meeting. There was no live music, no movie to get verklempt over, and certainly no naked hottubbing. My life is not all about peculiar titillating adventures.
Oh, that reminds me—I sent an email to Shortshorts Girl, telling her that she was mentioned in my web journal. She did confirm that her reason for stopping me, and for telling the cover story she later told, was as I suspected. There could be no followup, because of her pre-existing relationships. She was not oblivious to my attentions. I received her reply while I was going through all the parental stuff last week, and had forgotten to include it in an entry.
On a technical note, I am considering what to do when this page gets bigger than 64,000 bytes. I understand that 10 seconds is about all a person will wait for a page to load, and 64,000 bytes is about 9.5 seconds at 53kbps (about the best a dialup connection can do). It helps quite a bit that there are no graphics on this page—that means that the text can begin to display almost as soon as it is transferred. So, if the page does become larger than 64kB, it won’t necessarily affect the way the page loads and displays on your screen; it will only affect how long it takes to finish.
What I plan to do is just consider all the content as archival material. I will cut it out of this left-hand column as one big lump, and paste it into a separate HTML document. Each time the main page gets larger than 64kB, I will do it again, and the archives will link to each other according to chronology, with the most recent archive linking back to the main page.
Mood: faintly bored
Music: Higher Intelligence Agency - Selinite
Link of the Day: http://www.sabrina-online.com
June 27, 2003
Yes, I know I’ve been slow to update this page. I’ve already been harangued to update it. Gee, my first call for “encore” from an audience. There’s an element of gratification to that. I had no idea my life was so interesting to other people. Actually, I had no idea my life was interesting at all, even to me, until I started writing this journal.
I mentioned that I hand-code this page, didn’t I? Well, part of the reason I’ve been so slow in updating it is that I have been fiddling around with the looks of the page; for now, I’ve decided to leave well enough alone.
The other reason is that a lot has happened, a lot of complex stuff, and I had to process some of it, and then there’s a lot of back story to tell before the full context can be understood.
I can try to provide you with the condensed version of the history involved, but it’s not likely to be all that condensed. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to write a lot—it’s really involved.
Last Saturday, I was on an emotional roller coaster. I don’t know why, and I don’t really know what stopped it. Faraway Girl helped me through some of it, and that’s yet another reason why she’s such a sweetheart.
Sunday, as is my usual pattern, I vegged quite thoroughly. I was still a little stirred up, and I think I made someone mad on IRC by being a little snippy both on that day and the previous day. But I did apologize, and things seem to have been smoothed over.
But the real adventure started on Monday. And for this, you need back story. Get ready.
The man I call “Dad” is not actually my father, he’s my stepfather. However, he’s the only significant father figure I’ve ever had, so he certainly takes that place in my life. He also sexually abused me once when I was 15. It wasn’t a pattern (though there was one other occasion where he tried to do something similar but was interrupted), it was just an isolated occasion. Nonetheless it happened, and I was sufficiently mature and aware enough to make him stop before anything more than the first initial contact happened.
He went to night court, was held over for trial, there was a probation, and he was out of the house for several months, while he underwent counseling and recovery program work. Mom did eventually take him back, but not before many long joint counseling sessions. We tried to keep it fairly quiet for the sake of his job, so very few people on his side of the family knew.
He had also once had a history of physical abuse toward Mom, but she managed to convince him of the error of his ways by defending herself with a revolver on a few occasions.
He’s never been a particularly nice person in my experience. Gruff, inflexible, and generally irritable are all attributes that can accurately be applied to him. On the other hand, he can be counted on in a clinch.
A couple of years ago, he got diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. He underwent chemo and radiation, and a couple of lumpectomies, and went into remission, though not total remission. Recently, something showed up on an esophageal scope to make the doctors think that it may be back, and may be spreading. They upped the dose of chemo.
He had been on a bit of a roller coaster himself during that time; at first, he got more pleasant, but then he got more irritating. Mom tried to get him to get back in touch with his family, and he managed to hook up with most of them.
Specifically, he was able to make a good connection with his grandchildren, the ones that are the children of his oldest son. Especially the oldest of the three children that his son and daughter-in-law had together. (The daughter-in-law also has an older daughter by a previous marriage.) This is the source of the trouble.
This young girl takes almost all of his attention. It’s a really weird and unhealthy obsession. And his behavior has been increasingly erratic and volatile ever since he has been put back on high-dose chemo. It’s a recipe for disaster.
In the interests of the safety of the child, Mom told various members of his side of the family about his previous incident with me. All hell pretty much broke loose. Of course, it got back to him. Given the unpredictability of his reactions and history of violent behavior, Mom got out of the house and has been staying elsewhere. I helped her get situated Monday night, and I also ate over there Tuesday and Wednesday nights.
Much of his family, from what we have been able to determine, have gone into denial or shock. He’s said that he doesn’t want her or me back in the house. It’s all quite a mess. Perhaps you can understand why I have had other things on my mind than updating this page. :)
This is cynical of me to think, but I need to get it off my mind: In some ways, it might be better for all concerned, even him, if the lymphoma catches up to him quickly. That way, he wouldn’t have to bear the scrutiny and disrespect of his family, and then neither Mom nor the children would have to continue to live in fear of him.
Mood: angst
Music: Simulacra - Lifesupport
Link of the Day: http://ars.userfriendly.org/cartoons
June 18, 2003
Hello, yeah, it’s been a while. Not much, how about you? I’m not sure why I called, I guess I really just wanted to talk to you. And I was thinking maybe later on We could get together for a while. It’s been such a long time And I really do miss your smile. *I’m not talking about moving in, And I don’t want to change your life. But there’s a warm wind blowing, the stars are out, And I’d really love to see you tonight. We could go walking through a windy park, Or take a drive along the beach, Or stay at home and watch TV, You see it really doesn’t matter much to me.( * ) I won’t ask for promises, So you don’t have to lie. We’ve both played that game before: Say I love you and say goodbye.( * )
I don’t know why, but I woke up in an oddly wistful mood today.
Mood: um, wistful
Music: er, England Dan and John Ford Coley - I’d Really Love to See You Tonight
Link of the Day: none
June 17, 2003
It happens these days, as tolerance improves more and more, that a lot of people are suddenly discovering that some of their friends and neighbors are queer in some form or another, be it as a gay male, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender. And while I’m sure that most people want to be supportive of their friends’ openness, a lot of folks seem to be uncertain of how to react. I just thought I’d put in my own two cents to try to give a few ideas.
First of all, let me establish that if you have just found out that your same-sex friend is queer, that does not mean that your friend is suddenly going to hit on you. If your friend did not confess some sort of attraction to you when he or she came out to you, then chances are good that you will never have to field that sort of potentially uncomfortable question.
Also keep in mind, if your friend is transgender, you should not make any assumptions about that person’s orientation. Being transgender, while part of being queer, is not about sexual orientation (who one is attracted to); it is about sexual identity (who one feels oneself to be). There are a great number of transgendered people who prefer partners of the same gender that they perceive themselves to be, and there are a great number who prefer partners of the opposite gender.
Yes, I know it’s confusing. There are many men who want to become women but also prefer women as partners; it reminds me of a joke Robin Williams used to make about daytime talk shows, “Male lesbians, on the next Donahue.” And there are plenty of women who want to become men that prefer men as partners, too.
I bet you’re thinking, “If you were a man becoming a woman, but you liked women, wouldn’t it be easier just to stay a man?” Let me then ask a question: why would it be ‘easier’ to force yourself to live in a body you know isn’t the right one, just to have better access to the partners you prefer?
So, basically, we’ve covered all our bases when it comes to that first reaction. Your friend is not likely to hit on you. This is, of course, especially true if you are the opposite gender of the one your friend prefers.
The next thing we have to do is talk about secrets. When a friend comes out to you, he or she may be revealing what may still be a very closely held secret. It is not your place to reveal that secret to ANYONE unless your friend has given you explicit permission.
I don’t think I can emphasize this enough. Even though this society is becoming more and more tolerant, there are still those who have irrationally hostile reactions toward queer people. Every day, queer people still lose jobs, homes, friends, families, and/or even their lives when others find out they are queer. The haphazard spread of this secret puts your friend at exponentially greater risk with each person you might tell.
Again, those who are transgender are a special consideration; in this case, they are at greater risk, because they are often perceived as presenting themselves under false pretenses, which adds fuel to anger.
And not only is it a very bad idea to reveal your friend’s secret, but it is incumbent upon you to discourage anyone else from doing so until you can verify that your friend has given permission. A responsibility? Yes. A burden? Maybe. But how would you feel if you knew your friend had suffered due to someone else letting the cat out of the bag when you could have stopped it?
On a lighter note, could you do us all a favor and not try to set up your friends as soon as you find out that two or more of them are queer? “Hey, wow, you are? That’s cool. You know, I have a brother / sister / niece / nephew / cousin / friend / co-worker who is, too. Maybe you two should meet." Ugh. Coming out is an expression of trust, not a request to be set up on a blind date. If you just can’t resist the urge to be a matchmaker, then at least please do at least the same amount of legwork you would do to set up a straight friend.
Keep in mind that unless you and your friend live in a big city, the local queer community is likely to be fairly tight-knit, and many people know each other already. In fact, they may even know each other through a chain of exes; they may even be exes of each other.
Also, do not assume that your friend is single. Just because the US won’t let same-sex couples marry, it doesn’t mean your friend is not in a serious committed relationship. Your matchmaking may be a serious intrusion on an existing couple.
Well, that’s about it for today. None of those personal revelations this time; sorry. Well, one quick one. Mom got out of the hospital yesterday. Yay!
Mood: relieved
Music: Stanley Jordan - Stairway to Heaven
Link of the Day: http://www.geocities.com/alyssa_nguyen/
June 16, 2003
I have apparently gone totally nuts.
Little old Ms. Repressed, the one who doesn’t do daring things, the one who took forever to come out to herself, took forever to come out to others, and took forever to even have her first relationship, just took a little adventure and let her fingers do the walking.
I go to a support group meeting once a month. This last Saturday was the scheduled meeting night, and for a change, I was even there on time—maybe even a little bit early. Joining us from a suburb of a smaller city that’s about 250 miles away were two very striking women. Last meeting, only one of them was there, and I encouraged her to return, but this time she brought a friend.
Let me add a little sidebar about my tastes in women. Besides wanting a woman who is smart and not afraid to show it, I am a fan of the things that make women different from men. Among these things are hair longer than a buzz cut, nice clothing, and soft curvy bodies. I am not attracted to women who look and act like men. For me, that kind of defeats the purpose. But both of these women were quite curvaceous. And they were also smart, and sweet, and outgoing. Oh, they’re both unavailable, because they are involved in a committed polyamorous relationship with each other and the husband of one of them. But they were more than willing to flirt.
Ordinarily, I’m not much of a flirt. And the support group meeting is only a support and social club—we’re not a dating service. But the club after the meeting is entirely another story.
I sat there for a long time, being a little bit of a wallflower, listening to the two of them flirting outrageously with one of the guys from the meeting. I started getting stressed a bit, because they were really pushing the envelope, and my shell of asexuality was being seriously strained. Being around a lot of people who were drinking helped, because the standards of behavior were slowly relaxing.
I started thinking to myself how much that relieved me from my own standards of repression, and I wound up with my face in my hands, just listening to the conversation, all the while my ears were turning a brighter and brighter shade of red. I can feel my face flush right now even just writing about it. I made a couple of joking comments about being uncomfortable, enough to let them know I was frustrated, that they were killing me, but to please continue.
A little bit later, we went to see the impersonator performance. I don’t always go to the show; in fact, I usually don’t. But I was following both of them around like a lost puppy. I get stupid sometimes, I guess, because that kind of behavior doesn’t usually go over well. It smacks of desperation. Who gives a rip, though. I mean, since I haven’t been physically intimate with anyone since December of 2001, what is it going to matter if I make a fool of myself with these girls, but maybe another restless night of getting worked up and then going home alone? At least I’ll have gotten worked up.
The show was excellent. Lots of energy. The hostess did her comedy act, and at one point the four of us (the two women, the guy they were flirting with, and me) were made the center of attention as the one who had never been to the show before got put in the spotlight as a “virgin,” and drew us all in with her. She said that the other woman was her wife (true), the guy was her husband (false), and I was her mistress (also false). But it was fun because she actually momentarily got the best of the hostess.
The second round of performances went by, and then the first show ended. We milled about a little, and at one point, the “virgin” was standing next to me, still flirting with the guy. Well, it seems something inside me snapped. I started out innocently enough; I just wrapped my hand around her bare leg, slightly above the knee—she was wearing khaki lowrider shortshorts. But then I moved my hand up and down a little. The more I got away with, the more I tried. Pretty soon I was stroking the entire length of her inner thigh, and occasionally letting my fingernails run up and down the inside of the other thigh. She continued on with her conversation.
Eventually, she shifted a little so that it wasn’t as easy to move my hand, so I slid it up as high as I could, and started wiggling my thumb around right against the crotch of her shorts. I kept this going on for quite a while, until she finally stopped her conversation and then gently dislodged my hand. She looked at me kind of curiously, so I offered an explanation, “I was just doing my part to keep the fires burning.”
She smiled, and said, “Thanks.” And then she walked away. Hey, I told you this wasn’t going to lead anywhere.
Later, the discussion turned to some aspects of roleplaying and relationships. At one point, this woman professed to be domineering; that, according to the guy, qualifies her to be a submissive in these roleplaying games. She found this confusing, but it was explained to her that the sub actually has all the power, because of the safe word, which can be invoked at any time, for any reason, and to any extent. The submissive merely temporarily cedes this authority to the dominator. I leaned over and spoke into her ear, “If you weren’t a sub anyway, you never would have let me do that for so long.”
You know what her response was? “I wasn’t paying attention.”
I don’t know. Is it really possible to not notice someone stroking your inner thigh? Or was it just an excuse because she couldn’t follow through? Or didn’t want to follow through?
Anyway, I made sure to implore them both to return next month. I may be slowly falling for someone else entirely, and the two girls may not be able to cash the checks their bodies and flirting comments are writing, but what fun it is just playing around.
Mood: titillated
Music: Alan Parsons Project - Sirius
Link of the Day: http://www.livejournal.com/users/kat_chan
June 10, 2003
I have a friend, let’s call him H, who actually married someone he met online. I haven’t spoken to him in a long time; we drifted apart after I came out to him. Anyway, he’s a bit of a music buff, and he met his current wife through a mutual interest in the Monkees. Let’s call her M. They began chatting on a regular weekly Monkees chat on IRC, and things got hot and heavy between them pretty quickly. At the time they met, H lived about 500 miles away from M. But within a very short time, he went to meet her, found a job up there, moved in, and got engaged to her. Together, they sold the house she had been living in and bought a new one, then got married, and had a child together. That child is now 5 years old.
The reason I bring this up is because the same thing might just be happening to me. I find myself thinking a lot about someone who lives about 600 miles away from me. She’s funny, smart, and beautiful. And she reads this journal, so she’s probably embarrassed right now to be reading this.
Normally, I am very reluctant to do things that would be considered even remotely risky. I never rush into anything. I don’t know what to do — and with me, that usually means I won’t do anything, and miss out on something great. I’ve got my foibles and my insecurities, and usually I let them hold me back. I really don’t want that to happen this time.
For some people, there seem to be certain levels of intimacy beyond which romance is impossible. Get too close to one of these people, and suddenly you’re their closest friend, and all hope for romance is lost -- there’s no mystery anymore. I am not one of those people. I want someone I can both share my secrets with and share a passionate kiss with.
So my own natural tendency is that when I want to have a relationship, I start to open up about all kinds of things. But now I’m second-guessing that tendency, because you can’t always tell about people ahead of time if you are in danger of falling through the barrier between intimate romance and deep personal friendship.
I also don’t want to appear needy or clingy. The people who are most successful at attracting a partner are the ones who seem to not require one. And it’s easy for me to think I’m being proactive by being the one to make contact, and have it turn out instead that I’m annoying the person I’m trying to get closer to.
I’m also concerned that I might be overthinking. Maybe I should just let my feelings have free rein.
All these possibilities. I’m very nearly paralyzed by indecision. And the root of every single one of these concerns is fear. And fear never got me anywhere.
I need a sign.
Mood: confused
Music: Basia - Yearning
Link of the Day: http://www.sunsurn.net/
June 9, 2003
Well. Kellitime strikes again. I am really bad about being on time when it’s not something important. I am only a little bit bad about important things.
Saturday, the 7th, was Pride Fest. But I had an appointment to go with my mom and get my hair done and my eyebrows waxed, at 2pm. That meant that I couldn’t really go to the beginning of the festivities, since they started at around 11am, and so the time I’d need to come back home and take a shower after being out in the hot sun, then go to Mom’s in time to get to the salon at 2, meant that I’d just be getting to the park when I’d have to turn around and leave.
So I slept in a bit and started getting ready about 12:30pm. I didn’t quite make my best time getting ready, though, so I didn’t get to Mom’s until right at 2. But it was okay, because she had called ahead and discovered that the guy was running late anyway. One punctuality crisis averted. So, I got my hair cut, highlighted, and styled (the style didn’t keep—my hair will not keep a style longer than about 6 hours), then had my eyebrows ripped off. Then Mom sat for a wash and style. By this time it was probably around 5pm. We headed home, then went back out to get cat food.
So, the cat got fed, and by the time I got out of Mom’s place it was 6:30pm. I head for home, put on a relatively nice top (one of the more feminine tops I own), and headed for the park. I arrived there at about 7pm, by which time most everyone had packed up. Well, crap.
Fortunately, all was not completely lost. I met up with a couple of friends who were going to the upscale chain restaurant across the street, so I tagged along. They were meeting another of our mutual friends there, and I also made the acquaintance of another woman who joined us. The meal was nice, and so was the conversation.
Afterwards, we all went our separate ways—one person was tired, and another was recovering from some sort of surgery (the exact nature of which I don’t know, but it made sitting down painful), so we said we’d see each other at the support group meeting on the 14th, and parted company.
I started heading back toward my part of town, and on the way, I went to the support group’s usual hangout, but I only found one group member there. We stood and chatted for a while, and then I left. I headed for a place that’s even closer to home, that usually has a few more girls in it. They have two drag shows nightly, and I watched the first one. As it turns out, the 2003 Miss Gay Pride for our city is one of the regular performers there, and she did a special number to lead off the show. After the show, the loud music and the smoke started bothering me, so I headed home. I was reminded of why I don’t usually go to clubs on my own.
All in all, it wasn’t the best time I’ve ever had, but it wasn’t the worst either. Nonetheless, I hope to have a bit more fun this next weekend.
JP called me Sunday to see if I wanted to do anything, like go see Finding Nemo and 2 Fast 2 Furious. I was just too worn out to do anything, so I begged off in favor of possibly this coming Sunday. JP is a great friend, and I enjoy getting out with him, but he has significant physical limitations, and I just wasn’t prepared to be able to assist him the way he needs to be assisted.
I did wind up being an assistant to Mom, though. She was very sick that afternoon, and called me to come get her some water. You know someone is sick when they can’t manage to even get to the bathroom for a cup of water; I asked her if she thought I should call the ambulance, but she said no, she just wanted some water, so I got in my car and...
Well, I got in my car. Turned the key, and... WRRWRrWRRrrrWRrrrrrp. Click. It eventually turned out to be a combination of two things: An intermittent problem based on high ambient temperatures and the fuel system, and bad battery cable connections leading to the battery not getting charged. For the next 30 to 45 minutes, I was engaged in trying to get my clueless neighbor to just LEAVE THE JUMPER CABLES ATTACHED while I kept trying to start the car to get the fuel problem to cycle out, and simultaneously giving regular updates to Mom about the car’s status and my ETA.
I did eventually get to Mom’s. The fuel problem, as usual, cleared up on its own. I made sure the battery terminal posts and the connections on the cables were clean, and headed over there. She didn’t make many demands on me; by the time I’d gotten there, she had been able to build up enough energy to take care of her most immediate urgent needs. I still stayed until 11pm. The car started fine when I left.
Today, she called me and told me that she was being admitted to hospital for pneumonia. Yep, she’s one sick puppy.
Mood: concerned
Music: Charlie Parker - Little Willie Leaps
Link of the day: http://seattlesparks.livejournal.com/
June 4, 2003
I had a very interesting weekend. Actually, only Saturday qualifies as interesting, but it was enough to make up for Sunday.
Friday night, I got home, and there was a call from C, the chairperson of a support group I attend monthly, asking me to call her. I didn’t get home until quite late Friday night, because I was still at the office talking to one of my co-workers, D, while she was working, until about 9pm.
So, I memorized the number for the next morning, and about 11am I woke up and called. C invited me to a meeting of the board of directors, since I had shown an interest in helping out. I said, “Okay, what time?” and got an answer of around 5pm. I puttered around the house, went online, chatted a bit, then decided I was going to take a nap, since the people in my support group tend to go out to clubs on weekends, and I wanted to be able to keep up with them.
I slept through the beginning of the meeting. I didn’t wake up until about 5:45pm. So, I made a couple of calls and got in touch with R, the vice-chair, at whose house the meeting was being held, as soon as I got up, and said, “I’ll be right over.” I took a very quick shower and drove across town, and managed to get there by 6:30. Gee, only an hour and a half late. Anyway, the meeting was still going on, and so I participated, inasmuch as I could.
We had some interesting discussions, but you probably wouldn’t find them interesting, so I’ll gloss over the meeting, except to say that I may wind up taking a somewhat active role in the production of the group’s newsletter.
After the meeting broke up, a few of us went to a local queer-friendly hangout, JM’s, for some live music, and to scope out the place for the band that R is in, since they were to be playing there in a few nights. I wasn’t all that impressed with the band’s music, though they had some nice sound equipment.
While I was there, I watched the Showtime movie Soldier’s Girl, and since I have met Calpernia Addams and talked to her, I was just that much more upset when they showed Barry Winchell’s death and Calpernia’s reaction when she heard the news. I had to go sit down somewhere else for a bit... and wound up having a couple of little crying spats. I can’t watch people die on TV anymore anyway—and this was worse, because I knew one of the actual people who survived Barry. R hugged me and comforted me a little, for which I thank her greatly.
We only stayed around there for about two hours, maybe less, before we all headed back to where R and A (the support group’s treasurer) live. At that point B, the membership director, headed for home. But myself and H, the secretary, stuck around. So, the group at this point was myself, R, A, H, and someone whose name I can’t remember because R kept calling her “Ma.” Ma lives/stays with R and A; she is not a member of the board.
R and A invited H and me to hit the hot tub with them and Ma. Ulp. See, I’ve got some body issues, not the least of which is an extremely acute case of acanthosis nigracans under my arms and along my inner thighs. I’ve got a topical cream for it, and it works, and if I’d lose some weight, it would probably work better, but for now it’s definitely a concern. I’m also a bit unhappy about my weight for more general health and appearance reasons.
But I went ahead and did it anyway. Diving in with both feet, as they say. Especially apt in this case, even metaphorically, because there were no swimsuits available. At least, they offered, but I knew none of the residents of the house would have one big enough for me.
That brings me to the headline for today’s entry. Hot tubs are not named “lukewarm tubs,” they’re called hot, for a reason. And that reason is that they are HOT. And since they are large containers of essentially standing water (cycled and filtered, but not replaced), they have to be chlorinated, and usually somewhat more strongly than a swimming pool, because the heat allows unpleasant waterborne organisms to grow and reproduce more rapidly.
So there I was, in steaming, heavily chlorinated water, naked as a jaybird, with three other board members and one other resident of the house. And it was the first night of the 9-day-long Pride celebration here. Interesting weekend, like I said.
No, nothing happened. We were all well-behaved. Get your minds out of the gutter.
Sunday? Oh, Sunday I vegged in front of the computer screen. No big whoop. And so far this week at work has been uneventful—same old same old.
Link Of The Day: http://www.blurty.com/~sophiasomeday/
May 30, 2003
I’ve decided that I hate the word “blog.” It’s too... organic. It seems like a word we might invent as a euphemism for some bodily function. “Ew, she just blogged all over me.” Nasty word. I think I prefer “web journal.” But I’ll keep the title the same, just so people know what this page is.
Oh, hi. It’s kind of rude of me to create my very first journal entry without an introduction, I suppose. Well, okay, here goes.
I’m Kelli. Can we leave it at that? No last names—although just about anyone could find out more about me with some medium-level research effort. I would also like to mention that I have ties to the queer community, and I’m sure that eventually, my entries will make it pretty clear to what extent those ties bind. I’m in no rush, though, to bare my soul immediately to the whole net, even if it’s only one or two people at first (or ever).
I work for a state DOT, doing remote sensing and aerial image acquisition for survey. It’s fascinating work to me, and I’m sure more than a few entries in this journal will address my work to some degree.
My home life is dull, as I have no pets, no plants, no significant other, and no roommate/housemate. I come home most nights, cook dinner, and eat it while I veg out either in front of the TV, or online, or both. As such, my home life will not often be a topic of discussion. Since I have no significant other, my social life is in nearly the same straits. That’s not to say I have no social life; just that it’s not very active.
Email me. Talk about my page. Just send a friendly note. Harangue me for updates. Whatever. If I get around to it, I might post your comment up here. No promises, though...
(Ed: Editor’s replies will look like this, and letters chosen to post will have their more personal contents removed.)
From: E
Date: July 3, 2003
I have been keeping up with your journal and wondered how you are doing. July 1st you were not doing so hot it sounded, and I hope as the 4th approaches, you have more pleasant music and fireworks than the raging fires of hell going on in your corner of the world. I love reading your journal and I’m so glad you sent me the email so I could read it. You write so beautifully, and with such passion. I feel even though we have known one another most of our lives, that I had no clue whatsoever into your mind and heart until reading your thoughts. Let me know if I can be a sounding board for you. I know having the family all busted up right now must be difficult for you.
Happy 4th to you, peace and love and all that jazz. Don’t we all need it?
(Ed: Yes, we all need as much of that as we can get. Thanks for the support; I mentioned you in an entry.)
From: Shortshorts Girl
Date: July 13, 2003
I just read part of your journal and it is amazing to me how some of our feelings about ourselves or situations really seem to have a lot in common to me either where I am now or things I have gone through (I was fortunate to have never suffered from abuse).
I do hope that things go much better with your family and I am saddened that you have had to go through so many things. It’s odd how sometimes people can go through the same things that we experience but if we feel a little “crippled” or wounded it seems like “water off a ducks back” to them (since you had a water theme in your entry—ha! ha!).
I will send you this e-mail wishing you happiness and all of the joy that your heart can hold. Take care of yourself.
(Ed: Thanks! I sure hope you and “Blondie” can make it to the next meeting.)
From: Faraway Girl
Date: July 17, 2003
I haven’t been voluntarily incommunicado, it’s just that the harddrive on my home computer (the brains of the hi-tech operation that is Lulubelle Ranch’s tech sector) shuffled loose this mortal coil. I’ll try to email you tomorrow. Update more often! Don’t make me harangue you infront of God and everyone!
(Ed: Too late. Now that I’ve posted this, you have now officially harangued me publicly. Oh, now I want lemon pie.)