The Silver Lining

There was more work strife today, as more complaints poured in regarding that friend I hired over the holidays. It's tough when I have lived in a way that railed against the sentiment: "It's not personal, it's business." But as with all clichés – they have been coined for a reason.

The truth is, it's both... It's a small business that is very personal. When someone monkeys with that system, it hits people's heartstrings in a way that we could never predict, which in turn hits our wallets in a way we'd never want to imagine. All of this say: I am bummed that someone I considered a friend couldn't even manage the bare minimum of the job responsibilities we repeatedly spelled out for her. I am not only disappointed, but pissed that this friend bit the hand that fed her so many handouts. Trying to brush it off, meanwhile a Taoist saying keeps coming to mind:

What is a good man but a bad man's teacher. What is a bad man but a good man's job.

I believe that there is something to be learned from everything, a lesson gained to further refine our sensibilities. It's actually one of my favorite qualities in myself. (That, and my feet. I have really nice feet...) So, I am trying to chalk this one up to one -HUGE- learning experience, and find ways to improve myself with this newly acquired knowledge.

Not to always talk about television, my new best friend, but ––– last night on Tabitha's Salon Takeover there was a young gay stylist that reminded me of this very situation. He was very immature and sloppy, and would become defensive when constructive criticism was shuttled his way. Of course, no one likes to hear what they are doing wrong – it could make any of us feel embarrassed and a little insecure with everyone watching us. But... Ideally, there should to be that point when we decide that we will not only withstand those criticisms, but that we *should intentionally seek them out* to become better at whatever it is that's in front of us.

Sure, there are some instances where that is easier said than done (((like in bed))), but my hope is that we could muster the requisite courage and fortitude to face those nagging pinches of our peers' critiques, and absorb the much needed marrow of their offerings. Am I too much of a Pollyanna here??? Probably. But this young gay stylist kept crying every time Tabitha made a suggestion that would improve his cutting ability exponentially. Do we really want to cry every time someone dangles an opportunity for growth before us? (((Why did that sentence suddenly sound so dirty?)))

Point being, true self improvement can only happen when we're willing to face those parts of ourselves that we most likely don't want to really admit are in our arsenal. (I put the "arse" in arsenal... What's with me today?!?)

I had a fascinating conversation yesterday with yet another friend whom I haven't seen in ages. She and her boyfriend asked me to take care of their cats (as they each have their own condo and cats in said condos, but all reside in the same building). My dear friend kept making numerous advanced apologies for how messy and dirty she claimed her place was, and she admitted that she finally got around to contacting a professional organizer to help her in the new year. She seemed doubly embarrassed since she seems to think I'm some insane neatnik, and would be disgusted by her diggs.

The interesting part was that she said, "I don't think this messy part of myself really fits in to who I see myself as, on the whole." Hmmm. Some food for thought in there. And I could relate, as much as I can be a germaphobe with a penchant for wanting certain things to have *their* place in my home, I don't see myself as a neatnik. I kind of think of myself as a "work in progress," always trying to learn some new system that will help me break bad habits of letting junk mail pile up, or holding on to old magazines cuz I'm too lazy to tear out the one article and toss the rest, and just finally mastered my bill paying system online to prevent late payments and such... We all have that inner monologue, or that book jacket biography pinned to our psyche's metaphorical lapel.

"Will Warren is a short, subdued, yet snarky transguy who spends most of his free time writing, obsessively watching bad television and great films, and playing with animals for a living. In the past, he had many impatient, impulsive bad traits, often turning him into a stark raving lunatic, especially in affairs of the heart – which, unfortunately he's had many. Of all the things he's worked hardest at, it has been love – which has seemingly always escaped him, quite effortlessly. One day he decided to stop being a fuck up, and we're still waiting to see where that gets him... He's currently in the process of writing a few rambly blogs on the subject, which he is turning into a series of articles about contemporary masculinity, the necessity of "emerging identity" in American culture, and what not to do if you ever want to date again. He dreams about turning some of his articles into longer book forms, and getting back into film work. But his Mecca is to trek to California to someday meet Betty White, and maybe even Shirley MacLaine. Dare to dream."

I still see myself as the fuck up because that's what I've known for 30+ years. Even though I've had a few doozies to test me over the past year, and I've come out better than just okay, I am apparently slow to edit that self-description that I penned when my self-identity was just being formed. But stepping back now, I see that we are so much more malleable than perhaps we ever give ourselves credit for being. And yes, I decided to seek out some medical assistance when my long standing anxiety became increasingly problematic, but to be able to now see myself as liberated from that which felt like a noose around this mostly hopeful heart of mine, it is incredible.

Maybe every cloud does have a silver lining, or at least a cute configuration of a panda bear eating cotton candy while floating above us in the sky. Even as bummed as I was about my friend who let me down, I can see the ways that I've chosen to step up given this situation. I can't control her or her actions, but can learn and be more mindful about my own actions and reactions in the future. I am beginning to think that 95% of living well has to do specifically with our ability to manage crises, attending to the minutia of life to prevent them from snowballing into a crisis.

In the past, my anxiety would get the best of me and hold it hostage, while the worst of me would take over as the interim ambassador of Crazy Town. Now I see that I can manage nearly everything that tests me on a daily basis. With every bad day I am able to tell myself, "I will survive... It's not the end of the world." And I do survive, and the next day slowly evolves into it's own entity, bringing with it relief from some of yesterday's problems, and if I'm lucky, maybe even some joy thrown in there for good measure. The stress just rolls off me in a way that used to seem impossible. I formerly felt like a stress magnet, and when one feels like that, they are bound to find it wherever they go. Please don't get me wrong – I'm not saying that I don't care anymore... I simply mean, I have gained a better perspective on what really matters. And I have also gained more faith in my ability to withstand, and even improve upon what might currently feel off-putting.

Many times in relationships what matters most is how people handle the challenging times, where they inadvertently become make or break moments without even realizing it. As for me, I think slowly I have come to learn in this recent past of mine that I will make it, that I am not as permanently broken as I used to suspect. And I can only imagine how much more I will continue to learn, and how all of this will truly create a solid foundation upon which these handsome feet of mine can finally rest.

It's the hard times that test us the most. And I see now that I've passed.

Takeover

Perhaps it's appropriate that I watched Tabitha's Salon Takeover today after having that funked up day at work. Maybe I need Tabitha's help to kick my managerial ass into shape. Have you seen it? I think I kind of have a crush on her. Man, she can be such a raging bitch! It kind of works for me. Is that what I need to be in life – some complete douchebag to get shit done? Lay down the law, and just make things happen?

Yes, it's true, there is something about her snarky, take charge attitude that I kind of adore. She doesn't look like what I usually go for, but I know she'd be able to snap me like a twig. Apparently that's a good thing in my book – yes, I like being bossed around.

While trying to watch her show, I kept being inundated by commercials for dating web sites, Turbo Tax, and the like. Huh, ya, I guess it's the big push for New Year's resolutions. So, um, yes, having just received a notice from the IRS that my high price tagged accountant fucked up my taxes, and I owe an additional $1,600 from last year, maybe it's the perfect time to get these types of things in order.

Back to dating: Bring it! I'm ready to get back out there in 2010, and try to find that feisty incarnation like Tabitha. I'm ready to be bossed around, get complimentary hair care suggestions, and if she can recommend a better accountant, I'm all in... Know anyone???

TCB

I mean: Takin' care of business – not to be confused with "The Country's Best Yogurt," (TCBY). Do they even still have those anymore?

Things have been kind of hectic since I got back into town. I made the mistake of hiring a friend of mine to help out over the holidays for the pet care company I manage. We kept getting complaints from our clients after my friend's visits, and each time I had to have a chat with her. We were so under staffed during the holidays with both an influx of additional clients needing our assistance, and our permanent staffers needing subs for their ongoing routes while they went off to visit their families. All of this to say: we nervously had my friend help out, and it may have been more of a hassle than it was worth.

The tough part for me is my own stupid pride, and my ego getting in the way. I have been *feeling* like her bad choices have inadvertently made me look bad, and have tarnished our company's brand and reputation. With that many complaints, and so many uncomfortable conversations I have had to brooch with said friend, it pushed me to the point of getting pissed off. I have worked my butt off to lobby for her, and to get her opportunities for employment and affordable housing in the city, and to *feel* like she did a half assed job in her responsibilities with both. It *feels* like her lack of attention to detail was almost flippant, and disrespectful, or at least lacking the minimal amount of common sense.

Having to kiss the clients' asses, and apologize repeatedly to my boss have proven to be frustrating, and understandably embarrassing. It sucks. What a lesson in humility! It has taught me to trust my instincts about people, and not always give people the benefit of the doubt when they give me hints and suggestions that more problems may be around the corner. I gave my friend repeated chances because she claimed to be desperate for cash, and I side stepped my gut instinct in trying to find more support from our current staffers. I have to take responsibility for the bad decisions I've made, and the ones that my boss and I discussed prior to our offering her more temporary work.

I say all of this now, despite it being completely unrelated to the specific topic of dating, because it made me realize so much about myself, and how I need to stand up to be the man worth being. I need to trust myself more, and not override my sensibility just to placate a friend claiming to be in distress. It should have been a red flag, and when it was, I didn't turn a blind eye, but rather, held my breath and hoped for the best. How dumb was that? I wasn't being a good manager because I was trying to be a good friend. But when my friend did a bad job, it felt like she was being a bad friend, and highlighting my bad managerial skills for hiring her in the first place.

There is a new wave in management theory emphasizing our individual strengths and knowing how to best negotiate them, as opposed to former theories that we need to improve upon our worst traits to not be a detriment to our projects. I'm not convinced that it's one versus the other, but today helped me better understand what exactly are my fortes and foibles.

In general, I have a pretty intense, acute attention to detail. It is what makes me good at my job, and what made me successful while studying Conflict Resolution, working as a Producer in the Film and Video world, and as an Event Planner in various fields. I try to focus on the greater needs of a given situation, while simultaneously trying to predict whatever set backs may surface, and what work-arounds may help seal the deal. Former co-workers joked that I should be a detective, or work in forensics with such an eye for detail. (I saw Sherlock Holmes last night, and thought it could be a cool life, if only we had to permanently wear Victorian duds...)

But seriously – I am starting to understand how to best put some of my better features to use professionally, and how I want to work on some "self-development" to shed the layers that aren't doing me any favors.

I think this is what growing up must be about, and how we slowly settle in to our roles as adults. Funny how a good friend and bad employee can be that kind of wake up call. Back to work... There's always something, right?!?

Homer

Well, I made it back to my hometown today, even in record time. I left at 6:30am and arrived at 12:30pm, so not bad considering... So far, everything has been going well. My bro and sis-in-law arrived a few nights ago, and seemed to have put a good spin on the holidays. Everyone appears to be in a good mood, which is rare. My dad is almost giddy. I don't know what changed, but hell, I'll take it!

I'm ticking this out from my iPhone in my now dark childhood bedroom, hoping you can forgive me for the ill formatting for one night. I'll add an image after the festivities tomorrow with our extended family.

I guess I just wanted to check in... It's like you are my parole officer, and I fear you'll get suspicious with too much radio silence. All is going okay, well except that two of the presents I had shipped to my folks' house have not arrived yet. Oh well... It will be fine.

It was nice-we had dinner at the dining room table, and I had everyone cracking up over my stories of bulldagger clients telling me that their dogs needed a positive male role model, or how one of my gay male clients always creepily hits on me when I run into him. It was nice to be able to joke about my transition and have it be funny. My family is really goofy, so if we can't laugh at something (or someone) it feels painfully awkward. I don't mind being the butt of my own jokes-it's kind of my forte, so it worked well to bring us closer together by laughing (at me).

Part of it is tough, though, as I used to see old friends while I was back. Many of our parents have moved away, so no one seems to be around this year. And I don't think I'll get to spend much time in NYC to catch up with folks on my way back

I guess I'm just feeling nostalgic and missing people. Not in a bad way, but in a way that is sweet to know who means the most to me.

The missing may subside, but for now, I honor it as the guest list of this heart of mine. It may be getting old, battered and bruised, but I'll still listen to whatever it's trying to tell me.

Someone once told me that she didn't think she could be with me because missing me wasn't difficult. She wanted someone for whom she could not live without. I think I know what she meant. Sure, I can live without her, but damn I still miss that fiery gal. And the missing her, times like now, feels difficult.

But this time, like all times, shall pass.

For now-I'll savor the sensation of missing while it lasts... And so it goes.

G'night.

Anal Retentive...

While stuck in traffic trying to drop my dog off at the kennel, I looked up to see a McDonald's sign missing a very necessary letter. I think the sign was supposed to read angus. Oh, little "g" ~ where have you gone? Anus burgers? Hmmm. Ya, that's a new menu item... I'd say it was refreshing to see such transparency in McDonald's marketing their "fresh" ingredients, but under the circumstances – it's probably more accurate than we'd like to admit.

Anywho~

I had to abandon my trek up north today, and postpone it until tomorrow. A friend of mine was supposed to come by to pick up some client keys to sub for me over the next several days, but unfortunately my friend came by an hour and a half late. It threw off my entire schedule today, so by the time I got done with work after these delays, I got stuck in horrible traffic bringing my dog to his doggie day spa kennel, waaaaay the fuck out in Virginia. A trip that usually takes about 40 minutes took nearly 2.5 hours. This delivered me in the thick of rush hour traffic by the time I dropped him off, and projecting more of the same, I gave up and headed back to DC, rather than brave the stop and go for the next 9 hours heading northbound. Oh well.

I'm going to try to hit the hay soon, and get up super early to begin again. (Wow, if it were that easy...) But it will be an interesting visit with my family. It's the first time that my brother will be in attendance Christmas morning in over 2o years. (Yes, we're *that* old.) My bro, sis-in-law, and our parents will be opening presents Xmas morning in Connecticut, then heading up to the Boston area to have Christmas dinner with the extended family. My 99 year old grandmother's health is failing, so it's strange to think that this may be the last time that we will all be together. The first time in over 20 years, and possibly the last.

My father and I tend to get in some huge blow out fight over the holidaze, and this year, I haven't even been dreading the visit like usual. It's kind of nice to go into the whole venture with a neutral attitude. It's the first holiday where my entire family will not only be altogether, but also the first time that they'll try to comply with using my 'newish' name, and sticking strictly to male pronouns. They hadn't been so great with this stuff in the past. Recently, my Mom has been going into overdrive, buying me a "son" birthday card --- which was HUGE, if you don't know my family, relaying stories where she'd be talking to others referring to me as her son, and so on. Kind of amazing, after years of us all bumbling through the awkwardness of stepping on others' toes, and offending everyone at the same time. My Dad still calls me by my birth name, which annoys me, but makes sense after knowing him for nearly 35 years.

I don't know. It seems like the first time I am going into this feeling like an adult, not like the baby of the family. I am ready.

Last year I was supposed to see my family for a few days around Christmas, but everyone else in the family got stranded by the multitude of snow storms, and I got a "get outta jail free" pass, and bailed to go to Houston early to see the woman that I was dating at the time. That was the first time I had ever been away from my family on Christmas, and the first time I'd ever spent it was a significant other. Crazy. I had a blast in Houston, and the trip we took to New Orleans for New Year's, but I was deathly ill with a flu, worsened by spending time in two cities walloped by hurricanes. I spent a week and a half being a wet blanket, sneezing, wheezing, and sniffling. That's sexy. (I was single again soon after... wah wah wah...)

But I see now that it set the tone for how I want my life to be. I want to be in an mature, responsible relationship, and be an adult within the context of my family. Strange to think about where I have been in this past year, but necessary. This has been the most dramatic few years of my life, not only with my gender schtuff, but with stepping up and trying to be the stable, rooted person I always hoped to become.

I watched a documentary about Keith Haring last night, and thought a lot about the comment someone made about outsider art, and how different it was to be queer in the late 1970s through the mid 1980s. It was still taboo, and frowned upon, and that source of closeted behavior led to this interesting dialogue in a lot of underground art at the time, where that sense of alienation from the main stream was the connecting factor amongst the artists. I could relate.

Having known since I was 3 or 4 that I was queer, and 'different,' I knew my life would potentially be very challenging. I had no clue how my life would materialize, and the ways in which certain specific challenges would manifest, but I knew I was an outsider, and always would be.

Years ago, I dated a woman who was getting a double masters in Deaf Studies and Queer Studies at Gallaudet University. Her thesis focused on the theme of "chosen families" versus our actual biological families, since queer and trans children often come from hetero-normative parents, and many deaf people are born of hearing parents. It was an interesting comparison. She'd bring me to special events at the school, and then proceed to ignore me – something she later on acknowledged was intentional, to make me feel as alienated as many deaf people do in a hearing world. Having felt that way my whole life, I didn't need some woman trying to make me feel more alone in the world.

But I think of all of this now, on the eve of seeing my hetero-normative family, and thinking about this sense of alienation I have always experienced, even with them. And how I didn't realize it until just now, that I have subconsciously been looking for that one person in the universe that makes me feel at home with them – who makes that eternal sense of alienation dissolve right before my eyes. That one person who can melt this cold, cold heart of mine. A person with whom I can start my own family, and know that I belong there. (Well, until my kids are teenagers, and make everything feel awkward, awful and unwanted... Heh.)

I had hoped that this last person I dated could have been the one to feel like home. After we broke up I started to understand how much of what I wanted to feel with someone else had to begin with me. Gandhi said something like: "Be the change you wish to see in the world," and I think that sentiment can be extended. I think I need to be the home I wish to find in the world, the family I wish to create.

In the past, I think I struggled with this fractured, broken feeling I have always had. Many of us seem to turn to romantic relationships in hopes that they will make us feel whole, and heal the long standing wounds we've suffered. I can honestly say that I'm not looking to be rescued, or for that person to come and save me. For once, I've seen all the work I've done to save myself, and I'm finally feeling relieved knowing that whatever comes next will be free of some of these anchors that kept me stuck in this broken past.

I'm looking forward to some new adventures! And away we go ~

AOM: What to Expect From Women

(Click on this title to read the full article from The Art of Manliness, titled: "What Can Manly Men Expect of Women?")

Check out this article from The Art of Manliness. Pretty interesting stuff!

The Fugly Truth

While recuperating from my rough day last night, I watched that cheese-ball battle of the sexes flick "The Ugly Truth." It was predictably predictable, and the same schlock they've been dishing out for the past 20 years on the subject of designated gender roles in contemporary society. The successful, career-focused woman wants the man of her dreams, while the man of her nightmares tells her how to win over the handsome, coiffed doctor she's been eyeing. She then has to face the fact that taking the ruffian's advice to land the hott doctor meant that she inadvertently became a caricature of the ultimate woman (in stereotypical man land), and would be forced to ask if that perfect man could love her for just being herself. Don't worry, this point is so glossed over, I'm not ruining any of the mystery!

I also watched that movie "The Proposal" with Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds, while battling my cabin fever with horrible films, a dust buster, and Clorox wipes. (Admittedly, I watched that one to catch a glimpse of Betty White, who stole the whole show. Repeatedly!) This was yet another of the same thematic approach featuring a woman who seemingly has it all that needs just that *one more* thing to be complete... It's been tough watching this kind of fluff, and wondering where I fall on the gender divide.

Sure, I've dated women who were successful, powerful, wealthy, who seemingly had it all... And sure, I've sometimes felt eclipsed by their power, success, and popularity. But it would make me too nervous to sum all of that up in some overly simply sexist paradigm, and throw a movie title on it. So, what is the point?

It got me to thinking: Why do we keep coming back to these kinds of themes? What is it that we are examining here? What is it that still rolls onward, unresolved? That we, as a society, don't know what to do now that women have won their supposed equality to men? (I say "supposed" because there are clearly still many inequalities between the sexes, and the genders.) Or that we are just as clueless now about dating and attraction as we ever were?

I studied screen writing for a time, and acknowledge that there are only seven story lines that act as the substantive foundations in narrative films. That said, it is the flourishes, the nuances and twists to those seven foundations that make films memorable and unique. But only having seven narrative archetypes reveals that these are the prime conditions of the human psyche. (And by "prime" I mean can only be reduced down to itself, as in prime numbers. Not like "highly selective," say when we are referring to a prime piece of meat.)

When we think about how much time has passed since the Feminist movement of the late 1960s-1970s, or since women held down men's jobs during World War II, or the Suffragists' movement before that, or even since women were burned at the stake from rising fear of witch craft and heretics – are we any closer to unraveling the enigma of gender, and how we should interact with one another?

At one point in American history, the Irish were labeled as a sub-race in this country. The Italians, too. There were dozens of cultural slurs to reinforce their lesser-than stature. Several decades have passed, and we wouldn't even fathom that these two ethnicities were once deemed their own races in our fair nation. It has genuinely disappeared from our cultural radar, with no residual traces for later generations to contest.

Is it plausible to one day imagine that there will no longer be such emphasis placed on the great gender divide? Or that equality will truly exist, and the differences between (or amongst if you don't believe in polarity of masculine versus feminine) the genders will be merely superficial, and just for funzies?

With so many social scientists, biologists, neurologists, human genome experts, historians, cultural critics, self-help authors, talk show hosts, and play writes focusing on this stuff – how the hell are we *still* so fucking oblivious, and bashing our heads on the same societal road blocks?

I'm so confused. And clearly, I'm not the only one.

Snowpocalypse Now

(This was the view from my front door this morning.)

I've been having one of those days. D'ya know what I mean?

I'm not sure if you've heard about the roughly 16-18" of snow that fell in the DC metro area over the past two days. My newer car's "traction control" left me coveting my old Audi quattro, as my ass either slide all over the road, or worse yet, wouldn't budge at all. I took a "snow day" yesterday, and canceled all my client meetings, and proceeded to hang out with my dog while watching bad movies all day. Fighting the cabin fever, I obsessively cleaned my house, reorganized two dressers, my closet, my linens, bathed my dog, shoveled a walk way or two, and called it a day. A very productive day.

Cut to today. Overslept, woke up late for work, where I had to again cancel a few early client meetings due to inclimate weather, but couldn't figure out what to do with myself. So, I decided to shovel the newly fallen snow for a few hours. It was a good work out, one desperately needed after not having been to the gym in a few weeks. And it gave me a lot of time to think.

I have the house to myself, my dog has been super chill, and I've gotten so much shit done. It felt great. And slowly these thoughts crept into my head, remembering times with this woman, or that one. Remembering how it felt to have a girlfriend, to actually live with someone, and share in that domesticity. Thinking about how much I have changed in a relatively short period of time, and yet haven't truly put myself to the test to see if any of these newer renditions of myself hook the right person. Huh.

As the afternoon progressed, I forced myself to stop canoodling, and forge on ahead with my last few client meetings. One was for the lesbian power couple mentioned several posts ago. They gave me an incredibly generous holiday bonus, a very expensive bottle of champagne, a card that said how much they "love (my) visits, and love (me)," and both kissed me farewell upon my departure. Damn!

Foolishly, I then tried to kill some time, and proceeded to get a $25o parking ticket while ducking into a CVS for 7 minutes. Apparently I was temporarily parked on a main thoroughfare, which was deemed a "snow emergency route." Awesome! After that, I was so pissed, I couldn't find parking at the next client's place, and ended up getting lodged atop a small iceberg, stuck again. This is doubly embarrassing since I come from New England, and often mock mid-Atlantico's for their bullshit driving in the winter. My ego was badly bruised with this new suck mobile.

When I eventually got myself deployed back home, everything seemed just a bit off. Cranky now as ever, I am trying to read the signs that all of these annoyances might be trying to tell me. But what? What do these signs represent – what signals missed?

Or... Is synchronicity a load of crap? Was Carl Jung wrong? Was Sting just abusing it to sound like an enlightened pop-star douche bag? Why do things *have* to mean something? Can't a bad day just be a bad day? Can't I just be an idiot for following the sixty or so other cars when I parked on that main drag, and not finding any "snow emergency" signs in sight?

Now, I'm not saying that getting deserted on the repeated ice caps of DC prompted me to move to Honolulu. No. And I'm not mulling over which insanely over sized SUV with four wheel drive should be sitting in my drive way come Jan 1st. Again, not so much. But if this really was an apocalyptic snow storm, then shouldn't there be some revelatory "come to Jesus" epiphany?

Even as this rough day passes, I yearn for something bigger, something more significant. Maybe that handful of Advil and this heating pad for my aching back (you know, it's true when they tell you to bend with your knees...) is distracting me from my a-ha moment.

What to do, what to do... I'm itching to break through this inertia, and crack these cement slippers I've found myself wearing. Where's my pick axe? I'm going Cool Hand Luke on yer asses!

Thunder Snow

Have you heard about this??? I live in DC, and yesterday all of the meteorologists kept throwing around the term "Thunder Snow." WTF? Apparently, they believe that this 8" to 400 million inches of snow we might be getting today could possibly bring some thunder with it. They are calling it "Thunder Snow." Great!

It's good to know that the up and coming 'next generation' of meteorologists are actually younger than me, and were psyched to start coining new weather terminology based on their favorite cartoons growing up. Next week will be the "Smurfy Tsunami," and the "Teenage Mutant Ninja Tornado" ripping across Kansas, taking out only the evil megalomaniacs, petty criminals, and alien invaders. (Honestly, I had no clue what the TMNT's did. I had to look it up on Wikipedia to see if they were good guys or bad guys. Huh.)

It looks beautiful outside, but considering that I have to leave the house for a few client visits today, I am a little nervous about getting around in this downright lazy city when it comes to their inclimate weather upkeep. DC duct tapes a few orange plastic shovels to the front of two trash trucks, and call it their "winter weather maintenance crew." Nice, guys... Nice.

I grew up in New England, went to college in Vermont, where it snows nine months out of the year. One would think that being exposed to that much snow constantly might increase the risks of accidents and such by the residents of said snowy northern villages. It snows like twice a year here, and never as heavily or badly as in New England, and the whole city shuts down. You'd think that having ample time to prepare for precipitation the other 340 days of the year might give DC a head start. But no... The federal government shuts down, the entire metro area juts into a tizzy, and people flock to stores to buy out necessities like cookies and magazines.

(I ran into my next door neighbor last night before the snow started and we got to chatting it up about the incoming storm. She asked if I was "getting ready" for the snow, as she was toting all of these bags from Target. She seemed puzzled when I said I wasn't that phased by this stuff. To be honest, I was out trying to finish the last of my gardening that I had procrastinated for forever, with weeks of unending rain. I put down more mulch, cleaned up the last of the leaves, etc. She was the one who tipped me off to the Thundercats movement. While looking at the multiple bags she was carrying, I jokingly asked if she bought them out of milk and bread. "Hell, no! I went and bought booze, and considered buying a video camera to document this whole thing!" My kinda gal! Now I know where to go in the event of a *real* emergency! This is only a test. Had it been a real emergency...)

Speaking of ~ my ninny of a pit bull took one look outside, and rethought his need to frolic in this snow dunes of our backyard. While I was staring out trying to decipher just how many inches of snow had already fallen since 10pm last night, my wussy killer pup stood by my side, also staring out into the white, vast beyond... I looked down at him, ready to give him some totally concocted pep talk to rush us both down the back steps to relieve himself, and then run back inside. But I noticed he seemed shorter than usual. When I took a closer look, he had already decided to squat, and peed right there on my back porch. Fucker! I then had to figure out how to hose it down, mid snow storm. I'm getting that dog some Depends. Or a catheter.

Well, it's getting late, so I supposed I should be on my way! Wish me luck out there in this winter wonder-thunderthighs-snowcapped metropolis!

Loss.

I don't know what to say...

For the first time in a really long time I am at a loss for words. Anyone who knows me, knows what a rarity that is, as I can ramble about anything. I don't want to ramble.

Three very close friends of mine all lost loved ones within the past few weeks. One lost her father unexpectedly from a sudden heart attack, one lost her grandmother (from complications related to a surgery that was intended to resolve her health issues), and the last lost her artist mentor (who was also her former boss, confidante, etc.).

I simply don't know what to say. Trolling around different stationary shops seeking out decent sympathy cards. Nothing seems to fit. How do we say the words that never sound quite good enough? How do we buy the cards we hope to never need? How can we extend a genuine flurry of our care?

Yes, I've been busy with work, but more than that, I am thinking through this idea of loss. My clients have been needing so much of me lately, and I have been spreading myself a bit too thin. An elderly client who keeps falling, and phoning me day and night to jump in and aid her with her daily tasks. Another whose husband travels for work, and I am the 'go to' guy. I barely have time to do anything, running around for everyone else. But I have time to think. Thinking non-stop as I walk their dogs, run their errands, try to get some semblance of my own life back in there somewhere. Thinking the whole time...

I feel inadequate.

Words are usually my solace. I take comfort in trying to craft the perfect string of phrases to represent all that takes up residence in this feeble mind of mine. I'm not saying that I'm a great writer – no. All I mean is that I like how much I really work at every attempt. I set up these rigorous challenges for myself everyday in hopes of pushing myself a little bit further past this threshold of comfort and ease. I want it to be difficult, to have writing feel like enough of a chore that it is always intentional.

And so, here I've been... In the dis-ease of a flooded mind, immersed in so many lead-heavy, anchoring thoughts about living, dying, and how it all functions in our lives. For several days I have been at this standstill, trying to cull one single idea from the pile to tease out a beginning.

I've missed writing, as it's clearly been my catharsis in the past. Anyone who is close to me has probably received her of his share of long, rambly emails from me. It's what I do. And when I don't have time to write those overly verbose missives, or these blog posts, it means something. It means that I am stuck. Not like I am paralyzed by fear or melancholy. No. In this case, I haven't had the time to find the stillness – to make the stillness – required for me to write. My mind is endlessly chattering away, and the distractions are infinite. I can now see the appeal of meditation. I can't do it myself, but I understand why folks are drawn to it.

Writing about my life not only helps me purge the grit from the day's events, but it helps me to define my life simultaneously as I write. Things crystallize, come into focus, and take shape as I type away. Not writing leaves things nameless, faceless, like molten blobs of raw thoughts. It can *feel* dangerous after a while.

So, not having written for days, makes this first stab feel useless.

Her father died, and I don't know how to make her feel better. This friend that was my only life line when things were the darkest in my life several years ago. We emailed and instant messaged my way through the multitude of sleepless nights when I felt the most alone. Now that she experiencing her own darkness, I wish that I could somehow swoop in and be that emotional nurse maid to her. And to my other two friends that have stuck by me in my most trying times.

I can't imagine writing about anything else right now, and yet I don't even know what to say here.

Despite death being inevitable, we are never prepared for its arrival. One friend had a few months to ready herself for her mentor's departure after his diagnosis and prognosis from a rare type of cancer. Then this other friend's father passed away in his slept from a sudden heart attack. There was no time to worry, to think about the probability of that kind of loss. And my third friend's experience falling in between those two poles of 'lead time' prior to a loved one's passing. This third friend's grandmother had been having recurring health issues that seemed very dire. Doctors suggested a surgery to hopefully rectify some of her ailments, but unfortunately, and horrifically, she didn't survive.

Even though none of us can escape death, why does it feel so personal when *we lose* someone so dear? Every loss feels so incredibly unique and previously explored. And the horrible sensation that the world does not stop when we lose that loved one. The busy-ness, the chatter, the mind numbing rudiments we still have to perform.

I'm just trying to find some of that stillness to get back to the middle. Wanna meet me here?

Runaway Bride?

Um, I think I have a problem. Admittedly, I am a tad bit tipsy right now, so perhaps it's not the best time to write. That said, I just got back from a going away party for my neighbor, who used to seem to fancy me. She recently found a boyfriend, with whom she is moving across the country (somewhat simultaneously, and spontaneously), so a bunch of us got together to wish them farewell. At this huge table of two dozen people, beyond my neighbor and her new boyfriend, I had only met 1 other person in passing before this dinner. He, of course, was sitting as far away from me as possible in our seating configuration. This meant I had to do the unthinkable: I had to talk to strangers.

For those of you who know me, I can pretty much talk to anyone, but truly dread being in situations where I may not know folks. I'm *not* one of those people who goes up to strangers at a show or a bar and starts chatting them up. No. But I will politely engage if someone volleys a line of conversation my way. I'm good with asking insightful questions – it's the getting comfortable part that's tricky for me.

Anyway... I arrived a few minutes after everyone else sat down, so I had to politely accept the only open seat. It was next to a woman who lobbed a few comments my way. Overflowing with niceties, I tried my best to be sociable to these unfamiliar faces. This woman next to me kept going. I had to push myself past the smidge of discomfort to try to actually get to know this newbie sitting next to me. What I found out: Her name (Julie), her job (grant writer at the Jewish Community Center), her religion (Jewish), her diet (observes Kosher Law, and often eats vegetarian food to simplify meat with dairy conflict), is from "all over" (via: Midwest, high school in New Hampshire, college in Iowa), lives in Virginia, has been in the DC metro area for 5 years since graduating from school. Riiiight.

I tried to be polite. I tried to ask questions to other folks sitting at our end of the table. Namely, the guy sitting top her right. Apparently her fiance... Huh. He didn't seem particularly interested in me. Go figure. He'd sort of answers my questions with a brief, staccato response, and try to but back in to some other, more titillating conversation. But his fiance kept right on asking. Awkward.

It was somewhat strained for me, trying to be on my best behavior, and all the while, feeling watched by her man, and my neighbor. It felt a bit incriminating. Or better said: I felt a bit guilty.

See, I've been in this position before. I've innocently befriended women thinking we could "just be friends." Even if nothing 'happened,' it often interfered with the other relationships we might have been in at the time. (One woman dumped her long term boyfriend so we could move to the west coast together. Another woman dumped her boyfriend right after they moved in together. I don't want to be interference anymore. It's disrespectful of whatever connection existed before "we" met, and frankly, I don't want to be with someone who may feel distracted, or conflicted about being with me. I've been there, and it's no fun. But...

It felt kind of tough meeting this woman who wouldn't stop talking to me, as she was totally my type: Jewish, fiery, worked for a non-profit fighting the good fight, funny as hell, and apparently taken. Sad to think that might be one of the ingredients for being "my type." Sigh~

I asked the engaged couple about their wedding to come, and how they met to try to diffuse my attention. The guy stepped up and shared the story of how they came to date. He said that when they met she "had a little problem." Instantly I assumed it was coke, or meth... Maybe she was an alcoholic with a shopping addiction. Suddenly, she seemed even hotter! But no, her "problem" was the fact that she already had a boyfriend when she met her now fiance. Oh... , So, she dumped *that* boyfriend to start dating this guy??? Okay, don't get excited about that fact, as though it's the beginning of a pattern. And whatever I do, don't imagine her being a run-away bride at the altar to come running after me... Don't do it, buddy – just let it go.

Yet another woman residing across from me at our end of the table proceeded to ask: "So, like, what's up with your glasses?" I asked if there was an actual question in there that she'd like me to answer. She replied, "I mean, are you like a hipster, or something?!?" It took every ounce of restraint I had (after the many cocktails I'd already imbibed) to not launch into publicly teasing this dud of a guest. Luckily my amour de jour was out of ear shot when this went down. I was safe. Fucker.

Many of the folks from the dinner party were heading out to a bar for the second portion of the farewell celebration. I had to call it a night, since I've been fighting the battle against an emerging cold coming on, and I had to get up early the next morning. As I said goodbye to many of these strangers, we all sort of knew we'd probably never see each other again with the one friend in common moving to LA. But when this woman and I said goodbye, we both said we'd get each others' info from said common friend, and we'd keep in touch. I put out my hand for a hand shake (um, yes, I am a total and complete dork), and she looked down quizzically, and leaned in for a hug. Oh, okay, we're hugging now? We're friends that hug? I'm cool with that.

I drove home shaking my head at my behavior, that I somehow managed to have the only fully taken woman at the party hit on me. Awesome – I still got it! I'm still an asshole! This added to the fact that I spend hours a week chatting away during home visits for a client who just had a baby with her busy lawyer of a husband, it seems so incriminating now that I pass as a dude. Even though I have come to learn that it's maybe not so appropriate for me to be this emotionally available to women who are spoken for – when I try to slink away politely, it just seems to add to their attempts to get me to open up.

Then, mid sentence, I begin to realize that our level of connection might seem disrespectful to their other halves. I'm now some guy hanging around, cracking jokes and seeming mysterious by default. (That one client repeatedly told me the other day how funny she thinks I am. She said sometimes she'll be sitting there in the midst of some project, and randomly remember some witty one liner I threw her way days before, and she'd erupt with spontaneous laughing out loud. It's a sweet compliment, but one that obviously makes me nervous, given my guilty history.)

I swear, I'm trying to be on my best behavior, and not wreck any more relationships than I already have in my impulsive, passionate past. I'm really trying to be good, respectful, and mindful about how the rules have changed for me since my old gender switch-a-roo. Less like a seductive sweet talker, and more like an aloof CPA. But that *still* seems to reel them in... I can't win! When did accountants with social anxiety, dodgey eye contact, and a mild stutter become sexy? It must be the damn pheromones! Arg!!!

Somebody help me!

Psych

I'm trying to psych myself up for some requisite holiday shopping. So far, it has lost its zeal. It's like 20º out, and I'm staving off a cold that one of my clients shared with me. Many thanks for their generosity this holiday season!

My family does this convoluted "Secret Santa" gift exchange thing, where instead of buying for every member of our extended family, we only buy gifts for the one name we drew out of a hat. Theoretically it seems simple enough, but we draw names for the next Christmas 15 seconds after we open this year's presents – but it's all supposed to be a secret, so we have to remember who we have for 364 more days. There are back up sealed envelopes to mail out if we forget who we have, and so on... And "wish lists" sent out to the entire family days before Christmas, so we can scramble to the nearest stores, or to our laptops in hopes of finding whatever traces might be left of their desired new goods. What a way to celebrate, instantly making us all frustrated and annoyed that my brother's suggestion to streamline Xmas gift giving, now has been commandeered and made all the more complicated!

I remember when Christmas used to be about my father and I decorating the tree, while my mother was on a marathon baking binge, and the entire house filled with the scent of six different kinds of cookies, apple pie, and cinnamon and sugar twists made for the extra pie crust dough. These days, it's more about trying to cross reference my brother and sister-in-law's travel schedule with my cousin and her husband, so we can zero in on a few days we may all be in the same place at the same time. Then worrying about finding coverage for work for the days I'm away, getting reservations for my crazy pit bull at his kennel, hoping a friend can feed my cat while I'm traveling, and the like.

I don't mean to sound like a Scrooge, but I miss the days when holidays were about the excitement of Christmas morning, wondering each wrapped goodie concealed under its veil of cartoon snowmen paper. It used to be infused with such hope and glee, as we couldn't wait to see what new favorite toy or necessity would be revealed to us.

As some of you might know, I *really* like giving gifts. I love trying to deduce what quiet inner yearnings that person may hold close to their chest, as if I had some secret decoder ring looking into their soul. I love giving gifts just because... But over-commercialized holidays that make us feel obligated to just get *stuff* makes me feel anxious and empty. Anxious because I am doing my damnedest to purge all of the extras that I don't really need anymore. Selling some of mid my century furniture, donating clothes that could be more useful to other people. I even had a tag sale to rid my home of house wares that were more of a hassle than they are worth. My boss has a rule that for everything one thing he buys himself, he needs to get rid of one item. Suddenly, I understand how those self-imposed rules come to pass.

Right now, feeling uninspired and no closer to the perfect gift ideas for my loved ones, I am resisting braving the cold to be just another consumer. Blech. (Plus, I'm distracted with Golden Girls being on. It's the episode about a local politician allegedly having an affair with Blanche while his wife's away. He turns out to have a secret punchline– that he used to be Anna Maria Bonnaduce, until his 'operation' in 1968, when *she* became a *he* – Gil Kessler. How's that for a bang?!? You gotta love this stuff! ~ I jokingly wanted to change my name to "Gil Kessler" as a nod to the girls, but I luckily came to my senses! I don't think I look like a "Gil.")

Anyway, back to the grind. Anyone wanna come with me for this shopping extravaganza? Safety in numbers?

Possible Side Effects

I'm feeling a bit off today. Nothing bad happened, and I'm not sad or depressed. No, nothing like that. I think I'm just tired from my dog waking me up every few hours last night, and feeling somewhat alarmed by a notice I stumbled upon regarding possible side effects for a new med I started taking.

While at my General Practitioner's office a few weeks ago, I casually, and humorously mentioned my escalating concern over my thinning hair. Clearly, since I bring it up every other line on this damn blog, it's been kind of bugging me. My Doc teased me, telling me that I'm crazy, and that my hair is fine. Without wanting to sound combative, I mentioned how my friends have even been noticing as of late, especially since that reprint of that ad campaign I was in a year ago. Man, a lot can change in a year. (My "foot in mouth" Canadian friend told me that I "looked a lot younger and had a ton more hair" in that pic. Awesome! Are the Canadians still our allies?)

This Doctor has been with me from the beginning of my transition. He has seen it all unfold, and was the one who made it all possible. Not only that, but he made it approachable and dissected all of the various details and concerns for me. He's great, and I feel indebted to him, plus I generally like the guy.

So, when I mentioned my disappointment over losing my hair after a little over 3 years of being on T, he took me seriously, and suggested a few options. One of the possibilities was a script for Finasteride (aka: Propecia), to take daily. I remembered hearing in the past that it might cancel out some of the more desirable effects of the testosterone that I wouldn't necessarily want to lose. The age old conundrum of the lesser of the evils.

But seeing the possible side effects for Finasteride listed so blatantly today was a bit terrifying. They are as follows:

• impotence (1.1% to 18.5%),
  
• abnormal ejaculation (7.2%),
  
• decreased ejaculatory volume (0.9% to 2.8%),
  
• abnormal sexual function (2.5%),
• gynecomastia (2.2%),
• erectile dysfunction (1.3%),
  
• ejaculation disorder (1.2%)
  
• testicular pain
• the potential risk of male breast cancer

Okay, most of those have absolutely *NO* relevance in my life, but here are the whoppers:

Propecia (and other products containing finasteride) causes a rise in testosterone levels, because testosterone that would normally be converted into DHT remains testosterone. Persistently higher levels of testosterone in the body could have negative psychological effects, such as impulsivity, aggression, irritability and depression.

Some users, in an effort to save money, buy Proscar instead of Propecia, and split the Proscar pills to approximate the Propecia dosage. Doing so is considered unadvisable if women of pregnancy age are in the household; this is because finasteride, even in small concentrations, can cause birth defects in a developing male fetus. The birth defects involve the development of male genitalia (no such effects have been noted in developing female fetuses). On most product inserts, it will be mentioned that the dust or crumbs from broken Proscar tablets should be kept away from pregnant women.

What the fuck??? How scary is this shit? Dust from broken tablets can't be around pregnant women because it will cause genital birth defeats in male fetuses??? Are you fucking kidding me?

Okay, the upswing is that my hair won't fall out as much, I might actual regain some of the already departed strands, and the med will even prevent problems with my prostate. Wait... The downsides are virtually everything else! Gynemastia ("man boobs") would seriously piss me off, after I paid like $8,000 to get that junk taken off the first time. (Sadly, as many less endowed friends kept asking if there could be a transplant arranged, as opposed to a plain old removal, since they were hoping to benefit from what I no longer needed...) The sexual side effects would be a bummer, but I'm single now, so it's not a deal breaker relationship-wise, at the moment. But the part about birth defects if pregnant women are near the tablets ~ that part is horrifying!

Not that I wanted to rush out and get pregnant, or hit up some women who are already preggers, but it's scary to think that I am ingesting something that is known to have those kinds of severe side effects. (((It makes me wonder about the underlying causes of transgenderism – if it is the result of some weird birth control pill my Mom had been on before she tried to get pregnant with me, or something weird like that...)))

Lately, I have been talking a lot about this desire to be able to have a family in the future. Knowingly sterilizing myself (albeit, temporarily) with the testosterone was challenging enough, fearing that I might fuck up my chances of having kids if I transitioned. (Meaning: I can't have my own kids biologically if I am on testosterone, and I am assuming that being trans might make adoption more difficult in certain parts of the country. So, I am pretty much dependent on having a child with a partner, which leaves me feeling really alone and vulnerable. Typically, I am the DIY kind of person. In this case, I can't DIM...)

There was something so liberating about taking T when I first started, knowing that I could stop at any point, and in the beginning, many of the changes brought on by the T would still be reversible. The deeper I get into my transition, and the less reversible many of these shifts in my physiology become, the more stuck and dependent I feel with regards to procreating. With the possibility that my brother (my only sibling) and sister-in-law might not have kids, it feels like there is this unspoken pressure on my shoulders to get down to business, and start this baby making to carry on our genes. So weird to think like that.

I think the fact that I turned 34 last week also has me unconsciously sizing up my life, and wondering what exactly I have done of worth since my last birthday, and what I have in the works. Being single with no prospectives on the horizon feels really strange, as I prematurely assumed that I'd be settled in by 24-25, and married with a few kids by my late 20s, early 30s.

It's so fucking odd that this little warning label for a preventative med for male pattern baldness threw me into this little muddled tizzy. It's always something, huh?

Relocation Program

I feared I was losing my hair – seems as though it just relocated to my shoulders. Like a follicle relocation program, or a weeping willow planting roots where its branches fall... It's pretty gross, if not fascinating! Testosterone is a mysterious entity.

Don't worry, this isn't me – yet...

Make Believe

I was driving the other day, and something came on the radio talking about "make believe." It's been a while since I used that term, and even longer since I really thought about it. Contextually, it's typically used as a synonym for 'fantasy,' as in "the land of make believe," where our weirdest and wackiest dreams seem to come to life. But when I thought about it more, it changed meanings right before my eyes.

I assumed that the term was reserved for all that we *pretended* to be real could take shape in our imaginations. But upon closer inspection, and perhaps too literal a translation, the term simply means: "to suspend one's disbelief, and assume that subject to be true, and accurate."

Here are some definitions for "believe" from dictionary.com:

–verb (used without object)

1.	to have confidence in the truth, the existence, or the reliability of something, although without absolute proof that one is right in doing so: Only if one believes in something can one act purposefully.

–verb (used with object)

2.	to have confidence or faith in the truth of (a positive assertion, story, etc.); give credence to.

3.	to have confidence in the assertions of (a person).

4.	to have a conviction that (a person or thing) is, has been, or will be engaged in a given action or involved in a given situation: The fugitive is believed to be headed for the Mexican border.

5.	to suppose or assume; understand (usually fol. by a noun clause): I believe that he has left town.

—Verb phrase

6.	believe in, a. to be persuaded of the truth or existence of: to believe in Zoroastrianism; to believe in ghosts. b. to have faith in the reliability, honesty, benevolence, etc., of: I can help only if you believe in me.

In the past, I think I reserved the term "make believe" for things like snow fairies and woodland gnomes (not to be confused with tooth fairies, and garden gnomes), but I see it differently now. "Make believe" isn't just about wee creatures that we dream up in our childhood. We tell stories to work out whatever is unresolved in our lives in order to find consolation and resolution. As kids, maybe this takes shape in the form of Tinkerbells and hoot-in-nanny. But as adults, we use our stories to reinforce whatever linear narrative best suits our needs.

This past spring I became mildly obsessed with the collection of 80 essays from the NPR series called, This I Believe, (which was a reprise of the Edward R. Murrow series from 1952). It was pure genius to read the edited collection of dozens and dozens of beliefs held by famous authors, people of historical note, and even regular Joe's like me. I was captivated by the offerings of every single individual, and mesmerized by the vast differences in approach, tenor, and resounding foundations of each entry. There were some that provoked me into a new perspective on life, while others left me reading faster to get to the next chapter already. But each of these scribes left an indelible mark on me, ones on which I am reflecting now.

To ask me, "What do you believe?" it may take a while to formulate my response. While thinking of "make believe," I'd probably laugh away at my silly antics as a child, believing in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and boogie men under my bed. I was "made to believe" these things existed through the stories shared with me repeatedly over time. So, in short: this world of "make believe" is actually more confined to not only the details we can concoct from our multi-faceted minds, but of those details conjured up, the ones that convince us that they are plausible options to consider. There is an "assumability quotient" implied when talking about "make believe." How much evidence is required for us to assume the validity of the story spun out for us?

It was easy for me to believe in Santa Claus as a child because everywhere I looked in the many Decembers of my life were images of Santa plastered on every available surface. And my parents took painstaking efforts to confirm that he visited our living room every year by stomping out oversized footprints in soot on our antique oriental rug leading from our fireplace over to our Christmas tree, and the mammoth sized bite marks left in the carrots I'd left out for the reindeer. Yes, I was a sucker, but I prefer to see it more as a cultish brainwashing when my parents went so far to convince me since birth.

This is just what I mean: "Make believe" isn't so much about blind faith, but about the fragments of evidence we choose to acknowledge as sufficient. I could believe in Santa as a gift giving fat dude, who sloppily left footprints around my own personal living room because I saw it to be true. That seemed more realistic than believing that Jesus died for my sins, since I never met the guy, and it happened before I was even born. Why would he care about me?

As a child, asking relevant questions in my catechism class got me labeled as a heathen, and disruptor. (One example: I asked what the "H" in "Jesus H Christ" stood for, and Mother Superior was not amused. In my defense, I remember seeing Roman numerals on the crucifix at church, and wrongly assumed them to be Jesus's initial, as if the Romans monogrammed his cross before his ritualistic sacrifice, like it was a robe from L.L. Bean. I was seven! I thought it stood for like Henry, or Herbert, or something...)

My parents could *make me believe* in Santa because of their earnest and noteworthy efforts, while the Catholic Church was somewhat lacking in its command of corroborating evidence to plant the Jesus seed in my malleable little mind. Now that I think of it, if the church employed trial lawyers or politicians, maybe we'd all be buying more of what they are trying to sell. (Or they should hire my parents, who could muster up some modern day miracles and turn us all into believers!)

This all comes to mind now because I think part of being a worthy candidate in matters of love and romance implies that we can make people believe... Perhaps the most lovable person is simply the one who can make us believe in the things that we so desperately needed to be true. Things ranging from believing that we are in fact lovable, that we will find one person who promises to take care of us even at our most challenging times, one who will never stray despite a love that may wax and wane over a lifetime, and so on.

Maybe that is the reason it is considered "true love," because they make us believe in those formerly unfathomable, unattainable beliefs. They make us want to believe in the truth of love. And why we say someone is "the man/woman of my dreams" – because we can only dream of something so good and pure, when the reality is often fraught with struggles and defenses. How deflated do we feel when we think we may have found *the one,* to then only be let down when we find out that they are not as idealized as we had hoped? And how quick are we to be excited once again when the next candidate comes around, even more polished than the last? We want to believe, we yearn to believe it is possible to find that kind of true love.

Observing those who have found it simultaneously grants us faith that we may find our own versions of our perfect other half, and for those of us who haven't yet found her or him, bums us out that it is taking so damn long! But it never quells our drive, our pursuit, even when we may be too scared to actively admit we are still looking for that partner.

(Like me for instance, writing every spare moment I get, leaving me hermetic and solitary, ticking away at my laptop at home for hours a day. After signing up for an online dating account, I shied away, not knowing how to navigate that world as a transman now. Despite not getting myself out into the real world enough, and being a little intimidated by the virtual world, I still somehow – perhaps foolishly – believe that I will find my other half. Maybe I have already met her, or maybe it is this writing in my remote corner of the world that will introduce myself to her, or him... But I still believe, even if on the surface it may look like I have stalled in defeat. I still believe...)

So, to summarize: being the best spouse or lover means being part salesman, part defense attorney, part story teller, and part young at heart to imagine that despite all of the lifetime of evidence stating otherwise – we can still believe in love. That someone else can *make us believe* in love, in them, and their love for us. To me – that is the true definition of "make believe."

Side note:

I guess I should mention that I'm not throwing cute little puppies down flights of stairs to be an asshole, since in my previous post I wrote that women go for assholes that are only nice to them. (not puppies...)

Just to clarify...

Super Dog

Well, I don't mean it so literally!!!

As I have mentioned before, I manage the largest pet care service in Washington, DC. We take care of roughly 750 a week, primarily in only the Northwest Quadrant of the city, and a few blocks spilling into the Maryland suburbs. We have a staff of about 15-18 'walkers' at any given moment, and provide 24/7 coverage 365 days a year. The majority of my time, is spent focusing on marketing, advertising, low end design work, scheduling, hiring new staff, training new hires, and assisting with invoicing, once in a blue moon.

I also provide pet care services to some of our 'higher maintenance' clientele, to ensure their satisfaction with our company, god forbid one of our scruffy punk rock staffers makes them nervous. This often means that I find myself in *unusual* circumstances, sometimes caring for people who have undergone heart surgery, elderly people who are now too feeble to walk their own dogs, women 'too pregnant to move,' and the like.

Overall, I consider myself a relatively good care taker. I am pretty intuitive, sensitive, (insert ominous foreshadowing here ___), and when I override my instinctual shyness, I can even be quite gregarious. Most of our clients (over 2,000+) seem to like me, and enjoy chatting with me when they get the chance. Sometimes I still find myself a little tongue tied and stuttery when faced with someone I make out to be a bit intimidating.

Meet: The Power Lesbians.

Two of the remaining few clients I assist directly are what I refer to as "The Power Lesbians." They are two women, most likely in their 50s, who are an incredibly powerful and influential couple. One is a retired lawyer, while the other is a famous political journalist for televised news programs. (Yes, you would know her...) They make me nervous.

Both of these women are powerhouses not to be reckoned with, which of course, throws me into nervous spasms every time I approach their huge, minimalist, modernist mansion. Ugh! I feel anxious even thinking about it.

The *funny* part is that these women seem to adore me, and rave about how lucky they are to have me caring for their precious pets. (Again, with the foreshadowing...) They would say repeatedly how important it is for their two boy dogs to have some "positive male influence" in their lives. I thought they were joking, until one of them finally fessed up that their previous dog would passive aggressively pee around the house if a guy came over. Oh, they weren't joking! Anybody else find this hilarious, saying this kind of shit to ME?!?

Just yesterday, the lesbian lawyer (think of Jane Lynch from Glee and Best in Show), praised me for almost a half hour, raving about my meticulous attention to every detail her dogs need. While I was readying myself for an awkward exit, she stood silently, with her "math face" on, as though she was cornered with a new exhibit right before her final cross examination.



PL: "Will, I was wondering if there is anything that you want for Christmas." (Notice, this was a statement, not a question.)

Will: "Um – no, no, no...! There's nothing I need, and these guys are so much fun to be around, it's a joy to see them." (Did I even answer her question in there?)

PL: "Well, I wanted to get you something special you might like as a 'thank you' for taking such great care of our boys. But I didn't want to get you something you didn't want, so I was thinking I'd just give you a check. I know – it's so gauche, but that way you can get what you'd like."

Will: "Really – these boys are so great, I don't need anything. But I appreciate your gesture."

She wouldn't accept my deflection, and persisted. I knew I didn't have a chance against the Power Lesbians, so I acquiesced.

Fast forward to today: I was feeling a little under the weather, literally, as it was 30º and incredibly windy, but otherwise okay. I arrived to their homo-mansion to only find the older of their two dogs, but mysteriously, it sounded as though someone might be rustling around upstairs. (Note: I would *never* go upstairs in the lesbian lair. Nope, never, nunca!)

I took the one dog down to the nearby park (which I have to drive the dog to get there, btw!), and upon returning, found Jane Lynch's doppleganger cavorting with the younger pup. She asked me to take the little guy out to the back yard to let him pee, and reminded me that I didn't need a leash. Meanwhile, she walked the older dog down to their renovated basement, and told me to follow with the pup in my arms. As we arrived at the bottom of the stairs, the little westie pup decided to completely launch himself out of my arms in an attempt to catch his Mom. This wriggling made me nervous, and I tried to get a good handle on him, with no avail, and through the air he leapt. It was like some slow motion multi-angle action shot in a blockbuster thriller – About a westie pup... It was awful!

Watching the dog mid-air, I freaked out, and tried to catch him, with no luck. He hit the ground, causing his little stubby white legs to buckle under him, and he belly flopped on the hard, ceramic tiled floor, bumping the very chin that she just told me last weekend might have a rare bone spur on it. Awesome! (Had I used the leash like I *had* been doing, this wouldn't have happened... Why did she tell me not to take it???)

I almost threw up.

She looked at me, as we both scurried to comfort the little guy who seemed completely unfazed. He was fine. I was the one in pain. The awkwardness and distress of having to sit there with the owner holding back her accusatory rants, and inflammatory tone. I was partly impressed that she didn't totally lose it on me, but I also felt so guilty and ashamed, I wanted to slink away and leave the key under the mat.

The Power Lesbian examined the little guy, as we both stared at him in concern, and she generously mentioned that this same exact thing happened to her a few weeks earlier, and not to worry. That's all I could do, imagining that his bone spur has broken off, and is now traveling freely inside his mandibular cavity.

I took him out in their back yard, where he frolicked carefree, diving into the still pristine white snow snout first. After what seemed like 18 dog years, the Power Lesbian joined me outside to rush things along, as she needed to head out to an event. I wanted to dive into the snow snout first as well, hoping to dive deep enough to disappear entirely. She tried to make me feel better still, and asked if I was still coming back tomorrow for their two visits while she will be away at a family funeral. Was I still allowed? Was I fired? She thanked me for my help, and told me to "take good care of the boys tomorrow." I think she meant: "take BETTER care of my boys tomorrow."

Just in case you were wondering: Dogs apparently can fly, it's the landing part they aren't so good at... Ugh, so much for being that sensitive, caring, positive male influence this dog needed! Jeez...

The Apartment

I must apologize in advance: I know I just posted an entry about Shirley MacLaine not too long ago, with Sweet Charity and Irma La Douce, but The Apartment is on, and I can't help it! It just happens to be one of my all time favorite films. Have you ever seen it?

Jack Lemmon plays C.C. Baxter, a mid-level accountant in a huge firm, with several of the executives utilizing Baxter's Manhattan apartment for mid-week trysts with 'girls' from the office. These execs hide their infidelities from their wives by pretending to have banquets, meetings and other such work commitments to sneak away from their expecting families. Baxter has a crush on the Shirley MacLaine character, Fran Kubelik, who is the elevator operator at that commercial high rise.

The conflict is that Baxter has a crush on Ms. Kubelik, who is seeing the big boss, Mr. Sheldrake, played by Fred McMurray, who plays an amazing asshole in this gem. But *that* guy is married, and a notorious playa, (I know, insane to think of Fred McMurray, from My Three Sons, as a stud, right?!?) who keeps repeatedly breaking Ms. Kubelik's heart, despite her repeated attempts to get over him. A few twists and turns, in the grand style of Billy Wilder, and you have yourself one great film.

I remember catching this on cable for the first time as a young teenager, and being completely dumbfounded about how overt they were about the sexism and promiscuity in the early 1960s. This was the original Mad Men. Seriously! Everyone smoked at the office, had amazing style and grace, the furniture was impeccable, leaving me coveting a few mid centuries sofa sets, and all of the secretaries (yes, they still called them that back then), and switch board operators (yes, once upon a time *real people* operated telephone networks), all spoke with that totally affected New Yorkie nasally twang, wore cat eye glasses and leopard print coats.

As much as I would love to pretend that the relations between the sexes have improved since this film was shot, maybe the only real difference is the implied sense of... Wait, no, that's not different either. Maybe there is no change. People still cheat, still make up excuses for why it happens, still cover for other people's infidelities, and so on. Which begs to ask: Is this just the human condition?

A good friend of mine and I were talking about the subject of cheating, and she said she would never cheat on her current boyfriend, but had admitted to having trysts while with previous partners. She said the difference is that she knows her current partner would just leave, no questions asked. Even when problems arise between the two of them, she can tell herself that every relationship will have its challenges, and instead of straying, she'd prefer to stick around and work it out. She kind of joked by saying that she doesn't really feel like she can slack off in this relationship since he always seems just out of reach, and she really has to work for it.

Her boyfriend made a comment that I found shocking, especially after watching The Apartment. He said that she only likes him because he's a dick. She sort of winced, and asked him what he meant. "Women think they like the nice guys, but the truth is, they really only like the assholes who are nice to *them.* It makes them feel special. They never go for the guys that are nice to everyone. It just wouldn't work."

Huh... Ms. Kubelik's line echoes in my head: "Why can't I ever fall for a nice guy like you?"

Is this true ladies? If so, I've got some bad habits I need to be developing...

Snow Day

The bad part of managing a pet sitting company is that you don't really get to telecommute for the pet visits themselves. Today was the first snow day of the season. It was gorgeous, cold, and made me nostalgic for my childhood in New England. I watched a father bring his two kids to this park, and try to go sledding down these modest knolls. It was really endearing, and made me yearn for the innocence and exuberance that is mostly found in our youth.

There is a part of me that feels somewhat dislocated. Watching that father with his kids, and feeling like I am stuck somewhere in between those two roles, perhaps permanently. Even though that particular dad might only be a few years older than me now that I've turned 34, I fear that I will always appear adolescent.

The other day a newer friend of mine mistakenly assumed that I was older than my brother. She said that I always take care of things, that I have my shit together, and end up taking a lot of people under my wing. It sounded so strange to me, as I feel like I have "little brother" emblazoned on my forehead. Everything about me seems like it was formulated as a reaction to having an older brother. Things like my paralyzing shyness, my fleeting insecurities, my yielding nature. Even the testosterone can't completely override that foundation of being a younger sibling.

My childhood seems so far away now. Yet fatherhood seems equally far, not to mention daunting. I'm left wondering when I'll ever look my age, and how to grow into it.