Number 156

Congruency

2/7/20    

If a robot is available, I'll finally have my vaginoplasty surgery on April 8th. Let me explain.

Roughly three months ago (10/23/20), I met with my plastic surgeon for what I thought was a pro forma pre-surgical appointment. It took place six days before my surgery was scheduled to take place. By the time it ended, it had become one of the worst moments of my life. Because of a miscommunication that was exacerbated by COVID-19, I had not lost a sufficient amount of weight. My surgeon balked at proceeding. To understand just how much this hurt you need to know that I wasn't just sitting around at home eating bon-bons. I was working my ass off with a personal trainer to ensure that my body was physically prepared for surgery. And because I was converting fat to muscle, I didn't pay attention to my weight.

I really don't want to go into the specifics of the miscommunication, because, frankly, it hurts too much. Up to this point, I have tried very hard to be equitable in how I tell this story. To wit: accepting blame for not having my body properly prepared for surgery. However, I've come to realize I don't actually believe that. I'm actually pretty fucking angry at the program, and I'm not entirely sure what to do about that. And so I am writing this story...

2/8/20

So the surgeon told me my surgery was to be canceled. I tried to advocate for myself by telling him how hard I had been working in the gym, and how fit I was. No dice. I might as well have been talking to the wall. I tried to hold it together but... well, I didn't. As I started to lose my composure - as evidenced by copious tears and a river of snot - he couldn't get out of the examination room fast enough. When looking back on it, that was a pretty chickenshit move on his part. I was his patient, and he left me sobbing on the floor of the examination room, with my bare ass exposed to the world. Eventually - I'm not actually sure how long - I managed to compose myself to a point where I was able to leave. He never checked back in on me.

I kinda get it though. He's a surgeon, not a therapist. I've worked with enough surgeons in my life to understand that they're extremely cocky and sure of themselves. And they're usually very good at what they do. They're not really good with the 'touchy-feely' stuff, though. Frankly, he didn't know how to deal with the moment. Still, he should have checked back in with me before I left...

2/9/20

For the record I am 5'10" tall. My father was 6'2," as is my older brother. Since I was assigned male at birth, I naturally assumed that I would be 6'2" when I finally stopped growing. For the longest time, I was disappointed that I stopped four inches short of that particular finish line. However, once I learned the truth of my female identity, I began to celebrate that particular fact.

In any event, on 10/23/20 I weighed 242 lbs. (down from a high of 260 lbs. the year before). Roughly that translated to a Body Mass Index (BMI) of 35%. For the very first time since I had met him more than a year and a half previously, he told me in non-ambivalent terms that I needed to get my weight down to at least 205 lbs. before he would agree to do surgery. This corresponded to a BMI of 30%. Before this moment, I had not been given any concrete goal as to where my weight needed to be - by anyone (and hence my anger with the entire program). It sure would have been nice though - I could have tweaked my workout regimen to focus more on weight loss during the many months I sweated it out in the gym,  waiting for my surgery date to arrive. Instead we had a situation where I was lying on the exam room floor in a puddle of my own snot and tears, sure that losing 35 lbs. was an insurmountable goal and that I was to be forever stuck with the wrong genitalia...

2/9/20 (part II)

I shouldn't have driven myself home from my clinic appointment that day. The clinic building is just off the highway in St. Paul. A person is almost immediately engaged in congested urban highway traffic upon leaving. My emotional state at the time existed somewhere between "Who gives a shit?" and "That cement barrier looks like a good place to aim for." I don't remember exactly, but I can guess I put on some Bruce Springsteen and played it loudly. He's been there for me many times in the past, and it makes sense I would lean on him one more time. By the time I made it home, I decided I would never eat again...

2/11/20

That night, Cindy eventually got me to eat a bowl of soup. Additionally, she held and comforted me. She wiped away my tears and snot. She made me know she was on my side, and that we would figure things out together. She made me realize I was supported. It is imperative that you know this, because I don't think what happened next would have happened without her love...

2/15/20

Twice in my life I have experienced an epiphany - a moment where a voice not my own delivered a truth bomb straight to my head and heart. The first time was a long time ago when I chased a woman all the way to California from Connecticut. When we started our roundabout trek across the country we were engaged. By the time we arrived at her home in Santa Cruz we weren't. I thought I had to make a go of it out there on my own, and did my best for about three months. Then a voice came to me and said, "You know, you don't have to stay here, you can go home." Until that moment, I hadn't considered that option at all. As it was a really good idea, I heeded the voice and came home.

The second time occurred sometime during the 24 hour period after my disastrous meeting with the plastic surgeon. You see, when he told me that I needed to lose 35 pounds and get my weight down to 205 lbs., it felt like a death sentence. I had weighed approximately 250 lbs. (give or take), for so long, I lacked the ability to think that I could ever lose the amount of weight that he insisted I needed to lose. "I can't do that." I thought to myself, "I just can't!"

"Why not?" said a voice, not my own.

"Because..." I started to respond, but then stopped. I pondered the voice's question for a few moments. All of a sudden, what had seemed so insurmountable seemed like a possibility. Until the voice spoke those two little words to me, I could not imagine myself losing the weight. Now I could - just like that...

2/15/20 (part II)

Something you need to understand about Cindy, my partner, is how tenacious she is when it comes to problem solving. When presented with a challenge, she will do whatever she needs to in order to wrestle a particular problem to the ground. She understood that me changing my eating habits would benefit us both so she decided to join me in pursuing weight loss. A good plan, for sure. We would be able to support each other as we both worked on losing weight.

She suggested we do Keto. After she explained the particulars, I agreed; and we set about changing our entire dietary habits. After a few days, I discovered something about Cindy's tenacity, as it related to losing weight through Keto based principles. She was going to drive me nuts. There were too many questions for me. Too much work in keeping track of every little thing I ate. I just wanted someone to tell me what to eat, and how much. After a few days, it occurred to me that maybe it wasn't a good idea for us to follow the same plan.

My trainer recommended Profile by Sanford.  She had used this program to help her get her body back in shape after childbirth. I scheduled an appointment for the next day. There, the plan was explained to me. All I had to do was give them a lot of money, and they would tell me exactly what to do. Perfect! Because Cindy was not the only one of us gifted with tenacity, I knew, to paraphrase Sherlock Holmes, that the "game was afoot." I had a clear goal in mind, and what I weighed was keeping me from it. It was time to eliminate that particular obstacle...

2/20/21

I'm going to jump ahead to January 19, 2021. This was my first appointment with my plastic surgeon since our disastrous encounter on 10/23/20. I am choosing to do this because it would be just as boring for you to read the details of my dieting as it would be for me to write them. Suffice to say I was hungry for most of that three month time span. I was lucky enough to be paired up with a great coach, which definitely helped me along. And I made regular trips to the gym despite chronic fatigue.

For the record, I weighed in at 199 lbs. If you're keeping track at home, that's six pounds below the target I was given. My doctor was both surprised and impressed...

2/21/21

So about the robot. (I bet you thought I forgot about the robot). Once my surgeon and I got through discussing my weight loss, we started talking about re-scheduling my surgery (yay!). He also asked me if I was agreeable to having "robot-assisted" surgery. Briefly, a plastic surgeon and a urological surgeon usually perform vaginoplasty by hand. Apparently, however, the future is now, and surgical robots are being used, as well. In any event, I laughed at him when he asked me that question. "You're the doctor," I said, "And I plan on being asleep, anyway, so whatever you think best." The problem is that the hospital only has two robots, and they're assigned 'first come, first serve.' The reason that's relevant is that because of COVID, surgeries can only be officially booked six weeks in advance. So if the different services all try to schedule procedures at the same time, and more than two of them want a robot, I could be out of luck...

2/23/21

Yesterday I received official word that my surgery is, in fact, scheduled for April 8th - robot included (yay!) I was, of course, elated with that bit of news. But here's the rub - and the main reason why none of you will read any of this for a while yet. I've been in this position twice before. Last January, I had a surgery date of June 6th. I started counting down the days. Unfortunately, shortly after that COVID-19 came along and ruined everyone's day... er, month... er, year... umm, let me get back to you on the actual length of time COVID actually fucks us over for. 

In any event, I hoped against hope that my surgery would still occur but, no. It was officially postponed indefinitely in May. In August, after hearing nothing for three months, I received word from the scheduler that my surgery was now scheduled for October 28th. I started counting down the days again, but in a much more circumspect manner. I wasn't going to embarrass myself again and tell the entire world what was happening until a time much closer to the actual surgery date. And seriously - it's not like a delay based upon the realities of a pandemic were my fault. But, by the time October 23rd rolled around and I was six days from surgery, I had pretty much told the entire world I was about to go under the knife. I was so excited, and had everything (except for my weight, as it turns out), prepared for my hospitalization and post-op recovery...

2/23/21 (Part II)

I'm not sure how quickly I had the following thought after I was told I wasn't going to have surgery last October, but it was pretty quick. "I don't know if I'll ever be in a position where I'm waiting for a surgery date to arrive again, but if I am, I'm not telling anyone about it until they're wheeling me into the OR." Which is why I'm writing this without any idea of when, or even if, I will publish it. I can't face the pain of telling all of you yet again that something has gone wrong. And so, even though I have told my immediate family this news, I am left to fret all alone, as I wear a mask of stoic patience. And despite my best intentions of not letting myself get my hopes up, I've started another countdown of days until surgery (44 as of today)...

2/24/21

And now the fear of factors beyond anyone's control begin to take hold, leaving me both squeamish and ill-tempered. COVID variances, anyone...?

2/25/21

It's been 36 hours since my last entry. Subtract six hours for sleep. My mind is running a continuous loop of garbled distortion in the background. In the meantime I try to engage with the world around me with limited success. My depression has me feeling adrift upon the sea in a small boat surrounded by nothing but water on all sides.  My brain tells me to scream out loud asking for help, but there's this huge part of me that feels like I would just be ignored. I feel completely disconnected from everything. How can I make the world see my pain...?

2/28/21

38 days until surgery. I try not to fall into the trap of counting down the days, but, well... it's a hard thing to do. The desperate depression of a few days ago has temporarily receded, though. I'm certain it will return with a vengeance at some point soon, but there's no reliable way to calculate when that might be. Everything's still a go with surgery, but I've been down the road before. Keeping up my psychic defense shields against some new way that surgery could be canceled yet again requires a huge amount of mental energy. I'm tired...

3/1/21

Whether a good day or bad, the refrain each morning remains the same: "One day closer..."

3/3/21

Five more weeks...

3/7/21

I just published AtRP #150 (Anatomy of a Panic Attack), and can't help wondering how many people will be able to read between the lines of my "very important project." Most, probably. I almost went ahead and told the truth - that my prior approval from the insurance company needed to be re-authorized, but I've worked so hard at keeping a lid on this, that it felt like a sure fire jinx if I went public. You'll all have a chance to read this soon, I promise, but just not yet...

3/11/21

Last Friday I got the first of my two vaccination shots. I was so excited - I felt like a kid on Christmas morning. The second clinic is tentatively scheduled for April 2nd. But if not then, then April 5th. When I learned that, I pondered a bit. Then I sent a letter to my care team asking them if there was a problem with getting the vaccine so close to my surgery date. It's a good thing I did. I was instructed that any vaccination within three days of surgery would result in cancelation. So... If I can get my shot on April 2nd were good, but not if it occurs on the 5th. I'll have to play it by ear a little bit. But I also feel like I side-stepped the making of a potentially huge mistake. Maybe the surgery is really fated to happen this time?

Oh, and on that note, my insurance company has already re-authorized their prior approval...

3/12/21

As I was driving around town today, my thoughts just kind of wandered the way they will when not pondering a specific issue. I flashed onto this particular post, and thought about the name I gave it six weeks ago when I started writing. My next thought was something along the line of "I really haven't talked about that so much yet, have I?" And suddenly I realized I had a new direction to take this entry. I mean, who wants to read consecutive entries where I tell you how many days are left before my surgery is scheduled? (25 by the way.) I usually put a good deal of thought into my titles, and I remember feeling at the time that "Congruency" was perfect. I wonder what I had in mind?

Congruency: Agreement or harmony; compatibility; balance; ant: conflict

Let's assume that you, my lovelies, are able to put (2 + 2) together and 'sense' that the answer might be 4. Right now, my body and my sense of self are not congruent with one another. Thus my emotional state is one of disharmony. In myself and other trans folks this conflict is often referred to as "gender dysphoria." I really don't know how to describe it other than to write that when I look at my naked body in the mirror I look wrong, really wrong. Now I know that everybody has a certain amount of angst about their own bodily "imperfections," but what I'm talking about goes much deeper. Listen, I'm somewhat disgusted about the 'spare tire' I carry around my gut, which is tenaciously hanging on, despite how much weight I lose. But it doesn't come close to the abhorrence I feel looking at the current state of my genitalia. It might as well be a cancerous growth. 

For me to achieve a feeling of congruency, something needs to change. I hope you can believe me when I tell you that I have worked really fucking hard on my sense of self. Nothing about the work I've done has been capricious or whimsical. The insights I have gained and the decisions I have made as a result of hard won truths - some of which scared the hell out of me when I learned them - have led me to this time and place. The simple truth is that my sense of self is female. To deny that is not a tenable solution. And so my body - or certain parts, anyway, need to change...

3/17/21

Yesterday was a big day. I had my official pre-surgical appointment with my plastic surgeon. This was the same appointment I had on October 23 when all the wheels fell off. I didn't realize until I arrived that I was kind of anxious. I knew only too well how quickly things could turn, especially when you least expect it. In the end, it couldn't have gone any better. 20 days and counting...

3/20/21

Akeelah & the Bee is a wonderful, wonderful movie. It's about an adolescent black girl (played by Keke Palmer) who lives in South Central LA, where she hides her intellectual 'light' under a bushel so she won't stand out. Problem is, she a spelling genius. A lot of plot happens and she ends up at the national spelling bee. Search it out if you've never seen it. Anyway, this is a very roundabout way of getting to the kid whose primary function is comedy relief and the line he says at one point: "You could cut the tension with a butter knife." That line has become a family favorite, and you're almost sure to hear it at least once when we all gather together.

In any event, as I sit here thinking about the next 2 1/2 weeks and the anxiety I feel churning in my gut, that line popped into my head. I think tension's about to be my constant companion for a little while. Fun...

3/22/21

tick... tick... tick...

3/22/21 (Part II)

Earlier today I sent a message to my surgery team asking them about my advanced care directive - did they need it ahead of time or not? A return message came back, and as I went to read it the word "regretfully" jumped out at me. "Holy Fucking Jesus!" I thought to myself. Two things then happened simultaneously: I started to furiously read the message as quickly as I could as all the anxiety I've been doing my best to keep under control came rushing at me like a New York cabbie on meth. In about the same amount of time that it's taken you to read this sentence, I got to the part, written in all caps, that said, "THIS WILL NOT AFFECT YOU OR YOUR SURGERY DATE."

It turns out my surgeon had made the decision to move to a new organization out of state, and that while he is leaving (relatively) soon, my surgery is still scheduled to happen on April 8. Whew. On the one hand, I saw this as further proof that my surgery is fated to happen this time. This was just one more occasion where disaster got side-stepped at the last second, you see? On the other hand, shit like this is exactly the reason why I haven't pressed the "publish" button on this post yet. That rush of anxiety I mentioned above, the one that came hurling towards me, seemingly at light speed? It was only present for a nanosecond, but in that moment I could feel how powerful my fears and anxieties are. I'm 15 days out, and everything is on track. But God help me if something happens to change that...

3/25/21

It's been three days since my last update. I've been thinking a great deal about that "rush of anxiety" I mentioned above. It was pretty fucking scary, to be honest. The fear that it unleashed in me - that I'm petrified I won't be able to control my reaction if/when surgery cancelation occurs - has me walking on egg shells. I also realized just how much energy I'm expending just "keeping the wolves at bay." (For the record: I wasn't sure I was using that expression correctly, so I looked it up: "To stave off or delay disaster," it said. So, yeah, I used it correctly.) It's frankly exhausting, and it's also keeping me from tasks I genuinely need to accomplish.

I also realized something else. If you've been following along, you know I've been waiting about 18 months for this surgery to happen. That it was three years ago that I began the gender confirmation process, and that, overall, if been working on my gender identity for the last five years. So no wonder I'm apprehensive about this - I've spent half a decade working towards this goal. Except not. Back in AtRP #72 (December 2019), I explored 16 clues that should have tipped me off to my identity as a trans woman before, you know, I actually figured it out. One of the clues told about how, back when I was 11 years old - almost past the point of making wishes and hoping they might come true, but not quite - I'd tuck my penis between my legs, and ask God to "please let me wake up a girl." 

Holy Fucking Shit! I've wanted this surgery almost my entire life! 11 year old me was still wistful enough to speak my heart's desire - I hadn't yet quite reached the point where I would spend the next 40 years - exerting so much energy quashing what I considered my "perverted" and "shameful" sexual thoughts. No wonder my anxiety is circling me like a lioness on the hunt, while I'm the nervous antelope carefully sipping from the savannah water hole.

On the other hand, surgery is only 12 days away now. In fact, today I had to follow my first pre-surgical direction and discontinue all my HRT medications until afterwards...

Number 155

 #Girldad or Call me Daddio

Way back in 1996, after Rebecca and I first learned that she was pregnant with our first child, we decided that we didn't want to learn the sex of our child until she/he/it was born. "One of life's last great surprise's," was what we said. Fast forward to January 30, 1997, when Emma Louise arrived on the scene. At the point of delivery, I did my best to get a look between the legs, because, of course, I wanted to know. At the precise moment I see conclusive proof that we have a boy, the midwife calls out, "Congratulations, you have a daughter!" To my everlasting chagrin I had mistaken the umbilical cord for a penis. As a parent, this was my first mistake. It would not be my last.

Three years and four months later, Grace Elizabeth joined us in the usual way. This time I waited for the doctor to make the call. "It's a girl!" she declared. And just like that, I (well, we), had two daughters. We talked a little bit about having a third child. We decided we were done - with two children you can still play person-to-person defense. With three we'd have had to switch to zone coverage. The vasectomy that I had six months later put a finish to my baby making career. My final score was: Girls - 2/Boys - 0. No doubt about it, I was a #girldad. 

As obsessively self-reflective and self-critical as I am, you might be surprised to find that I actually think I was a pretty good parent. It helped that Rebecca and I were a pretty good parental team. Our respective child rearing philosophies were similar, and I was woke enough to ensure that we split the tasks (other than breast feeding), at something close to 50/50.

Unlike Henry VIII, I was not terribly concerned that my sperm hadn't provided me with a son "to carry on the family name." In fact, because I was still operating under the assumption that I was male, I kind of felt that I had less pressure on me as the opposite-sexed parent. I was good at bath time, and I knew how to pick out appropriate clothes (and put them on - even the tights!). I will admit that I never developed any hair styling skills, but it was never a huge priority in our house anyway. Rebecca rarely wore make up, so both girls had minimal play make-up around the house. In any event, neither child ever asked me if I wanted a make over. I'll be honest. Given my particular story, I'm not sure how I would have reacted had they asked.

But I was there when tears were cried, and I could kiss a boo-boo as well as any of you moms out there. I knew how to turn a big box into a fort, and when a sand box was requested, I knew just how to make one. Because my schedule as an elementary school teacher was more in tune with after school activities, I spent a lot of time in gymnastic school waiting rooms. Ballet, too, for a little while. (It was a great time to grade papers - or to be more honest, it was a great place to ignore the papers I needed to grade.) 

As they got older, our conversations changed, too. Rebecca took the lead when menstruation needed to be discussed, but I was present, so both girls knew I knew they knew I knew. Unfortunately for Emma, onset for her occurred during the 2 1/2 month window that Rebecca moved to Minnesota ahead of us. Emma was to go swimming with friends that day, perhaps for the last time before moving; and a comedy of errors, along with anguished tears happened as Rebecca tried to instruct Emma on the finer points of tampon usage over the phone. I will admit, this was one occasion where I failed utterly as a parent. (The mother who was driving the girls arrived about this time, quickly sussed out the situation, and saved the day. I am still thankful.)

Somewhere along the line, I was given the nickname "Daddio." I'm not sure how it got started, but I kind of liked it. For one thing, it was never used when storm clouds were brewing. Everything was A-OK when I was 'Daddio.' When the girls learned that I was partial to it, they would sometimes try to butter me up with it when they wanted something. That's when they let it spill that they knew the answer was "No" when I said "Maybe," and "Yes" if I said "We'll see."

In the later years, there were sporting events, recitals, school plays, and concerts. I remember being giddy when Grace moved from middle school to high school, because it meant no more middle school band concerts! (Seriously - there is a special place in heaven for middle school band instructors.) Then came the college visits. I remember when Emma visited Iowa State. She was really into it until she found out that she would have to re-apply to the architecture program after her first year. All of a sudden, she didn't want to go. But I knew something she didn't know. "Emma," I told her, "You'd never be one of the students they don't readmit." It took her awhile to convince herself of the same thing, but eventually she did, and Ames is where she ended up - graduating one semester early, as it turned out. With Grace, and her insecurities that she wasn't smart enough for college, it warmed my heart as I watched her slowly realize she had at least as much on the ball as the then current college students she met as she toured different campus's. Slowly but surely she started giving off an "I can do this!" vibe. And she has.

Rebecca's sudden passing was a punch in the gut for all three of us. There's really not much more to it than that, but out of our mutual grief, one of my favorite shared moments occurred. The movie Dead Pool had just opened when she died. It is an R-rated comic book movie that is equal parts dark humor and action set pieces. "What the hell," we thought one evening about four days later, "Let's go." It was a good movie in its own right, sure, but it was the perfect movie for us that evening. The gallows humor provided a moment of pure catharsis after so much pain. We laughed and laughed and laughed...

And then, about two years later, we sat down so that I could read aloud a letter I had written to them. In the letter I told them my truth - that their father was, in fact, a transgender woman. I had reached a point in my life where I knew the only way forward was to tell them, but I was so scared that my news would hurt them. They had already lost their mother, I thought, what if they think their 'daddio' is going away, too? Maybe I surprised them, but I certainly didn't scare them away. They accepted me and my new identity immediately. "I've always been an ally," said Grace, "I just never expected it to be for my father..." 

These days, there's a lot of talk about pronoun usage and trans people. If you're a good ally, you want to make sure that you're using the correct new name for a trans person, rather than their old (or 'dead') name. You also want to do your best to use the correct pronouns, too. For my part, it is very affirming when I hear myself referred to as "she" or "her." This is something that matters, but for one exception. I am not Emma and Grace's mother. I am their father. I am their 'Daddio.' And though it hurts a great deal when somebody accidentally uses a "he" or a "him" when referring to me, I do not feel an ounce of dysphoria when I am identified as my daughters' father. My love for the two of them transcends everything else. So yes, I remain a proud #girldad. (Just in more ways then one ;)

Number 154

 Trolling Idiots For Fun & Profit

A Long time ago in a galaxy far, far away I used to be fluent in Sarcasm. Then I met Rebecca. After many tears on her part and apologies on mine, I slowly lost the skill to speak that particular language. This could have led to a miserable tragedy. I have, in my life, attempted to learn three other foreign languages - French, German, and Hebrew. My rate of success can best be summed up (respectfully), as pathetic, more pathetic, and "Holy shit, that's awful!" Recently, when I stumbled upon the little hobby I wish to tell you about today, I wondered whether or not I'd be able to resurrect my long dormant Sarcasm skills. Fortunately, it only took a little bit of practice in order to regain my former proficiency at using irony to mock or convey contempt. (Let's be honest, I never "completely" abandoned the skills - I just became more circumspect about when I deployed them.)

I can picture all of you wondering the same thing. "Nora, who or what could get you so riled up that you needed to speak Sarcasm again?" Well let me tell you. Donald Trump. "Of course," you all say as you whack your forehead with your hand as if you just remembered you wanted a V-8. (Younger folks ask older folks if you don't understand my dated cultural reference.) The sheer number of things we can blame him for is probably the nicest thing I've ever written about him. In this case I'm referring to the toxic residue he infected so many conservative folks with over the last half decade. The new breed of Republican that came to believe his boorish, narcissistic, and bullying behavior was somehow more worthy of imitation than, you know, adhering to an actual conservative political principle.

This, of course, led to the insurrection that took place at the US Capitol on January 6, 2021. But the absolute nadir of their poisonous sycophancy is best exemplified by the politicians and other Trump defenders that have refused to hold him responsible, both before and after the insurrection, for his cancerous treason. Unfortunately many of these folks are too stupid and/or craven to engage in a serious discussion, so carefully crafted essays based on rationally considered factual evidence that illuminate the errors of their ways usually sail right over their heads. What's left for a girl who writes carefully constructed essays based on rationally considered factual evidence? Sarcasm, of course!

I came to this conclusion after Marjorie Taylor-Greene posted her painfully ignorant, transphobic sign outside her office that stated there were only two genders. She was able to reach this conclusion because she trusted "the science." There was so much ironic stupidity in her sign that I was compelled to respond. But I knew a response that refuted her pathetic belief that actually, you know, reflected what the scientific and medical communities are actually saying about sex and gender would be understood about as well as an infant understands astrophysics. That left one option. I went to her twitter feed and left her the following message: "Dear Margie, Wear a fucking mask, love, the Science" 

Now I am well aware that such a missive would accomplish very little. And I'm sure there are compelling arguments that would counsel me to avoid responding all together. But you know what? I felt a whole lot better after sending her my sophomoric response to her idiocy. Was I being small-minded and petty? Maybe. Was my response about as useful as a fart in a windstorm? Probably. But fuck it - listening to these gaseous windbags spout the most amazing, and frankly dangerously idiotic nonsense day in and day out hurts my soul. If a little bit of sarcasm on my part proves to be a salve on my emotional wounds, then, by golly, I'm going to do it.

To US Representative Chip Roy who, during a hearing on the rise of violence perpetrated against Asian-Americans, felt the need to speak out in support of lynching, (seriously).

"Hey Chip, great job glorifying lynching - a favored tactic of white supremacists everywhere - during a hearing about racially motivated crimes against Asian-American."

To US Senator Ted Cruz (and I'm only choosing one), after he voted against Xavier Becerra to become the new Secretary of the Department of Health and Human Services by claiming Becerra was "woefully unqualified."

 "Well, Ted, if there's one thing you're an expert at, 'woefully unqualified' would be it."

To US Representative Lauren Boebert, after she tweeted "the left hates women & I'm their top target."

"Umm... no on both counts, you hubristic nincompoop."

To US Representative Madison Cawthorn, after he complained that President Biden hadn't had a press conference "50+ days" into his administration, without mentioning DT's abysmal treatment of the press. 

"Seriously, Marty, are you sure this is the hill you want to die on?"

And so on. This is a classic good news/bad news situation. The good news is I will never run out of new material upon which to comment. Unfortunately, the bad news exactly the same.

 

Number 153

 Ranking Pixar

No other movie studio in the history of film has produced such a high percentage of quality films as Pixar. There's hardly a stinker in the bunch (although there is at least one). I thought I'd have a little fun and compile my own definitive ranking of all of their movies Toy Story through Soul. I don't suppose there's a great deal of surprise in my list. It may not match yours exactly, but I bet, more or less, most of you feel the same way I do about many of these films. I suppose the biggest point of contention will be my relatively low opinion of the Toy Story films. On most other lists, they usually appear very high up. On my list, not so much. It's not that I dislike them, I just, apparently, find them less compelling than the rest of you. My list starts with my least favorite and ends with the, without a doubt, best movie Pixar ever made. Remember, this list should be fun, although, if you disagree with my top choice, you're dead to me.

Right away, I need to disqualify The Good Dinosaur from consideration. It's the only Pixar movie that I've never seen. I thought about listing it at the bottom for that reason alone, but that would be wrong. Because I've not seen it, I have no strong opinion about it one way or the other. On the other hand, I have a very strong opinion about the worst movie Pixar ever made. For that reason, The Good Dinosaur has to take a place on the bench. Perchance, if I ever revise this list, I'll have seen it by then and it can take its place among the other films.

22. Cars 2  What an incredible suckfest! It was a weird feeling leaving the theater having such a negative feelings about a Pixar movie. Until that moment, I didn't think it was possible for them to make a bad movie. Its biggest sin (among many), was taking a side character (Tow 'Mater), who was only amusing in small doses, and elevating him to main character status. The difference in quality between this and every other movie on this list is vast. (D-)

21. Monster's University  Entertaining but unnecessary. If I want to watch Mike and Sully, I'll stick to Monster's Inc., thank you. (C-)

20. Toy Story 2  This was originally going to be straight to video, but there was enough interest in a true sequel so it was turned into a theater release. Certainly entertaining, but nothing more for me. (C)

NOTE: I noticed when I was ranking these movies that they all existed on about four different levels. For instance, Cars 2 is on one level of suckitude all by itself. Monster's U and Toy Story 2 exist on the next level (considerably) up from that. A Bug's Life through Toy Story 4 live together one level higher.

19. A Bug's Life I really enjoy A Bug's Life, and think it deserves more love than it gets, although its animation looks really dated at this point. (B-)

18. Cars 3 It was a bit of a challenge working up the energy to watch this. It did just enough to redeem the franchise, but please Pixar, leave well enough alone at this point, despite the number of toys you can sell. In all seriousness, if you wish to watch a Pixar movie with anthropomorphized vehicles, search out a straight to video release called Planes: Fire and Rescue. It's actually a little gem of a story. (B-)

17. Brave This movie came out in the wake of the Cars 2 debacle, and as a result, the entire movie seems a little tentative - as if everyone involved suddenly realized that Pixar could make a piece of shit movie. Merida and her out of control red hair is a great hero, though. The movie did just enough to allow Pixar to get their mojo back. (B)

16. Toy Story 4 I watched and enjoyed this movie. I was even emotionally engaged in the story. However, even with all that going for it, I still wish it had never been made. Much like Monster's U, it just seemed unnecessary after Toy Story 3. (B)

NOTE: The next group of films, from Toy Story through Onward are together on the next highest level.

15. Incredibles 2  Based on the affection I have for the first film, I had high hopes for this movie. Alas, it wasn't to be. (B) 

14. Toy Story  There's not much for me to say. It's a great movie, but for some reason, I've always been a little standoffish towards it. It also doesn't help that I've grown weary of Tom Hanks and Tim Allen in their respective roles as Woody and Buzz. (B+)

13. WALL-E  If this movie were just a 25 minute short film, it would be much higher on the list. The first third of this movie is masterful, but I found myself getting bored with the rest of it. Still, that beginning is something else... (B+)

12. Finding Dory  I recently re-watched this movie and enjoyed it more than I did the first time, when my expectations were sky high. Still, it took a while for it to find its own identity separate from Finding Nemo. However, once it did, it became highly entertaining in its own right. (B+)

11. Cars I really enjoyed this movie on many levels. I wish they would have stopped after this one, though. (A-)

10. Onward  A very good, average Pixar movie (A-)

NOTE: The last nine movies are each brilliant in their own right. Frankly, at this point they're all fairly interchangeable, as far as the rankings go.

9. Monster's Inc.  There is so much about this movie to love, but the key ingredient is the relationship between Sully and Boo (or possibly Mike and Roz...) (A)

8. Toy Story 3  Easily the best of the Toy Story franchise. It should have been left alone after this one. (A)

7. Soul  Now that my children are grown, I often don't hear any anything about Pixar's new movies before they come out. But since I trust the Pixar folks, I'll watch whatever gets released, even if I don't have a clue what it'll be about. Such was the case with this absolutely wonderful movie. (A)

6. Ratatouille  Considering how great this movie is, it doesn't get nearly the amount of love that it deserves. (A+)

5. Finding Nemo There are so many wonderful moments in this movie it's hard to single out just one, but let's give a special shout out to the scariest villain of any Pixar movie - Darla, the dentist's neice. (A+)

4. Inside Out  In some ways, the most honest movie Pixar has ever made. (A+)

3. The Incredibles  The most quotable Pixar movie. "Bob!... Engage"; "You'd eat it if it were Tony Loaf"; "Honey, where is my super suit?"; "No Capes!"; and "I am your greater good!" all immediately come to mind. Then there's the moment when Helen contemplates her middle-aged back side with a sigh of resignation in the middle of a covert operation. (A+)

2. Coco  It was a close thing. Since it's come out, Up has been my favorite Pixar movie. Coco has come the closest to knocking it off its throne. I just simply love this movie. It easily has the best music of any Pixar movie. (A+)

1. UP  It is here for two reasons. (1) The heartbreak of the first fifteen minutes is devastating, but the pay off at the end when Carl finally sees Ellie's last message to him makes it all worthwhile. (2) Dug the dog. He is, quite simply, my favorite Pixar character. "My name is Dug. I just met you and I love you."; "Squirrel!"; "I do not like the cone of shame"; "I see a gray car"; and "I was hiding under the porch 'cause I love you" resonate deep within me, no matter how many times I've watched the movie. (A++)

Number 152

Mary Dupee Ousley

My mother-in-law died today. She was 96. And while her passing was, to a certain degree, 'expected,' I find that a piece of my heart is quite saddened by her death. She was, simply put, one of the most extraordinary women I've ever known.

The first thing you must know is, that when I met and later married Rebecca, I won some sort of "In-Law Lotto." She and her husband (my father-in-law), Joe immediately and whole-heartedly welcomed me into the family. They were kind and generous and loving and supportive in all things. To one another. To their children and extended family. To their church and community. I loved them right from the start; and a few of the half way-decent qualities I possess were inspired by them - especially her.

There are so many stories I could tell, but y'all are only going to get one. It occurred when I accidentally overheard a private conversation between her and her pastor (they were speaking in an office with the door open when I walked by, honest). The pastor was asking about a monetary donation Mary had just made, "That's to be anonymous, as usual, right?" he asked. "Yes," she replied simply. 

I had enough 'insider information' by then to know that she was exceptionally generous when it came to monetary donations, and I wasn't surprised that she wanted her donation to remain private - public adulation for her many financial gifts would have been a great embarrassment to her, and quite the opposite of what was important to her. And this is what gets to the heart of the matter for me.

There was a need, she could help, so she did. 

Over and over and over again, for 96 years.

So, God Bless you, Marmee. Thank you for your love and generous spirit. Thank you for the many lessons you taught me over the years - both the intentional and accidental ones. Give Rebecca a hug for me.

I love you.

Number 151

 Happy International Women's Day

Just spent some time surfing through FB and Instagram. There were many inspirational stories and pictures about women of all shapes, sizes, and colors doing amazing things. There were many inspirational stories and pictures about women helping one another. 

And Holy Fuck! My gender dysphoria is spiking through the fucking roof! Will I ever feel like I fit in?

Number 150

 Anatomy of a Panic Attack

It was maybe 20 years ago that I started taking anti-depressant medication, give or take a few years. I honestly don't remember. Upon reflection, I think back over my life and wonder why it took me so long to start. What I do know is how necessary it was/is for me to take the stuff - I'm not sure I would leave the house without it. In general, I tend to be a 'brooder.' I can over think things to the point of mental paralysis. And without the anti-depressant medication, my brooding can go to some very dark places. So, my life is better for the stuff, and I don't feel the need to hide that fact. It's just bad brain chemistry. 

One of the things that my doctors and I came to realize over the years was that my depression had a strong streak of anxiety running through it, so adjustments were made to medications that were better at treating that particular symptom. Interestingly, prior to starting the gender confirmation process, my experience of anxiety was similar to experiencing a low-grade fever - an unpleasant/uncomfortable feeling that was just there, although not so bad that it stopped me from functioning. Nowadays, my experience of anxiety comes via full blown panic attacks. My heart races, palms get sweaty, and I get a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. The colloquialism that always comes to mind sums it up well: "She's as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs." I'm convinced that something bad is about to happen, and I have no ability to control or ignore it. During the 20 - 30 minutes they last, they are in control, not me. They're not much fun.

I had one the other day. As they go it was fairly typical. In the immediate aftermath, I tried to isolate what had brought it on. Whether it's helpful for me to go back and do this, I don't know, but if I can discern any sort of pattern or behavior or some other precipitating factor, maybe I can keep the panic attacks from happening so frequently. In this case, I was successful. Unfortunately, my description of things will be a little vague for reasons I am unable to divulge at this time.

I've been involved with a project over the past few years that means a great deal to me. There are many people involved, which means that a lot of different pieces are in motion. For a variety of different reasons, the completion of the project over the last year or so has been continually stymied, which has left me incredibly frustrated. However, right now everything's back on line, and if things go as planned, the project will be finished early next month.

So. The other day, instead of just keeping my fingers crossed and leaving everything up to chance, I decide to be proactive. I reach out to one of the project leaders to ensure that I have done all the things that I need to do, as well as asking this person about a few other details. I assumed that this was a rather pro forma double check, and that the answer would be something along the lines of "all systems go!" Instead, this person wrote back to say that one crucial piece of the project needed to be "re-confirmed." Now this particular piece had been taken care of previously with little trouble, so there is little reason for this to be a matter of deep concern, however...  

Probably ten minutes later, I recognized the tell-tale fluttery feelings in my chest as a full blown anxiety attack came to visit. That's all it took. A small piece of (somewhat) negative information sent me spiraling. There I was, an anxious kitty cat worried that someone was about to maim my long tail with their rocking chair. Upon reflection, my understanding of what prompted my anxiety attack wasn't very useful. Given the particulars of the situation, there was no way that the response I received wasn't going to affect me the way it did - Regardless of the fact that it will almost assuredly not be a problem in the long run. It's just that this project has challenged me extensively, in many different ways, so that anything less than absolute assurance on the part of the project leader was likely to set me off. And so it did.

C'est la vie. What else can I say?

Number 149

 From Barack to Amanda

Way back in 2008, after Barack Obama was elected president, Rolling Stone magazine published a special issue celebrating his victory. Among other things was a folded poster of him attached to the magazine along a perforated edge. I purchased this issue for my wife, and put it in her stocking that Christmas. Perhaps because it had potential as a collector's item, neither Rebecca or I ever detached the poster. Fast forward ten years, and Grace, now 18 and looking forward to her first opportunity to vote in a national election come November, finds the magazine and decides she needs that poster of Barack, stat. And yes, I was, ahem, displeased when I realized what she had done. For one thing, she'd done a piss, poor job of detaching the poster, leaving its right side edge all raggedy. But hell, it's really hard to stay mad at Grace, because her lower lip has this way of quivering just so when she knows you're upset with her. The tempest soon passed, and soon the poster was hanging at a weird angle on the pie cupboard in the dining room, that somehow matched the torn edge perfectly.

As it turns out, this all occurred during a time when our small, but mighty, family was gathered together for some holiday or the other. We started playing cards together. Specifically euchre. If you know the game, fine, but no matter if you don't. The important thing for you to know is that after each hand is dealt, someone needs to name a trump suit. Normally this is not a politically loaded hot potato, but as it happened in the midst of the 45th's presidential term, it became increasing aggravating for me and my family of beautiful liberal snowflakes to use the word "trump" at least once each hand. It was Grace who, looking to the poster hanging akimbo on the pie cupboard, suggested that instead of calling a new "trump" suit each hand, we call an "obama" suit instead. Among much laughter, we all agreed this was a fine suggestion. And thus we completed the card game. As I recall, I soundly defeated everyone else at the table. (What? This is my blog, and I'm allowed to remember the outcome of the card game anyway I want to.)

When it comes to remembering just how the Barack poster ended up on the inside of our front door (see above), I don't know exactly how it happened, but it did. It was approximately life size (perhaps a bit bigger, but I think even President Obama himself will admit that he has a bigger head than normal), and it hung at a point that reflected his actual 6'2" height. Cindy and I soon realized that walking down stairs each morning and seeing his picture was a comfort amidst the increasing insanity of the Trump presidency. So there he stayed.

Prior to the election last November, I would often stop and contemplate the poster, as well as his successor's full frontal assault on both democracy and decency. Cindy and I both hoped that his vigil would soon be over, and, following a Joe Biden victory, we would be able to take the poster down. Well, Biden did win, but it soon became clear that we needed Barack to stay up - at least through the inauguration on January 20th. Well, that date has come and gone, and Barack is still there. Cindy and I discussed it last week, and wondered about what to do. It was she who came up with the answer.

There was much to be appreciate at the inauguration of Joe Biden and Kamala Harris. Given the specter of the insurrection of January 6th, it was inspirational that it was happening at all. The Gaga sang the ever loving sh*t out of our National anthem, and the benediction delivered by the Rev. Dr. Sylvester Beaman brought tears to my eyes. But c'mon people, are any of you able to claim that Amanda Gorman didn't leave you short of breath and goose pimpled as she read/performed her poem, "The Hill That We Climb"? Cindy and I were watching together, and when Amanda finished, we both looked to each other, as if to confirm for one another what we had just witnessed. There she stood, a beacon of hope dressed in sunlight yellow contrasted against her beautiful brown skin, 

       "For there is always light if only we're brave enough to see it. 
        If only we are brave enough to be it."

What a beautiful, hopeful call to action to help heal our fractured world. What a beautiful, hopeful reminder for Cindy and me to see each morning as we rise to start a new day. So, thank you, Barack, for helping us get through the tough times. Thank you, Amanda, for pointing the way forward.