Break It Down, Butch.

March 26, 2011

[60] With a little more thought.

So that started out on a fail-note.

I just got bitched-slapped via email by a friend who read my last post and came to a screeching halt of WTF. She also congratulated me, which was sweet, but the fifteen paragraphs of ‘uh, dude, you’re kind of being a transphobic asshole’ undercut that quite a bit. And rightfully so, I reckon. Because on the (third? fourth?) re-read, that was a hell of a way to come out. So let’s try it again, with a little more thought this time.

For context, here’re my friend’s main points in her own words:

“You seriously hit a hot button with me […] if you hadn’t ended that blog post with, “I’m a transman,” I would be snarling at you now for being discriminatory and transphobic. Things you said about transmen:

– They are mono-gendered
– They buy into the binary gender system and (implied) promote the idea that anything else is wrong
– They buy into and promote the patriarchal system (and, by your tone but unstated, sexism.)
– They are unenlightened
– They are not worthy of friends/even genderbending friends will abandon them.

Best case scenario is that this is stuff you don’t believe, but you expect other people do and so you’re going to say it before anyone else can say it and hurt you — which is understandable but offensive in the context of your butch blog […] and makes me want to slap you upside the head and let you know that martyrdom doesn’t suit you.”

(And you thought I was kidding about the slapping.)

Funny thing is, I appreciate that this friend decided to that yank me up by the scruff for being an asshole. She’s done it a few times in the past, and I might not always enjoy it — who does? — but it’s a hell of a lot better than continuing to be an asshole. Plus, who couldn’t use a swift kick to the rhetoric now and then?

So yeah, she’s right. I was being defensive. And offensive. And badly phrased. It was unintentional, but it’s out there and — despite my desire to yank it down, toss it in the trash can and pretend it never happened — I’m gonna leave it there. Call it an example of how not to do things.

These are the problem lines:

“Which, yeah, I know [moving from a butch identity to a trans one] is mono-gendered and buying into the binary (and the patriarchy) and probably unenlightened, but fuck it. I’m tired of binding myself breathless and living in an awkward half-space. I want the chest-surgery, and maybe the hormones, and the ‘sir’ that people give me to feel like it’s right, not like something I’ve managed to steal.”

and

“And I want to keep all you fabulous folk around, but I’ll get it if some of you feel the need to jump ship. (Except, no, that’s a lie. I WILL BITCH YOU OUT LIKE HELL, ACTUALLY. And I will feel good doing it. How’s that for a healthy ego?*)”

The second one’s just pure defensiveness and worry, because this coming-out business is anxiety-provoking as hell. But I don’t excuse it. It was rude and unneccessary, and I apologize for it. We’ve all heard the horror stories about transpeople losing friends, relatives, jobs and homes and just about everything else you can think of because they decided to get out and proud with their transition, or because they couldn’t keep it concealed anymore. But I’d be surprised to find that attitude here. (And if it did surface here, I’m pretty certain there are several-dozen people who’d kill it with fire.)

The first one’s a little more complicated, and suffers more for bad phrasing. I do not think that transmen as a whole are mono-gendered, unenlightened, or buying into anything. I was trying to comment — badly — on seeing this attitude elsewhere, and not caring about it. It’s a pervasive and harmful holdover from extremist feminism that “butch flight” (someone who formally identified as a butch woman, and moves from that to some identification of transman — I am trying to be really careful with my wording here, but someone call me on it if I’ve got this wrong) is about the worst betrayal someone formally female-ish-idenfitied can do. There’s an implication that becoming male, or masculine in any sense (even if you’ve identified that way all your life, or most of your life) is grabbing hold of male privilege at the expense of whatever shreds of femininity you may still hold. That identifying as trans negates your entire former gender-experience. Or worse, that identifying as male and shunning the identity of female or trans is some ignoble attempt to squirrel into the ‘best gender possible’ and pretend it’s always been that way, adding injury to the people who do identify as female or trans.

As my friend also pointed out, there’s nothing wrong with being mono-gendered if that’s where you’re comfortable. She’s femme, that’s what she identifies as, and that’s all she wants.

Likewise there isn’t a thing wrong with binding and liking it, or enjoying ‘sir’ when you’re butch. Both of them used to work for me just great, and I didn’t mean to imply that anyone should find anything wrong with either of them. They just don’t work for me now. But that’s my issue.

*lets out a breath*

So, long story short, I got it wrong. I’ll very likely do it again, because I’m human and flawed and often susceptible to being an idiot, especially when nervous. (I’m 100% certain there’s some dodgy phrasing in this post, too, and I’m sorry if I still haven’t explained myself very well. I’m hoping the gist comes across, if nothing else.) And my sincerest apologies if I hurt anyone’s feelings.

So hey, who else made a fabulous balls-up of coming out? Share your stories. I’d love to hear them.

December 31, 2010

[54] Just a quickie.

Filed under: Uncategorized — DK @ 00:03
Tags: , ,

I’ve deleted about six attempted posts in the last few days because they were a) boring, b) irrelevant, c) miserably self-indulgent, or d) all of the above.

Here’s the good stuff going on in my life right now:

– I AM NO LONGER A CARER.
– I have until the 5th of January entirely off work.
– I am playing hotel to a two-year-old, neutered, male tomcat for the next six months.
– My apartment is slowly becoming clean and organized again.
– My haircut remains awesome and I’m starting to feel somewhat like myself again.
– There’s a fancy dress New Year’s Eve party tomorrow that I’m really looking forward to.
– I have new glasses, a new duffel coat made of sheer win, and new boots. (Pictures soon!)

Less good stuff:

– The cat has tapeworms*.
– I am stunningly behind on all my emails and general correspondence.
– I haven’t managed to read anything butch- or gender-related yet this week — but there is still time!
– I seem to have gotten so good at feeling CONSTANTLY STRESSED that, now, despite an actual lack of stress for the first time in six months, I’m still reflexively tense. Which is deeply uncool, because I used to be so good at that whole chilled out thing. But I figure that’ll get better with time.

Okay, so this post is still a bit d) all of the above, but eh, good enough.

[*If you just spent a moment doing flaily hands and saying ‘EW’, you are not alone. He was whisked down to the vet first thing this morning and has been thoroughly checked out and dewormed, but I still need to bleach every inch of my apartment, wash the hell out of all the soft furnishings, and scrub my hands every time I pet him — which is a little awkward, because he’s a very friendly cat.]

December 25, 2010

[51] Christmas, 2010.

Filed under: Uncategorized — DK @ 21:26
Tags: , , ,

It’s amazing how much better things get when you have family and turkey and pretty lights and SO MANY DOGS and presents and slightly crap TV and — Christmas, basically.

We’re not particularly religious, and this whole side of the family (i.e. my step-mum’s side, because everyone else lives hundreds and/or thousands of miles away) is a little awkward with each other, but we still do the tree and the gifts and the roast beast (except for the step-mum, who’s vegetarian), and a ridiculous amount of presents, AND DID I MENTION THE DOGS?

There were four this year. Two chocolate labs my dad owns, one black lab my step, uh, grandparents own, and a GINORMOUS Newfoundland puppy-thing that tried to EAT MY HEAD.

(I was literally dripping dog drool at one point. It was both hilarious and gross.)

Happiness is seriously a house full of dogs.

Anyway! I got presents (a martial arts DVD, a hoodie, a pretty swish looking necklace and bracelet from friends who get the butch thing, some pink bath stuff from family who really don’t, a gift voucher — and at some point in the future I’ll be getting new glasses, a coat, and some Timberland boots), and ate waaaay too much turkey, and got a whole lot of back-pats and shoulder-squeezes from the male side of the family, which was interesting.

I’m looking particularly guyish at the moment. In the interests of feeling like myself again, I went and got the stupid girly hair-mistake chopped off and restyled, so now it’s super-short and spiky and so much better. I can look in a mirror again without wincing, which is a major improvement in life.

But yes, male-looking. Which seems to bring out a certain… reaction in the guys of my family. There’s a sort of fellow-feeling that goes around. Like a shared wink and a sense of usefulness (it’s the guys who do most of the Christmas work, while the women tend to put their feet up and get drinks provided; an arrangement that seems to work for everyone), and a kind of mutal glee over making sure everything goes off without a hitch and decent presents are provided.

It’s all very caveman, really.

But this year I got a lot more included. I haven’t been to a family christmas in two years (I spent the last two with my ex-girlfriend in the States), so maybe they’re more used to my genderwierdness now, or maybe I’m just more comfortable inside my own skin and it shows. Who knows? Either way, it was pretty cool.

(Though, again, daft pink bath stuff. Yeesh.)

Actually, thinking about it, I’ve only been embracing the butch thing for the past year-ish or so, so it probably is that being more comfortable inside my own skin thing.

That aside, back to my original point — CHRISTMAS IS HERE AND IT IS AWESOME. I have eaten turkey THREE TIMES TODAY and it is not yet getting old. (Though I am extremely full.)

Continuing the good news, starting tomorrow I only have two and a half more days at work, and then I am freeeeee!

Also, I have The Chronicles of Narnia on the TV and a snoring labrador pressed against my hip. Is this the best Christmas ever? I THINK IT IS.

August 25, 2010

[36] Whee!

Filed under: Uncategorized — DK @ 20:40
Tags: , , ,

Lately, my car is a tragedy. It’s practically Byron-esque. It is costing me so much money.

In the last eight weeks it’s had: two tyres replaced; the tracking adjusted four times; the hand-brake cable repaired; the passenger-side quarter-glass window replaced; the satellite navigation replaced.

And tonight I accidentally rammed the front driver-side wheel into a curb and blew it wide open. Oh, the cleverness of me. Normally I’m a big fan of changing tyres. I enjoy the grit and sheer physical effort of it. I like jacking my car up onto a frankly untrustworthy bit of metal, praying it will hold, and getting down on one knee in the dirt to haul the old wheel off and plant a new one on. I like the feel of my muscles working against steel, the oil under my fingernails (and generally on my face), the crunchy twinge in my left knee when I make it bend in ways it doesn’t want to.

Tonight, however, I mostly wanted to beat my forehead against the wheel arch.

I’m having a very long week, that’s my trouble. My new job — have I mentioned that I’m at a new job? I’m at a new job. It’s awesome. Still care-work, but a much better company. Anyway, this week everything pretty much went tits up. One of the office coordinators blew out of town last weekend (after wiping the whole system), so the manager and the owner had to cover everything between them.

The awesomeness: I’m getting a promotion. I’ve only been working for them a month, but they like me so much I’m jumping up the ranks to supervisor/co-ordinator. Originally that was going to involve a raise of £4000, but there’s been a hang up with another lady also getting hired as a full-time co-ordinator (they asked her before I pitched in at the office and they realized I’m made of solid gold awesome), so we’ll see how that goes.

The less-awesomeness: We have six carers off this week and two more got fired, so I’m working 70+ hours in the field, and about 30 in the office.

I am knackered.

That’s not the point of this entry, though. I realized today that the only way I’m managing to survive this week without, for example, yanking someone’s head off at the neck and using their trachea as a jump rope, is because somewhere around Tuesday I got into this odd mindset of lone-soldier-in-the-trenches. Grit! Stamina! Determination! A sort of desperate world-weariness of doing-this-because-no-one-else-can. Or will.

I have, in short, become my father. And perversely, I’m enjoying the hell out of it. I wouldn’t want to do it a second week in a row, but I’ve finally hit on something that’s really damn challenging on a daily basis. And interesting. It’s fantastic.

Next week I’m volunteering for the Yorkshire Ambulance Service. They’re going to teach me how to use a defibrillator. On people.

My life is a carnival of madness. I love it.

August 11, 2010

[34] A little thought.

Filed under: Uncategorized — DK @ 21:38
Tags: , , , ,

Sense-memory is a funny thing. I was just making a bowl of Mexican rice for myself; I leaned over, got a faceful of spicy steam and, wham, all I could think of was JB. And, bizarrely, my brother.

That’s not quite as almost-Freudian as it sounds.

JB was the one that introduced me to Mexican food, back when I visited her for the first time in the States. We don’t really get Mexican take-away in Britain, so it was a whole new thing for me. And god almighty, it was good. I’d eat it all day, if I could.

The brother’s the same. He’s gotten into Mexican in a big way in the last few years, and he made it for me recently. (See? Not Freudian at all!)

I’ve never really run into relationship insecurity before — I figure if someone’s picked me, they’ve picked me for a reason, and I try not to doubt that — but I remember having a hell of a moment the first time I introduced the brother to JB. They’re both really similar — lean, attractive, entertaining flashy personalities, great senses of humour, etc. I’m more laid back, body conscious, ironic… And, I’ll admit, when they hit it off so brilliantly, I had a brief moment of irrational fear that they made a much better couple than JB and me. They just clicked.

That lasted about six hours, right up until JB dropped her head on my shoulder and said she was looking forward to my brother going home, because he was exhausting.

I was so relieved, I cracked up. And then explained, because JB was giving me that head-tilted ‘Why are you being insane?’ look. Then she cracked up.

I suppose there’s a moral in there somewhere — trust your loved one; don’t get daft over your siblings; opposites really do attract — but mostly I just enjoy smiling about it now, even though JB and I are no longer dating.

June 21, 2010

[29] Bra me up, Scotty.

Filed under: Uncategorized — DK @ 22:50
Tags: , ,

I dislike bra shopping. Shocking, I know.

I don’t hate it, let’s get that clear. I just dislike it. Like brushing my teeth, or washing the car, or taxes. Necessary, but still a pain in the ass. I’ve gotten good at mixing efficiency with a kind of blasé armour, like: Yes, I am looking at lingerie, and now you are blocking my light. Please move.

I should explain. I am now gendered as male by the average person about 97% of the time. That gets into your head after a while — so much so that I’m shocked, really truly shocked, if someone calls me ‘Ma’am’, or ‘love’, or ‘sweetheart’, or anything remotely feminine. I triple-take. I get flustered. I fall over my own feet if someone opens a door for me. I got female-gendered at a fast food joint the other day and spent the next half hour hissing “What did she see?” at the friend eating with me. True to form, my friend just laughed.

Anyway, getting back to bras. I haven’t bought a new one in at least a year, probably more. I’ve been putting it off as long as possible. Hell, binders work just as well anyway — and better, even, if you team them up with the still-passable imitation of the underthing you should have thrown away months ago. Binders are brilliant. Bras are the final, uncomfortable, exclusively-female piece of clothing I still have to wear if I don’t want to injure myself while running.

Buying a bra when everyone in the store thinks you’re a man is a whole new experience. You get looks. And I don’t just mean ‘Gosh, that person is doing something a little strange’ looks. I mean ‘Holy crap, what is that pervert doing, somebody get a pitchfork’ looks.

Men, as it turns out, are not allowed to eye woman’s underthings speculatively in public. It is Not Done. Particularly if he then proceeds to leaf through the variety of underthings on sale, blatantly checking out the sizing, before rubbing the material between his fingers in a thoughtful way.

Seriously. I got the kind of looks you’d normally need peanut butter, feathers, and a full strip tease in front of the Houses of Parliament to achieve. It was like I’d lit my trousers on fire, donned a plucked turkey as a hat, and whistled Pretty Lady through a vibrator. In front of the Queen.

Okay, I may be exaggerating slightly, but it felt like that.

The strangest part, though, was turning around with my hands full of delicate lacy things and catching sight of this disgruntled man-face on the other side of the aisle. Y’know, half a nanosecond before realizing that was my own reflection.

This transgressive-gender thing, it makes life weird.

April 16, 2010

[21] Clothes Shopping a la Butch.

Filed under: Uncategorized — DK @ 21:58
Tags: , ,

Angst aside, something more lighthearted:

As it turns out, clothes shopping as a self-identified butch is a very different experience. Clothes shopping that involves going into an actual shop, I mean, rather than just grabbing the most likely looking deal from ebay. Or grabbing a few button-downs off the rack. Shoes and shirts, those are easy. Hoodies are a breeze. So long as it’s XL or bigger, it’ll usually do me fine.

Jeans, however — jeans are a bitch.

For starters, with jeans I need more than a half-assed fit. Actually, the ass is not so much the problem, as mostly I don’t really have one. I’ve got something to sit on, sure, but that’s about it. It’s the rest that’s an issue. Hips, for example. My hips are high. Like, up-to-my-ribcage high. Freak-of-nature high. They’d be less of a problem if I lost some weight off them (I highly suspect they’d disappear entirely if I lost some weight off them), but right now they’re a pain in the aforementioned, mostly non-existant ass. The stomach, too; that doesn’t really help. I’m not huge — and mostly I carry my weight like a guy, heavy-boned and stocky looking — but jeans shopping would sure be easier if I was less a few inches.

(This is the summer plan, actually. Graduating university, working a lot, and getting fit. The brother has offered to help. I suspect I’m in for several months of pure hell.)

Anyway, combine all that with long legs and a dislike for my belt-buckle sitting right on my navel, and I need a fairly specific cut of jeans. The kind of cut you need to physically try on, because even knowing my exact waistband size/leg length doesn’t guarantee a winner. I wear my jeans low-slung (indecently so, I’ve been told), and finding a pair that’ll do that without putting the crotch at my knees and the hems about four inches past the ends of my toes is a lot like playing Russian Roulette with denim: sometimes you win, but more often you wind up flat on your ass with a ringing headache.

For the last eight months I’ve had three pairs of beloved, perfectly-fitting jeans cycling a constant rotation, but eight months of hard wear will yank the stitching out of anything that isn’t an original set of Levis. The hems are frayed, the seams are burning through, and I’m not even going to talk about the pockets.

I needed new ones. Ebay wouldn’t do. Off-the-rack would just get me in trouble.

I had to try some on.

Now, hilariously, ahead of time, the thought of changing rooms didn’t even occur to me. I just wanted some jeans, dammit. Preferably cheap, well-fitting, and with a variety of pockets. Stylish would be a bonus, but not essential. So I hit the nearest Primark, which are usually pretty good for a decent selection of mens’ clothes, and went a-hunting until I found some likely candidates.

And then to the changing rooms.

Ah, I realized abruptly, like a shower of cold water, as I drew near and saw the male/female signs displayed next to each other, pointing off to two differently curtained sections, and the little shop assistant standing like a tiny, well-dressed guardian between them. This could be a problem.

“How many items?” she asked, eyes flicking over the pile of mens’ clothes in my arms.

“Six?” I guessed.

She bestowed a token on me and stood back, exactly dead-centre beneath the gendered signs. There was no indication which way she expected me to go. To the left, the woman’s side was filled with the unholy terror of most genderqueer folk: giggling, fashionable, highly polished teenaged girls, spilling out of every curtained stall. To the right, the man’s side was mostly silent.

I dithered, saw her eyes widen questioningly, and went with ingrained instinct: woman’s side.

Total mistake.

“Uh–!” said the lady, as I ducked past her, stepped around a group of suddenly silent teenage girls, dodged an honest-to-god baby carriage, and reached the end of the crowded hallway. Every stall was occupied, about twelve pairs of eyes were fixed on the nape of my reddening neck, and there was nowhere to go but back.

A year ago, this would have melted me into a puddle on the floor. But now, veteran of a double-dozen awkward bathroom encounters, I just paused and drew a quiet breath. Then I turned on my heel, nodded at the staring girls, cut back past the shop assistant with an easy “Looks like you’re all full; I’ll use the mens'”, and managed to refrain from sprinting into quiet, Old Spice-scented sanctuary.

It was peaceful, it was air-conditioned, no one looked at me twice. I changed unhurried and undisturbed, and grinned at myself in the mirror.

None of the jeans fit right, but I was too proud of myself to care. I handed them back to the shop assistant, smiled, and bought five pairs of socks and a packet of white boxers instead. Two days later I went to the local supermarket to stock up on small randomosities, and found three pairs that fit like a dream. Ironically, they were girl’s jeans, “boyfriend” cut, and I changed in the mens’ dressing rooms.

Funny how life goes.

March 29, 2010

[17] Play me some work, Bubba.

Filed under: Uncategorized — DK @ 17:39
Tags: , , ,

Helluva day.

I had an interesting gender moment earlier. I was on a training course for my weekend job — domiciliary carer; we were doing stroke awareness and Parkinson’s — and got in twenty minutes late because traffic was a bitch.

You ever have that moment when you walk into a room and everything goes pin-drop silent? Yeah. Twenty-eight pairs of staring eyes and everyone’s obviously female except for the trainer, who’s obviously male, and I don’t know any of them.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, all smiling teeth and leather jacket and body language that yells ohshit. “Traffic.”

The trainer nods at me. “No problem. Grab a seat.”

The room is tiny. There’s one seat in the house and it’s right next to the instructor. I settle in and realize they were right in the middle of a Q&A because the instructor swings around and asks, “And what visible symptoms of a stroke do you know, young man?”

Young man.

Ohshit.

It’s the leather jacket; I love it, but damn does it get me into trouble sometimes. The black button-down beneath it probably isn’t helping, either. Or the recent haircut.

Dilemma: I’m stuck with these people for the next five hours, at work. Do I correct the trainer (with what? “Well, technically I have ovaries, but I’m actually going by male pronouns right now, so thanks,”) and embarrass the hell out of him, or do I drop my voice and play male for the next few hours and hope I never have to run a joint-shift with any of the other carers in the room?

Some of them have already made me: I can see it in their faces.

Added problem. I don’t want to be called ‘young lady’ for the next five hours. But I’m also twenty paces away from the main office and they sure know I’m estrogen based — and they’re prone to dropping in.

I have all these thoughts in about a quarter of a second, then open my mouth and say, “Slurred speech, paralysis, confusion.”

I can relate.

The trainer grins, relief all over his face, and I can see his thoughts: Thank god, one other guy in this sea of women. And look, a guy with a brain.

Oh dude, if only you knew. I can already feel heat in my face — I was always a crappy liar; worse with an audience — and none of this is going to end happy.

He uses me as his young-man-example for the next hour and a half (“Strokes are more common in men than women — sorry, buddy!”), and at least three if the woman are eyeing my throat like they want to cut it open and check for an Adam’s apple.

I don’t take off my leather jacket; I’m not binding today because I didn’t want to cause confusion at work, and that’s an irony that stings because now I want a flat chest like I want fresh air. I sit with my legs spread and my shoulders crowded down, claiming space and ducked low all at once, uncomfortable and obvious.

Then we take a break. I go get lunch.

When I come back, it’s just the instructor and two women in the room, and the instructor’s looking at the sign-in sheet. I slide back into my chair, more settled now that I’ve had the chance to get out and breathe for a minute. He comes over, looking slightly strange, and points at my name.

“That’s not a boy’s name.”

“Nope,” I agree. I should say more: I want to educate him about butch and transmasculine and Bear-freakin’-Bergman; I want to load his arms with textbooks and his head with knowledge, and lead him gently by the hand around the internet. I want to give him Boys Like Her wrapped up in a ribbon. I want to say, ‘Hey, I’m still your mate, and incidentally if you follow me into the car park later and try to start anything, I’m well-prepared to kick your ass across an acre of tarmac — but in a friendly way, and we can get beers after’.

I really want to not fail this course.

So I say one word, steady-voiced, and watch him calmly. He blinks.

“Jeez, I’m sorry,” he says, and rubs the back of his neck.

I shrug. “No big deal; happens all the time.” And I like it normally, dammit.

The rest of the group comes back in. The lady next to me leans over and greets me with my name. Asks me how I’ve been, if I remember working with her. I don’t — I’ve always been bad with faces — but at least now I know why she’s been staring at my jugular for the last two hours.

“I’m good,” I say slowly, wondering if she’s going to mention the fact that half the class still think I’m a guy, the teacher is bright red, and the morning’s basically been weird.

“That’s nice.”

Apparently not.

The trainer calls me ‘young man’ again ten minutes later, like a reflex; then he trips over his words, drops a slide, and goes even redder. I smile, call him ‘dude’, hand his slide back, and take off my leather jacket.

We learn about Parkinson’s, and on the way out one of the ladies hits on me.

This afternoon I gave blood for the second time ever, bought a multi-tool, and found a check for $200 from my clinically-insane-but-lately-endearing mother waiting in a card on the doormat. Apparently “blessed Easter” is the time to give money.

And I passed the course.

Like I said, helluva day.

March 9, 2010

[10] Vanity!

Filed under: Uncategorized — DK @ 10:51
Tags: ,

Of course I took those pictures. *grins*

Observe how I lurk cunningly behind the camera. Also, AWESOME SHORTS.

Close up of AWESOME SHORTS.

Now with a side-view of HAIRY LEGS. (They look much hairer in person.)

[9] I live! And to celebrate, I’m going to ramble at length…

Filed under: Uncategorized — DK @ 10:17
Tags: , ,

Y’know, I had such high hopes for 2010, but it’s turning into kind of a bust year. Part of that is me — I’ve been on such a downer lately — and I reckon part of that just that we’re still in the early grey months, but damn. There seems to be widespread lethargy all over place — or just plain tragedy, for the more unlucky people I know. It’s extremely uncool.

But! Today is sunny, I’m wearing an awesome pair of new shorts I should totally take a picture of, and it’s time to climb out of this sinkhole.

(I’m also amazed at the number of page views I’m still getting, despite not being online for almost a month. Is someone linking me around? Hi, new folks!)

So, good things! I have some awesome new tech, because I’m a total sucker for shiny things that come with black leather accessories (wow, that punchline practically writes itself). And I actually sketched out half a draft post about this, something like three weeks ago, so now I’m going to plagiarise the hell out of myself. I R Rebel!*

*plagiarizes*

‘I have a love-hate relationship with technology, mostly in that I love it, while it seems to feel we’re more suited to a relationship that leaves holes in the walls, concerned neighbours, and occasional cooling-down stints in prison.

Technology, baby, why do you make me hurt you?

This is all a really roundabout way of saying I just bought a new phone, and now I’m to talk about Stuff. Specifically, Stuff I Like. Though not all the Stuff I Like, or we’ll be here forever. But I have noticed lately that I’m developing a stunning fixation for anything chunky, weighty, and black. Especially if it comes complete with a leather carrying case. I love leather. Really, I should have a kink. Or at least a fetish.

There’s still time.

In any case, this was the phone that got my attention — but in this version, natch. And it’s gorgeous. Almost the exact size and weight of my iPod (which is another recent purchase, also black, with a leather case — thank you, Christmas money from crazy!mom), and nothing like the last slimline phone I used to have, which always felt like it’d snap like a cookie if I held it wrong. This one has substance. And it’s also a Nokia, which I’ve heard carry a reputation for being indestructible**. Also, it organizes like a fiend. One of my major goals this year was to be more organized, so this seems like a step in the right direction***. Plus it has a multi-functional calendar, an ability to chart up memos, notes, and meetings, and I can store almost any kind of document on it. As soon as I figure out the ninety-one pages of user-guide, at least.

In short, it’s made of awesome. And it feels extremely butch, what with its ability to survive a four story drop and also be used as a ballistic weapon whilst texting like a fiend. (In my head, butch apparently = dangerous amounts of multitasking. Who knew?)’

*stops plagiarizing*

Other good things! I’ve kicked smoking. Again. So far I’ve made it to the … *thinks* two week mark, roughly, and I’m out of the major craving period. I’m told it takes three days for the body-cravings to go away, and after that everything’s psychological. So this no-cravings thing seems like a Very Good Sign.

(Though now I’m thinking about it, I want a cigarette. CURSE YOU, CATCH 22!)

Other-other good things — I made it through Valentine’s Day without killing anyone. There’s probably a whole blog post in that alone. A whole bunch of blog-posts actually, because this whole dealing-with-your-ex-dating is a new and not entirely fun thing, but it has been good for my personal learning curve. There’s this feeling like you lose the right to bitch about things when you’re the one that calls it off — and that’s true, you do lose the right to bitch. But you don’t lose the right to talk. Or feel whatever the hell you’re feeling. So once I put my head together enough to work out a coherent thought-sentence, I’ll tackle that.

But I’m in a better place. And I really am glad she’s dating. (Even if the person she’s dating is so hot it makes me want to FROTH with jealousy. *laughs*) And hey, I’m still getting a crush-confession about once a fortnight, so it’s not exactly like I’m without options, even if I’m not taking any of them.

So, how’s 2010 treating you?


*Anyone ever watch I R Weasel as a kid? I loved that show.
**I just completely jinxed myself, I know, but the thing is almost a brick. A pretty brick.
*** He says, as he types this up three weeks later.

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