The Fanstastic Ms. Fox

Before all this, imagine me in a coffee shop. The morning light streaming in. I overhear a realtor talking to a colleague about her 'other' maternal grandma, the one she didn't know about; the one who died in the 1960s.

I am off to work. Research.


Waking factors in the following dream:
- Introducing someone to If These Walls Could Talk 2
- Dropping by my old (pre-transitional) landlady to find out she'd recently moved.
- See prior entries regarding extents of control


 In Southern Europe, in a medical camp, among the nurses.

It's not clear what we're doing here but maybe the politicians are getting ready for a war. How do they know?

In retrospect, this may not be history as you know it. World War 2 hasn't broken out yet. It's safer to insert cross-temporal operatives now. Mymission is to gather data and not interfere. To watch, not act. It's making me twitchy.
( Read more... )

I have "gone out for coffee," "hung out," "gone out to eat," and even "had ladies over for the pleasure of their company", but I have never dated in the conventional sense.

So last night I put on a tie. And a vest. And a button-down shirt. But not in that order. And I go to the restaurant early.

The wait staff call me "sir," one does so in a nervous sweat, and, after she (my date) arrives, address me near-exclusively.

When they ask about wine I make a blank face, and make it clear that she (who is wearing a skirt and no tie) is ordering it for the table, not me.

Then they bring the sparkling white. And glasses. And open the wine. And pour a titch into my glass. And.. not into hers. Then they watch me.

"I... know nothing about wine." I shrug.

And we switch glasses. She tries some and says "It's very nice."

This is good, because I have no idea what to do if you don't like the wine. Send it back and ask them to destroy the offending substance?

And then we return to the earlier pattern. The wait staff (and manager?) continue to speak just to me.

(My dislocation: I have never been a part of this strange domestic custom before, and it's not one of those things you expect after becoming a lass.)

I see smug on her face.

We are similar along most visible demographics save for gender expression and height, me being shorter. I suppose it's something about relative femininity and masculinity and one's ritual role as either the displayer of wealth-status decision-making or the appreciator and judge thereof.

What specifically? This is a Thai restaurant near Davie Street. There are so many permutations of gendered assumptions, each varying from person to person that I will never know.

She thought it was fun. Which is good.

It made me uncomfortable. My post-transitional affectation for neckties remains, but only if worn in comfort: loose both physically and socially, so as to say, you know I'm not taking this "normative" thing seriously, right?

"The women's movement missed the point all along," she remarks, "all we needed was ties."

And then we agreed - it would be hot if I walked her home.

You were tired.


You tell me about your party, and that you asked about trans-inclusion. I appreciate this. You say the "organization is trans-inclusive, but for the girls's event you have to have the surgery." That you have to "be physically female."

I was looking forward to going with you. And I think that you will be going without me.