Macht und Energie (and satin)

I have the urge to write tonight. Seems I have die arsch in die hose schon wieder (ass in the pants again) or skirt as the case may be. I stood up for myself today at work and told the cost analyst what I am willing to accept and what I am not. He didn’t like it very much, but I stuck to my guns. He is one of those fatherly Jesus freak types that is way too happy and knows a little about everything and doesn’t mind telling you about it. I feel like one of his children when he speaks with me. Like he is all knowing and I am an idiot and I should listen to him if hope to be successful. I stayed totally cool throughout our discussion. He constantly tries to beat around the bush with his infinite wisdom as if he is teaching me something. I put my energy into displaying the advantages of my solution and not into explaining why his solution will not work. I am not about winning or losing, but rather about putting my energy into something that is known to work but needs to be optimized. We have no time to piddle with uncertainties at this point.

It is interesting to me the reaction to the word cunt and my pride in my new personalized belt that I have received. An anonymous comment was posted to my blog for that post. The “C” word as I had always known it, has taken on a new meaning to me as of recent times. It was always known as a very offensive word to me and should never be used in reference to a woman, especially one that you call your girlfriend or the like. Saying that would certainly mean the end of everything and possibly your life. Bitch was bad enough, so I learned in my ill fated attempt at being a man. My impression of the word was somewhat softened by the Englanders who use it as a term of endearment. The last step in softening my feeling toward the word cunt came in the form of an article in a Vogue magazine that I read in the last couple of months. I think it was a British Vogue, since it was in English and an article such as that would never be published in the states. The article told of a famous and somewhat elder actress who gave a younger actress a necklace with the word cunt spelled out in rubies as a token of her endearment for the younger. The author of the article also had a similar feeling toward the word as I had and through some peer counseling, got over her fear. I found the article both interesting, while I could definitely relate, and amusing at the same time.

That comment “No REAL Women would be PROUD to be called "CUNT"” (nice grammar, dumb ass) leads me to another theme that I discussed at the monthly TS night out in Neu Isenburg last Saturday night. We were talking about how some psychiatrists that are asked to write evaluations that serve as approvals for name change, surgery, etc. often base a large part of their viability judgments on physical appearances. We eventually landed on the subject of how some of us TS’ tend to believe that after surgery they are no longer TS and are 100% woman. In my opinion that is not a healthy belief as it opens one up for disappointment. I fully acknowledge the reality of my situation being a transsexual woman. I can never be a “real” woman, I can only hope to get real close and that is totally okay with me. Being a reasonable facsimile of a woman to me is more acceptable than to continue with my lame attempt at being a real man. Being a man is easy in that it doesn’t require much effort or thought, just testosterone and a penis. Being a woman is a bit more complicated (at least for me it is) and rightfully so. I like being me even if it means that everyone everywhere that I meet will always be able to tell that I was once a man. Sure it’s difficult at times, but in the end I am happy and comfortable with myself and that is all that really matters. Thanks for the tip Anonymous.

I was reasonably prolific this past (long) weekend. On Sunday I managed to go through a new fitting of the basic skirt pattern. Three adjustments later I had a more or less perfect fit. I also managed to finally vacuum all the pollen dust out of my apartment with my new dirt devil. On Monday (a German holiday) I designed a pencil skirt with a box pleat in the back which I in turn made out of black stretch denim and trimmed it with black cotton bias double fold tape. I put an invisible zipper in the side seam which can be grave because there is no adjustment possible if the waist or hips don’t fit quite right, without ripping the zipper out of course. I wasn’t quite happy with the hips but the waist fit perfect. I washed it and air dried it overnight and threw it in the dryer this morning and after ironing it fit correctly and had the right amount of ease. I also managed to cut apart a black T-shirt with my former company’s logo on it and turn it into a women’s model as kind of a joke. I sewed the re-designed T-shirt completely on my normal machine instead of the serger, something I am very proud of. I actually had better control over stretch and the garment came out better because of it. I felt extra cute today because I made both pieces of my outfit myself. I wore black tights and my adidas sneaks with my worn pink cardigan and the top and skirt. Turning out a wearable outfit in one day made me feel like I had really accomplished something. I have needed that groove back for some time now. More to come.

I have also resurrected my affinity for satin as of late. It began with the light blue baby blanket that I was swaddled in shortly after my birth. I still have it somewhere. The blanket was trimmed with satin. There is only a small scrap of the satin left on it because I for some strange reason love the feel of rubbing satin between my fingertips. There is something comforting about the feel of it for me, and the colder the better. Wearing satin on my body doesn’t do much for me, except the fact that I am able to touch the satin. It feels so smooth and nice. I don’t find it erotic in any way, just oddly comforting. I had bought some satin scünci hair elastics some time ago and one has been finding its way into my left hand quite often. I know its weird, but I can’t explain it. The originals that I bought were black and have the best feel. I bought some new ones in pink and light blue, but the fabric is inferior quality to the black ones. I suppose there are much worse obsessions to have. Someone I know used to find it rather disturbing, but I like it just the same.

Part of my drive this weekend was my dancehall reggae tapes from ten years ago. I am surprised they still work, must be metal tapes. The likes of Buju Banton, Gregory Isaacs, Beres Hammond, Snagga Tooth, Shaggy, Beany Man, and others I can’t remember stirred my memory back to a simpler time in my life. It was a time when I used to venture into a dangerous part of Boston, Dorchester, to get the scoop on parties and Selecta battles at Miss Kay’s beauty salon. Her salon was right next door to the Caribbean Cultural Club, a.k.a. three C’s. I was usually the only white face in those places, but luckily nobody gave me any trouble. I think that people must have thought that I was either very stupid or was someone to watch out for, or simply accepted me, so I was left alone. I had the mix tapes made for me at a record store in D back in ’95. All that led to my meeting Yollie and the hell she put me through and I likewise her too.