Fabulous!

Unfortunately, one anonymous commentor tried to guess the identity of my ex, and that disturbed me, so I deleted that comment. This is not a gossip column, and I am not Rona Barrett, for God's sake.

On a lighter note, my morning make-over at Sephora was fabulous! All the boys who work there wear make-up and look fabulous. The music...is fabulous. The products...are fabulous. I got some fabulous tips and spent way too much money...but who could not at such a fabulous place?

Apocalypse...now?

I thought I had made myself clear but, apparently, no. He blitzkriegs my inbox with neurotic e-mails about his ongoing gastrointestinal distress...with more details than I care to read. This latest round, he believes, was brought on by bad food on a business trip, although his doctor recently prescribed antibiotics so, apparently, something else is up (but we won't get into that touchy subject now, kids). But instead of taking the pills, he says he'll keep them "in reserve just in case" he needs them, stockpile them along with cases of Snapple apple, party-sized bags of Doritos and several pounds of marijuana. Because you never know when Armageddon will come....

Yesterday, during my daily walk into town, I saw him on the street. He saw me and turned immediately, pretending not to see me. His shirt was tucked into his shorts, and he looked fat. I was glad.

Every day apart from him...I realize just how strange he is. And because I was once much the same as he is now, I know that all the years of alcohol and drug abuse make you raw on the inside....and can even cause intestinal problems.

I feel better now. I have worked very hard to put my past indiscretions (overindulging alcohol, excessive burping and farting in bed with my lovers, etc.) behind me. I need to find a man who is on the same path as I, someone who doesn't snore.

Going to get a free (long overdue) make-over at Sephora on Monday morning in KOP. Ecstatic!

Bong Juice

I invited him to my apartment for dinner...just dinner and conversation. We really needed to talk. He insisted that I instead come to his house for a dinner he would prepare, but I didn't want to go to his house--I don't like his furniture--and I didn't want to drive the 11 or 12 miles to get there...I was still traumatized by the veal problem and his other inconsiderate ways, but I of course eventually caved in and drove down there as fast as I could with the air-conditioner on high.

The old me would have refused his invitation and said, "Come to my place or we're not getting together tonight. Period." But these damn hormones....so even though intellectually, I know he is a bad deal, I nevertheless went to him because I felt attached. Well, fuck me.

He was cordial when I arrived. He hugged me and invited me in, but the house was filled with a foul odor. I meant to be polite, but the smell offended me and, when I insisted on remaining on his miniscule deck even though it was almost 100 degrees out, he wanted to know why...."Why stay out there when I have the fuckin' air-conditioning on, Dolores?"

I lost it then. I was so angry for all his past misdeeds. I shrieked, "Your fucking house smells awful! Why did you invite me here?!" Without missing a beat, he went into one of his long (exhausting) stories about himself and explained that two nights earlier, in an attempt to prepare food for the coming week, there had been an explosion on the stove when the tomato sauce boiled over and splattered most of the kitchen....yeah, probably because he was drunk, I thought....he subsequently left "other things" on the stove and they created, he believed, some sort of mold problem, and that was probably what I smelled. But, hey, I know foul bong juice when I smell it. I used to be the King of foul bong juice.

It was at this moment that I suddenly had an intense moment of clarity--a revelation....

"What an ass," I thought. What a complete drunken, pot-addled, narcissistic, passive-aggressive, used-up ass." I can do so much better. All that initial bravado...was nothing but hot air. After all, he was my rebound man after The Undertaker and, let's face it, any man is an improvement over The Undertaker.

So I took a good look at him and smiled. I told him it was time for me to go, but he wanted me to stay. I said I couldn't, it smelled too bad in there. He offered to take me out for dinner. I said no, maybe another time.

And maybe there will be another time....when both of us see things with clarity....

Out Beyond Parm

I finally confronted him about his addiction to veal. In my youth, I was something of an anti-vivisectionist and was--and still am--appalled at the way calves are mistreated before they are slaughtered. But he is so far gone with this that I knew if I brought up the matter with graphic detail, he wouldn't even hear me. So I at first approached the matter gently and with consideration but, as he is generally oblivious to the most obvious things, he barely heard me. He wouldn't acknowledge his addiction; instead, he claimed he is merely a "creature of habit" and that I am wrong about his obsession with veal parm as he is quite happy to venture beyond parm and into, for example, scallopini, piccata and marsala and "what the fuck is wrong with you, Dolores?"

What is wrong with me??? Last weekend, he again inveigled me into traveling with him to Bucks County to sate his appetite, and it is just too far for me. And it wasn't the first time. That long drive in his little car all the way up and back on the Turnpike exhausts me. Plus, along the way, I have to listen to the same old stories--always about himself--and by the time we arrive at the enormous generic Italian restaurant, all I want to do is drink....I have no appetite at all. I'm beginning to wonder if the only reason he calls me is so that he will have someone (could be anyone) to join him for dinner.

The restaurant in Bucks County is basically the same as the one in his neighborhood, although the names are different. The menus are enormous, wine is served in carafes (so you know it originates in jugs), the waiters are always a pain in the ass and, sigh, I spend each meal watching him vacuum the veal off his plate with his mouth. It's no wonder I get drunk each time.

But here's the thing....yes, I am revolted by the horrific veal extravaganza before me, but at some point before it's over--and this happens every time--I look at him and--I just can't help it...perhaps because or in spite of my insobriety, I just cannot wait to get him home and into bed.

God, I am so fucked.

The Real (Veal Meal) Deal?

What a month! I met a man in town, who is considered rather controversial. Initially, I thought he was a maverick, and I was intrigued. Like me, he is a prolific e-mailer, and we often e-mail each other as much as 40-50 times a day. He is so funny...and we are both lovers of music and satire. We have been on many dates. Best part is that nothing about me seems to faze him. I think he may be the one....!

OK, yes, I admit there are some problems, some--as my BFF would say--"red flags" and, after the dreadful encounter with The Undertaker, I promised myself I would be more in tune to so-called "warning signs" in the future...but, since I know I am prone to over-reacting and possibly being a tad superficial about such things, I need to carefully evaluate the pros and cons of the current situation....

1. Humor. He is very, very funny. (And who doesn't need a good belly laugh now and then, eh?)

2. Bedroom. There are problems in the bedroom. During the day or days leading up to an encounter, he showers me with provocative e-mails about what he is going to do to me. Initially, I was taken aback by some of his comments (about, for example, how he could "last" as long as I wanted) and, frankly, somewhat skeptical. But nevertheless I go along with it every time...the feelings he stirs up in me, even by mere suggestion...mmmm....I get so worked up and anxious, sometimes unable to contain my desire. But when the moment arrives, he talks...and talks...and then talks some more (usually repetitive stories about himself ). But I'm polite, feign interest...and when I do finally get him upstairs, it always starts out well but ends up with him tiring...or worse...he, well, you know....(I don't want to be too graphic in case any children are reading this.) Undoubtedly, this is due to the fact that he drinks excessively before each encounter, sometimes an entire bottle of wine by himself. I recognize that this is what I used to do before I changed, and it seems so distasteful to me now. But you know what? With all the estrogen in me now, I find it's really nice just being together. I don't need sex every night. We can just watch t.v. I should probably tell him all this before it's too late....

3. Moods. His mood shifts unexpectedly and radically. Sweet and lovely and silly one moment, then paranoid and aggressive the next.

4. Nasal hair. Sprouts of dark hair often protrude from one or both nostrils. He is aware of this sometimes, but when he asks to borrow my nail scissors, I cringe....

5. Passive-aggressive. Oh, yes. Big time.

6. Hilarity! He is hilarious! Just thinking of him now makes me want him....

7. Addictions. He has addiction issues. He lately traded in some old ones for new ones, the newest being veal parm. Every evening meal is veal. If not the same neighborhood restaurant two nights in a row, then another will do (but only if absolutely necessary). And even as I sit across from him in the booth, trying to chat earnestly, trying to express my heartfelt needs and desires, he won't look up from his plate until he has inhaled every last bit of veal. Exhausted but satisfied after such frenetic consumption, he then sits back in the booth and folds his hands across his belly. It's lonely for me, and I lose my appetite each time.

8. Tears of joy. Did I mention he has the ability to make me laugh until I cry?

9. Idleness. He won't exercise with me. Once, he took me to the beach for the day. He wore a red bathing suit and red t-shirt which was way too tight for him. He looked like an aging Jersey tomato, but as I have intense feelings for him, I chose to overlook it. Plus,I knew we would be in a place where no one would know either of us. And also, I mean...let's face it...in my present condition, I have bathing suit issues of my own which, for some reason, don't seem to bother him at all. So he took me to the ocean but completely refused to go in the ocean. While I flopped around like a happy seal by the buoys, he remained on the sand, occasionally approaching the water's edge but would only venture in up to his ankles. I wonder if he can swim? Maybe he can't....

My friends say, "Dolores, we can't even imagine you standing next to this man." But he is funny and furry, and he likes me, I say. And besides, when he is "on" (not moody), I can say or do anything and feel free...he eats too much...and I can swear with impunity....he drinks too much...and he likes to go to movies...he dislikes small children and animals....and he makes me laugh...he invites me over but then wants me to leave...he accepts me as I am...he doesn't like my car....he is attentive and kind at night....he is distant and cold in the morning....he is so good and kind...except when he snaps at me for no apparent reason...oh, shit.

"You Late."

The Undertaker hasn't appeared since the night I called the police. I have to admit, though, that I would really enjoy another meal at Seven Stars but with a different dining companion.

I took a long walk yesterday and ended up at the Gateway Pharmacy across from the hospital. What a terrific place--they have everything there! I browsed for about an hour and then settled on some tweezers, new lip liner and lipstick (going to try a provocative dark red color this time, see if that does anything) and a perfume called Chloe. The pretty young woman behind the frangrance counter recommended it. She was almost as tall as I and couldn't stop looking at me--perhaps because of my height? It's so nice when you're this tall to meet other tall people. But this poor girl had way too much make-up on. She really needed my help...I just knew it. There was a desperate pleading in her languid blue eyes. She was all but calling out for me to rescue her. Was she a starving single mother? Did her muscley boyfriend beat the crap out of her? Did her jowly step-father molest her? I just knew she needed my help...and you know I really wanted to...but then I remembered I had a 1:15 mani-pedi, and I was late, so I had to run.

So I wasn't on time, and they don't like that, but my nails look great. Tried a different, more demure, color this time. And of course, the obligatory foot massage. Ahhh....Lotus has tiny hands, but they are so strong. All the callouses and dead skin of Winter rubbed and washed away. When the time comes to wear open-toed shoes, I'll be good to go. I feel renewed. Spring has sprung, and I am ready.

Dearly Departed?

On Thursday evening, the Towncar returned and sat across the street in the darkness. I took the advice of one of my commentors and called the police, told them the Towncar was parked suspiciously across the street each night after dark and that there were other cars pulling up alongside conducting what appeared to be some sort of transactions. OK, so I embellished a bit, but I didn't think the cops would take me seriously if I just said a car was parked across the street. After a good twenty minutes, a police car appeared and pulled up alongside the Towncar. I watched from my darkened apartment, hiding behind a curtain so The Undertaker couldn't see me. The cop put his lights on and shone a flashlight through the driver's side window of the Towncar. Oooooh, I was riveted! I mean, does it get any more exciting than this? I couldn't hear the verbal exchange but, after a while, I heard the engine of the Towncar and saw its lights go on, and then The Undertaker drove slowly away into the inky darkness. The police car followed him to the end of the block and then turned onto another street.

I know this isn't the end of The Undertaker problem. I just know it. A man like him is relentless. After all, he makes his living embalming the dead. I should have seen this coming....He is mad because I have a penis. Well, duh.

Every Breath You Take

Scary week. After the date from Hell, I assumed I'd never hear from The Undertaker again; yet, a black Towncar was parked diagonally across the street on five of the last seven nights. It's too dark to see if anyone is sitting inside. I also received many hang-up calls this week. My caller i.d. registers the numbers as "unavailable." He is out there again tonight...almost midnight...just sitting there, no lights on.

At 6'3", I consider myself a big person, so this sort of thing shouldn't faze me, but it does. As a female, it really does. The old unflappable me would go across the street, pull the Undertaker out of the Towncar and kick his ass. Then I'd have a beer. Or two or three. But the present me is afraid of the wee Undertaker in his big black car. Intellectually, I just don't get it. I am flooded with new, unfamiliar feelings. I am troubled by these changes in my emotions and my lack of fortitude.

So this is how it is for women...to feel afraid of the potential backlash caused by dissing some jerk on a bad date. Perhaps The Undertaker feels deceived for, surely, after our encounter at Seven Stars, he must know.....

OK, so maybe he is angry, but I did nothing wrong. What exactly--I mean, how much--do I have to disclose before I go out on a date with a man? Long before we went to Seven Stars, he saw me in the parking lot at Acme, went out of his way to rescue my shopping cart and pester me for my telephone number. That doesn't happen to me very often. (Actually, it has never happened.) Yes, I was uncertain but flattered too, so I figured why not. I really didn't think he would call. But he did. Over and over. A more seasoned woman would have realized that such a relentless caller has stalker potential, but I am new at this game.

I don't know what to do. Fist fights are so behind me. The desire for a brawl is only a distant memory. I want to, but I don't want to. I want to, but I just can't.

A Lesson Learned

Out of sheer loneliness, I gave in to The Undertaker...he was so persistent...and accepted his invitation to dinner. Since I'm trying to save money for my surgery, it's been a while since I went out for a nice meal. But I questioned his motives. (With the hormones, I find I am sort of paranoid at times...) After all, I am 6'3" and The Undertaker is Lilliputian (and bald, as you may recall). So where could this possibly go? But I was lonely and hungry, so I said yes, let's go.

Let me tell you, folks, there was something very different about the diminutive Undertaker this time, and I didn't like it...didn't like it at all. He pulled up to the curb in his black Lincoln Towncar, and when he got out, I saw he was wearing a black toupee and had lifts in his loafers. The wig looked ludicrous, and I felt embarrassed when I saw him approach . I wanted to get out of it, but a deal is a deal, so....I opened the door when he knocked, and we got into the Towncar and drove to Seven Stars for dinner.

The food was terrific (!) and in huge amounts. I had a colossal slab of prime rib, medium well, mashed potatoes with gravy and a big amount of steamed broccoli, not too firm--just right. The au jus gravy was a little too watery and the meat kind of fatty, but it tasted wonderful. The mashed potatoes were real (even had lumps in them). The meat was not too chewy--just the way I like it. The Undertaker ordered fried shrimp, which were jumbo in size and looked pretty good. He must not have liked them because he ate only two. I would have eaten the rest--and really wanted to--but I swore off fried foods because I'm trying to watch my new figure.

Possibly he was miffed because I ordered the most expensive thing on the menu. He had a mean look on his face throughout the meal. But I didn't care. I just wanted to eat. As soon as I finished the main course, I asked if I could order a second...he looked stunned but then I told him I was only kidding, and he looked relieved and passed gas so loudly and with so much force that the elderly couple next to us shook and coughed to conceal their laughter. Everyone had been staring at us throughout the meal anyway because of the ridiculous rug, but when the Epic Fart came, well, you can imagine....I wanted to crawl under the table.

Like most men--including me once--The Undertaker drank copiously before and during dinner. He continued drinking while I plowed through my tremendous slab of seven-layer chocolate cake, which was to die for. The more bottles of beer he drank, the more I wanted to eat. I couldn't stop eating. I wanted more. He drank. I ate. I felt no shame. I had a second piece of cake, and I wanted a third....

When the bill finally arrived, I was spent. I burped, I passed gas, I slumped over the table in exhaustion. After a while, I sat up and announced, "I gotta take a piss" and disappeared. I almost went into the men's room. (Old habits die hard.) I ended up in the ladies' room but stood up in a stall to pee. Fuck it, I didn't feel like sitting, and there was no one else in there. As I washed my hands and carefully re-applied my lip liner, I realized with a shudder, that at some point during the meal, I had forgotten my gender and acted like a guy. Believe me when I tell you, that was a very scary thing. And of course I wondered if The Undertaker knew....

There was very little conversation in the Towncar on the way home. He pulled up to the curb in front of my building. I said "Thank you for dinner. I had a lovely time" and got out of his car. He pulled away from the curb like a bat out of hell. I was up all night with the runs. All in all, not a very good night.

I should have known better. The old me would go out with practically anyone because a date implied the possibility of getting laid. Sigh. In the future, no matter how lonely or hungry I am, I cannot go out on dates with any man unless I am seriously interested in pursuing a meaningful long-term relationship with him.

Date Like a Man?

While perusing MySpace profiles this afternoon, I came across one of a young woman whose profile prominently displayed this quotation: "DATE LIKE A MAN SO YOU DON'T GET PLAYED LIKE A BITCH." My God....where does that leave me??? Anyone?

Penis Talk

Can I be frank with you?

Let me ask you something. Does the penis make the man? Does it define him? Because, honestly I can't wait to lose mine.

I read in People magazine today that a man is pregnant. He was born a she, had a double radical mastectomy, took testosterone and changed his gender to "male" on his driver's license. He is married to the woman who used to be his lesbian lover, who already has two grown children of her own and is too old to carry a pregnancy. They contemplated hiring a surrogate, but they couldn't afford one. Not to be deterred, her husband decided that since he still has a uterus, he would become inseminated with donor sperm and become this child's mother and father. There is something peculiarly ingenius about this.

A psychiatrist commented that by having a double mastectomy but not a hysterectomy, that there must be some uncertainty there, some hesitation to really go all the way. But you know, folks, I can tell you from experience, gender reassignment surgery is not cheap.

On second thought...the shrink could be on to something. The transman in the magazine article also made the decision to never have a phalloplasty. Wow. Let's face it: What kind of man doesn't want a dick? The only answer, of course, is....a man like me...or...the man I used to be.

Food for thought: Does the penis make the woman?

...love, sister, it's just a kiss away

Yet another companionless weekend....After two bottles of pinot (state store had a sale) and many hours of Lifetime and HGTV, I began to feel like a monk. Or a nun or.... I used to feel like a monk; now I feel like a nun. I sometimes feel so cloistered here....

Out of wine....wish I had some weed....

One good thing about spending so much time alone is that I'm really getting in touch with my femininity. As a woman, I have feelings that I didn't have before. Once, farting, letting my member hang out of my jeans and scratching my ass in front of my dates was no big deal. Now, just the mere thought of these mortifies me. And when it comes to dating, I am so much more selective now. Sure, I know: just how selective can I afford to be, right? I am a great catch, but my being so picky eliminates nearly every man I meet...this one smokes....that one's bald....

I need to re-think my approach to the (now) opposite sex...or I fear I will never find a man to love.

Burning Bridges Falling Down

I am through with Ray. Common sense prevailed, and I realized it could never work out with him as he is a smoker. Also, I feel humiliated after crying in front of Vinod. I can never go in that store again. I fear I may be burning my bridges downtown. In the future, I must be more careful not to wear my heart on my sleeve.

I remained in my apartment all day. I awoke with a raging headache and the only pain killers I had were a few percs left over from my top surgery. Wow.

The undertaker called many times to ask me out. It's a long story but the short version is that he is an admirer from the Acme parking lot who rescued my shopping cart as it rolled away and almost slammed into his car. He's a kind man but I cannot go out with him because he is bald.

I am so shallow as a woman. Damn.

Prepaid and Pinless

After primping myself--you know, a woman really does have to use all her charms to catch her man--I walked into town late yesterday afternoon to see Ray. All morning, I readied myself for the encounter. I imagined what I would say to him (and practiced repeatedly in front of the bathroom mirror). I even worked up enough confidence to invite him to meet me for a drink after work. But when I got to the store, alas, he was not there. Vinod, behind the counter, asked if he could help me. Playing it cool (and pretending to be a legitimate customer), I fumbled for an answer.

"I'll take one of those," I said, pointing to things hanging behind him on the wall.

"Vich country?"

That one," I hastily replied, still pointing--although my eyes were too glazed with tears to even see what I was pointing at.

He gave me Guatemala. What the fuck. I can now call Guatemala anytime day or night for ten hours. Don't even have to enter a pin number. Christ.

Sweet Dreams

Hillary. Ray. Hillary. Ray.

Last night, slept like a baby.

Life looks good.

Smitten

Very productive day so far.

Made a new friend during my daily downtown foray. His name is Ray and he works part-time in one of the Bridge Street stores. What a beautiful man--kind, intelligent, thoughtful. We talked for what seemed like hours (but in reality was only two or three minutes). The conversation was so enchanting that, despite the multitude of customers buying cigarettes, calling cards and doo rags, I felt completely alone with him. I haven't felt this way in ages.

I will return tomorrow to make another purchase.

Downtown Love

Some people are calling on Hillary to drop out of the race. That would devastate me. I need her. I need Hillary.

In local news...I slept very little. The wine put me to sleep in my chair in front of the tv, but I awoke dazed a few hours later and stumbled into bed, too wasted even to undress. This was too often my usual procedure before the change and it bothers me that I continue to act like this. After a night of getting a load on, I inevitably arise in the morning belching and farting up a storm. Let's face it...no one will want to share my bed unless I cut this out. As a man, I was utterly clueless in this regard. God, it is amazing what hormones can do....

I really need to put myself out there. Must make some adjustments.

I decided to immerse myself--very slowly, gently--into the ocean of local politics...just stick my toes in the water to test it out. (You might not believe this, but in my previous life, I was a radical....possibly the Abbey Hoffman of the trans world.) Trying to figure out who all the local politicos are. Also, there is a real possibility I could meet a love interest downtown and I am gearing myself up for that.

Going to walk back into town today, see what's going on. Hopefully, my car will be fixed soon. Really need to make an Acme run.

Me, my Pinot and I

Tonight, almost a whole fish-shaped bottle of Pinot Grigio by myself.

Try as I might to lose my old ways, some of my man habits remain. I no longer have to shave my face, but I still love a good stiff one. During my walk into town today, I saw a place called Molly Maguire's and I so wished I had some friends to sit at the bar and have a few with me.

Lots of folks looking at this blog and my MySpace page. Surely, I will make some friends soon.

I will walk back into town tomorrow, see what's going on.

Kings--and Queens?--of Phoenixville

As the Tylenol PM was virtually ineffective last night, I got out of bed early this morning and decided to walk into town. I saw a poster in a storefront which puzzled me. It said "King of First Friday," but I really couldn't tell if the person on the poster was a king or a queen, if you know what I mean. It is exciting to think there may be others in town who are like me.

Tonight I will try a glass of wine before I go to bed.

Hillary on my mind

Can’t sleep.

As my car is again in the shop, I will walk downtown in the morning to see what is happening down there. I will take a Tylenol PM and go back to bed.

It takes a village, bitches

I saw Hillary on t.v. tonight. She states that the purpose of her presidency will be to "stand up for people who don’t get a fair shake." I really adore Hillary Clinton. Her Adam’s apple rivals mine. Oh well. What can you do?