"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.