The New Puppy

"We don't need another dog," Angela said.

"Of course we do, we used to have three, and now we only have two," I said.

I wait. I wait another week. And then, my Angela came through. She said, "there are Bichons in the paper."

"Really?" I said. "Let me see that."

"That's a local call, you know," she remarked.

"Umhuh," I remarked.

"You could go this afternoon," she pointed out, "after your PT appointment.
"Yes, I could. I guess I should call," I pointed out.

"Umhuh."

She knew that if I went to look, we'd have a puppy, and so we did. I picked TinkerBelle out at three weeks old, and I checked up on her every week. I even took the grandkids with me twice, so they could see the puppy grow.

Tink was the first of the litter to venture out of her box, and she let me turn her over for a tummy rub from the first time we met. Eight-weeks went by so slowly, I could hardly keep myself away, and Angela loved the phone pictures.

I brought her in the house and she was first overwhelmed by Cassandra, the one year old puppy, and then our new baby dog made a pass through Angela's arms for a big snuggle. Next, the kids got to hold her, and  finally, her feet touched the floor and she was able to explore a bit. Angela beamed as much as I, and the grandkids agreed she was "a cupcake," as the eldest remarked. "That's because her collar has cupcakes on it, and that's how sweet she is." There goes that adult-concept-thing again in our five-year old granddaughter.

"I'll add the third lead to the leash," Angela said.


"That would be great." I said.


Here's just another Best Thing About Being Married To A Transsexual.

Her's two of our doggies taking a snooze: Chloe Petunia, the one year old, and TinkerBelle, the baby.

They are Bichon Frise with puppy (hair) cuts.

.

The Big Birthday Bash

I just love watching Angela work. She is a whirling dervish. No kidding. She never stops. She seems to be in several places at once. I look one way, and there she is setting up tables, I look the other and she's hanging a banner or a balloon. When the blow-up pools, yes plural, are filled, the playhouse open, and the  swing set dusted off again, it's time for the kids to arrive. There are nearly as many parents as there are kids, but that makes it all the more fun for the grown-up and the kids. We get to catch-up, while the little ones are allowed a little more freedom. Mommies and Daddies are close-by for small boo-boos, and call-out like "you are too little to do that," or "watch out for the littler ones." Our grand-kids are turning 3 and 5, and their vocabularies are turning 22 and 24: The now 5-year-old tells me, "the surface is slippery," when she comes out of the pool and steps on the cement porch. The now 3-year-old wants to know, "why can't the world stop turning so the breeze doesn't blow so hard?" When words and concepts like "empathy, levering myself up, and grip-strength" become common-place, Angela and I wonder what their teachers are going to do with them when they start first grade, not to mention kindergarten.

Angela watches the kids in the pool while others sit and talk, she helps hold the kids up to the monkey-bars, even the toddlers. She catches the older ones who's "grip-strength" doesn't last long enough for the 5 handholds. She pushes swings while Mommies fix hamburgers. She finds more paper for coloring while Daddies hand out hot dogs. She monitors games of chase so the little ones can catch the big ones, and she hands out spoons for the sandbox when the other toys run out. She even settles a few kid-sized arguments before they turn into traumas Moms and Dads need to deal with. When she finally sits down to eat, it's time to open presents. She happily takes her lunch to the new location to watch. Yes, I was there, talking, eating, sorting out kids, but mostly I was getting towels, band-aides, and food from the house. Other times I was being the potty-monitor so little behinds got wiped and small, wet feet didn't slip on the entry tile.

Yes, Angela is my overseer of all good things, and that's just another Best Thing About Being Married To A Transsexual.

Getting my exercise

We have an exercise room, and we do use it, sporadically. One of us gets The Bug, and we exercise every day for, oh, let's say two months. Then, we begin to fall off our regime until the next time. I bet the same thing happens to you sometimes, doesn't it? Well, our exercise room has had an old and fading carpet since we moved in more than twenty years ago. We've talked about changing it, but nothing came of that particular plan other than adding equipment. So, guess what, Angela got "The Bug." No, not to exercise, but to change the carpet. We're also in the midst of working in the garden, replanting grass on our two acres and doing lots of weeding (my elbow injury let the wild things grow for a couple weeks, and we got behind). Evidently, she felt we didn't have enough on To Do lists, so she asked for my help. Usually, my help means "hand me this, bring me that, &/or hold this." That is not what needing my help meant this time. We had to get all of that heavy equipment out of the room. Let me emphasis the word heavy. The bicycle was no problem, even the stepper wasn't too bad, but the darn treadmill was quite a challenge. You see, I may have pointed this out before, but Angela doesn't have the same strength she used to have as a man because she is a woman now -- duh! I'm just going to say it was a bitch, okay? Sorry for those of you who said, "No." Anyway, even that paled next to the Universal Gym. Taking it apart, well part of it anyway, lead to two backaches, two strained shoulders, and a couple bruises in unusual places. Moving, even the pieces, was heavy work.

The carpet came up easily, even the tiles lifted right out, but the linoleum under that was less enjoyable, and see a prior post to understand what I think about taking the glue off. Damn, it was a beast, and Angela did most of that, this time. Next came the Pergo wood floor. Outside of a few blue words, we got it in in under a day. Well, except for the small/tiny bathroom, which Angela did all by herself. That was a mistake as that little project resulted in several trips to the nurse's station in one of our bathrooms for hydrogen peroxide, bacitracin, and a variety of band-aids and gauze patches. We moved all the equipment back in, oh, my pulled/strained muscles, bruises, and promises to never do this again.

But, the last thing to be returned to the room was my Star Trek display cabinet. So, I got to go through keepsakes again, and that was more fun than I can tell you. Yes, I boxed up a few things, but most of it is still in the cabinet. I hope it doesn't take another change-of-the-carpet for me to go through it all again, but I'll enjoy the new arrangement/display until the next time.

I guess I was getting my exercise fixing up the room, but I'll soon be having to use all that equipment again -- as soon as my muscles stop complaining that is. Anyway, I'm actually glad Angela got this particular "Bug," and yep, this is another Best Thing About Being Married To A Transsexual.

Hundreds of dollars saved

I drove the RV. I really did it. I didn't run off the road, knock anything over, or scratch the side. I stayed between the lines, made great turn,s and stopped at the white line. And, Angela didn't have a worry. I was sure she'd be  scared to death, white knuckled, and sure I'd kill us all. But she wasn't. She was calm, nice, and complementary.

Here I was ready to spend bundles of money to have someone else teach me, and I have a perfectly wonderful and FREE instructor - Angela, of course.

Shame on me.

I should have given her more credit. I should have trusted that her transition would have made the difference -  and it has. Gone is the dictatorial, seething, near-shame based trainer. Instead, I had encouragement. I heard, "You're doing great.", "Keep it up.", and "Perfect." , and what's more, I got a kiss at the end of our drive.

 "How about more lessons?" I asked.

"Tomorrow," she said.

What more could a spouse ask for?

Nurse Ratchet or It Was The Ladder's Fault

I feed the birds at least three times a week. I use a step ladder every time. It only has two steps, so it isn't dangerous. . . unless there is a two-inch gap between the porch and the ground.

Yes, such is the lesson I just learned. You see, when one's hands are full of birdfeeder, one is not always paying attention to what is happening around one's feet. I can see quite plainly now that as I climbed onto the first  step, I moved  my step-ladder forward just far enough to let one leg hang over the edge. When I put my second foot up, that shifted my weight, and the whole contraption went over while I discovered that gravity works. My fall was nicely broken by my left elbow as it and the porch became acquainted. Indeed, I also proved that physics is alive and well. The force of my fall and the quick stop allowed the bones of my forearm to continue in motion. In fact, they moved right out of joint and continued on their way two-inches to halt when they'd streched the skin as far as it would go. Fortunately, they did not go any further.

Angela was Johnny on the Spot, or rather it was me, Jonni, who was on the spot, er ground, and she rushed to my aid as she called the ambulance. When it arrived, they bundled me inside and promptly took me to the nearby bustling Trauma Center. A dislocated elbow was not high on the list when gun wounds and knife victims took priority. Four hours later, I made it to the photographic suite where several lovely exposures of my misplaced bones were taken. Two more hours passed before two doctors worked exactly ten minutes to set my elbow. I was then reminded what Real Pain was, and yes, I ground off about 1/4th inch of my tooth enamel. More X-rays followed and I arrived home ten hours after I was signed into the emergency room. Angela immediately took the step ladder to the garage so I couldn't berate it with, "It was all your fault."

My T then became Nurse Ratchet: If I lifted a toothpick, she told me, "Don't do that." You must realize that I was in a half-cast, so I couldn't even move my fingers more than a half inch, much less alter my wrist or arm position.

If I got a glass of water, I heard, "I can do that for you." If I sat up in bed, her strident voice asked, "Can I prop you up?" If I moved a plate it was, "You aren't allowed to lift anything that heavy."

"Yes, Mom," I said repeatedly.

You should have seen her when we crammed my arm, cast, and swelling hand into the shower-protector so I could finally clean myself. She was so solitious and careful not to cause me pain, that it took thirty-minutes to acconmplish the task.

The next day my knuckles started to turn blue, so she whisked me back to the emergency room where the cast's wrapping was removed, the felt cut through, and the whole thing redone with her hovering over the doctor's shoulders. I think Angela would have carried me to the car had not the hospital provided a wheelchair. Now, it was my elbow that was injured, not my feet or head, right? So, while I had a grimmace on my face, I was capable of walking on my own.

Once back home, Nurse Ratchet had enough pillows on the bed to prop up ten elbows, not to mention my single injured appendage. Then came the "Do you need any water?", "How's the pain?", "Can I get you anything?" AND, "Don't you get out of bed without me being beside you," "Make sure you don't trip over the dogs," and "Let me get that for you," no matter what "that" turned out to be.

It may have been the ladder's fault, but I think (?) I'm enjoying my T being my wonderful Nurse Ratchet. Mostly though, I'm happy to have her because she's The Best Thing About Being Married to a T.

And so we searched, and searched, and searched.

Of course this has never happened to you; but today, it decidedly happened to us. You see, we've been RVing for a few days. We've been busy with convention activities, and today we realized we were tired. So, like all pooped RVers, we gave ourselves permission to take a short nap. Snoozing was not the problem. What happened next was though.

Angela came out of the room and announced, "I can't find my hearing aid." Being a good wife, I went to help.

"Where was it?" I asked.

"Right here," she replied pointing to the nightstand where a still shining flashlight lay on the floor. "I know I put it there, and I've looked everywhere it could  possibly be. I've pulled the whole bed apart, and it is nowhere to be found,"

We searched the light blanket folded at the foot of the bed, we took the pillow cases off, and we lifted the bed up so we could search the compartments below. We even searched the dogs' bed, even though they had been sitting next to me while Angela slept. No luck.

"I hate to ask, but could it have been flushed down the commode when you got up?" I asked, not even wanting to think what such a thing would mean.

"Um, no," came the reply. She had a sheepish grin on her face as she came closer to me, pulled back her hair, and revealed her hearing aid firmly placed in her ear.

"You certainly keep me entertained," I said and planted a kiss on her cheek. "Check there first should this happen again, please."

"You mean before we tear the bedroom apart?"

Ah, yes, this is one of the Best Things About Being Married To A T. They DO always keep you guessing,

Lights

Don't you hate it when you have something in storage that you'd really rather have on display? I do. In this particular case, it was a set of lights that have been boxed up for several years. Angela had designed them nearly forty years ago in her David-days. So, I recently decided now was the time we needed those treasures in our living room. Angela was game. We opened the box with great anticipation only to be confronted with smoke-covered, nicotine-stained lights. There were also a few cracks in the plexiglass.

"This will never do," said Angela and promptly took them to the garage. Now, you've all come to know Angela by now, so the fact that she designed her own way to remove all the fishing line that twined around the bulbs. She invented ways to restring them too. Plexiglass was not available, so we had to use an acrilyic sheet for the broken piece. Of course, that meant not only cutting it to match, but also snipping in all the many grooves for the fishline. She did it though, of course. Next was stringing them.

Next came hanging them in them from our very high ceiling. Yep, you guessed it, Madame Inventor to the rescue. She found the bars for the wiring, strengthened them, and balanced them perfectly. That required the use of a very tall ladder--one she is not allowed to use without supervision by me. My job is to laugh, take a picture, or call 911. It's also to officially say things like, "A little more to the right," "Down a little," or "Here's that tool, Dear." You see, she's fallen twice now, and broken she's her wrist each time.

The lights were repaired and hung, but there was one hang-up: The bulbs we used back in those days no longer were being made. They  had to provide enough illlumination, look perfect, and fit in the small opening available. It took two dedicated employees from a neighbor's light store to find something that worked.

We hope you think the lights are as special we do. Of course, it was Angela who made the "Voila" moment possible, so I think she's pretty special too. Ah yes, it's another one of the Best Things About Being Married to a Transsexual.

Stumped

"That tree  has to come down, it's a mess," I said.
"No problem," my TS, Angela, answers, and off she went to cut it down.

I usually help with this sort of job as she has a penchant for falling off ladders.But, iIn this case, she managed without one. Besides, I was watching the grandkids, at least that was my excuse for getting out the worst of the work.

We have hardpan, so we seldom need worry about tap roots, and so, expecting no problems, the stump was roped and attached to the car. One quik "Varooom" later, and said stump and root ball was on its side. The difficulty was the darn thing was too large to manhandle, or in our case, womanhandle, to the dumpster. So, Angela pulled it over there with the car.

"How are we going to get this heavy thing in there?" I asked.
"I'm thinking about a pully system," she said.
"I'm a ramp would be easier," I suggest.
"Good idea," she replied and off she went to bang one together.

Five minutes later, she was back with a 6 foot board with a 2x4 nailed at one end. She promptly hooked the 2x4 over the lip of the dumpster and pulled the stump to within inches of the ramp's base. When the rope was taut, she gunned the car. The roots caught the ramp and the whole kit-&-caboodle went sailing over the dumpster. I think the "Thump" it made, as it landed, was easily heard a block away.

"Plan B," she said as she sawed off the offending root, repositioned everything, and stepped on the gas.
"STOP," I yelled and signaled as I watched the stump travel half way up the ramp, tilt it, and stick solid. The next thing I knew, the dumpster, ramp and stump were all heading down the roadway at 50+ mph.

"I think a slower approach might be better," I suggest when she pulled up next to me with the afore mentioned three ring circus still behind her. She agreed.

You know what they say, the third times the charm. All went well, and we were happy to shove that bundle into the dumpster, take a shower, and head out to Outback for a nice dinner.

It was a very small window.

Angela is getting into breaking and entering these days.

A couple of our RVing friends have managed to become locked out of their fifth wheels. Each have called on Angela to help. Despite being nearly 70, she's lost none of her agility. In the first case, I didn't get a picture, but I did on the second. She used a picnic table for the launch pad for the first window, for the second, it was my back. There was a bit of a hop, then only her legs were sticking out. When I was able to straighten up, all I could see was her feet disappearing inside. A few minutes later, the door was open and my T was on her way to get our toolbox. It never takes her long to do a repair, or if, as in the second case, a part was needed, she can jury rig something that will work until our free wheeling friends can move on down the highway.