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.

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.

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.

It was only a curve

RVing has its moments. First of all there is the beauty of the USA and the companionship of other RVers, both of which makes any problems seem small. Of course there is the cost of gas and repairs, but that pales with the advantages of taking your grandkids and doggies along for the trip, having your own kitchen, and a comfy bed without the fear of bedbugs. However, we have a large coach, and there are just some roads that leave a lot to be desired. One could say the same for many highways, of course. When one is driving an RV, there is decidedly a Rattle-Bang senerio that makes one wonder if the whole thing is just going to come apart in the middle of the roadway. No manner of packing can make all the noises go away when traveling many of our by-ways. This particular outting required that we drive through a short area of mountainous roadway. We knew it would be full of turns, but we have easily maneuvered those  in the past, and had no worries. However, Angela had recently had rotorcuff surgery, and her arm was still healing. Up the hills we went, managing each switchback without pain or difficulty for her, the coach, or the car we were towing. And then came THE CURVE. It wasn't just a sharp curve, it was a downright scary curve. This little devil had no curbing or rail, and the stinker had a dropoff that would give anyone with a fear of heights the willies. Angela motored into it slowly, using all the caution she could. She cranked the wheel and was careful to stay in her own lane, even though she had to maneuver as close to the line as possible, to give our tow vehicle the room required to follow safely. The coach was safe, so too the dolly, but one wheel of the car slipped off the road. Of course, when that happens,the object in trouble wants to drag the whole kit-and-kaboodle down the incline. Angela swiftly got on the gas and dragged the car along the curve, fighting the dangerous pull and forcing the car to follow us. Let me just say that there was no vegetation left along that 10 foot portion of the curve from where the wheel left the asphalt until it returned to its correct follow-the-big-coach position.  Both of us let out a long breath and wiped a bit of sweat from our brows. "That was fun," Angela said. All I could manage was a smile and a head nod. The remainder of the curvatious route was MUCH easier. When we reached the bottom, we found a pull-out that was a tad too small for us, but offered a bit of refuge none the less. Both of us piled out to see how much damage there was. None. None, I say. We could hardly believe it. We figured the frame would be bent on the tow dolly, and that we might have an axle problem with the car, but all was well. You see, it was all because of my Talented T and all of her experience on the grand prix and cross country tracks she had experienced back in her David days. Of course the fact that she is an excellent driver in general also helped. She is just a marvel, and I am glad to know that this was just another Best Thing About Being Married to a Transsexual.

Nurse Jonni again

Angela recently had day surgery. We arrived at 6 a.m. and returned home around 2 p.m. I've already confessed to not being the best nurse in the world. So, it's a good thing that Angela is not the type who requires anyone hovering over her. I'm great at checking in on her every hour, especially when she's sleeping. How easy is that. Unlike me, she doesn't get sick from anesthesia, so while I left a bucket close by just-in-case, there was no need for it. She doesn't want a drink brought to her, she prefers to get one after every trip to the potty. So, after surgery, in this case for some rotor cuff repair, she just slept from the moment we got home until dinner time. I expected her to be ravenous. Nope, she just wanted soup. Easy again. Oh, I tucked her in a couple of times as she slept, but I don't get any stars for being a good nurse or even a Nurse Ratchet. Oh well.

She's recovered now and doing her physical therapy. She's busy creating websites since she can't do any major projects for a few weeks. Believe me though, she has plenty lined up all ready. I'll keep you posted as they go along. I'm sure you can see that all this is just another case of The Best Thing About Being Married To A Transsexual.

A Crappy Weekend

Okay, I confess that it wasn't all crappy, but . . .

You see, it all started durring a lovely RV outing. We had a wonderful time with everyone in our delightful RVing Women's group. The food, conversations, and doggies and kitties were great, but Saturday was very wet. I love my dogs, but neither wet fur and muddy feet, nor removing stickers are high on my Fun Monitor. After a riotious Trailer Trash dinner with the group, we returned to our coach to prepare for a quiet, dry, peaceful night. Angela went out to dump the tanks while I took the puppies for a walk. When I returned, Angela was still outside. I opened a window and asked, "Need help?"

"Nope," came the reply. Ten minutes later, however, she said, "Okay, I need you outside."

That did not bode well. First of all, it was raining madly, and it was 11:30, well passed Angela's bedtime.

"It seems the RV park's sewer hook up for our rig is backed-up or blocked," Angela said. "The rain could be the cause, but if that was so, the whole park would be in trouble. So, that means we're stuck with the problem. Of course, the office is closed too."

She didn't have to tell me that meant we really had a problem. What were we going to do with a sewage hose full of well, sewage? The good news was that the park link in the spot next to us was working. But, it was 40 feet away. Fortunately, we carry extra sewage hose for this sort of problem. Unfortuately, we usually know about the issue before we are hooked up for two days and can make the alterations before any thing fills the hose.

I could see by Angela's bussling around, getting out hoses, and thoughtful expression that it was going to be me holding our 'difficulty" for this switcheroo. I had visions of spending all day Sunday cleaning up a huge, smelly, yucky mess, even though it was not technically our fault.

With a great deal of care, Angela removed the sewage line from our rig and with much trepidation coaxed a bit more sewage into the park's input, unhooked it, and dripped more yuck into the near overflowing gap. Then, with a towel wrapped around it, just for me, she handed me that end too. Now, a 20' long 3" diameter hose filled with gunk is heavy, and rain was rapidly dropping into the upturned ends - splash, splash, splash - as I stood there with my hands full and my nose turned away.

She gingerly put extensions on each connection, hooked up to the rig, and then we inched our way over toward the new hole. She connected it slowly, but nothing happened! Dang. Okay, worse than Dang. You see, the new receptical was ever so slightly uphill. We have an 8 foot declining contraption to help with that, BUT, we now had 60 feet of hose slanting the wrong direction. It was not going to drain.

After the cloud of blue words dissipated, we got down to pulling lumber out of the rig's storage areas, looking for rocks, sticks and anything else we could use to overcome the problem.

It took half an hour more, but in the end, sewage was flowing, we'd had a nice warm shower and a few laughs. We crawled into bed and I said, "I'm so glad you thought of that towel."

Yes, it's a great thing to be married to a T.

Pop! Zzzzzt! Fire! Dast Oh Dear! Damn!

Yes, that's what happened. First came the POP, then the Zzzzz. I went to investigate figuring the dog had pulled a kid's toy over and broken it. No such luck though. I stepped into the laundry room and flames were shooting out of an outlet. Now, that gets one's attention immediately. I'm all ready paranoid about fire (having been in a couple of small ones), so this was frightning to me. I yelled for Angela who was outside, yanked out everything that was plugged into that wall, got the fire extinguisher, and yelled for Angela again, "Fire! Fire!"

The flames were gone as quickly as I'd seen them and called out the door, but Angela came rushing in, "Fire? What? When? Where?"

I pointed to the singed area around and below the socket. "We're going to sound like that Abbott and Costello Who's on First routine in a minute," I reply. "We had 2 inch flames pouring out of there a minute ago.".

"We need to check other sockets all over," she said. So, we went through the house, garage and shop to see if there was any other damage.

Of course, there was all sorts of electrical units that smelled like fried eletronics. My computer was first on the list. "Dast Oh Dear." Thanks goodness for back ups and thumb drives. A clock was a goner, so too the toaster, blender, DVD player, and other small appliances. Every now and then we still find something else that was damaged in the episode. "Damn."

Angela fixed most of them, including my computer. Bless her little Novel Engineer heart. The rest we just replaced over time. Wanna know what the cause was? A gopher. He ate through our land line from the transformer to the house! PG&E had to replace the whole thing, so we were without power for several days (thank goodness for our RV coach - no it wasn't plugged in at the time).

Yep, this is just another Best Thing About Being Married to a Transsexual.

I'm ready for a BIG step too!

Some of my readers have taken me to task about saying the repeal of DADT is a small step forward. I continue to feel any step forward is a plus. I realize that Ts were not included in the legislation, although that could easily be tested by a few brave souls. Transsexuals are NOT being included in most legislative initiatives along with gays and lesbians, except in hindsight. Unfortunately, we don't have the lobbyist the G and L forces have, and the G and L forces don't often think to add the T to their lobbying efforts. The reality is that we in the T community need to be as visible as the G and L portion. Too many of our group are stealth/closeted. Many of us don't donate to those groups that are fighting for us. Many in the family don't vote. I can't make things change with a single blog, but Angela and I are visible and we vote at every election. We appeared in a Discovery Channel documentary called Changing Sexes: Male to Female. We lecture about Ts, and our marriage, at universities, colleges, & social service organizations. We round up panels for discussion groups, and we are active in our local GLBT+ community. We don't hide, and we try to help where and when we can. All I can suggest to move the T community forward is for more of us to be visible, to vote, and to make our lives known.

She's just a social butterfly!

Ah, yes, there was a time when I was considered the social one in the marriage. David, now Angela, was not anti-social, exactly, he just didn't participate in conversations much. He always sat just outside of the circle, usually with his arms crossed. He answered with "Yes" or "No," and that was his version of participating in the conversation. Now, since the transition, her elbows are on the table, she's scooted right into the circle, and no talking can go on without her input. She's introducing herself to people all the time. She's suggesting fun things to do, and she is the Hostess With The Mostess when we have guests. She's a good cook too and an even better housekeeper. I guess I'll have to hand over my social butterfly wand and let her take over! Yes, here's another Best Thing About Being Married to a Transsexual!

It's just a little switch

I was dusting today. Simple, huh? Welllllll, let me say that doing so resulted in a mornings worth of work. You see, while doing my house cleaning, I dusted over a light switch and turned it to the OFF position without noticing that I had done so. Horrors! Dast, oh dear! Damn!

This particular switch controls the electricity to all the lights and plugs in the living room, dining area, kitchen, utility room and smallest bathroom. When none of these rooms would light up for me to continue my cleaning, I called for Angela, our Miss Fix-it around here. The rest of the morning was dedicated to testing switches, throwing fuses, running down electric cords and all other sorts of electrician-type stuff that I don't understand. All to no avail, I might add.

When every test had failed, and while we contemplated the need to call a professional out on a Saturday, we both took a break. Angela happened to pass by the switch. She stopped dead and called me, "Oh, Jonni . . . Could you come here a moment?" When I saw her standing there, I immediately realized what must of happened. Too bad neither of us thought to check there first.

She switched it to on, and "Voila! Let there be light!" she said. She is a miracle worker, isn't she? I helped put everything away and quietly slunk off to my computer.

Never say I'm bored

It was only ten minutes after Angela said those dreaded words: "I'm bored," when all hell broke loose. Please note, I said hell and not HELL, because all we had was lots and LOTS of water. A pipe under the sink failed and began spewing the liquid out at full pressure. Angela looked for the turn off valve under the sink. There were none. She ran downstairs to the next most obvious place, no valve.

"Call Joan," she yelled from below.

I dialed her sister, no answer, so I left a message on both her home phone and cell, as well as one for her husband. "Where the heck is the water turn off valve in Mom's house? Bring towels and a large wrench when you get this message."

"Call my brother," came the voice from below the stairs as I was already dialing that number.

"Can I help? I heard you yelling from outside," said the blessed neighbor from next door. He took one look at the flooded kitchen and raced downstairs to help Angela. A few minutes later, he had found the valve, the water had stopped, and I was soaking up water with every towel I could fined It was at that time that brother-in-law one drove up to help.

The house has a full basement, and water was pouring down every pipeline in the kitchen. So, after wringing out innumerous towels, I flung them downstairs to repeat the task below. Brother called to say he was on his way with his trunk loaded with tools and towels. "Never mind, Tony (the neighbor) saved the day. Thanks, though," I said

Angela took measurements and headed for Home Depot for new fittings. I put the towels in the spin cycle of the wash a couple of times and continued mopping up water in the basement. Two hours later, a new faucet and all the fittings were installed.

Mom happily watched the proceedings from her rocking chair.

Two hours later, the pipe was fixed and Mom had a new faucet. All was well in the household, but Angela is forbidden to think, much less utter, "I'm bored." Again, I'm reminded how lucky I am to have a T with all the plumbing knowledge she has.

My Bad

Okay, I've been away from this blog way too long. Can I claim Chemo Brain? How about Radiation Burn? No, alright, I guess I'll just have to take personal responsibility. It is my fault, no question about it. The good news is that all of the chemo and radiation are now behind me. I'll start The Pill on Monday I already had the hard stuff variety of that in my Chemo mix, I'm sure it'll just be a take-one-in-the-morning-and-forget-about-it scenario. So, I have no more excuses, and I'll just have to keep up with the blog from now on.

Angela is the main topic of this blog, and so I report that she hasn't been idle. She's been keeping me in line and taking care of my complaints, of course. She's also put in a tile bathroom floor, built a swing set, put together loads of holiday toys, and is now finishing up on a large 8'x8' playhouse for the girls. No, she didn't fall off a ladder, but she did manage to smash one finger, the drill into her two thumbs with her electric screwdriver. See, I can say/write that with a straight face even. She's my T, that's for sure. The good news is that I was handy with the bandages. I always love working on a project with her because she keeps me smiling.

Better

She's back! My happy wifey is back. Maybe it was "Menopausal." Who knows? Who cares. We girls are allowed to be emotionally volatile, right? Angela included.

We'll be loading up the RV for a trip with RVing Women this weekend. We'll be staying at an RV resort just south of Redding, CA. This is a fun group of women who are accepting of everyone, and how I wish there were more of these type of folks around! We always enjoy ourselves with them, and rain or not, we know we'll have a good time, even though it's a long drive for only a two night stay.

We've had Brooke here for a couple of days, and due to my medical schedule, Angela has had to be primary caregiver when Brooke is here. She's a great babysitter, in addition to being the perfect grandmother. She's the consummate playmate for a 2+ year old, that's for sure.

She keeps me on the straight and narrow, always making sure that my humidifier is going when I come to bed. She makes sure I take a nap every afternoon. She won't let me lift or move things heavier than I'm "allowed," and she's always available for a tension back rub or a rubdown for lymphodemia. Now, those last two are huge in the Helpful Dept, let me tell you.

She's my biggest booster, and the softest soft shoulder, even when I don't think I need one. She's always there to take on that one-more-job I either used to do, or should be doing when I'm taking a nap or at the doctor instead. She never complains, she just does it. You know what? She the long suffering wife, without the suffering. She always makes me laugh, either at her, the situation, or myself. Even when she's blue herself.

What more could I want? Yes, she's the Best. So, yep, all this is just another Best Thing About Being Married to a Transsexual. Don't you wish you had one?

Blue Funk continues

Yep, she's all woman. I'd say she's menopausal, but I don't think that counts under the circumstances

I gave her a nice card and offered to make a day of shopping and going out to a nice dinner. “I don’t want to,” was her reply. Yesterday, I dragged her through a store between doctor appointments, and she lackadaisically only touched a couple of outfits. Even shoes, her number one priority for years, didn’t get her interested. Instead, she complained “wearing those high, high heels that I love caused my bunion, and now I can’t even wear regular high heels for long.” I felt the “boo-hoo,” even if I didn’t hear it.

So, no, we didn’t go out either. We do have a dinner guest joining us this week, and one next week. She can dress up for both of them. So, I’m counting on at least one of them to perk her up. I’m hoping that having a few days of sunshine will help too (forecast for next week).
Keep your fingers crossed.

Beauty crisis

We're having a crisis around here. Angela's SRS was in January 2002. Before and after her surgery, she was beautiful. Her transition took 10 years off her face - all the fine wrinkles were gone, the beard was gone, and the new feminine layer of fat softened all her features. Time passed, and the dosage of HRT lessened, and, of course, she got a little older. She also acquired the laments typical-of-many-females: I’m not pretty enough, and I’m too fat. Yes, she’s gained a little weight. She’s still beautiful to me, and I’m envious of that beauty because I have the same issues, especially now that I have no hair and my eyebrows and eyelashes are falling out too (thanks to chemo!). The main problem, you see though, is that she’s often in blue jeans and a cotton blouse, polo or sweatshirt around the house. The other problem is that we don’t go out where we need to dress up anymore. Most of that is because we’re retired and have less disposable income, but part of that is a choice – we tend to go out to dinner at good, but more casual restaurants like Outback, Applebee’s and such. So, this weekend I’m taking her out for a shopping spree and to a “class joint” for dinner. I’m getting a special card today, to give her tomorrow. We’ll see what happens, and I’ll let you know. (Keep your fingers crossed!)

Little Things

There's an old saying about how "its the little things that count." I'm finding that true in my life with my T. Angela, as David, was always the gentleman; he opened doors, carried the heavy stuff, and did all the guy things. He also helped out in the kitchen and with raising our daughter. Now, I find that all those things continue, only now there is more granddaughter things on her list than helping the daughter things. The little things I'm talking about though, are just about the two of us: She is the one who fills the humidifier every-other-night. She's the one who says, kindly, "don't you think you should wear your compression arm," when I'm doing something unusual (it's for Lymphadema after the cancer surgery). She's the one who always takes the heavy end when we're liftiing something, even though her strength is much less than when she was a man due to the female hormones. She's the one who notices when I'm tired and suggests a break, a rest, or a nap. In short, she is always doing the little things that make my life easier. I appreciate that more than she will ever know. It's great to be married to a Trans!