(Preliminary grumble: WordPress 1.2.1 for iPhone ate a nearly-done draft of this post when I tried to go from local draft to online draft. It also didn’t update to 2.x through the standard App Store update process despite both being free. WTF, WordPress?!?)

Sigh. Another long stretch without posting. It’s not like I have nothing to say. One look at my Twitter feed will tell you that. And I have posts cooking in my brain about favorite topics like Lost and The Best Bands You’ve (Probably) Never Heard Of and a bunch of other things as well. (I mean, I saw MUSE live, ferchrissakes! MUSE!!)

So why no blog posts from me? I’ve been feeling really frozen up inside, my guts knotted by anxiety, for months.

You ever get the feeling that you’re standing at a Rubicon in your life? What’s more, have you ever felt terrified, even though you know that crossing over is The Right Thing To Do™?

I’ve been there for a while now…almost a year, really, since I started the current job. In other respects, I’ve been there a lot longer. Depending on how you prefer to look at it, it could be since I had surgery, since I left home en route to college, or even going back to murky childhood. I’ve definitely written on the subject before, though.

And I’m feeling kind of “reinvented out” after the number of times I’ve done it in my life, so I really want to get this one right in order to not have to do it agin anytime soon. It’s hard work, don’tchaknow!

A few things have me brooding on this topic again:

1. Getting ready to move out of the apartment I moved into shortly after starting at my old job, thereby shedding the very last vestige of the life I led during the Tale of Woe™
2. Watching other friends being or becoming all self-actualized ‘n’ stuff. (There are six links in there, folks!)
3. Feeling like I’m finally about ready to start expressing myself in the world now that I’ve finished the process of creating the “release version” of me.

The hardest things I’m going to have to learn are self-motivation and discipline, my twin bugaboos. Need to turn those dreams into action and all that. Like I’ve said before, inspiration is never my problem. It’s that “perspiration” part that always gets me.

Universe, help me channel the Spirit of Nike®…

It’s just that taking that step and really committing to not procrastinate ad infinitum, to not constantly sedate myself with the modern opiate of the masses, and to stop fearing the risk of failure is just pants-wetting terrifying after a lifetime of the bad patterns.

My rational mind knows that doing is a skill like any other, one that anyone can learn regardless of initial talent for it (which is good because my initial talent level is roughly that of a rhinoceros with a neurological disorder taking up skateboarding). My irrational, software-virus-ridden mind tells me something quite again in the voice of my parents, every teacher I ever let down by not fully realizing my Awesome Potential™, and every friend or lover I ever offended in a moment of thoughtlessness. Unfortunately, that voice has always been so much louder than the voice of reason inside my dense cranium. (‘Sides, nowadays, even the voice of reason is starting to sound a bit suspect…)

So, the emotional pressure has built up inside of me and I feel like something’s gonna give. EIther I’m going to become Super Self-Actuated Sonya™ or I’ll just give in to my couch-tuber tendencies forevermore. Ye gods, that sounds emo! >.<

I just hope that, much like Lane Meyer, all I need is a taste of success, and I’ll find it suits me.

In the meantime I stand, tremulant*.

*10 Scooby Snacks™ to the first commenter to correctly identify the source of this title. And yes, I know it’s not a real word!

I’m not normally one for these memes, quizzes, etc. on my blog, but…

And really, was there ever any doubt?

A writer, they say, writes. This makes me a sysadmin, queer/poly pervert, a geek, but certainly no kind of writer the way I’ve been neglecting my blogging. And, really, the whole point was that I was trying to improve my writing habits. But, I’m not writing it off yet. (See what I did there? It was a pun, people! A writing-related pun! HAH! Oy…)

So, I’m going to check in and tell you about the nosebleed-inducing highs and the soul-grinding lows of late. All three of you who still read this blog after months of basic fallowness.

I’m not breaking down, I’m breaking out…last chance to lose control!

Some of the highs, it turns out, were chemical. And they were helping me screw some things up in epic fashion. If any mental health or medical profession ever again tries to prescribe me any form of Wellbutrin, they’re getting a smack. I mean it. The stuff is seriously no good for me. It and another antidepressant called Remeron were effectively doing bugger-all for me and canceling one another out for some months as my primary-care was at his wit’s end trying to help me medicate myself out of The Tale of Woe™. (One of these days, I’ll post a timeline of that. Long story short, it was about 3.5 years of my life during which the universe seemed to be conspiring to turn me into emotional road-pizza.)

Actually, that’s not true, it wasn’t accomplishing nothing. It was draining my pocketbook horribly on my current employer’s horrible high-deductible + HSA health care plan.

So, my newly-referred psychiatrist thought it would be peachy-keen to step me down off the Remeron first, leaving the Wellbutrin unchecked (and the truly marvelous Cymbalta as the only really effective med for me in the cocktail). And the resulting behavior prompted my therapist to say I was acting like a bipolar person in their “manic” phase—euphoric, out of control, and in my case even more oblivious to the concerns and needs of those around me.

I ended up burning my romantic relationship with wee Amy (tho thankfully not my friendship), screwing up so badly at Bawdy they asked me not to come back, and so obsessively seeking new partners that I almost drove the lovely Renie away completely.

Once I came down, I was (to continue to overuse the word) mortified at myself. I can’t think of a single relationship I didn’t strain, romantic, platonic, or employment.

Don’t try to keep your composure, I’m only having a laugh…

But there were happy things, too! My relationship with Renie has been intense and amazing. Even if we don’t make it (though I still have this odd presentiment that we will…I could be wrong, but I don’t think I am), it’s nice to know that I can feel chemistry that intense for anyone, and that someone so miraculous could feel it for me.

I’ve also been seeing two delightful women named Amy C and Kanane, who’ve just been wonderful to me. I guess my polyamory isn’t “academic” anymore, and what’s more it’s really nice to settle into a groove without feeling obsessive about meeting new partners every which where and all the time.

My longstanding friendship with a woman who’s always impressed the hell out of me—Heather—deepened in a wondrous way, as has my friendship with Amy of Chasing Amy, who’s also damned impressive. Chasing Amy has also been responsible for some of the more interesting and sexy stories of my recent life, for which there will be future blog posts, have no fear. (Teases: “Best…housewarming…EVAR,” “Pasta and strippers!” and, “FIVE?!? And a boy in the room?”)

I’ve also made new friends, like the astonishing Mags, and reconnected via the Internet panopticon of Facebook with two friends I’ve known from birth (mine or theirs, depending), Nick and Sam.

And Polly! Never has anyone made me look so good as this camera-slinging Photoshop goddess. She’s sweet, kind, and talented. How could I know her for a couple of years and only now start to realize how cool she is?

I am so surrounded by exceptional people. And they all, oddly, seem to like me. How cool is that?

The psychiatrist poses as psychologist…

And my therapy has gotten in-fucking-tense. We’re into all the crappy childhood imprints I took that have been holding me back since time immemorial and perennially making me feel like a loser and a failure. I’ve been avoiding talking to my mother for months now knowing that, after our last conversation was the straw that broke the camel’s back, the next time I talk to her I was have to read her the riot act. She still wants me in her life things are gonna have to change, swiftly and permanently, ’cause I’m not having it anymore.

*sighs* What a fucking cliché.

But this is going out to all my friends…I need your help. I need your encouragement. I need you all to check in with me and help me overcome all this crap in my head that keeps me from doing things for me. Doing things for others, never a problem. Other people deserve things, and the people around me are so worthy of happiness and success.

But I’m having such a hard time making those baby steps toward feeling like I deserve things, too, and not neglecting myself horribly. So help me not lose sight of my goals and wants, OK? I really need you guys now.

You all rock. And speaking of rock, 10 Scooby Snacks to whoever can name all the songs quoted in my section headers without Googling ‘em. (Not that I could prove you didn’t Google them, of course…)

But I won’t wait two %^@!*($#^ing months to write again.

Round about the 12th of August, I was taken to a wonderful event by my new friend, Dana (as opposed to my old friend, Dana, who calls new Dana “Zuul,” which new Dana finds amusing). It’s called Bawdy Storytelling, as many of you who follow my Twitter stream already know. I went and enjoyed it immensely…and thought to myself, “Talking? About sex? And getting applause and laughter? I can do that!”

And the theme for September was kinda cool and a bit challenging to me, so I had to do it. I approached the instigatrix of the thing, the bodacious Dixie de la Tour, and volunteered. Her handy helper, Kitty, worked up the ad I used based on my input to her, and I came up with the following story.

Now, there’s also been a lot of story going on around my involvement with Bawdy, and I’m going to tell it. Just not in this post. Oh, and what I did on stage only bears a family resemblance to the below, but I’m working on getting video from Dixie et al so I can embed it here, allowing you all to compare and contrast.

Overall, I think I did rather well for a first-timer who hasn’t graced any kind of stage since high school, but I could have done a few things better. (Note to self: Better time management!) Still, I felt surprisingly comfy up there and felt like I had achieved a good rapport with the audience so, oh yes, I will be doing it again.

First, the ad, which I put up on Craigslist W4W.

==

I’m only into other femme-identified queer or bi women (cis or trans women included). NOT into boy/masculine energy at all, so no butches, FTMs, andros, or genderqueers. Sorry, bois! Big pluses for dangerous curves, dangerous wit, or dangerous desires…I’m more of a RACK girl than SSC.

I’m serious about meeting and playing if it feels right, so let’s make a story we can both tell for years to come (and come and come…you get the idea. )

Femme-azon seeks fellow fabulous femmes

I’m a 5’11″, curvy 37-year-old femme switch looking for some good ol’ fashioned kinky geek-on-geek action. A night, a week, a month, more…? Up to our chemistry, really!

I’m only into other femme-identified queer or bi women (cis or trans women included). NOT into boy/masculine energy at all, so no butches, FTMs, andros, or genderqueers. Sorry, bois! Big pluses for dangerous curves, dangerous wit, or dangerous desires…I’m more of a RACK girl than SSC.

Sexually & kink-wise, I’m a very physically/sensation-oriented person. S&M is delicious fun to me! Things like power exchange and bondage don’t interest me much in and of themselves, but can make fine accompaniments to a decidedly sensual main course.

I want someone who isn’t a newbie to women, kink, or polyamory. Been there, done that, got the toaster.

I’m not much into bars and not at all into clubs, so let’s think of something where we can hear each other for a first meeting. The Academy of Sciences? Soak in a hot tub? You tell me!

I’m serious about meeting and playing if it feels right, so let’s make a story we can both tell for years to come (and come and come…you get the idea. )

Your pic gets mine. Put “amazon” somewhere in the subject line so I know you’re not a bot.

==

And now, the story…

==

Hi…I’m Sonya. Since most of you don’t know me and this is my first time doing this—so do please be gentle—let me start by saying that I’ve been meeting partners over the Internet for 20 years now. Real Internet, too…none of this dialup BBS stuff! That’s right, I got online at UC Santa Cruz all the way back in 1989. For those in the know, I was a “b-geek.”

(Aside: Anyone here remember finger files? They were the old-school version of a profile page. You just typed “finger so-and-so” and got whatever info they posted about themselves. And no, laughing at that never got old!)

So I got all the classic blunders out of the way relatively early—falling for someone halfway around the world, importing lovers, exporting myself to a lover, being taken in by someone’s well-crafted but fraudulent identity…hell, I even got over cybersex—which we TinyMUDders called “TinySex” at the time—right around 1992 or so, and we used to do it well back then.

Over the years, I’ve met people over email, on forums, on irc, on MUDs (remember MUDs, MUCKs, and MOOs?), over IM, on dating sites, on social networks, at geek parties and cons…every which nerdy way you can imagine, except for one: Craigslist.

Somehow, that particular sex and dating phenomenon passed me by. Maybe it’s just that I didn’t think of it as anything but a hookup medium when I’m something of an intimacy junkie. Maybe it seemed “too easy.” Maybe it was some of the horror stories I’d heard. I dunno. But then I came to this very room a month or so ago and heard that we had an assignment and I was pretty jazzed about that. On the one hand, it felt like a challenge, but on the other, I’d been ‘net-dating for decades and lately I’d had some unexpected mojo between meeting amazing women in person and over good lo’ OKCupid. Surely, Craigslist couldn’t be that hard!

I can see you’re way ahead of me here….

Now, I’m going to assume that you’ve all committed my Craigslist ad to memory by now, and you’d better have. It will be on the midterm.

The delightful Ms. Kitty Stryker did a brilliant job of condensing my slightly rambling email into a few short, sweet paragraphs summing me and what I was looking for up quite nicely. So now it was time for me to do my part of the job…to post it and start sorting through the responses.

So I did. And I waited. But I didn’t have to wait too long. This was easy! Or so I thought…

No one told me about the bots, you see. At first, for a short while, I just thought I was dealing with incompetent pseudo-literates…

I would rather chat with you than just reading your post and see what your like. If your a real person then hit me back here and if your not, then you won’t see this. If you are, Im lookn forward to chattin with your.

Uh-HUH. But when one of them tried to pitch me a skeevy-looking dating site, the penny did finally drop.

Then there was the pic-trader, who lured me in with a few pictures of some random nymph, no doubt harvested from some porn site or some other unsuspecting dupe. Whoever it was lost interest when I stopped short of nudes, some healthy suspicion having finally crept in on my side.

I was still waiting for a real human to reply…that is, aside from the two of my friends who replied to say, “Sonya? Is that you?”

Greeeeaaaat.

But then, finally, one reply. And what a reply! I thought for sure that my story was now assured and I would be able to appear before you today, triumphant. (Silly, silly me…)

My first real response to my ad came from a woman who’d actually been in one of the very few pornos I had ever sought out and bought myself—Good Vibes’ “Voluptuous Vixens.” Her picture was beautiful…a curvy, smoldering, tattooed latina temptress with piercing eyes and a playful arch of the eyebrow that said, “Well? What are you going to do about it?”

Naturally, I wrote her back.

But before I get to that, her reply had already illustrated a screw-up on my part in the presentation of the ad…I’d provided the headline, and the initial one read, “Femme-azon Seeks Same.” So, here I had this goddess, this porn-star, responding to MY ad and apologizing for not being “a big tall Amazon woman.” Clearly, that would have to be changed if I ever wanted or needed to use the ad again.

And, fortuitously enough, there was going to be one of the entirely-too-rare women’s play parties at the Citadel that weekend. So, we arranged to meet there. I was cruising on this assignment! I might even have time for extra credit, I thought. (HAH!)

Things started to go wrong when I got a call from her apologizing profusely, saying that she hadn’t been able to secure a volunteer shift at the party and couldn’t afford to pay her way. And, just my luck, I was a bit light myself so I couldn’t be all suave and sugar-mama-y and just say, “Hey, no problem…I’ll cover yah!”

So, the play party plan was canceled. But we made a raincheck for some Indian food the following Tuesday. Hmm, I thought…a restaurant date during the week seems a lot less likely to produce immediate sexual interaction than a play party. Maybe I need to hedge my bets and re-post my ad…

I came up with a better headline (“Femme-azon Seeks Fellow Fabulous Femmes”) and tried to re-post it. I thought all had gone well, but for some reason I couldn’t browse the ad. It was acting like it wasn’t there, even though I could go right into the editing page again. Something wasn’t kosher.

“No biggie,” I thought. “Must be some transient glitch. Maybe I’m better off deleting and re-posting.”

BIG…MISTAKE!

In dear old, 20/20 retrospect, I should have just waited 5 minutes or so to see if there was any lag in publishing on a site as big as Craigslist.  But noooooooooooo…I delete the post. It shows as deleted. So far, so good.

I go to RE-re-post it, and get an error telling me that the post was “substantially similar” to another recently-posted ad—namely, the one I’d just deleted—and that it wouldn’t allow it again in the interest of keeping people from feeling spammed. And I’m fine with that. As a former social network admin, I’m a booster of anti-spamming technology! But I’d deleted the other ad. It was no more…it had ceased to be…or at least it had anywhere except in whatever overactive watchdog database Craigslist was using.

Now I wasn’t going to be able to re-post my ad for what I figured to be at least a good, solid 24 hours.

But hey, why was I worrying? Dinner with a porn star was approaching. Surely, I’d be charming and scintillating and we’d be firing on all jets and soon. And I was! Not that it helped, of course.

She showed up looking as if she’d just stepped out of her picture, only far more wondrous for being in 3-D and full-motion. Her curves and hauteur made her look like she should be a queen on a litter being borne by Aztec bearers. Her tattoos read like war-paint in life and in love. And we ate Indian food and talked and talked until she had to run home to the primary…without us ever really having broached the topics of sex, BDSM, and comparative tastes.

Watch carefully, ’cause here’s where I blow it.

‘Cause you see, I’m SO not “cool.” I’m not smooth. I’m not suave. Somehow the scarcity sexual economy that was my virginal pre-college years left its mark on me. When I want someone a bit too much, when my hormones get over-carbonated, I get a bit too eager, too puppy-like. I’m no stalker, mind. I try to resist this, but it’s insanely intense and that intensity has a way of ruining things with anyone who isn’t frightfully secure in herself and patient with someone suffering the carbonated hormones. Some women find it cute…just not enough of them.

So…back to the story at hand…she emails me shortly after midnight that same night expressing concern that our talk hadn’t headed in that direction and that she was worried I might be too much of a top given that she herself was very toppy. I happened to be up and online when it came so I replied immediately to reassure her that, no-no! NONONONONO! I’m a switch, and one with a rather neglected bottom side at that since people don’t meet an outgoing, assertive, brassy, large woman and think to themselves, “piggy bottom,” much to my eternal dismay.

But she had only sent the email a few minutes ago! She must still be up…maybe it would be OK to call? So I called, and got voicemail. And got nervous. And blew my cool. And tried to ping her a few more times that day over email and IM.

And, when I did get to talk to her next over IM, she said she felt that I’d been “coming on a bit strong.”  And that’s pretty much where things stand today with her. I star-crushed, I wanted my story way too much, I spazzed…and I managed to scare off a bloody porn star.

Meanwhile, back on good ol’ OKCupid, I found myself getting mad responses from bloody amazing women. Some to me messaging them, and some without any prompting from me whatsoever. Whatever mojo I had that was abandoning me on Craigslist seemed to be going strong here.

So I set up a few dates…but they were going to be entirely too close to tonight and I wasn’t really expecting sex on the first date with any of ‘em. What was I going to do?

But then, a lifeline. Another reply on Craigslist. A reply that started, “You sound way too good to be true.” *squee!*

My respondent was a library assistant who, in her spare time, plays rugby in queer leagues I hadn’t previously known existed. Geeky…physical…what a combination! And the picture…coy, slim but not skinny, chestnut-brunette, bob-haired, looking somewhere between a librarian and a demure Catholic schoolgirl, but with such a wicked little half-smile.

We made contact and made our date…for this past Friday. Oy. That’s cutting it too close! We’re going to have story rehearsal on Monday! *auuugh* Why do I feel like I’m in college again, grinding out a paper at the last minute? And why on Earth is it SEX I’m finding a way to procrastinate on?

I take her to a friend’s party in the East Bay. We nibble gourmet hors d’oeuvres, chitchat amiably with some of the most delightful people I know, play an amazing round of Rock Band…including some of the new Beatles game. ooOOOooo…

And, despite a truly delightful chat about sex and BDSM and all the yummy stuff, as I drove her back to her car I knew that I had failed in my Craigslist assignment. I would have to take an incomplete. Maybe, if I was very lucky, Dixie or Kitty would spank me.

But the next night, I had one of my “first dates” with one of the wonderful women I’d met on OKCupid. And I have to admit, this one had me in a complete lather. She’s smart, wise beyond her years, open and bold to the point of intoxication for a blunt kinda girl like me, and she writes Harry Potter slash. But we won’t hold that against her.

And physically? It was like she had walked out of a highlight reel of every sexual fantasy I’d had since I was a teenager. Long, coppery red hair, porcelain skin straight out of a Keats poem, a delightfully goth flair, tall enough that I don’t feel like Andre the Giant next to her, blue eyes with a mischievous twinkle, pouty “snakebite”-pierced lips just designed for kissing, hips you want to grab and pound with the nearest available strap-on, an ass begging to be spanked or plowed..or both!…big, beautiful, creamy-complected, rose-nipped breasts I don’t think I could have possibly stopped sucking on once I got started.

But she was young, not terribly experienced, and I didn’t want to repeat my earlier mistake.

I shouldn’t have worried. A few drinks and a very strong “magic” brownie later, and she’s having her way with ME in such a way that I feel so used, so violated…so fucking happy I couldn’t believe myself.

After a time of happy snogging and petting, of slow discarding of article after article of clothing, the pot kicked in. It turned her every touch into fireworks. When she sucked on my nipples, it was like they’d been hardwired right into my clit and all I could do was come and come and come helplessly…ecstatically.

I don’t think I could tell you how long it lasted. It was simultaneously eternal and criminally short. We kissed, we explored, we tasted and nibbled and caressed until she had to head home.

Ironically, though, we had to stop short of anything much beyond “2nd base.” (Albeit 2nd base with a very long lead toward stealing 3rd.) To go farther than night would have necessitated a mood-killing call to the skittish primary boy who’s new to sharing.

But right in that moment, as much as I might have liked to rip off her panties, I was content not to. It was a reminder of how profoundly sexual extended foreplay and delayed gratification can be. Besides, we have another date coming up next weekend and I don’t mind quivering in antici…pation.

So, I may have failed at doing things a new way on Craigslist, but it was nice to know that doing things my usual way on OKCupid was working so well!

And oh yeah, maybe Craigslist didn’t treat me so badly after all…I do have another date with a certain rugby-playing library assistant coming up soon, too. Maybe I’ll tell you about it the next time you see me on this stage.

…you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.“
—Ferris Bueller

So, you may have noticed it’s been a couple of months since I blogged last. Life has been crazy to say the least. My new job has become hectic to a point of making me wish I could clone myself even despite the inevitable rent that would cause in the fabric of space and time…or maybe just an amusing xXxenophile vignette.

My fling with Amy ran it’s course, but I still adore her and have a sneaking suspicion she’ll be around in my life for the foreseeable future. And it was delightful while it lasted. She’ll forever have a special place in my memory and my heart as the girl who helped me get my groove back.

‘Sides, if not for her, I never would have been shining as brightly as I was when I met Renie at a women’s pool party over at the delightful House Weirdness. And the *click* was probably heard around the world.

I’ve had a lot of partners and lovers. A lot. I’ve had several primary partners. None of them have ever been on the same wavelength with me like Renie is. I’ve finally found my partner in crime. As poly as I am, as kinky as I am, as desiring of adventures together and separately as I am…and seems to know more about making life good than I do despite being 10 years my junior. I’m in love…truly, madly, deeply.

But I’ve also met a bevy of beautiful Amazons…more on that later. That’s important.

I’ve also found some new motivations and meanings in my life…both long-term and short-term. I’ve already alluded to one of the short-term ones: Geek Salon. Part intellectual salon, part geek house party. Something like a mini-BayCon every month. I’ll talk more about it later, but I will make it happen and you’ll hear all about it here.

The other idea is one I’d had for a long time, but it took meeting a wonderful woman named Beth to crystallize with the right metaphor…the right name: Amazons. In a queer women’s culture that seems to be obsessed with butches, andros, genderqueers, and FTMs (not that there’s anything wrong with them, mind), and in which even a group calling itself the “Femme Posse” was a disappointing queer ladies’ auxilliary that seemed to do nothing but plan Butch Appreciation Day, it’s time for the powerful, femme-loving femmes (even if they love others in addition to their fellow femmes…no one’s demanding exclusivity here) to reclaim their space and their pride in the community, dangit.

And I’m going to make it happen…create my own private Themiscyra. I want it to be a thing…a meme…an identity. When a gaggle of fierce femmes shows up at the dyke bar/play party/club/whatever, I want heads to turn and people to whisper in awe, “The amazons are here!” And we’ll have our own space for just us, in person and online. I’ll start it…but I want my fellow amazons to join in and make it as great as I know it can be.

In the long term, I think I need to work on how to stop the damage that I now realize was done to me growing up. I’ve been so hampered in figuring out who the hell I am, loving that person, and in reaching out for what I want…feeling like I actually deserve it, and deserve happiness.

As my therapy goes on, the shape of it is becoming clearer through the haze of non-stop, low-grade (and sometimes rather intense) pain that was my childhood. More and more I see how I was discouraged from being me at every step along the way by my family, my peers, my circumstances. I still struggle with the idea of doing things for myself, from the mundane tasks of self-maintenance to the achieving of life-goals and the realizing of desires.

I’ve started reading books by a very interesting psychologist named Jane Middleton-Moz. In specific, her books Children of Trauma: Rediscovering Your Discarded Self (in which she explains that trauma isn’t just colossally bad individual incidents, but can also be an accumulation of smaller mini-traumas…and that the reactions of the significant adults in a child’s life can be more harmful than the traumas themselves…or they can practically delete the damage if they’re handled right) and Shame and Guilt: Masters of Disguise (reasonably self-explanatory).

I wonder if I’ll have to go back to college and study developmental psych now. Maybe I can find another way to advance the cause. We’ll see. Goodness knows I don’t want to be fixing computers and telling people how to access their basic application preferences for the rest of my working life, even if it’s paying the bills for now.

But first let me get Geek Salon and Themiscyra going.

It’s nice to have both short- and long-term goals, eh? I’m finding it to be!

BTW, shout-outs to Amazons I’ve met in recent weeks not mentioned above (in roughly chronological order): Dana K, Jetta, Tora, Celestina, Lucy, Lori, Violet, Tegan, and Brandi. You’re all amazing and you kick much booty. My Themiscyra is open to you all!

Hi, everyone out there in Internet-land. I know it’s been a while since you heard from me. Long enough that I actually had to clean some cobwebs off this bad boy, even (though goodness knows how they managed to latch on to a bunch of pixels).

Well, what can I say? The post-part-time depression got really bad after my brother’s lovely wedding down in Baja and I started losing enthiusiasm for pretty much everything. The only things keeping me going were my regular gym attendance, Chasing Amy events, Lost,  and my hardest of hard-core friends, like Deborah, Dana, Gina, et al.

So it got bad. Really bad. But, at the risk of sounding like a bad sports cliché, I didn’t give up. Once I gave up the delusion that I was was bursting with motivation and entrepreneurial spirit enough to actually start my own business, I started looking for a proper job in earnest. And I got one. This was the “Important Stuff™” I was nattering on about in my Twitter feed, for those of you who happen to follow that.

As of this past May 26, I’m the new Mac Server Goddess at Eaton & Associates and so far, I’m loving it. The people are great, the clients are varied and interesting, and it looks a lot like I’ll end up making substantially more than I did previously after figuring in their “profit-sharing” bonus plan.

So that’s one of a few things that have been keeping me massively busy since I found out I would get the job. Obviously, I had to get my old employer all buttoned down and school my replacement, for starters. Then I had a whirlwind weekend including a day and night at BayCon and something else I’ll be getting to soon enough. (I really should also post a separate piece on my BayCon experience. Believe it or not, after a lifetime of geekery, it was actually my first time attending a major con.)

BTW, going from depressed to the point of permasloth to getting up at 6:30 every “school day” and scurrying hither and yon pretty much instantaneously has been a jolt that my system really hasn’t adjusted to fully.

There have also been changes of seismic proportions in my personal life. I’ve met not one, but two wonderful women who’ve really helped me kick aside the last remnants of The Tale of Woe™ which has dominated my personal life for about 3 of the last 3.5 years. In chronological order, they are Melanie and Amy.

I met Melanie at the home of a mutual friend and was already fascinated by her before I realized she doesn’t live locally. In another, earlier time both the distance and a certain shared characteristic would have caused me to give up interest then and there even though she and I have more chemistry than I expect is strictly healthy. But she does come steaming through here every couple-few months and tells me she’s trying to find a way to get out here to stay. Needless to say, I’m doing everything within my power to help with this immigration project even if it isn’t a whole hell of a lot. I like this picture of her in her goth-princess finery!

Of course, once I have such a thing as disposable income again, she gives me a reason to go back to Jolly Old for the first time since 1990. Always meant to go back…

And then, at a recent Chasing Amy event I met Amy. But not the Amy who runs it. (Though that Amy, aka Ms. Kitty, is like buttah, dahhhling!) I mean this Amy. I’ve been spending every spare moment I can with her (and sometimes her lovely fiancée, John, too. Ain’t polyamory grand?) and as a result have had emotions woken up in me that I hadn’t properly felt in my whole post-op life…emotions I was really starting to wonder whether or not I’d ever feel again. And, again, she’s someone I might have looked past not that very long ago precisely because of the perfectly lovely fellow she’s going to marry. Doesn’t make her any the less into me, though goodness alone knows why. (But I’m not gonna question my good fortune!)

The net result of all of the above is that I’ve been experiencing a curious phenomenon: Happiness.

Now I just need to learn how to adjust to these new rhythms of life, making time for work, play, home, and everything else. Consequently, I propose slowing the rotation of the Earth to create a 25-hour day and its orbit around the sun to allow for 8-day weeks.

And, oh yeah, I still need to find more time to write in these very pages. I have ideas for posts that have been stewing for weeks and hopefully haven’t gone past their “use by” date.

But, to all my friends, family, and assorted loved ones, thank you THANK YOU THANK YOU! for putting up with me while I lingered in The Pit of Ultimate Darkness. I can’t imagine I’ve been a while hell of a lot of fun to be around.

Hugs to you all and *happy little sighs.*

I sleep now!

“Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”
—Ancient Chinese After-Dinner Prognostication Slogan

Well, I suppose in my case it would actually be closer to the 116th day of the rest of my life given that it was on November 30, 2008 that I lost most of my job. Like I mentioned in my last post, I’ve kind of been dragging my feet some in getting serious about building The Rest Of My Life™. I’ve already bitched in these pages about the steady, inexorable way in which the nice life I’d built by the beginning of 2006 had torn itself apart, so I won’t go launching into that laundry list here. I’m going to try to stay more positive.

Much like our old friend the fortune cookie tells me, I’m in a place of flux in my life right now and a new life is going to emerge from the ashes of the old. I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed by the smoking crater of the past, to be sure, but I’m starting to get a flavor for what the new life is going to be and how I’m going to have to challenge myself to improve to make it work.

I know that January 1st is more traditional for announcing resolutions, but that’s only for the new year and I’m talking about the new life. So, on to the resolutions…

1. I’m going to make myself get up no later than 8AM on the weekdays and 10AM on the weekends. Sleeping away my life, as comfy as my memory-foam mattress is and as cuddly as Pi is, is not a terribly useful thing to do.
2. Conversely, no more of this “staying awake until 3 and 4AM or even later” stuff on a school night.
3. I will be on time to things (barring extreme calamity) and stop making my friends, or anyone else, wait for my happy ass. I try to pull that shit with clients and I’ll be on the street and starving in no time.
4. I’ve invested in and will actually use the organizational software, Things (also available for iPhone so you can stay organized on the go!), in conjunction with my other existing tools (like iCal) to be better organized.
5. Actually get things done for myself.

Oh yeah…in addition to all those good intentions and starting a new business and other entrepreneurial endeavors (Geek Salon, an iPhone app idea I’m pursuing with a friend…more on that another time, though), I’m also going to have to find shared housing and move at the end of next month. Oy!

But in order to do all this, I’m going to need the help and support of my friends, loved ones, co-workers, and other well-meaning folks.

Living alone has given me a feeling of isolation that really hasn’t helped me in trying to get my life jump-started. So, please…if you have my contact info, use it! Call me, IM me, email me. Check in with me, see how I’m doing, ask how things are progressing, maybe invite me out to stuff. The more momentum I can generate during these difficult first steps, the better, so help me not do my counterproductive withdrawing thing I’ve been doing so much of lately.

I’m going to start living The Rest of My Life™ rather than mourning the passing of what was, but like the man sang, “I get by with a little help from my friends.”

Thanks, everyone!

My first draft of this was even more emo than this, so just be glad I came to my senses. It was going to be sorta-kinda poetry. Free verse and worth every penny. This is what I get for having thrown out all my bad poetry from when I was 15…I almost subject you, my dear readers (all three of you), to the spectacle of a 37-year-old bleating on about being too this and not enough that and oh, how life is unfair, but even more so when you’re a lazy bitch with depression and crap self-esteem.

So, consider yourself lucky.

But the fact remains that, much like my dear friend, Dana, I have no idea here at midlife-ish who I want to be when I grow up.

That I’ve been dragging my feet on my small business idea (a Mac-based, full-service IT consulting firm, for the record) just reinforces what I already knew, namely that IT isn’t What I Want to Do For the Rest of My Life™.  Do I have the skillz to pay the billz in that business? Well, on a technical level, you betcha. On a business-admnistration and self-promotion level, I’m not so sure. That I’ve been dragging my feet on my Geek Salon idea (long story…tell you about it later if you don’t already know) tells me just how fearful I am of trying and failing. That I’ve been dragging my feet on my own writing really fills me with dread because, much as I’ve always felt I had a few good books or scripts or what-have-you in me going back to when I was a kid, it makes me wonder if I didn’t defer that dream a bit too long. To say nothing of being thoroughly cowed by the skill of writers I’ve been reading lately, like Neal Stephenson, Neil Gaiman, or Alan Moore.

So I finished my transition…so what? What difference does it make that I’m as close to biologically female as medical science can make a male-to-female transsexual when I have no idea just who this woman is supposed to be for the next 40 years or so. Nothing is pulling on my heart and mind the way my transition did, saying, “You have to finish before you die. You can not let yourself give up before then!” I have no purpose…and it’s eating me from the inside out.

You know that feeling you get when you want to go out to eat with a bunch of friends, but every single restaurant or cuisine that’s suggested feels like a no-go? You don’t know what you do want, but you know you don’t want anything suggested thus far. That’s been my life for the last three years ever since I got back from Scottsdale and the last brief stint of true happiness I’ve known so far.

Political activism and crusading law certainly inflame my passions…and hell, I’d probably make for a damned fine lawyer given my penchant for arguing minutiae and my obscene memory for endless trivial details. Only trouble is that the quixotic nature of that life, the never-ending compromises, and the inevitable disillusionment with my own alleged allies would drive me to drink in short order.

Creating literature, moviles/TV, and/or music still has an allure to my heart, but feels too risky for me. I’m living on borrowed money, which means borrowed time if the old adage is to be believed. And it’s not making me burn the candle at both ends to do it regardless of “success” or “failure,” either. *sighs*

And more hardcore science or math would mean going back to school on money I don’t have to build skills never gained or long in disuse to do something I’m not sure I’d like anyway. The only part of that scenario that I’m sure I’d like is going back to school, but that would still require a goal. “Life-long student” is not a viable profession, whatever some of my former UCSC classmates might think.

It’s really enough to make me wish I could make myself content to be an IT technician and want to do that enough to make myself jump out of bed at a respectable hour.

If anyone has any suggestions for (re-)finding one’s bliss, I have to say I’m all ears.

Pardon me if I ramble. I couldn’t let another night go by without putting a post up and so this one might not be polished to my usual standards. I already see way too many parenthetical asides, but I’m just too damned tired and annoyed to be able to fix them right now.

The Good:

I went to my brother’s wedding in Baja, in scenic Rosarito at a wee spa resort called Las Rocas. The natural beauty of the place simply cannot be overstated, the staff were unbelievably friendly and helpful, Todd, Amanda, and her family had thought everything out brilliantly…the logistics of it were tighter than Mussolini’s train schedule!

Speaking of the blushing bride’s family, I got to meet them finally and they were beyond lovely. Liberal, funny, warm, friendly, supportive, open, and they even have one daughter who managed to marry her partner during the window before the loathsome Prop 8 passed. Even their cats were wonderful. I think I want them to adopt me.

The folks in the groom’s party along with me (myself and a tuxedoed Libby were the lone “inverted” folks in the two parties) were also really great, starting with Todd’s Best Man, Brad, and his winemaking partner, Matt, and along down the line. Lovely people all.

The ceremony itself was amazing. It was on the grass in front of the sea, with flowers accenting but not overwhelming the layout of everyone involved, participants and guests. Their personal vows and the readings were beautiful (I got the honor of reading the English translation of a wonderful Neruda sonnet, while Amanda’s sister, Libby, read the original Spanish), and they even included a most delightful dedication to Todd’s and my recently-passed father and an entreaty of the world toward sanity in the form of allowing any two consenting adults who love one another to marry if they so choose. Did I mention I love everyone involved?

I also had the delightful opportunity to toast my brother at the rehearsal dinner, so I took some time and effort to do it up proper, with a wee bit of roasting (but not too much) thrown in for good measure. I’ll put the full the text in a separate post. I was very gratified, if a bit befuddled, to receive lots of compliments both on the toast and the Neruda reading afterward by lots of people, many of whom I’d never previously met.

The food and drink? There was lots of both and it was all bloody amazing, both what we had at Las Rocas and our big dinner out at a restaurant called El Nido. (I had venison and garlic-butter shrimp that was to die for. Mmmmm.)

The transportation of everyone involved was mostly done with buses, which had the delightful benefit of greatly reducing our time coming back over the border to the US.

I got to see my Aunt (on my Dad’s side) Harriet, and three of my for cousins, Julie, Ilyse, and Fern. I was so happy to see them all in the same place that I can’t even tell you. That there was no major skirmish in the Hatfield & McCoy action between my Mom and Aunt Harriet was a bonus.

And I have to send a great, big shout-out of “THANK YOU!” to my mom, for giving me the travel and resort expenses as a birthday gift. (Oh yeah, it was my birthday on the 23rd, which was also lovely, but that falls outside the Week of Ambivalence.) Ditto to one of my very bestest friends, Dana, for tending to my cat, Pi, while I was away.

Upon my return, despite The Ugly below, I was able to climb and got my belaying pass so I can finally be useful to the climbing group. It’s hardly rocket science, but yay.

OK, that brings me to…

The Bad

I’ve had a non-stop string of personal brain farts, bits of bad luck, and embarrassments all week long. I also have a “The Ugly” section, so don’t stop.

I forgot my passport, but was able to get that overnighted at a fairly ludicrous rate by Dana so that it arrived before we left for Mexico, so crisis averted there. I also forgot my bathing suit, which resulted in a multi-day odyssey of being unable to find a single suit of any style or color that would fit my lard-ass. Apparently, while there are large women in Mexico, they must never, ever have to swim to the extent that they would need a bathing suit…either that or there’s some kind of critical spandex shortage south of the border.

In further lard-ass/giantess news, with no more than an hour to go before the ceremony, I managed to pop the seam of the zipper (but thankfully not the zipper itself, so thank goodness for small favors) in my sausage-skin…er, I mean “bridesmaid’s dress.” And, by the way, I swear they cut these very fucking tight for their rated size because everywhere else I buy the exact same size it fits me just fine, thanks! They so know they have you over a barrel with this one-time-only kind of clothing, those greedy-ass motherfuckers. Come back later for the name of the company so you can know to avoid them for your wedding. Thankfully, Amanda’s mom, Marianita, was Janey-on-the-spot with a sewing kit and some mad skillz. She had me back in it in all of about five minutes and it was fine until I shed it for more comfy duds before the reception.

Then, after having done so well for the whole rest of the long weekend, my social anxiety finally kicked in as I felt like the alien as the lone unattached gigantic trans lesbian in the room, seated at the far end of the main table at my Mom’s side for maximum isolation, and then confronted with my ages-old nemesis, the #@!%^~*(%ing dance party. If only someone there had a more active cooling mechanism for some of the choice herb I was smelling around the place, I might have been able to smoke some and felt better. But I just plain can’t inhale burning plant smoke or vapors without something like that.

So, I went to bed feeling like a great, big, fat alien loser when I should have been able to put it aside and just be there for Todd like I should have been and had managed to be for the rest of the weekend.

My flight was delayed about an hour and a half thanks to SF weather, and then I had to wait around for the Super Shuttle only barely sheltered from said wet and nasty weather…and when it did finally come, it was full to the gills and I had to deal with people in the back complaining that they were smelling exhaust fumes. Either way that really was, it’s not good.

And then, in addition to The Ugly below, I managed to have a marathon session of outsourced tech support with my ISP (Earthlink) to fix what should have been a teeny, tiny issue. Now it looks like I need to get a whole new bloody DSL modem. *grrrr*

The Ugly

Somehow, some way, the Tuesday night before I left, I must have rolled a set of critical fails in my sleep (tabletop gamer’s reference…just means I flubbed it unbelievably badly) and managed to tweak my upper back all across my shoulders and spine to the degree that, from Wednesday through Friday, the simple act of reaching forward at all (much less bending forward) was screaming agony.

A hot tub (in my sports bra and panties, since I did remember to bring my gym gear, which I ironically couldn’t use thanks to the pain) helped a bit on Thursday night and a massage from the spa staff improved things further on Friday afternoon, but I can still feel the faintest echoes of it even now. Like I said before, that hasn’t kept me from exercising or climbing and those don’t seem to have aggravated anything as I continue to show improvement there.

BUT, starting yesterday, I’ve managed to be laid low by some kind of really nasty Creeping Crud™ that includes all-over stiffness and pain; sore throat, coughing, and phlegm; fever; dehydration (been taking lots of fluids!); and nasty, garden-variety, non-migraine headache. Oy!

The Just Plain Weird

Giant Robot Statue Jesus constantly overlooking Las Rocas. ‘Nuff Said. o.O

Within the last couple of months, I’ve undertaken something that would probably leave most of the people who’ve known me at any time in my adult life more than a little speechless: I started exercising regularly.

There have been previous abortive attempts at same scattered throughout my life — a few months of Shorinji Kempo in my teens, a personal trainer in my mid-twenties, wrestling lessons from a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu mistress and former GLOW girl (seriously!) — but they all had one thing in common. I never did a damned thing outside of class, and none of them lasted more than a few months.

This time, I started climbing fake rocks at a place in Sunnyvale called Planet Granite with a mix of new and old friends, spurred by new friend, Joyce. To my amazing surprise, I was actually able to get all 260 lbs. of me up some of the easier climbs once I got them to dig me up a harness in “extra lard-ass” size. Truth be told, I didn’t expect to be able to do even that. This last week, I actually managed a 5.6 climb (they’re graded 5.1-12, though that’s a bit misleading as 5.10-12 each have sub-gradations a-d, so a 5.6 is still a relative beginner climb).

It quickly became apparent that, even doing this once a week (so 4 or 5 times a month) which is how often this particular group meets, it was going to be  more economical to get a monthly membership. And, conveniently, Planet Granite also has more conventional gym equipment. So, I made something of an “exercise buddy pact” with one of my bestest friends, Dana. I figure it beat any of the alternative pacts we might be making since both of us also struggle with depression.

(Side note: Conventional gyms seem to really engage my “panic” reflex…there’s some combination of the usually excessive lights, general “fishbowl” atmosphere of gym-rats in stylin’ exercise togs showing off their svelteness, and the loud and driving eternal 120-140 bpm techno-throb that just stimulates me in all the wrong ways. But not Planet Granite. The gym equipment is off to the side in a shadier part of the building, everyone’s either focused on the climbing or in their own little world, and the music ranges from tolerable to actually enjoyable while staying at lower volumes. Exercising there just doesn’t bug me, thank goodness.)

So, I’ve been keeping up with that a little bit every day, which is a first in my life. So, yay me and all that.

But do you know what it feels like to go from stiff, sedentary, and 36 to exercising 5 days a week for a good hour a day? OWWWWW. Even stretching out when not exercising doesn’t help. When I’m home working my semi-job or plotting my new direction(s), my limbs feel like lead.

But I have to do it. I have to keep my promise to myself. I have to do the hard thing, the boring thing, the slow progress thing, the repetitive thing. I just keep telling myself that I will see improvement if I keep it up. I’m not even hung up on any one number…weight, inches, dress size…’cause I know that way lies madness for someone like me. Setting milestones for things I’m doing strictly for me and for my own good is a recipe for missing them. As Douglas Adams once said, “I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.”

No, I’m doing this because I know that, even if I don’t see drastic change in these metrics anytime soon, my mood will still benefit from the endorphins, my heart will become healthier, I’ll develop more endurance, and I might be able to do some harder climbs…though I have no real desire to do the hardest ones or ever climb a rock outdoors. That said, I do like the wall as metaphor. Facing it, struggling up it, overcoming the harder bits, and getting to the top even if I don’t do it the 1st time. (Or the next few times for that matter…)

So it’s not just about physical toughness for me, but mental toughness as well, which is something I’ve been sorely lacking lately. “I give up” had been my middle name for a while now.

And even just getting sick with your standard-issue creeping crud this past weekend and having to miss one workout caused a nasty backslide. It left me feeling really down, going back into the vicious cycle of hiding alone at home, kicking myself, and then kicking myself some more for feeling bad after I kicked myself.

I don’t know what it is about rock climbing that’s done it for me so far, though. I guess it has at least a little bit to do with the fact that my general lack of coordination isn’t nearly as much of a factor as in something like a martial art. It’s just you and the wall. I’m sure some skill will become more necessary as I try to do anything higher than a 5.6, which I figure is probably about as far as I’m going to be able to go on pure bloody-mindedness until such time as I lose fat and gain strength — particularly arm and upper-body strength — and develop some modicum of skill. It also doesn’t hurt that I have a whole cadre of climbing buddies, some of whom are very near and dear to me.

But for now, it’s the metaphor that really counts. All my life, I’ve felt a massive internal resistance to anything that excessively resembles hard work or drudge-work. Is it some childhood rebellion turned toxic in adulthood? Early-prodigy burnout writ large? Do the whys and wherefores even matter anymore?

Regardless, it feels a lot like starting a climb…staring up the wall and feeling like I’ll never make it, like I’ll never be able to haul my economy-sized carcass up some strategically-placed hand- and foot-holds to where I can touch the top and enjoy the little reward of either abseiling or rappelling back down, depending on how much the climb took out of me. That bit is fun, actually. You feel kinda like Spider-Man.

Between the climbing and the blogging, who knows what other good habit I might be able to inculcate in myself. Maybe I’ll finally make better use of the lovely USB keyboard controller Dana gave me (so she would feel moved to get a better one *chuckles*) and start re-learning music, of which I’ve done none since minoring in it at college.

But, lest this sound too positive or optimistic, I have one hard, high internal climb ahead of me, and I’m probably going to fall. A lot. Sometimes you get the wall, and sometimes the wall gets you. I just hope I keep having the wherewithal to take a wee rest and make another, better try at it at least one more time than I fall.