I am not surprised. Glad I didn’t make a reservation.
I am not surprised. Glad I didn’t make a reservation.
My church lady friends gathered for breakfast last Sunday and asked me to join them. I swear to god that priest will not get off the transphobic high horse. He had brought the trans subject yet again. (I don’t attend any more. This is the subject the ladies chose to discuss, bless their hearts.) So during breakfast I was fucking bombarded with the same damn questions I’ve answered a thousand times. I know we should be patient with CIS folk. To many of them we’re like something dropped from outer space or something. And I don’t mind responding to any serious queries. I’m pretty done with “did you cut your penis off?”-type questions, though. My complaint… what upset me… was that I am plowing the same field over and over. They’ve asked me these things. Several times. I ended up daintily wiping my lips of egg yolk and saying “thank you for asking me to breakfast,” and leaving. I was just exhausted.
We’ll be fine. They didn’t even know I was actually pissed. They are the only friends I have. But they can be a nosy bunch at times.
What really upset me is that when I got online to Second Life to meet my girlfriend Kelly I was all bitchy with her. Even simply left her at one point. I went back but she was properly pissed at me. <sigh> Let me tell you about this woman. She is the best thing in my life. We may have met in Second Life and spend our time there, we email and chat in Real Life, too. There’s a connection. The last thing I want to do is let out my inner bitch and upset her.
Let me tell you about this woman, Kelly. She is the best thing in my life. We may have met in Second Life and spend our time there, we email and chat in Real Life, too. There’s a connection that I haven’t felt in years. The last thing I want to do is let out my inner bitch and upset her.
The good news about is that Kelly bought a special spanking chair just for me, and after her work was done we went home and tested it out. It works! I’ll be able to sit properly by Wednesday heehee.
So there I was last night, sitting at my laptop having a lovely dance on Catalina Island with this beautiful, blond CD (in Second Life, sadly) when my doorbell rang. I opened the door and there stood my ex-priest. He asked if he could come in and, of course, ever the lady, I invited him in.
He said he was concerned over my sudden departure from the church. I had been such an active participant, an integral part of the community. He wondered what prompted my decision. I told him that the subject of his last few homilies had been personally offensive and I saw no reason to allow myself to be offended.
“Why? What offended you?” “Your diatribe about men in dresses.” (Yes dear readers, I actually used ‘diatribe’. I talk like that.) “But I was talking about those confused about their god-given gender.” “I understand, Father. I’m not confused. I KNOW I’m a woman.” Dead silence. Then you could see realization cross his face. Delicious!
Then the real reason comes out. “G_____ died last night. We’re having a funeral on Friday. Could you come back long enough to run that through?” (I am… was… the head of the bereavement committee)
That felt goooooooood. (Not about G_____, of course. He was a nice guy. But there is a whole group of ladies involved in the committee. They’ll be fine.)
I had to take a long drive this morning, just to clear my mind and find peace. As usual, I attended morning Mass… in fact, I was the lector (read the scriptures aloud minus the Gospel).
As I noted in an earlier post, Pissed Off, my priest is very conservative. He’s even said bad things about the current Pope because he’s too liberal in his opinion. In Pissed Off I noted how he went on a homily rant about trans people. It took me over a day to get over that.
So this morning the First Reading — the reading I read to everyone — was about Jeremiah prophesying concerning the potter taking clay and making whatever object he pleased. According to him, it is not up to the pot to remake itself in any fashion it wishes. If he makes a pot with a spout, removing the spout goes against its maker and is cursed.
Well fuck you, Father. You had me read the very scripture you were going to use to chastise me. He always, I mean always, bases his homily on the Gospel. Today, Jeremiah. I was thiiiiiiis close to standing up, lifting my skirt and waving my spout at him yelling ‘and I’m still a woman anyway.’
A Tumblr friend — wishyoulivedcloser –gave me excellent ammunition should he ever directly accost me. It concerns Phillip and the Ethiopian eunuch as noted in the book of Acts. I keep it at my fingertips! Thanks
Twice in one month. <sigh> I shouldn’t let this stuff get to me. But I left DC because of the dangerous atmosphere and actual physical attacks. Since I moved to this small town everyone pretty much ignores me but does nothing to embarrass or humiliate me. Just toleration, which is all I want. To go to church in order to be attacked is just… just… wrong.
So as I’ve mentioned I do not pass . . . at least not in my eyes. The small town I live in simply accepts me walking among them. I’m content with that after my big city experiences. Being ignored, for me, means peacefulness. And safety. Mainly safety.
And also as I’ve mentioned ad nauseam, I am a good Catholic girl. I attend daily mass, weekday mass, and am very involved in the various ministries lay people can do. My priest has looked at me askance (love that word) but never said anything. Even during confession, he would look at me expectantly while I said the closing words “for these and any other sins I may have committed…”. (For you heathens, that meant no more good stuff was to be brought up.) But I never mentioned what was under my skirt and he’s never asked.
So today in his Mass homily he addressed the Fourth of July — Independence Day. (He’s a naturalized citizen from Nigeria). I liked his enthusiasm for the country until he got into politics — “the country is on a wrong track . . . a wrong path.” Then out of the blue he went off on a long, LOUD rant about “men who think they’re women”, “who are saying God makes mistakes and seek to correct His errors” — by then I’m sure my face was red and the blood was rushing into my ears so loudly I couldn’t hear the rest. I just know he was loud and pacing back and forth and that he went much longer than his usual homily. He’s just not that animated normally. Nor that LOUD. Did I mention he was loud?
I also noted he never looked at me in the eyes once. Nor did mi amour V. On the way home she said nothing about the homily other than to ask “are you OK?” I mumbled “no.” <sigh>
How in the hell did that get into a Catholic Mass on Independence Day? What the fuck?! The day he refuses to give me communion is the day I become Episcopalian. At lot of this attitude changes from priest to priest. Some are very liberal, some very conservative. I’m just currently under a very conservative one. <double sigh>
Obviously, the massacre in Orlando has depressed pretty much everyone I know. Haven’t even written much. Just not in the mood. So much hatred for what is not understood. Why can’t everyone leave everyone alone? I know my thoughts are simplistic: if you don’t like to see two men kissing, don’t watch it. No one forces anyone to go to a gay club. If they’re on the street, look away.
I manage to go through long periods of time seeing nothing but heterosexuals. I don’t get offended by their public displays of affection. None of my business. Life could be so simple, so pleasant if everybody minded their business. Why do humans have this need to make everyone conform to their own personal attitudes? Don’t we realize how crushingly boring it would be if everyone was the same? It’s mindboggling.
Sorry. Silly post. Sad. I’m going back to writing smut now.
To the someone that says I want to be a trans woman for the attention, that I’m just a drama queen… oh yes, I really want to be ridiculed as a “man in a dress,” that I live to be afraid of going to public restrooms, that my highest aspiration is to be talked about… not too softly… behind my back. Oh yes, I am most definitely a fucking drama queen.
Let me tell you, jackhole. What I really want most in my life… what I pray for… is to not be noticed at all. Just part of the woodwork, a face in the crowd. That I can go about my daily life, shopping, going to movies, dining out, without worrying about some asswipe deciding to ‘teach me a lesson’ in the parking lot.
And to explain a lot more than you deserve, understand I don’t “want” to be a woman. I fucking “am” a woman. You would whine like a little bitch if you went through the process I’ve gone through. You wouldn’t make it through one damn laser hair removal session. I’ve got more to say but my fingers tell me to chill out.So in my most dramatic voice: fuck you. And not in the good way.
Now back to my regular programming! Sorry.
I am a little upset. No, make that red-faced ‘ready to kick Xena’s butt’ mad. A friend of mine writes for TransGlobal Magazine. She had written an end-of-year article, sort of a year in review. It was a wonderful article in my opinion. So along comes a couple of trolls criticizing her.
Now any writer knows they’ll get criticisms, bad reviews, general nitpicking; but apparently this went beyond acceptable bounds. She’s all upset, questioning herself.
That sucks. People that do that sort of thing have no idea how much effort goes into writing so much as a blog post, let alone an article for public distribution in a magazine. Writing, editing, reviewing, editing again… and hoping you haven’t missed anything. Fuck!
And then to cast doubt on that person’s abilities so much that she is questioning whether she should delete the article?!
So to all you asswipes that have never written anything more complicated than a grocery list – kiss my pucker! If I get something like that I’ll simply delete/ignore it and give it no further thought. I am writing something constantly. I just go on to the next thing. So write your own damn article, find someone stupid enough to publish it and then sit back and wait for troll attack. M’k?