The Femme Files: Lipstick. Lube. Links.

Moby or an FTM?

Today I woke up sick.  After tossing and turning in bed, sleeping fitfully, I decided to get some chicken soup.  I staggered outside and felt a bit like a vampire.  It was, of course, a beautiful spring day.  I think I might have even put my arms up to shield my face from the dazzling disorienting light.

Anyway, in this abject state I got myself to my favorite local cafe for chicken noodle soup.  I noticed out of the corner of my eye a white guy with prominent glasses who looked very familiar.  I turned to get a better look and our eyes locked for a minute.  I thought to myself, "Oh god I think that's that trans guy I almost went on a date with but then he got pissy with me over email and we never met up.  Why do I have to run into him when I am a disheveled feverish vampire?"

We didn't exchange any other glances and I left the cafe and fell back into bed where I slept for hours.  When I woke up, his face suddenly flashed in front of me and I realized, "That's not an FTM. That's Moby."

Now of course it is possible that was both Moby and an FTM.  I suppose I should not construct false binaries based on assumptions.  But had I known it was Moby at the time, I might have told him how much I enjoy his Teany beverages.

Paging Franz Kafka

If my old workplace was the Lemon Stand, my current workplace is the perfect setting for a Kafka novel.  Now, I am not complaining.  For instance, my new work life consists of lunch breaks spent perusing the red star specials at Macy's, collecting cheap jewelry, getting good deals at Jack's 99 Cent Store, and meeting up with dear Hootie for lunch, among other delights.  And one day this week I managed the miracle of getting home before 6 PM.  I cannot remember when this has happened in the last 6 years.  A few weeks ago I was able to meet Flypaper at yet another reasonable hour and enjoyed a snack with her at the Shake Shack, as we attempted to summon spring while shivering outside under the heater, before my 6:30 PM acupuncture appointment. 

All that said, one must navigate a treacherous labyrinth of obfuscating rules and regulations at my new workplace.  When I learned from a coworker that employees at our company can get discounted gym membership at the YMCA, I became excited and immediately attempted to do two things:
a) procure a photo ID
b) log in to the company website, known as the "portal."

First, I had to email several different people to ask how to get my photo ID validating my existence at said company and enabling me to show this proof to the Y for my discount.  I was passed through 3 people before the big boss finally intervened and requested that another big boss write a letter stating I did, in fact, exist.  I thought my emails from my account at said company was proof enough of my existence but apparently not. 

My identity finally secured I made an appointment to go to the end of the earth on the Upper East Side -- very very very East -- to get my photo ID.  My information was entered into a computer database, and then the woman set up the camera.  As I sat there, preening hopefully, I began to feel a crick in my neck and the woman appeared to be cranking the camera endlessly, as if it were the 19th century and at any moment she might disappear under a large black sheet to shoot my picture.  I asked her what was wrong and she said that she had to crank the camera repeatedly in order to get my image to show up on the computer screen.  I turned my head and saw that indeed where my face should appear was just a big black square. 

After 5 more minutes of cranking I hopefully suggested that she perhaps should restart the computer and then stubbornly planted myself.  There was no way I was making the trek again to the end of the earth for my ID.  The restart failed to produce any different results.  She cranked away again, and then disappeared. 

I waited and waited. 

At last she returned and said she had been instructed to "jiggle the cords."  Who had instructed her to do this?  Perhaps Oz.  So she began jiggling.  I even joined in the jiggling action, desperate to have the camera work and to not have to come back.

After jiggling and cranking some more there was, at last, success!  I heard the click of the camera snapping my image and then she asked me if I liked the picture or did I want another one and, without even bothering to look, a note of hysteria in my voice, I told her it was fine, and to please save the photo immediately.   

However, the above process was actually easy compared to what it took to prove my existence to the Portal.   I went to a school several years ago within the large university system at which I now work.  In fact, I finally picked up my diploma (2 years old) just last week when I was visiting my alma mater in my new role as an employee.   Anyway after failing to log into the Portal numerous times, and requesting my password and being told it had been sent to my email address twice, I dutifully followed instructions and wrote to the Help Desk.

Here is the trail of the endless red tape in which I became hopelessly entangled:

Ms. Cog,

In order for us to locate your record in the Portal, please supply us with the following information:

* Your full name (If you have a middle initial, maiden name, etc.)
* Date of Birth

Just to clarify, the username that you are using is XXX?

Regards,
Machine Part #1

*

The only record that matches the information that you provided was a student account from XXXX College. It has no other affiliation, here is the entry:

Username is XXXX
Email address is XXXX@XXXX.edu

If you need this account for staff related purposes, you will have to contact the human resource department to verify that you have an "active appointment" in XXXX. If you have any further questions, please let us know.

Regards,
Machine Part #1 of Help Desk

*

You need to find out from Machine Part #3 of HR whether you have an active appointment in XXXX & when it was entered.
-Machine Part #2 of Help Desk

*

You don't have an active appointment in XXXX because you are not paid on YYYY.  Did you ever get in touch with Machine Part #4 of HR after I emailed you and her last week?
-Machine Part #3 of HR

*

Hi Machine Part #5 & Ms. Cog -

I got a call from Machine Part #6 at RF saying you needed help getting into the portal.  If you haven't already found out, you put your first initial and last name (no spaces) in as user name and the prompt should give you an option to get a temporary password emailed to you.
-Machine Part #3

*

Machine Part #7-note Cog's problem-- she now works full-time for XXX through the RF but they tell her they don't know how to update her in the system for the purpose of her registering at the portal?  Have you ever encountered this problem-- any thoughts about who should/can solve it by upgrading her status?
-Machine Part #8

*

No, Machine Part #6 wouldn't have anything to do with this.  I am not sure whom to contact.  Have you tried the Help Desk?  If you type Help Desk in the email address, it will come up.  There are a bunch of help desks, but I only know the XX Street people - you could start with them.
-Machine Part #3

*

Machine Part #1:
The person whose information below has forgotten her password, but she also no longer uses the e-mail address listed for her. (Formerly a grad student at XXXX, she now works for the Central Office as XXXX). Because we need to load her into the Blackboard user base, I need her full UUID. And she needs either a change to her e-mail address (now XXXX@XXXX.edu) in her listing or she needs a new password sent to her at that current e-mail address. Thanks.
-Machine Part #7

*

UUID is 20030517003009080165
Also, we changed the email address to  temporarily reflect her lotus email. She can now request for a new password.
-Machine Part #2

*

This is an automated server reply. Please contact your local campus Help Desk for assistance by going to the Portal and clicking on the Portal Help link. Applicants, vistors and Alumni can receive assistance by clicking on the Email for more help link on the Portal Help page.

Here is your new password

Email Address: XXXX@XXXX.edu
New Password: XXXXXXXX

***

Please note that while I now have a log in and can access the Portal, I also had to endure two conference calls related to this matter.  At the second one I was told they could not change my status from student to staff, for reasons I still cannot understand, despite being told several times the alleged complexities involved.  However the look of fear and panic on Machine Part #8's face when I brought up changing my affiliation status in the system was so great that I dared not further probe the matter.

Franz Kafka,

Please help me.

Sincerely,
Cog

"This all happened while you were waiting for your samosa?"

Last night I struggled in my third meditation class.  I was frustrated, hungry, bored, tired, and impatient.  I had faithfully meditated every day for 15 minutes, practicing metta, even sending metta to the Lion and my annoying cubicle neighbor (nowhere near as bad as the Lion, by the way), as part of the practice to do this for "the difficult person," but alas, I confess I am still not evolved enough to attempt to send any metta to other "difficult" people who shall remain nameless.  Anyway the point is I persevered with my metta meditations despite the loud savage intellectual critic in my head who was beside herself with outrage, flailing her arms and shouting slurs at my numerous offenses against her.  So I was agitated when the sitting during class proved so difficult, my woes so pedestrian.

Nonetheless I left the class striving to continue despite these challenges and hindrances, all part of the process.  I decided to stop at an Indian restaurant near my house for an order of samosas since I was ravenous.  The waiter told me to wait at the bar for my order.  At the bar I quickly became aware of the angry drunken white lout at the table near me sitting with another white guy who looked like he went straight from his fraternity to Lehman Brothers, and his girlfriend, a stylish and skinny Asian woman.  Drunken White Lout was railing against Obama and Hillary, comparing the former to an un-American terrorist and the latter to a "twat."  As he continued, he used every racist image and invective imaginable to make his point while also describing McCain as the only honorable choice, a man who sweated in the jungles of Vietnam for our great country.  When he went to the restroom a few minutes into his monologue Skinny Girlfriend giggled to Lehman Brother about a "creepy homo" they both knew.  Drunken Racist Sexist Lout returned and continued his diatribe.

I became angry.  I felt no Lovingkindness but only deep hatefulcruelty.  There is, however, no book called Hatefulcruelty in the Spirituality section of Barnes and Noble.

I removed myself from the bar, not wanting to engage with an aggressive drunk guy as I was tempted to do.  This seemed to upset the waiter greatly who kept insisting I wait at the bar, next to Drunken Racist Sexist Lout.  Desperate to get out of the insanity, hungry and tired, I continued my ignoble practice of hatefulcruelty and snapped to the poor overwhelmed waiter that I had been waiting a very long time for an appetizer.  Then I stood and felt the harsh breath of Hatefulcruelty, in and out, in and out, as the Drunken Racist Sexist Lout reached a feverish crescendo in a fight with Skinny Homophobic Girlfriend about Obama, declared her to be un-American, and stormed out of the restaurant telling her and Lehman Brother they could pay the bill. 

Upon his exit the group at the table next to him, White Liberals with Slight Hippie Tendencies Shot Through with Allen Ginsberg Sensibilities, began berating Lehman Brother and Skinny Homophobic Girlfriend (whose arms were folded at this point) about their despicable friend for ruining their meal with his ignorant and loud rantings.  Lehman Brother told them they "needed to grow some balls."  Skinny Homophobic Girlfriend drank her wine and rolled her eyes.  Thankfully at this point my samosas were, at long last, ready.  I shot one last glare of hatefulcruelty toward Lehman.  I am pretty sure that as I walked out of the restaurant Lehman shouted at me to "have a nice night."  I guess he was the bigger soul practicing lovingkindness in that moment.

After telling Miss Monkey Girl the story, she uttered perhaps the wisest words of the night, "This all happened while you were waiting for your samosa?"  I think maybe I need to write Hatefulcruelty: Waiting for My Samosa.

Gay Eyes

Many years ago a straight friend of mine with whom I have sadly lost touch went to a renowned psychic in the village.  This man could supposedly tell your fortunes by merely being in your presence.  He could also read the future of your friends through photos.  My friend brought along a picture of me.  I was in a dress blowing a kiss next to a fountain in Provincetown (but you couldn't tell it was Provincetown from the photograph).

My friend enthusiastically reported to me the next day that this psychic forewarned her, upon gazing at my picture, that he sometimes told people information about their friends that they did not know.  My friend confidently reported that this was OK and that we were very open with each other in our friendship.  He then reported to her that I was... gay.  My friend said that she knew this about me already but how did he know from looking at the picture (especially given that I was not sporting a buzz cut, multiple piercings, combat boots, or a a muscle shirt).  He very solemnly intoned that I had "gay eyes."

This became a running joke (and continues to run to this day) and I am now [Real First Name] Gay Eyes with some friends.  Today I decided that I was tired of being your nameless blog author and will try out being Gay Eyes.  It sounds sort of like a playground insult, it's true, and I have certainly endured plenty of taunts centered around the shape of my eyes but perhaps this can be act of reclamation and healing.  I don't really identify with being gay (although some of my behavior lately has been that of a gay man's) but Queer Eyes brings to mind the odious and pasteurized Carson Kressley.  And Queer Femme Eyes sounds like a bad pulp movie.  Femme Eyes sounds like feminized.  So I will go with Gay Eyes for now.

Actually I have now convinced myself that Gay Eyes is a terrible blog name.  I think my very momentary seizing of Gay Eyes for a name was just an excuse to tell a story here about my second hand brush with the supernatural in which my sexual orientation was validated and my femme identity was triumphantly visible -- radiating in all its splendor and glory from my eyes.

And what else did the psychic reveal about me from gazing into my gay eyes in the picture?  He told my friend this frustratingly cryptic message: "Tell your friend she needs to travel to find happiness." 

I have, of course, remained quite stationary in the years since.

Markets, Morons, Monks, Mice, and Models

Readers, forgive my absence.  I have been preoccupied with a variety of things. 

Like feeling gratitude that I no longer have to fear my head being devoured by the lion at the lemon stand.

Like buying lots of cheap wholesale jewelry at the stores that line the blocks around my new workplace. 

Like having lunch with my favorite owl who, according to HopStop, works a mere "five minutes" walking distance from me. 

Like scowling and squirming at my desk at home or at tables at cafes when I am supposed to be working on my writing project, and fearing I am failing Twlya. 

Like spending a very rainy weekend with Considerate Bear, aka The Irritated Gay Man, who came up from our nation's capital to help me clean up after the mess Mr. Puerile left behind.  A mug might have been thrown out of the window, an irritated gay man may have nearly drowned in the rain, and a warrior princess may have been scalded by tea over the course of that weekend.  However, alcohol and good food were consumed and bitchiness as only befitting an irritated gay man and a warrior princess was properly employed.

And, it is true.  I have become occupied with more -- dare I say it -- spiritual matters.

Like returning to yoga, finally, and finding that only the most annoying person in the world was on a mat, in the very same class, blinking, smiling, and waving at me.  I believe that the benefits of downward facing dog and sun salutations were neutralized by the alarmed and determined sprint I did at the end of class when I bolted the room and literally ran down 6 flights of stairs to ensure I would not have to further interact with said annoying person. 

Like taking a meditation class and discovering that when I closed my eyes, hands rested on thighs, back straight but soft, feet on the ground, focusing on my breath, I did not see any beautiful visions of angels dancing on cheap wholesale jewelry, but instead battled panic at having to be still -- before unceremoniously nodding off.   Naturally, I learned afterwards that sleepiness is common for those of us with the "beginner's mind."

And just now, when I sat down to meditate for 10 minutes, still no angels visited, instead it went something like this:
I can't believe I have to do this for 10 minutes.  But I get to watch America's Next Top Model afterwards.  This is so stupid.  Who do I think I am?  Maybe I have become some pedestrian American who buys the spiritual fads marketed by Oprah.  But I don't even watch Oprah.  Oh, I am thinking.  Not supposed to think.  Or judge.  It is so quiet.  What if a mouse is waiting in the walls and because of the silence thinks that he can run out to investigate my apartment and then he crawls around on my feet and I won't be able to move or do anything because I am supposed to be meditating.  Oh, right, now I have to label this as thinking.  Thinking.  I wonder if I should try that meditation Tina Turner did where she got to chant something over and over.   Then that would scare away any mice.  I feel so tired.  I hope I don't have lymphoma or Hodgkin's Disease.  I think fatigue is a sign of those things.

However, I am pleased to report that, despite the fact that in the midst of my meditation I became convinced a rapist was standing behind me and then my heart nearly burst out of my chest from anxiety, I was surprised when the chimes went off on my cell phone marking the 10 minutes.  It did not feel like neverending torture as I had feared.  But I am pretty sure that if any scientists were scanning my brain they would not find anything resembling that of a Tibetan monk's.   And I would not be able to dry any sheets either.

On a more base level, I am also pretty sure that Tibetan monks would most likely have a far more spiritually evolved attitude toward the puerile good time Charlies in the community and annoying people in yoga class.  I may never achieve the equanimity and integrity of a Tibetan monk, but a girl can dream.  Just not while meditating. 

March comes in like a lion but out like a lamb

As of March 5th, 2008 I can no longer be found squeezing endless lemons.  I have left the lion and her tiresome roar behind in her den.   To celebrate I had a lovely dinner with Flypaper and Miss Monkey Girl after enduring a mercifully short (and sweet) goodbye party on my last day at the Lemon Stand.  Today I finally cashed in on my goodbye gift from the Big Gay Workplace when I left last spring and went to the spa.  While I was saddened that Flypaper's boss is stupid and did not give her the correct Wednesday off so that she could indulge in the spa with me, I still managed to enjoy myself, sweating out the toxins of the lion, lemons, and unfortunate personal drama ripped from The L Word in the saunas; surrendering my knots to the 90 minute massage;  and delighting in the fruit and green tea served to me at the end. I also thoroughly enjoyed Be Kind, Rewind which I saw afterwards.

My last days at the Lemon Stand were sweetened by various lunches by coworkers eager to share tasty morsels of information about the lion before my departure.  In fact my lunches with survivors desperate to tell me their bloody tales of having been trapped many times over the years in the den with the lion provided me with much needed vindicating proof that, by choosing to leave, I have saved myself from multiple scratches and bite wounds from a crazed old lion who sharpens her claws the longer you stay in her den.  While she may, as 'dunks pointed out to me, just have a large thorn that needs to be removed, it is clear that no mortal has been able to accomplish this feat thus far.

So I made leave of the lion with the thorn lodged permanently in her paw.  And now I am off to pick out an exciting outfit for my new job that I start tomorrow, far far away from any prides, one hopes -- not to be confused with the gay kind, whose association I welcome of course.

Femme Flies

To distract myself from my dread at having to face down the Lion of the Lemon Stand tomorrow and submit my three week's notice (plus a few extra days for good measure), sure to be a highly unpleasant and taxing meeting, I will review recent airports I have passed through for business and pleasure.

JFK
I tend to avoid JFK since it costs half as much for me to take a cab to LaGuardia and it's dirt cheap and easy for me to take the bus to LaGuardia.  I don't bother with the subway to JFK and the flat fee of $45 doesn't feel so flat to me.  But I was lured by the fact that I could get round trip tickets to St. John for under $300 if I flew via JFK.  And so I did.

I was in such a fog for my crack of dawn trip to St. John that I barely remember walking through JFK.  However, my return to JFK was made memorable by the fact that over an hour after landing no one on my flight had seen their luggage make its way down the runway.  As collective anger grew and whines of whatistakingsolong grew higher and higher pitched I decided to take action.  I thought, What Would the Lion Do?  And then I brushed out my mane and marched over to Baggage Services where I roared. 

It took another 30 minutes for the workers to actually get our baggage to come down the runway.  But I like to credit my channeling of the Lion. 

Cyril E. King Airport - St. Thomas
There is something dramatic about descending an airplane on steps right onto the tarmac.  I forever associate this act of worldly glamor with the St. Thomas airport, and the delightful sensation of being immersed in warmth the minute you get off the plane.  I think the airport is actually quite small and plain.  But in my memories of the splendor and perfection that was my recent one-week vacation in St. John, in which I learned that I had actually been suffering on the cold pebbly beaches of Provincetown each year, with coarse sand on my feet, frigid murky Atlantic Ocean water chilling my skin (oh woe is me, what a hard life), now all that is related to St. John -- soft white sands, shockingly turquoise and clear waters, fifty mosquito bites, the airport -- has been suffused with a rosy glow.  Therefore Cyril E. King airport gets five dreamy stars in my book.

San Juan Airport
Stuck here for hours due to a delayed connecting flight back to New York City from the utopic U.S. Virgin Islands, I thoroughly investigated the airport for any and all forms of entertainment, especially since I was afraid of the ominous "roaming" message I got when I turned on my cell phone.  I was disappointed that their shoe shine services were unavailable in the three hours I was in the airport.  However, the massage services made up for it.  I was able to get a relaxing 20 minute massage for a decent price.

LaGuardia
Notorious for its delays, and indeed a plane I recently took was so delayed I missed my connecting flight, I was full of trepidation at starting out my recent tour of the south for the Lemon Stand at LaGuardia since Mercury was in retrograde and I was traveling during this inauspicious time (no, I am not from California).  All was smooth, except for the fact that my luggage didn't make it back to New York City on my flight of terror and nausea through the unfriendly skies, in which my jet plane was literally tossed and shaken about in violent winds. 

Anyway, my missing baggage was the fault of airport workers at Reagan National in D.C., where I caught my connecting flight back to New York.  Somehow, despite a two hour window, the airport workers didn't manage to load my bags from my flight from Nashville onto my plane for New York, even though I had plenty of time before my connecting to New York to drink ginger ale, dish, and trash bad behavior, with my favorite fags, Considerate Bear and Miss Shoulder Roll, who braved the cold blustery winds to meet me at the airport TGI Friday's. 

My baggage was returned to me tonight to my great relief as I did not want to fill out a form listing all items in my suitcase to search for lost baggage.  I had brought along a vibrator friend to keep me company while "working from my hotel" and did not relish listing "personal massager" among my lost effects.

But, I digress.  Or rather I am getting ahead of myself.  Or I am being a bad Yankee and skipping airports in the South, Atlanta, San Antonio, and Nashville, because they were wholly unmemorable except for the lone butch sighting and the bbq, and the mac and cheese available at the airport in Nashville.   

Let us end on a happy airport note.  My all-time favorite airport is Austin-Bergstrom International Airport in Austin, TX, because it is where I snuck into the men's room (dressed in a hoodie and baggy jeans) to have sex with a transguy in a stall while men peed around us. 

Baby Got Back

My dinner tonight in Nashville, TN, courtesy Jim 'N Nick's.

To better understand scale, in this next picture note the size of the lemon wedge I placed beside the baby back ribs for comparison and context:

The vast majority of the above now sits in a doggie bag in my mini fridge at the Holiday Inn Express.

Meanwhile, I am fighting a cold but feel confident that this hotel is ghost free since it is not across the street from the Alamo, but instead faces the Lifeway Christian Store.

Death, Carnage, and High Emotions

I learned today that the hotel I am staying at is supposedly haunted because it is right on the site of the Alamo, a place "shrouded" in "death, carnage, and high emotions."  This may explain why I have slept so poorly for the past few nights.  I think it's a good thing I am hearing of the ghosts of my hotel on this, my last night here.  You may remember that I am highly susceptible to terror from when I wrote about being traumatized by the horror movie The Descent.  I'd like to point out that this movie was set in a cave and yet I found a way to convince myself and my nervous system that the monsters of the fictitious cave were somehow dwelling in my apartment in New York City.  I have already nervously looked around my room several times for apparitions and strained to hear chanting and mysterious banging while typing this.  This brief moment of panic was interrupted by a well timed call from Miss Monkey Girl.  I can only hope that the Holiday Inn Express in Nashville is a happy place free of death, carnage, and high emotions.

That said, I was enjoying "working from a hotel" before learning it was haunted.  My work days here have consisted of long leisurely lunches, siestas, TV breaks, no lions, and appreciation for housekeeping services and for nice people who come to immediately fix your toilet when you call to report a problem.  Today I attended several work events and got to meet a bounty hunter cowboy, was taken out to a delicious Mexican lunch, learned about the yellow rose of Texas (Emily Morgan, whose hotel in her name is also supposedly haunted) and the ghosts of my hotel, practiced the art of the schmooze whilst drinking Pinot Grigio, and gorged shamelessly on delightful foods at a fancy buffet at an $8000 party thrown to honor the Lemon Stand.   And all the while I periodically thought to myself, with great satisfaction, adios motherfuckers, I am almost outta here.

One day perhaps I will haunt this workplace, my Alamo, the real site of death, carnage, and high emotions.

Lemon Liberation

Lemon: the prospect of having to tell the Lion that I am gone in three weeks (the minimum notice required at my workplace) and the wrathful roar to end all roars that will, no doubt, erupt from her.

Lemonade: new job that liberates me from squeezing any lemons or dealing with the lion.

Deluxe Lemon Drop Martini: Mr. A's advice: to simply never go back to the office after this trip.