Finding Unintended Humor in Stupidity

If you’ve been reading this blog for long enough, you know that I manage several small businesses, including an automotive engineering shop. Tiny as it nevertheless is, it has multiple divisions.  One of these specializes in highly complex, high-end automatic transmissions made by the German industrial giant whose name is ZF. These transmissions are used in:

  • Audi
  • BMW
  • Jaguar
  • Maserati
  • Peugeot
  • Range Rover
  • Volvo
  • VW

Of course, nowadays, computers are integrally involved. No worries, I’m a computer geek too. If you can work with complex custom software, then complex automatic transmissions are comparatively simple. For example, one of my best-ever software engineers is a 5′-tall pretty girl. She owns two BMWs with ZF transmissions. One of them needed repair because an exhaust shop had destroyed it. So, she cheerfully assembled a working transmission from the bits and pieces of three separate transmissions. Then, she and another software engineer (me) installed the transmission into her white convertible BMW and she drove the car on a 2000+ miles road trip. It ran perfectly and has been running perfectly ever since. That was three years ago.

Anyway, I subscribe to a transmission list service in which various people (so far, mostly guys) ask questions about a particular transmission-related problem and then other folks try to offer free advice. I’ve subscribed to it for a long time and I have yet to see something useful-to-me come across the wire, but who knows. Maybe one day it will, or maybe one day I can help someone. I certainly know a lot about these particular types of transmissions, by now. I’d better. I own two Audi A6 Quattros with this type of transmission, and several BMWs with this type of transmission. And before you’re overly impressed: no, they’re not all registered or even driveable.

Now and then one of the members posts something personal. It’s not really the ideal forum for that, but boys will be boys, I suppose. Anyway, one member who runs a transmission shop in PA posted this picture.


I “get it” but for those who are a little slow, a caption would have been nice. Sadly, the gentleman seems to have been a little overwhelmed at the time, so he didn’t add a caption. Later, he made an excellent recovery and posted:

Caption should of said look at this tranny in a target restroom

English is my third language. However linguistically unskilled I am, I could nevertheless find much room for improvement in the grammar for the above caption. Even so, his point is nevertheless clear. He’s cleverly making a pun with “tranny” (as in, slang for transmission) and “tranny” (as in slang for transsexual). Sparkling humor, to be sure.

For bonus points he’s tying this to the national topic-du-jour, which is that the Target Corporation has figured out that 4 inches of mostly-limp flesh don’t really outweigh a person’s brain as to what’s fundamental to categorizing a person by gender.

The brain is where ideas, thought, judgement, virtue, vice, motor control, emotions … heck, everything underlying character and personality … all reside. So, maybe a person with a female brain is female regardless of whether (like me) she has these few inches of extra flesh for now.

Those four inches of flesh are used mostly for urine discharge, but for guys they are also used for mostly-disappointing sexual performance (not fun) or hours of solo pleasure while eating Cheetos and watching porn (great fun, supposedly). Even though so many guys think these few inches or mostly-limp flesh are so very important, the Target Corporation folks still insist the brain is at least slightly more important. So do I.

Apparently, some folks disagree with the Target Corporation and with me, and they’re upset. Hence the controversy.

I assume that’s what our amateur humorist was getting at — even though he didn’t capitalize the word “target” which now reduces the phrase “target restroom” to also perhaps mean a restroom that someone is targeting … complex language, English.

ggg2016-04-28 17.26.52Anyway, I found the humor timely since just yesterday evening I had made a point of visiting the local Target department store in Sparks, NV and I had spent money there on general principle. Here’s my picture, taken yesterday. I like that picture. In fact, I like it so much that I posted it in response to the gentleman’s post, gently pointing out a problem with his humor.

To explain: He had taken a picture of a men’s restroom, supposedly that of a Target Corporation restroom. It shows a urinal. Urinals are not found in female restrooms. Girls (yes, including t-girls like me) prefer to sit and pee. Just like real girls .. mostly because we ARE real girls. So, I gently pointed out:

Except that I’d be in the female restroom … that’s the whole point. 

And yes, some of the nicest people on here who fix transmissions are transsexual chicks. We’re born with female brains and male plumbing. Hate us, beat us up, set us on fire, make dumb-ass jokes … we’re used to being treated like crap.  Sort of like blacks in the 30s through 70s. Assuming these are inferior human beings, joke away. It’s fine.

Not that I think black people or trans girls are inferior but much alleged humor seems to be based on that premise. So, as long as the premise holds, that could be very funny humor. Unfortunately, the premise doesn’t really hold up but … that really shouldn’t be news any more, in 2016.  Why, one of these years, a guy with a great mind like Dr. Ben Carson might actually last for a while as a presidential candidate even though (gasp) he’s black. Why, maybe one day a black guy might even be elected as mayor, somewhere.

Anyway, I didn’t wanna spoil the cheerful tone of the thread too much, so I also added some humor, in the form of the below picture with the caption:

gg2015-12-19 22.42.51

Here’s some more humor, me (a transsexual chick) doing a Statue of Liberty simulation using the clutch A drum out of a ZF 5HP-24A.  The original ZF part. Not the one used in the early A8 cars; the one after ZF beefed it up, until they figured out the problem was really with the valve body pressure regulator wearing out and over pressurizing the A drum.  Amazing what trans chicks know huh? 

Sadly, nobody else has as yet contributed any more humor to that particular thread.

Subsequent development 1: A very nice gentleman who runs a transmission shop in Vancouver, BC wrote benevolently and publicly:

My young daughter always Jokes with me . “Dad went to a Tranny Convention in Las Vegas” Tanya Good for you to speak up. Keep up the good work and keep on being a “Tranny Mechanic” !

That was nice, and I responded in kind.

Subsequent development 2:The gentleman suggested that the transmission industry insider magazine should maybe do an article on me, and I responded:

Wow, thank you. Maybe next year? Let’s wait until I’m a glowing success.  Right now I have the ZF 4HP-22 down but I wanna get good with the ZF 5HP-24 units before we shine the spot-light on me.  Girl or no girl, let’s judge me on merit, and right now there’s still more struggle than success. When you see a procession of dead Audis, Jaguars and BMWs come alive as they move through my shop, then it might be article time.






Being nice to Target

ggg2016-04-28 17.26.52As I understand the story, the department store Target is way ahead of most folks, and has figured out that:

  1. Trans girls are, well, girls
  2. Making female restrooms off-limits to some girls while welcoming them to male restrooms means they might eventually go into the male restroom.
  3. Sending a girl to pee in a guy’s restroom is a very bad idea even if (like me and so many t-girls) she would presumably use the stall not the urinal.

Here are two stories to illustrate why:


Story 1 involves me, a trans girl a.k.a. t-girl, going into a male restroom.

Story 2 involves a t-girl friend of mine, going into a female restroom (not at Target but in a hostile culture).

Story 1: T-girl in a Male Restroom

I came out openly as a trans girl long before places had generally figured out how to deal properly with t-girls in restrooms. Me, I adhered to the law and to public convention, as it was at the time. I was supposed to go pee in male restrooms, so I peed in male restrooms.

As to open-mindedness, it’s hard to imagine more open-minded a place than:

  • In San Francisco
  • In the heart of downtown
  • In the most elegant part of downtown
  • In a business supposed to be downright hospitable: a hotel
  • In an elegant hotel
  • In a very pricey hotel: the Hyatt.

So, this meant that a tall, blonde, leggy chick in a short cocktail dress (that would be me at the time) ended up walking elegantly into a bathroom stall in the men’s restroom in the Hyatt at the Embarcadero, San Francisco. So far, so good. I sat and peed as I’ve done ever since I was a little girl, and then I got up, flushed and went to the washbasin to wash my hands.

Problem: a guy was there, staring at me incredulously. I tried to be nonchalant. He stormed off. A few seconds later, an angry janitor marched in, stood near me and glared at me, then … I felt the hostility ebb and curiosity increase. Eventually I could just about hear the gears whirring in his head. Finally, my firm jaw and 6′ height and large hands probably helped him figure out that I’m a t-girl and by the dumb standards of the day, that’s where t-girls were supposed to go pee, so okay.

Was that an unpleasant waste of time for all involved? Yes. Were those dumb standards? Yes, then and now.

Story 2: T-girl in a Female Restroom

One of my t-girl friends went on a road trip with me. By that time, I’d finally gotten my ID changed to be officially female, so worst case if the bathroom police confronted me I’d flash my ID as my get-out-of-jail-free card since, hey, I’m a girl and I’m supposed to pee in girls’ restrooms — so leave me alone when I do that.

Fortunately it wasn’t a modern t-girl hating Nazi state where I expect the bathroom police will shine a flashlight “down there” to inspect me. In that case, ID or no ID, God help me if I have an outie as plumbing because by their standards that must make me public enemy number one.

So, for me, this was a very care-free road trip.

For my friend, however, it wasn’t. Even though she’s a t-girl and thus 100% female where it matters (her brain structure) she still had an ID that read “M” so if she went to the restroom she’d risk getting into big trouble either way, either being harassed by law enforcement (if she chose the female restroom) or by males (if she chose the male restroom). As we drove the 400 miles, I started commenting on how I was cheerfully hydrating whereas by contrast she hadn’t had anything to drink at all for the entire day, and I was concerned about her health. Not drinking anything all day, in a hot and dry climate … that can’t be good for her bladder, kidneys or whatever. She explained she’s intentionally avoiding drinking anything until we’re inside our hotel room since she doesn’t want to run the danger of having to go to a public restroom since it’d be dangerous for her either way. That’s the life of a t-girl in a hostile culture. Thank goodness there are now places like Target where people like my friend can safely go.

As to my friend, I’ve spent months with her in close situations and I trust her with my life and my every asset. She’s wonderful, gentle, and kind. She runs when she sees a spider. She wouldn’t hurt a fly, much less another human — unless in self-defense or in defense of someone else. However, she is 5’9″ and could at some point bench-press 400 pounds and has a serious “don’t mess with me” look plus she’s been in the US Army. So while she’s sweet as pie, she doesn’t look like it. And she’s also not yet done her voice training so her voice is … well, think “Rambo.” And she doesn’t look totally male or totally female. She looks like a transitioning t-girl because, well, she is.

If your daughter is ever being molested in a public restroom, pray that my t-girl friend is there too because while you’re doing the deer-in-the-headlights freeze, or pleading with the assailant(s), or fidgeting to try to dial 911 while sounding coherent … my t-girl friend would probably confront the assailant(s) and protect your daughter with all of her military training and with 5’9″ and 240 lbs of muscle and bone.

God knows why people think a t-girl in a women’s restroom makes it less safe for other girls. T-girls have typically had a long, hard life of being bullied by male bullies. If a t-girl sees a male bully  harass a girl (whether that girl is 7, 14, 17, 21  or 24) the t-girl is highly likely to step in and protect the girl who’s being attacked or assaulted — and probably the day will end with the assailant being in the emergency room, courtesy of the t-girl who stepped in to protect the other girl. You don’t need bathroom police. When it comes to keeping girls safe, any t-girls who happen to be around would make for very effective vigilante bathroom police against males.

Anyway, back to my story. On the 400-mile return leg of the road trip, it was becoming dusk and I was snacking on cashew nuts and I offered some to my t-girl friend. She ate a few … BIG mistake. They gave her a VERY upset tummy. Suddenly going to the bathroom pronto was not a luxury or option. We were in a VERY rednecky county in a VERY rednecky town (I know much about the culture there, since a close friend had been born there and lived there as a child). At 9:45 pm I pulled into the parking lot of a store that closes at 10 p.m. I proceeded to buy several items, and my friend sped to the ladies’ restroom. Ten minutes went by and the manager announced he’s closing up soon and needs everyone out. I went over to the ladies’ restroom and peeked inside the main door.  I didn’t know what to do. Multiple stalls were occupied. I didn’t wanna say “hey, wrap it up, they’re closing down” and then my t-girl friend responds in her deep voice and the lady in the other stall freaks out on the premise that “OMG Sylvester Stallone is in the stall next to mine.” So, I waited, hoping that someone would come out and then I planned to go check again in case only one stall was occupied. If so, I’d feel OK with initiating the “wrap it up” dialog.

Then, a nightmare development: a super-rednecky guy showed up with … two little girls. He waited outside and they went into the ladies’ restroom. If my t-girl friend came out of her stall who knows how the little girls might react but regardless, the rednecky guy standing outside the bathroom door would probably draw all the wrong conclusions (including that someone is guilty until proven innocent) and the day might well end with my t-girl friend being in jail — even though all she wanted to do was use the restroom in peace.

Given what male clientele thereabouts were generally like, it’s a good thing she didn’t chance the male restroom either … going to either restroom was truly a no-win situation for her.

I was already trying to figure out how to come up with bail money when the door opened and some people came out, including the two little girls. The rednecky guy left, thank goodness. Finally, my friend appeared. We paid for our purchases at about 9:59 p.m. and left.

Later, my t-girl friend told me that the little girls had been unable to reach the sink (too high for them) and had asked my t-girl friend (who was washing her own hands at the time) to help by lifting them up … can you imagine the scene if the daddy had peeked in and saw my t-girl friend’s hands on one of his little girls? Even though her intentions would have been as pure as the driven snow (i.e. to help the little girls reach the sink), he’d probably have punched her out without asking. By the time she woke up she’d have been in handcuffs.

Before you take too much comfort in the premise that the truth will eventually prevail, consider the injustice perpetrated against the McMartin kindergarten in the 1980s. Some misguided social worker apparently got the random idea that children were being molested there. Hysteria ran rampant. False accusations flew. Various adults did a splendid job of bullying little children into getting the hint and saying that yes, they’d been molested when in fact they were just trying to appease the bullying adults to get them to back off and leave. By the time all the false accusations had finally collapsed, no wrongdoing could be laid at the feet of the McMartin school or its staff. The people who had made the false accusations simply packed up their circus and wandered off, but you can just imagine how much damage had in fact been done to innocent people as a result of all this.

While you ponder that, you can also ponder how in this hostile-culture scenario my totally innocent t-girl friend in the ladies’ restroom might well have been the focus of public and official hysteria had the rednecky dad drawn the wrong conclusions. All it might have taken is one little girl saying quite innocently “daddy, there was a lady in there who looked and sounded sort of like a man.” By the time the false accusations finally subsided, my t-girl friend might well have been beat up, in prison, etc.

Now you can see why, in hostile cultures, bathrooms are a mine field for t-girls even though our intentions are as pure as the driven snow. By implication, I am categorically not going to North Carolina for the next decade or so, since the populace there has enough people to vote for the sort of politician who would pass an anti-t-girl bathroom law.

So, today, I needed NOTHING from Target but I decided to go spend my money there on principle anyway, just to say “thank you.” I bought birthday gifts for friends, months in advance.  Here’s a picture of me, a happy t-girl in Target, spending money today in the (affordable) jewelry section.

ggg2016-04-28 17.40.16

Yay for Target!







Success Story #6 in Intense Mentoring: Body Dysphoria

The t-girl lady whom I mentored as my live-in roommate, for 5 months or so, experienced a huge change in body dysphoria.

She came here driving a VERY nice car, with a legendary engine. She’d barely been able to to afford it but as a techie, she appreciated good engineering. She was a walking encyclopedia as to this car and its technical  traits. I’m an automotive engineer and even by my high standards, she is very knowledgeable. She bought and downloaded the multi-thousand-page online manual and devoured it.  She had bought and installed extra diagnostics that even including modifying the wiring harness.  It all worked. She drove the car well, hard and fast. It was her pride and joy. The smallest anomaly in its behavior, she noticed and focused on correcting ASAP. Nothing was too good for this car. She even serviced the transmission herself, even though she had never done it before and lacked all the ideal tools. Even so she did it right, and well — and methodically. It took her almost a week, but she was dedicated to doing it perfectly.

Every so often, when she was taking a breath between paragraphs of chatting about the technical wonders of her car, I’d gently point out how magnificent her own physique would be if she treated herself, specifically her body, as nicely as she does her car. She acknowledged the point but for the first few months, that didn’t happen.

It certainly needed to. Before she came here, her heath was in bad shape. Daily meals consisted of mostly Ramen noodle cups, plus the not-so-healthy food her mom would prepare for family dinners.  As far as I could tell, the t-girl didn’t much care. She was focused on cerebral concerns. As to her body, it really didn’t seem to matter to her. She weighed a lot more than ideal but (key point) in an unhealthy way. When she came here I was very concerned.

Yes, I made her healthy food to eat, but that was only half the battle. The other half is best summed up by a phrase that I recall as to overweight people (which group included me, until recently): “It’s not just about what you’re eating, it’s also about what’s eating you.”

For t-girls with body dysphoria, that seems to be a very apt phrase.

Then, about three months after arriving, she started becoming more focused on what she was eating and how her body was reacting. More and more, the balance shifted from her car to herself. It was wonderful for me to observe.


Grow a Pair, Ladies

I hope this is the worst analogy I ever use in this blog. In the US, the expression basically is offensive male-culture-speak for “I advocate more bravery and less timidity.”

I enjoyed reading the Hunger Games books by Suzanne Collins. I also enjoyed watching the movies. For those who haven’t yet: Run, don’t walk, to the bookstore and buy all three books, and after reading them (yes, after … not instead of) go watch all three movies.

Meanwhile, here’s a total plot spoiler for the first book: The heroine feeds her family by hunting in the wild (seriously bad-ass), using a bow and arrow (seriously bad-ass) that’s outlawed and whose possession carries a severe penalty (seriously bad-ass). She doesn’t hide that she’s a bow-and-arrow wildlife hunter but instead trades her kills (seriously bad-ass) on the black market that is itself also outlawed (seriously bad-ass). Then, when her little sister is about to essentially get executed by the evil totalitarian state she volunteers to take her little sister’s place (seriously bad-ass) and then scolds her mother into getting herself together and managing the family better than she did after the last crisis (another bad-ass thing to do). And all that was just a warm-up.

Next, she gets to deal with a cultural mess that’s seriously peculiar yet her life depends on it, and she does so well (in a bad-ass way) then gets annoyed at being disrespected and shoots an arrow right into a banquet being enjoyed by the complacent dolts who dissed her (which earns her a black belt in badassness) and then gets dumped into a sort of gladiator’s arena where it’s “kill or be killed.”

She doesn’t just end up cleverly offing several seriously bad-ass well-trained killers (black belt level of badassity) but does so in a way whereby she gives the middle finger to the evil totalitarian state that orchestrated the whole thing (super-badassedness) while keeping her integrity (the most badass thing of all) and also sparking an entire revolution (seriously badass too) for which she’s the personal symbol (need I even comment, yes folks, that’s badass) and in the process seriously pissing off the evilmost totalitarian dictator (b.a. yet again).

Next, she waxes her face and body, showers, does her hair and make-up, puts on a pretty skirt and goes to a Thanksgiving party at which at least 3/4 of the people there say mean things and three of four snicker yet she deals with it (kinda bad-ass). She goes shopping where some shoppers stare at her and the cashier calls her “sir” yet she deals with it (kinda bad-ass) and some teenage boys say rude things to her yet she deals with it (kinda bad-ass) and finally on the way to her car some shady characters inspire her to realize there’s a serious risk that they want to beat her up or worse, but she keeps her cool, gets into her car, locks it and quickly drives away, making sure she’s not being followed (kinda bad-ass).

You probably guessed it — that last paragraph wasn’t from the books. It’s from the life of many trans girls. And yes, such a life is hard, and it’s awkward. The bad parts can suck. Can such a situation feel overwhelming? Yes. But all in all, how bad is it really compared to how bad things could be, as dramatized in the movies that have prepared you mentally over many years? Maybe not that much, yes?

Let’s break it down analytically. The problem is basically that some people are mean, and hostile to a chick being trans. A subset is downright dangerous. Now, let’s mentally erase the jerks from the picture and replay these scenes, substituting the mean people with nice people. Downright nice, right?

Perhaps now it’s time to draw on the wisdom of Leon Nel, as explained to me by his daughter. She was feeling sorry for herself one day long ago, perhaps with good cause, perhaps not. Her dad suggested that if she saw a pile of dog poop and behind it a lovely sunset, then she was free to choose to focus on either or both, to any extent. I like the point he was trying to make.

As an “out” trans girl, it’s great to finally be yourself openly. It’s SO great. However, there are people who personify the dog poop in the story. If you can avoid them and de-emphasize them when you allocate your mental focus, you’ll probably find them to be an ever-more trivial part of your life to where they don’t represent hurdles, and are more like … a tiny pile of dog poop in front of a very lovely sunset.


Male Privilege

I just read an interesting post by a trans girl who lives in a part of the US where it’s safe to say that many of the folks in power are misogynistic. She’s feeling some guilt at having had that privilege and besides, having been on the receiving end of male privilege while never being male at all, as to what counts: her brain structure.

I relate. I rose in industry in a highly misogynistic society that saw me as a male. As a trans girl, would I have had the same opportunities? No. In fact, I’d have been, quite simply, dead. As hints of my femininity shone through in spite of my efforts to conceal them, life became very dangerous for me until I moved far away from where I was living at the time. I started over, in a vastly more open-minded society … yet was it still misogynistic? Yes, just less so.

By the time I came out openly as a trans girl, I owned several businesses including a custom software development business. I was doing well enough financially. However, the economy wasn’t, and my personal economics would soon follow.

I came close to being homeless, in large part due to being utterly broke with a horrible credit record, one very cold, dark December not that long ago. Some clients and friends simply went dark permanently, when I came out as a trans girl. Whoever continued funding my work was rationally focused on their own business benefits: whether a trans girl or not, I had added much value over the years, and they knew it.  So, it made sense for them to keep me involved even though I looked, sounded and felt excruciatingly awkward. Most of the interaction with them was over the Internet and phone anyway.

My point here is that coming out puts everything to the test. I don’t know why I somehow ended just ended up with the mental image of a Terminator being hit by a flame-thrower.  Everything extraneous burns away, but the essence of what’s strong … that remains. So during transition I certainly burned away every credit I’d been given when I was thought to be male. Although a few exceptions did exist, it’s safe to say that for most of my clients, me being a trans girl was socially far lower on the social-acceptability scale than being male or a genetically integrated girl. Whatever remained, did so out of sheer merit.

So, as to any injustice a t-girl might feel she endorsed by riding the wave of male privilege however far it took her … coming out is like being mauled in the surf. It’s a grim analogy because even in less-than-knee-deep water, an able adult can nevertheless drown in the surf. If, in spite of all that, you can get up and keep going, whatever you carry with you then, you deserve.


Success Story #5 in Intense Mentoring: Make-Up

This is the happy story of a wonderful t-girl who openly as such, 24×7, lived with me for five months and received much in-person mentoring from me, and also from my lovely, brilliant, make-up-savvy girl-friend.

When I first met this t-girl, she had spent multiple hours getting ready to meet me. She had described herself in very non-flattering terms, but when  I met her in at the airport, I was blown away by how pretty she is. Certainly, her lovely make-up helped, sort of like how pretty icing on a pretty cake makes everything look better yet.

The first few weeks when she lived with me, she’d spent multiple hours putting on make-up and getting aesthetically ready to start her day. Granted, by the time she was ready for breakfast, she looked like a model, and I had no basis for complaining. Even so, I was concerned about how much of her energy and time was going toward this. Also, the more make-up that a girl has on, the easier it can get smudged or smeared. Indeed, this seemed to be a factor that caused her some frustrations, both when applying the make-up and during her day.

gg2015-08-06 20.21.06With the results being shown in the accompanying picture of me, my own daily make-up routine consists of 30 seconds’ worth of putting on eyebrow pencil, so between my minimalist approach and her current approach there would probably be some optimal point for her.

My girl-friend is, by my standards, lovely even with zero make-up on. However, with make-up on, she’s jaw-droppingly pretty to where it’s downright comical for me to be next to her in public and to then see the effect that she has on guys.

Anyway, she is informally a well-qualified make-up high priestess and she proceeded to mentor my t-girl protege as such. As a result, the t-girl thereafter appeared every day at the breakfast table while looking very pretty, her make-up all done — and it didn’t take her long at all. The time savings added up to many hours per week — and she looked arguably better yet than with thick make-up.

Also, her during-the-day lifestyle could be more relaxed and didn’t involve being afraid that she’d smear or smudge.

So, as to make-up, this part of mentoring was a huge success too.

Committing to SRS

Yesterday, I committed to a date for surgery “down there” (and no, I don’t mean Australia, that’s “down under”) … and the date is very far in the future, so that I can have more than enough time to first pay off my debt before I spend money on that. I’ve been slowly but steadily making progress as such …

That date is so far away that I’m surprised at how positive my anticipation nevertheless is … besides, I always thought of this as being the sort of step that’s an “extra” as in, optional … meaning, I can live with it or without it … and yet now that I’ve committed, I feel very different about it. Suddenly I value that development fiercely … much as it’s still far away.

Strange journey, this …

Anger: a Useful Resource

Although I can’t phrase it as precisely as she did, the psychologist Edith Packer described anger as an emotional state that results from the individual concluding, whether through sound logic or otherwise, that injustice is afoot.

Anger can make it difficult to think clearly and do the right thing, and yet often that’s when the stakes are highest and self-control is most essential.

Even so, anger can help motivate someone to keep going in the face of intense adversity. Anger can be used productively when it’s directed at overcoming obstacles within one’s own control.

Example 1: My mom has made some decisions that resulted in her having a very hard life. That has definitely sapped her resources (including money, energy and enthusiasm) for dealing with the problems and challenges of life. I know her well enough to observe when she’s headed into an emotionally downward spiral. Fortunately, I also know that before things get too glum, she gets angry, and decides that, dammit, she is going to do something to overcome the current challenge. She juts her jaw out, gets a fiery look in her eyes, and finds new energy, and she’s fine again until the next time she loses momentum.

Example 2: I briefly socialized with a brilliant and lovely lady who was a pretty dancer at a strip club. When I met her she seemed to really be struggling with the challenges of everyday life; odd things like her contact lenses scratching her eyes and her glasses being broken, and no money to fix either. Her car also had a failing head gasket. She’d spent her last few hundred dollars on a mechanic who had sort-of-fixed it but not well enough. Her car also had a broken window and broken ignition lock from a theft attempt. She explained that by saying that she lived in one of the worst parts of Reno. After she told me her address, I had to agree with her. In spite of all this, she was struggling bravely. For example, she’d gone to the junkyard and bought an inexpensive used replacement window and was planning to install it personally. Meanwhile, she’d made an interim hand-crafted plastic window. She showed it to me. It was very cleverly made. It could even roll up or down. I liked her spirit.

Just two years before I met her, she had been on top of the world. She had owned a three-story house on the golf course, been a highly respected paralegal, and the featured stripper and calendar cover girl at the premier club in Reno. Her two careers made her more money than she knew what to do with, so after buying herself some modest luxuries such as a new VW Jetta, she just put the extra money into her savings account. Brilliant, blonde, brave and gorgeous, she came as close to Supergirl as I anyone I’ve met. Weekends, she used to go water-skiing, and she enjoyed going to clubs. She had tried and been unimpressed by every drug available on the social scene. Things that got others seriously hooked didn’t even phase her. Then she tried meth, and the rest is history.  Her life fell apart and it was near this low point that I met her, though she was already on her way to getting stronger.

I was fairly clueless about meth, never having done it and not knowing much about it except for propaganda ads from sources that had long since lost all credibility as far as I’m concerned. I asked a friend of mine, whose ex-wife used to be on meth, to tell me more. When he heard the reason for my request, he reacted as if I’d walked into his office with some sticks of dynamite strapped around my chest. He urged me to immediately break all contact with the girl, change my phone number and so on. He was adamant and gave me some alarming-sounding details though not enough to convince me to react quite that strongly.

After I’d left his office, I weighed what he’d said, and decided on a course of action. I do nowadays have no more contact with the lady, but it was a gentle drifting-away process during which she has convinced me that my friendship had made a vital difference in her life. And as far as I know she’s still off the stuff. The details of the story don’t really fit here; ask me more if you care.

Anyway, the key point is that I asked her how the heck she managed to overcome this seriously bad stuff from the clutches of which very, very few people ever escape? “I got angry,” she said. She explained that she had thought and thought about it, and had become furious at the self-inflicted injustice of how her great her life had been vs. what it had become. She was clear that she was the one who had chosen to ingest this substance but she managed to focus her resentment on this chemical for the effect it had had on her life. She detested this stuff with so fervent a hatred that she stayed off it.

As our paths in life slowly drifted apart over the months, she was, as far as I could tell, still on an upward path, still clean, now living in a decent place in a decent environment, with a reliable car that her new employer had helped her buy, and she was again working in a law office. Even though she was “only” a legal secretary, she had already helped her boss, a high-up lawyer,  win one court case, by finding him, (on her own initiative) a pivotally case-winning  passage in just the right law book.

And so in this case, her anger was useful.

Example 3: A t-girl friend of mine had wanted to come out to her family for a long time but it’d be most awkward given the specifics, and she always shied away from doing it.  One day there was a general argument that resulted from a family meeting having degenerated very badly. My friend was so infuriated by the sheer injustice of how her family members were behaving. Although this particular injustice didn’t have anything to do with my friend being a t-girl, she was so angry during that meeting that she somehow found the courage to also say “since we’re all laying it out there, here’s one more news item: I’m a girl.  Look,” and then she produced pictures of her looking openly female, and so gorgeous in her lovely make-up and corset that her mother started arguing with her as to no, that couldn’t possible be her, and my friend was ready for that argument too. Anger was useful to her, in that situation.

To quote a line from Terminator 2: “Anger is more useful than despair.”

I’m no counselor and I can’t say how psychologically healthy such anger is as long-range fuel to keep someone able to power through the adversities of life. My guess is … it’s probably far from ideal as a continuous stimulant. And taking out one’s anger on others changes the dynamic of the relationship forever, and no apology can undo that.

Caveats aside, anger can be useful. So the next time I lack the courage to go out and do something (which nowadays doesn’t happen often since I’ve become quite brave) I plan to dwell on the injustice of the situation, and if that inspires anger then I’ll be ready to channel it and use it.

Why Some Guys Like Trans Girls

This is a strange subject on an already-strange blog; it’s sort of like me writing on the subject of “why cats like catnip.” Inherently, I’d be writing from an outsider’s perspective.

So, why the question? Because someone asked me to conjecture on the subject.

And yes, I admit, conjecture is the best I can do. And, I’m generalizing.

Why did he ask, specifically, me? Well, I get hit on a lot, and when I did escorting, the main skill I developed was saying “no thank you.” Demand for me vastly outstripped supply. Instead of raising my price, I raised my standards (or to be exact, I felt less ridiculous about upholding them). That made for an escort with an empty room, empty bed and empty bank account, and it also explains why I am less-than-inspired to continue doing escorting. And yes, I wrote “escorting” not “prostitution.” There’s a difference. Not that there’s anything objectively wrong with either one, but had I been doing the latter I’d have been making a lot more money. Or in some months, “any money” as opposed to “no money.”

So, even though I’m probably the least successful escort on the planet, I did learn a lot about why guys like t-girls, a.k.a. transsexual girls … girls such as myself. Sometimes “like” is too bland a word to describe it. I’ve interacted with more than my share of guys who were so obsessed that I was creeped out – so nowadays I am even more safety-conscious. Very few people actually know where I live, day to day, and I like it that way.

Now that I’ve presented my rationale and credentials, on to the main point.

For my teenage readers I’ll try to keep this bland though it’s really more for your parents’ naive delusions because probably there’s nothing in here that most American teenagers haven’t already learned about from their peer group culture or online. I’ll be using the terms “top” and “bottom” in the next paragraph. They don’t describe positions during sex; they describe roles during sex. British and German cultures use the parallel terms “active” and “passive.” This doesn’t describe who’s energetic vs. who’s not; it describes roles – specifically, if you think about it mechanically, what goes where. That’s about as explicit as I should get unless I wanna reclassify my blog as adult material, thus making it unavailable to the folks who might need it most desperately.

Many guys are mainly Interested in being the bottom, with the t-girl being the top. I can at best try to estimate the percentage of such guys, based on my own experience as to guys expressing interest in me, and for which reasons.  I’d estimate the number to be maybe 80% of the guys who are interested in t-girls. Then again, the true number might well be much higher yet because whenever I viably could (which is almost always), I mentioned right up front in my listing what I don’t do.  So, the guys who nevertheless ask for what I don’t offer are those who don’t bother to read. For me to guess how many guys would have been interested had I been willing to do that, but they actually read what I don’t do, and they never contacted me  … I can’t even begin to guess. Probably the 80% is a far-too-low number but who knows.

There’s much irony here. Having body dysphoria (the opposite of euphoria) isn’t an essential part of being a t- girl, though that’s often the case. If she has any body dysphoria, it’s typically focused on the t-girl’s front plumbing. For many t-girls, myself included, we’d just as well have that body part go away (safely, of course), and if we had a time machine and could have a do-over on how we were born, many of us would prefer to be born with plumbing that’s consistent with our brain structure, hence an “innie” instead of an “outie,” hence making us a genetically integrated girl instead of a t-girl.

So, as the gentleman who asked the question wisely pointed out: for a guy to be focused on the one t-girl body part that us t-girls dislike the most … more than the pretty face we might have thanks to surgery and/or make-up, more than the pretty physique we might have thanks to surgery, exercise and/or taking hormones, more than the smooth skin we might have thanks to electrolysis, waxing or shaving, more than the pretty hair we have thanks to growing it out and having it colored and styled … if such a focus seems misguided and makes us feel unappreciated as a woman, that should not be a surprise.

I used to date a pretty brunette, a genetically integrated girl who worked as a stripper. I like strip clubs and I’ve worked as a stripper (though not in a strip club). When I bought a dance from this lady at the strip club, she started by grinding her pretty butt in my lap. I gently asked her to stop, and explained how delightful she looks to me, and that I’d love to enjoy her visually. Even though (I hastened to point out) she feels very sexy, I’m more enthused about seeing her grace and beauty than about the sensation. She replied: “Wow … [by contrast] guys are all about sensation in their crotch. They just want me to make contact there, and then they say: grind, baby, grind.” Anyway, I got to see and enjoy her lovely looks and gracious movements while she danced, ten feet away from me. Afterwards, she said that this had been, to her, the sexiest she’d ever felt in her work as a stripper. She also initiated a romantic relationship with me. Moral of this paragraph: as a generalization: to guys, the sensation in their crotch is most likely their major focus. For girls, it’s very, very, very much not most likely our major focus. And that very much includes t-girls, so it’s not a physical-shape thing; it’s based on how our brains are wired: female.

While it might seem incomprehensible to many or most guys that a t-girl wouldn’t be all that enthused as to sensation at her crotch, that lack of enthusiasm is very common among t-girls — and genetically integrated girls too. Not that we necessarily abhor the sensation (though indeed, some of us do); it just doesn’t make up for any significant negative factors in the dynamic — such as the guy being a jerk, or dirty, or likely to be unsafe, or doing so while cheating on someone, or drunk, or high.

Here is an example of one such guy-girl disconnect. One gentleman became enraptured with me. He bought time from me, drove long distances to be with me, interviewed me on his video recorder, recorded my strip-dancing for him in my hotel room, and took many pictures — some of which he had printed and framed, to give to me as presents. He bought me many delightfully thoughtful presents in addition to being happy to pay for hotel rooms and my escorting fee. He wrote me the nicest emails, and genuinely doted on me as if I were to him the prettiest girl on earth. However, much of his focus (though, thankfully, not all of it) was on my, um, plumbing – more so than I really appreciated or felt comfortable about. Eventually, I decided to send him an email, speaking up about it. I figured he’d simply omit that aspect from his focus, and enjoy the rest of me. Not so. I got a polite, brief email saying that removing this aspect from the festivities made me completely uninteresting to him, and he wished me success with my journey in life. I never saw him again nor ever heard from him again.

So, the 80%+ of guys who like t-girls for our male-shaped plumbing (assuming we even have it any more) … they tend to find relatively few t-girls willing to be part of that dynamic. That’s why, in the escorting and prostitution business, a t-girl willing to be a top to guys … can make a lot of money per hour. Not that I know from personal experience, but some of my t-girl friends do.

Now, as to the remainder of guys (the remaining less-than-20%):

Some guys might like a woman whose integrity is so strong that she broke through all the dangers, ridicule, awkwardness, cultural taboos, emotional hurdles, career problems, financial issues, family issues, current-relationship issues and operational barriers that an openly-out t-girl has … so as to insist on celebrating her femininity by living as such openly. As to such strength of character, many t-girls personify that.

As to the level of femininity that t-girls must have experienced so as to become very well-aware of it and to have a great many examples of how her femininity broke through all the attempts to suppress it, including perhaps her own denial: it must have been very high. For reasons I now consider unnecessary, I took the Stanford University BEM gender test, which is so scientifically geeky that I don’t understand all of it, and needed a gender counselor to interpret that for me. It been highly refined for decades, and it’s so sophisticated that it includes built-in safeguards so that even if someone were to try to cheat on the test, they’d do so using their gender-specific mindset. The test results showed that, yes, I’m certainly female so I could stop second-guessing myself about it, but there’s more. Compared to a large-sample control group of genetically integrated girls, my test results would put me at the 85% percentile as to femininity, hence more feminine as to my brain wiring than 17 out of every 20 girls (as a generalization, of course). No surprise then, that my femininity was so strong that it overcame so much to break free. So, regardless of her plumbing and how she looks, sounds or moves, a t-girl might be one of the most feminine females around. A few guys have observed that, and they prefer t-girls for that reason: they are drawn to femininity.

As to being intimately familiar with addictions and suicidal ideation, many t-girls have been there, done that. That doesn’t make us professional counselors, but it makes us better able to having empathy when a friend is having such struggles, and to better know the limits of how much a friend can and should do. As opposed to doing damage (albeit unintentional) as an amateur, many t-girls know when to instead refer a troubled friend to professional help. Some guys appreciate that.

Once we live openly as ourselves, t-girls often walk away and stay away from abusive substances (and abusive family relationships, living quarters and workplaces). Many guys appreciate clean-living girls who choose a healthy life-style, with bonus points for being well-aware of the alternatives.

As to coping with the awkwardness we feel in many social situations, some t-girls develop a sharp wit and sense of humor. The four wittiest people in my life … all t-girls. Somehow I doubt that’s a coincidence. Some people enjoy wry humor and that might be one more reason why guys like t-girls.

I have no reason to believe that Geena Davis is a t-girl, but her tall stature and muscular physique, albeit in a totally feminine way, probably did much to help her acting career. As to those two attributes, most t-girls are inherently taller and more muscular than genetically integrated girls. Some guys prefer that.

Genetically integrated girls tend to have a very different fat distribution than t-girls do, unless the t-girl went on feminizing hormones at the start of puberty. Personally, I wish I had the curvy hips and butt that my genetically integrated girlfriend does, but many guys like the more-slender look that many t-girls have.

Many female models or movie stars have a very square, masculine-shaped jaw line such as t-girls tend to naturally have. Some guys consider that a visual trait that makes a girl prettier.

T-girls know that NOTHING in a feminine life is to be taken for granted. We cherish every positive or potentially positive moment and aspect. It’s never just “throw on some clothes.” It’s “oooh, what will I look pretty in today?” A successfully-out t-girl can be the most exultant, joyous person. Having someone like that in one’s life can be like a ray of sunshine, like watching the joie-de-vivre of a playful kitten or puppy who is simply happy to be alive.

Even the negative events have a sort-of-positive aspect because at least we’re finally being treated as the women we are. That includes males being dismissive of our opinions and concerns. For example, few things will make a girl feel as profoundly feminine as having a dumb-ass male mechanic laugh derisively at whatever concern she has just expressed, especially when it’s a well-pondered and perfectly legitimate point … or in the case of myself and my BMW-savvy female friend, a subject in which her knowledge exceeds that of the mechanic and she needs his involvement only because his boss owns a specialty BMW tool that only his employee is allowed to use.

The happiness of a t-girl is rarely just superficial. It often has very deep roots. She’s probably walked through fire to get to live as who she is, openly. Even though it was terrifying, she continued. That’s bravery. Some guys can respect that.

Sexually, before she goes on hormones, she’s very horny and energetic, and eager to enjoy sex while being appreciated as much as possible as the woman she is. She is eager to look as good as she can, for herself and for her sex life.

After she goes on hormones, she’s more feminine yet and less actively horny — but probably also more open to being wooed, with the t-girl in a less-active social-relationship role, e.g., finally, she’s the one being given flowers, no longer always the one buying flowers for others.

Culturally, she deeply understands female culture due to having embraced it. She appreciates the female-female dynamic like few genetically integrated girls can.

A t-girl also tends to deeply understand male culture due to having tried to fit in with it. She can’t think like a male does because she doesn’t have a male brain structure, but she has had much opportunity to understand how males would approach things. That can make t-girls more practical companions, paid or otherwise.

The life story of a t-girl is often the result of choosing interesting lines of work so as to try to prove to herself and others that she can succeed even in the most challenging of male cultures, so many t-girls have worked as law enforcement, military, engineering, mechanics, truck drivers. Often we have felt driven to excel in these fields.

Her personal pastimes often reflect male-culture influence, too. She’s more likely to be the girl who likes fishing, hunting, guns, motorcycles, muscle cars and airplanes. That can make her a more practical companion too, for males.

Part-way out of trying to come across as macho, and part-way out of necessity. a t-girl is more likely to be the girl who has taken self-defense classes, and is able to defend herself with a weapon. That can be practical too — sometimes pivotally so. Some of my favorite scenes in movies are when there’s a criminal threat and a strong female rises to the occasion, and does a splendid job of defending herself and others.

Often, what makes a t-girl interesting to many guys  is how she personifies a paradox: someone with a blend of male and female insights, a personified sophisticated puzzle, a being who isn’t what she seems to be even in full honesty.  Sometimes it’s the most mysterious, complex women who enchant men. She a mystery they’re trying to solve, a secret code they’re trying to decipher. She can add more excitement, intrigue and danger than many adventures, books, movies or video games can offer.

Benevolence Then, Benevolence Now

gg2016-02-26 14.33.47I live in a small rednecky-seeming town in northern Nevada, and you might think that me openly being a t-girl here would be about as unpopular as burning the American flag or a Hillary bumper sticker.

I assumed that’d be the case, that, and as part of coming out, I was already making arrangements to move to Las Vegas.  And then a funny thing happened after I came out — nothing.

The people in my life locally, including some very  hardcore, tattooed, hairy-chested, no-nonsense, type A personality males who just about radiate testosterone … ended up being ultra-super nice to me. Instead of shunning me or being mean to me, they started treating me like I was their little sister. There’s no sexual spark with any of them, it’s just plain, wonderful, asexual benevolence. As far as I can tell, anyway.

The hardware store, the auto parts stores, the computer fix-it store, the auto repair shop, the locksmith, the fire station, the police station … all male-dominated cultures and they all seem to be extra-super-nice to me, whether they knew me before I came out as  t-girl or not — and most did.

I recently bought an old Jeep, for one of my projects, and it has four flat tires. So, I need the tires removed, no more than two wheels at a time, because I have two jacks and two wheels holding up the jeep now. The wheels are rusted so I just need the old tires removed and thrown away. Then I’ll de-rust the steel wheels, paint them and bring them back to have tires fitted. I’ve already bought some used tires for that too.

There is, of course, a charge for removing the tires and there’s also a tire disposal fee. That’s fine with me.  So, one fine day, looking resplendently female, having recently had my hair done, and wearing a pretty pink top and purple dress, I showed up at the auto repair place whom I’ve done business with for years, before and after I came out openly as the girl I am. I know everyone there, at the upper levels of the business. That includes the service manager who helped me that day.

A customer was just wrapping up a transaction.”Will you be leaving the car here, then?” the service manager asked. “Yes, but I need a ride back to work,” said the lady, grumpily, frowning.  The service manager nodded, as in “I’ll take you” but then he looked at me, smiled and asked how he could help me. After I explained, he said “let me quickly take care of this right now so you don’t have to make a second trip to come back and get them.” Not that this would have been much of an inconvenience, since it’s a tiny town, but wow, how nice. Meanwhile the grumpy customer waited, looking even more grumpy now.

Long ago, when I was in pretend-to-be-a-guy mode I’d haul the stuff out of my car and bring it in.  No more of that. I just stood around feeling pretty while he put on some gloves and got the wheels and tires out of my car for me.  He removed each tire from its wheel and then took the wheels back to my car. I was already rummaging for my credit card, and I asked him how much it’d cost, though I had a pretty good idea it’d cost around twelve dollars.  “Nah, don’t worry about it,” he smiled. No charge.

Wow. Life is good. Yay for small-town America … this one, anyway.