The Great Chain

I see @foone has switched from reblogging deer girls… to reblogging John Deere girls. 🙂

Imagine the frustration of trying to do maintenance on your robot gf only to find out her wiring diagrams, code, and repair manual are considered confidential and proprietary and only factory certified technicians are allowed or able to work on her. Now imagine working tirelessly to build a wiring diagram, reverse engineer her code, and documenting troubleshooting and maintenance procedures

Fever dreams

Between stress and a good old-fashioned rhinovirus, I've been having a lot of strange dreams; last night was no exception.

First, I dreamt that an Italian man was attempting to seduce me. (I'm not sure why my fevered brain opted for a Mediterranean origin - perhaps because I knew an incorrigible duo of Italian Lotharios in my younger years?)

Naturally, I rebuffed him - I'm a married woman!

Second, I dreamt that I was hurriedly pacing an unfamiliar street, with only an undersized towel to hide my modesty. I was of course then approached by several men with the intent to perpetrate a robbery at a gunpoint. (Most unpleasant stuff.)

Interestingly however: in both instances, I was incredibly aware that (a) I was trans, and (b) in the dreams themselves, fully physically transitioned (to the point that the aforementioned Casanova was mistakenly under the impression that I was cis).

Until now, my dreams have generally been modeled on my former identity and appearance; and it is both fascinating, and long overdue, to see them finally catch up!

Office space

My company has decided to rearrange our current layout; so I went into our location today for the purpose of conveying the contents of my current office to my new office.

Amongst other items, this includes some solid wooden shelves and a two-piece desk. These are not light items.

In the past, I've been able to move these things myself (albeit with great effort and probably minus OSHA approval); brute-forcing them onto a dolly and wheeling them to their destination.

Not this time around though! I just didn't have the strength. I was able to get some of the smaller pieces by myself, but when it came to the main part of the desk I had to rope our network engineer in for assistance.

(And he made it look so easy! At one point he had to take the weight of the whole thing while I moved and it didn't phase him in the slightest!)

It's fascinating because I don't actually feel, in any way, shape or form, weaker; but the evidence absolutely speaks for itself. As I've noted before - there's a serious danger that I will injure myself because I can't estimate my own strength properly anymore.

In addition, I ran into an older member of our organization. The last time we met I was in a dress, and he gave a sort of weird half-chuckle / smile that could be interpreted as "Good for her!" or "That's hilarious".

This time around, I said hi and he responded with "Yes, sir".

I can't tell yet whether he's just struggling to adjust or holds some actual, maladjusted views; but now I'm kind of wondering.

"Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. The third time it's enemy action." - Auric Goldfinger

Guess I will wait for a third time and see what happens!

After many attempts, I was able to record myself playing the piano. I had only been playing for about three months at this point.

For the curious - the audio was transmitted from the 1/4" headphone jack of my Yamaha P-71 to a Behringer U-Phoria UM2 audio interface, which in turn transmitted the signal to my laptop. Video was from a Logitech c920 webcam, suspended by a hilariously rudimentary wooden dowel armature.

(Alas, the webcam was primarily designed for video chat; hence the constant auto-focusing. Purportedly there is a Logitech utility for disabling this feature.)

I've mentioned before my newfound propensity for stage fright. Apparently this carries over into video recordings; despite the lack of audience and my complete control over the recording environment! The human brain is a strange and silly thing; regardless, it took about eight hours of attempts before I finally got an acceptable take...

Back in the day, in the pre-HRT times, I found it tremendously difficult to connect with my own emotions. One of the few ways I could do so (at least, partially) was with the accompaniment of appropriate music.

For me, Any Other Name was a quiet, contemplative piece by which I could access the piercing sadness, the constant hurt, that punctuated so much of my early life. I have at times dubbed it a 'suicide song'; although this is perhaps a misstatement: it was by listening to these gentle notes, that I was able to release that pressure and stave off a dark fate.

I no longer require the service of this incredible musical work; but I will not forget it in a hurry, or the tremendous aid it rendered me.

Another Test

It came to my attention this afternoon that a colleague had left the office on Friday, feeling unwell; and come Saturday had tested positive for COVID. This individual is someone that works two offices down for mine and is often in close proximity.

This meant, of course, that it would be wise of me to go get tested again. The last time I was tested, it triggered a lengthy flashback.

(As always, I stress: my response to these kinds of medical scenarios is a result of my PTSD, and not an indictment of medicine. Get tested, get vaccinated, protect yourselves and others!)

Anyhow: I wasn't super thrilled about this turn of events, and let my boss know that I was heading out and most likely would not be back for the day. He did very kindly point out that we had some test kits in-office (allegedly; nobody seemed to know where); to which I countered that the last thing my coworkers needed to see was me in tears.

Fast forward: the system for registering an appointment at the test site worked well this time; and apart from a small hiccup (they had moved a mile down the road to a new location), everything was pretty much the same. The technician asked me to sit in the car and came back with a swab and sample vial.

Now, here's where things differed slightly: when my spouse was initially tested (all the way back at the start of the pandemic), the swap took the form of an elongated Q-Tip. Having this pushed all the way to the back of the sinuses was unpleasant; but I understand the discomfort subsided quickly as soon as the test was completed.

When I was tested for the first time, the swap had clearly been updated with comfort in mind: there was a thin, flexible plastic stem with a small, soft, sponge on the tip. It wasn't inserted fully into the sinus, and frankly, there was no pain or discomfort to speak of.

This is what I was expecting to see again; so imagine my unpleasant surprise when the technician withdrew from its sterile wrapping what I can only describe as a fiercely-bristled pipe cleaner.

The technician proceeded to tell me to hold my breath for five seconds, which was also a new and highly discouraging change in procedure.

I warned her that I might be somewhat unresponsive after the test was administered and not to take that personally; and she understood. Then came the part where I tilted my head back, closed my eyes, and felt this monstrosity enter my left nostril. The technician counted to five while sawing this thing back and forth along every side of my sinus cavity.

To be clear: I am no stranger to unpleasant sensations (which I will note shortly). This, however, was absolutely misery-inducing. I broke down crying the moment the technician turned away from me.

Six hours later, and my sinuses still hurt. They itch, constantly; and my nose has been running all evening. I cannot possibly fathom which person thought it was a good idea to take what was already an invasive, annoying test - and make it infinitely worse.

I have two of note:

There’s an indentation above my right brow; when I was born, the obstetrician had to use forceps - and was a little too forceful in doing so. (Very few people realize this is a scar, however.)

On the left brow, there’s a half-inch long scar from a rejected eyebrow piercing (which I, alas, foolishly failed to address until it was too late).

For the most part, I’ve managed to avoid picking up scars; with the following exceptions:

A small circular scar on my upper arm, from a tuberculosis inoculation.

An identical scar, but from the removal of a mole whose countenance had offended my dermatologist in some capacity.

A constellation of minor scars on the torso, where I was struck by flying glass.

A line running halfway around the base of my index finger (a combination of accidental self-injury, and subsequent surgical repair efforts).

The various scars resulting from gender reassignment surgery (which included a laparoscopic component, so there’s a smattering of satellite scars on my abdomen).

Altogether, I’ve been pretty fortunate in this regard. 🙂

Do you have a facial scar?

My spouse and I just had the most wonderfully absurd exchange regarding a hypothetical scenario in which the titular protagonist of the 1968 musical Oliver! was portrayed by the (inexplicably and uncommented-upon) fully-grown actor, Henry Cavill.

This lead to the following delightful mental image:

Cat tent

I will often sit in bed with my knees up; and our insane baby cat has now decided that the impromptu blanket fort this creates is the perfect place to snuggle.

It’s the fucking cutest.

Oh no

I was doing my progesterone shot last night and the plunger in the syringe got stuck 20% of the way in. I really put some force behind but, but it wasn’t moving and I was terrified that if it did suddenly give way I’d dump the entire contents of the syringe into my thigh in a split-second.

(I’m not sure of the exact ramifications for doing so, but my nurse practitioner was quite clear during instruction that this was an undesirable outcome.)

I really didn’t want to toss the rest of the progesterone (it’s not like I had more on hand), so I withdrew the syringe and switched to a fresh needle. Poked myself again, depressed the plunger, and...

...The syringe got stuck again.

As classic “Well, what the hell do I do now?” scenarios go, sitting there with an immovable syringe sticking out of your thigh has to count pretty highly, I reckon.

I wiggled the plunger a bit and applied more force than sensible, and finally the damn thing overcame whatever the resistance was and immediately dumped half the load (so I guess I will find out why that’s a no-no in short order). Everything proceeded smoothly from there.

I’m still nonplussed as to what the issue was. A manufacturing defect in the syringe itself perhaps? Some kind of sediment in the progesterone blocking the barrel of the needle? I have no idea.

I just really hope that this doesn’t happen again...

Update 1: I talked to my friend about this and her first go-around, the needle disengaged from the syringe while it was in her leg. OMG!

Update 2: I had more soreness than usual but was otherwise okay; so I’m guessing that firehosing half the dose didn’t do too much damage, thankfully.

Yet another night terror

The fever dreams continue; alas, taking a turn for the worse. Last night's dream featured my spouse and I perambulating through a cave filled with snow; I kicked ideally at a pile of snowflakes, only for some kind of hag to burst out from underneath and tackle me into what I knew to be a very, fatally deep pit.

Then came the screaming; and waking, heart racing.

I don't know what's going on right now - I keep ascribing these sorts of negative impacts to work stress and ill health - but the effects feel disproportionate to the stressors. Hopefully either I can get to the bottom of things soon, or else they ease up; because this is exhausting.