As soon-to-be parents, we find ourselves awash in baby clothing. This isn’t a problem, given that I hear most newborns go through more costume changes than Diana Ross at the Sands—though maybe fewer sequins. The problem is this: sizing for baby clothes is a joke, or an example of the chaos that runs rampant throughout the known universe. Take for instance, the following exhibit:
All of these outfits claim to be for a 3-month-old baby. Read More…
I had a battle with a newly sharpened knife last night, and the knife won. I know better than to cut toward me, force a cut through meat, and all the other rules about handling knives, but it was late, I was tired, and I rushed through deboning a chicken I’d roasted so I could put it away. In less than one second the stainless steel sliced my left index finger just under my cuticle, and I shrieked over to the sink to get cold water on the cut and help numb the sensation. Susanne, firmly in her waddling phase of pregnancy, managed to skeedaddle into the kitchen and assess the damage, so we opted for some gauze and tight tape to staunch the bleeding. I realized, during this morning’s shower, that I am a professional when it comes to keeping recent wounds dry. And this is because I have stabbed and slashed myself accidentally so many times I can barely count the instances anymore.
But let’s try, shall we? Read More…
There is a heavy glass frame on a sideboard table in my dining room, among other sundry items like playing cards, pottery serving pieces, and right now, a stack of diplomas earned by Susanne and myself as we reorganize the office into a nursery. In the frame is a picture of my parents, some sunny day from the 1980s, on a trip they took to Hawaii. They’re seated at a luau, with beautiful leis around their necks—nothing resembling the cheap plastic ones you can find at the dollar store—but what they’re wearing most wonderfully are their smiles. My mother’s hair is perfect; my father is wearing a new, hasn’t-been-stained-yet tropical shirt, and they’re just about to settle in for a fun evening. If photos can capture and preserve a moment in time forever, this was a great one to snatch. Read More…
I’ve got lots of writing on my docket today, everything from finishing up a short story for my last guest post at GayYA.org on Monday, to more revisions on my time travel novel, to a couple of commentary pieces, but on top of all of this, I’ve had a strange week of television, so in no particular order, here are my observations: Read More…
In all of the blogs, articles, books, and groups on writing, most of the emphasis is on the affirmative path toward publishing, no matter the definition of publishing itself (indie, traditional, journal, etc.). I, however, am a fan of the avoidance method for success, otherwise known as the “Learn from My Mistakes” school of winningness. Type “avoid” into the search on this blog, and readers will be confronted with many posts on what not to do as writers and when trying to get noticed.
It should go without saying that one should not masquerade as another person, deny that such masqueradization is occurring, and then blame readers for noticing the hoax, but well, apparently it needs to be said to at least two people. They know who they are (they just don’t care). So in the interests of making a few rather blunt, you’d-hope-this-is-obvious information, I have the following bad ideas to list: Read More…
This whole life creation thing makes for an unpredictable voyage, and not just because Susanne and I have been coming at it from an alternative place—I get that not every baby started out with their parents combing through medical histories and sperm count data. And I hereby note, for what it’s worth, that I may hear some unusual rantings when our child is 14 or so about how they entered into this world, in the midst of their teenage angst. I’m okay with that. We’re still going to sit through the six-week course at St. Mary’s Hospital, with the pillows brought in from home clutched to our chests as we watch painfully accurate portrayals of live births on a wide screen in the training room. Vernix is a necessary substance, I’m sure, but it does not do wonders for anyone’s look. Read More…
I’ve written about facing literary rejection before, in part because I’m a prince at receiving them, but since those days of yore several months ago, a new tendency has sneaked into the publishing world: the nonresponse.
Used to be that writers, being commandants of verbal intent and letters, would parse through a rejection letter for any smidgen of meaning. Is it a form rejection? Is there an extra sentence with a pearl of insight from the agent, telling me that memoir is just too competitive right now, or that my voice is great but the book is too niche, or so forth? Is someone congratulating me for transitioning (that was my favorite, by the way)? Does it mean anything if the period at the end of the third sentence falls on the 219th pixel from the left? Read More…
I admit it: I was a touch fearful about talking to the doctor on Monday. I’ve got a short list of items about which most physicians get lectury, after all. But for the reasons I expressed in my last post, I needed to have a local doctor, so I was willing to lay it out there. Susanne declared it was a “test” of his cultural competency. I liked that as an approach enough.
For some reason, the appointments at this family practice (it’s the same practice as the one for Susanne’s baby doctor) are significantly late to start. I know we all complain about start times at our doctors’ offices, but I can’t for the life of me understand why they set up 11:30AM appointments when all of the nursing staff, en masse, goes to lunch for 90 minutes, especially as they’re 45 minutes behind schedule by the time noon rolls around. Read More…
My physical is tomorrow. I suppose most people call it an “annual physical,” but I haven’t had one in a couple of years because it’s been a while since I saw that physician. So it’s more my biennial physical, bordering on every 30 months at that.
For regular checkups regarding my hormone therapy, I drive out to Portland, Oregon, because I haven’t found a doctor in Walla Walla who knows anything about the whole gender transition thang, and this particular doctor sees more than 1,000 trans patients. Plus heck, it’s a pretty enough drive along the Columbia River, and I suppose it keeps my stamina up for long car rides. Read More…
Having just spent a week en Canada, I am continuing to think about the small but notable differences I encountered while there. They may be little things, but they’re enough to remind one that one is in a foreign land, a land largely absent of GOP/Democrat partisan bickering, American Idol crooning (they have their own version), and conversations about whether evolution is a Real Thing or not. Read More…
Trans/plant/portation 