nicole @nicole@myna.social

Whenever I come to SF for a doctors’ appointment or work I take the ferry home. Along the way, I stop in at the wine bar in the ferry building for a glass or two.

I’m probably not going to do either of those things again after today’s check-in (there must be better wine bars closer to my new home), so this is my parting toast. 😘

Okay, revision FFS scheduled for July.

Minor stuff: there’s a mystery dent in my forehead and my lip lift is a little off target.

DB is being a swell perfectionist and waiving the forehead work. 🥰

Going to miss this midget.

Third week back from Japan and I still don’t feel like I’m actually back.

Stepping back into my shoes at work has been particularly challenging: I lost my design and research partners, without who I can’t even tell all the different shoes apart.

A company reorg, role-reduction, depression, and the decision to seperate and divorce might also be angular momentum on the surreality dial.

The clocks must be at room temperature; they spread easily enough under the butter knife.

Nomnom gnomon.

The Barbie-themed Oscars celebration where Barbie hardly won anything at all was the most-Ken thing I’ve seen this year.

@pauline has occasionally said that there’s a lot of my mother in me. I want to bristle at that: my mother was not—by any means or metric—a good mother. But she does make more sense to me post-transition than she ever did before.

And, I think, I do to her too.

Saw my mother for the first time in 4 years yesterday; last time we met, I had a different name.

She’s living in a cottage behind a couple’s house in Atherton. It is, in keeping with her talents, a most-impeccably decorated abode: museum-quality miniature living; an art project in filling space.

I’ve inherited some of her talent; we crawled around on the floor with tape measures, discussing the prospective presence of a new coffee table—how the light will affect it over the course of a day.

I think the trick is just to burn it all; most of it is his stuff anyway.

It started with an orange shirt, and then I just kept accessorizing until the bell rang.

Downsizing from. 1,500 ft^2 house with 800 ft^2 of basement storage to a 650 ft^2 apartment with 0 ft^2 of anywhere storage is going to be a fine trick. 🪄

I’m moving to San Francisco next month (life changes) to join the roster of people who miss Berkeley Bowl—the best grocery store.

I never thought I was going to be one of them. Trading down to a Trader Joe’s is going to be a wound that will not close.

I couldn’t find Chibi this morning, but I did find half a fuzzy donut.

I’ll never understand sports people, but I’m happy to photograph them.

And that’s kind of the wonderful thing about FFS: even if it isn’t enough to make you pass all scrutinies, it can still bring you to a place where willing people can defy their own disbelief, and see you as they want to see you.

If these people are your friends, they will see you as you want to be seen; if they aren’t, well, … best you both know, so you can preserve your energy for those who are. 🎭

Last night, I enjoyed the company of three other women over cocktails after a film screening. One of them was friend; the other two were newly-introduced to me.

I spent the first half hour stressing about whether or not I was passing. But at some point, through circumstance and conversation, I realized they were at ease with my presence. Whether or not I was passing was moot; I relaxed and had a lovely time.

This gives me a lot of social anxiety. The sort of anxiety they write prescriptions for. (And for which I have been written prescriptions).

That’s when the house lights come down and all of a sudden I’m standing in a spotlight.

And nothing hurts more than when I’m talking with someone, and while we’re talking, they realize that I’m trans. The light goes out in their eyes, but the conversation continues, and it’s like you’re talking to an afterimage of the person with whom the conversation began—the words are coming, but the warmth and humanity channels have just been cut off.

Passing is such an interesting dilemma.

Post-FFS, I pass inconsistently, mostly as a product of my height and build (6,1”; footballer); my surgeon did miracles on my face.

I don’t actually care very much about when I don’t pass (though, I neurotically keep score). Depending on the context, it stings, but also I’ve had 2.5 years of it. (I literally don’t care at all if I don’t pass in the eyes of men—I’m not subject to their approval).

But when I provisionally pass I get extremely anxious.

It’s interesting how when things finally come undone, they all come undone together. 🧶