Words of warning and welcome:

This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. Obviously it started out as a blog about my cross-dressing but it has developed a great deal since then. It is a place where I can be anonymous and honest, and I appreciate that.

It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the New Readers' Page above this and the tag down there on the right. Although there's nothing too bad in here there will be adult language, so be careful. If you think this needs a greater control, please let me know. Thank you!

Sunday, 12 November 2017

Like an Alien chest-burst

Several things all at once!


Like... yeah, the chance would be a fine thing.

Maybe that's it though. One of the other things running
through my mind of late is the thought that, well, maybe I
just don't want to have sex with Tilly any more.

Let's face it, it's not as if I change anything by such a course
of action beyond standing less chance of being so upset by the
lack of it and, furthermore, I never get anything from us doing
it anyway.
In a party round our house around Hallowe'en (I know) we had other parents and their children round. One of them, I shall call them Vee, is also wondering if they are autistic (I should digress a little and explain that I have been reading about autistic people on Quora and have shifted from aspie to ASD as my terminology) and she and I discuss this often. She likes my more positive take on things regarding the autism and finds it hilarious that I will talk about it forcefully. Anyway, yes, we are blunt in each other's direction and it works very well, we cannot offend one another. So it was that when she asked about having a third child, bluntly, I bluntly responded that it was not really ideal. She misunderstood. "You need to get a better hobby then! A friend of mine says she wouldn't have nearly as much sex if there were better things on the television." No offence, but my laugh was more forced than normal.

Neatly summed up methinks. The resignation and the sadness.

The worst bit is not being able to get out of bed in a morning. I
watch for the alarm time to tick over then just stare at it.

For an hour or more.

Like I say, I lack the potency of swear words to adequately
express how I feel about myself these days. I've used cunt
and piece of shit and waste of space so often that they've
kinda lost their meaning.
At work, I am struggling to get work done. Pressure piles on pressure, none of it large and none of it world-ending but all of it hard to deal with and parse. So it is that I have not marked some work for one of my sets since... ooo, before the half term. About four weeks now. And I am struggling. I have no time, it seems, to get work done in the morning. I mean, I totally do, but I am not using it at all. I know this. I am drifting, I am avoidant, and I waste time through the day watching shit on youtube. I struggle to focus, I fear the piles of paper and my room is slowly spiralling out of my control in terms of paperwork. There's also a trip to see Grayson Perry (!) and I got onto it because so much yes. Eight students organised themselves because they were up for it and I had a colleague itching to go too. But management says I cannot go. Or, rather, it's me or Alice. And Alice is mad-keen and costs the school nothing in cover and, at the end of the day, that's what the school was asking for. So, no trip and plenty of marking. Yay.

All my staff are struggling. Harry because there's so much to do and they may have some serious medical shit going down with bowels not behaving right, nor intestines (they balloon and become very firm and occasionally threaten fainting). Basically, Harry is carrying huge amounts work-wise outside the Department and is struggling to get things done (but doing it, because that's their strong suit). Alice has a new position this year outside the Department too - it's pastoral - and they are brilliant at it. Truly. However, the effort of organising the shit and getting it all to work is taking its toll and so Alice has very little time to do anything more than keep head above water on a day to day level. Finally, newb (I shall attempt a name that sticks this time and go with Stanislav), is just... well, Stan is very used to not doing a lot and is part of a new-breed of teacher. This means that there is plenty of time for them to go drinking of a weekend or evening, attend rock concerts and spend holidays abroad. Keeping head above water, yes, but has already shrugged off organising a trip last year (dirt simple, most of it is done for you) and avoids taking on anything that is outside the classroom. They have applied for a post outside the Department too. Thing is, I suspect they will get it, because they are pretty damn' good at the pastoral side of things with students that many struggle with.


Now, I can't say I agree with all of Stan's methods or interpretations of the students they are good with but the fact remains that Stan has had more commendations from parents since starting than I have had complaints (for the record, I have had twelve in four years). This means that anything I raise would be churlish in the extreme, so I don't.

0-60 in something daft like 5 seconds. I don't like that.
Still, it got me into work in time, so I can't complain.
It does all mean that there is no one to whom I can delegate anything at the moment. There was an RS trip on Thursday, for example, that I forgot about until the last minute. I drove in with my EV off ECO mode and caught air taking a ninety degree bend (going from 15mph to 45mph in the time it took to take the corner) with all the warning lights going off. I got in to school just on time and had to rely on others to run my cover for me (Harry and Stan, in case you were wondering) and I realised that I simply no longer have the swear words necessary to adequately express how I see myself.

I want to say that it suits me but for the fact that it would be
the most ridiculous thing I've said on this blog so far, so I
shan't. I shall simply say that I like the smell.

As to whether or not it stops me literally smelling of shit I
don't know. I must assume that it does something or I shall go
mad.
Also a few weeks back Tilly couldn't tell the difference between how I smelled and the shit smell that follows our middle Boy whenever he needs a poo. Basically, imagine human faeces pungent and strong, when he needs to go and has forgotten he tends to smell pretty dang bad. So, when it transpired that, no, it was me that smelled I was appalled. I applied some of Tilly's vanilla body-spray and the best I got was that the smell "wasn't as bad" from Tilly. She of the very sensitive olfactory sense. She can pick out food from miles away, smell (no really) my arrival on a work evening as I drive down the road and tell by smell which child is about to burst into a room. Through plate glass. So, yeah, I must have smelled pretty awful. And, you know, I liked the body-spray.

So I got me some. Different scent, I'm no fan of vanilla, and I've been using it in the car on the way to work. It's nice, really smells good and I quite like that it's on my shirt through the day. I have also caved and bought some roll-on deodorant (for women obviously) and I like that smell too. Obviously I do, it is the smell of women.


The playing fugue.

I am, in truth, not very good. Playing again has brought
back how often I used to lose and how often I would
burn with anger at myself for being unable to play
as well as my friends. The hopelessness and the horrid
nagging understanding that no one cared as much as I
seemed to about who won and who lost and how.
I also had a haircut, finally, this weekend. Tilly's comment on it was "does that feel better now?" And that was it. No comment on how it looked or anything. She's tired too. Having a child breastfeeding will do that. I sort of knew this was coming, I am sort of prepared this time. But it is me that is struggling to cope, not her. Indeed, look at the entries on here back when I started and it is clear that, apart from the very real PND suffered by Tilly, I was suffering from having a small child too. I do not do well with small children. Or my own children. I have joined the Boy in Magic: the Gathering cards, something remembered from my youth. I have more or less bought all the cards I used to own and a host of new ones along with furnishing him with his own. We play it. He gets very involved and, like me, is not a good loser. As evidenced when he won five times in a row last night and I felt bummed out. Mayhap I should not have bought the cards. Bad move. I suck at this. New obsession though, so plenty of reading (where my time goes) and knowledge about a niche subject that few other people give a shit about. Go me. It's never anything remotely useful.


Around the house I am struggling to keep up. I can get lunches made and pots done but not a lot else at the moment. We had decorators in and so I moved the furniture downstairs and in the Boy's bedroom so they could get to the walls and had a clear room in the living room. I slept in amongst the rammed furniture and piles of books and paper in the dining room, obviously, and put it all back when it was all done (Friday). I ran an assembly this last week too, which was nice, but hardly challenging as it was based on work I did years ago and just touched up to reflect the fact that instead of an hour I had ten minutes. Lots of staff said it was very emotional and passionate. I'll be honest, I did not feel that when presenting it. I felt rushed and tired, almost bored, ending on a particularly sour "I think I'll just leave it there" in my opinion. Don't get me wrong, praise is nice, but I do not feel as though I really earned it.


Wednesday, 4 October 2017

What's in a Name?

Noticed a few people talking breasts recently. My good teaching friend who writes was also asked on a writing platform about their use of an opposite gender handle and I was struck by the answer given. Now, obviously, as I too use an opposite gender online identifier this was of interest.

Firstly, breasts.

Looks lovely. It would probably fit me too.

So, what, I have AAA to AA sizing? Hard to say.

In short, inappropriate but yearning.
I'm getting fat. Pregnant stick insect style, but still fat. So fat that I appear to have developed breasts a bit. I mean, not mammaries, just fleshy bits around the nipples. I noticed this most of all the other day whilst in the bath and leaning forward because these flabby fleshy bits jiggled. They jiggled. And that was... odd. Different. So, breasts, right? Also, and this is perhaps over-sharing, the nipples have been steadily getting more sensitive, I'm putting this down to being fatter and the weather going colder, but it has been a little uncomfortable lately as my shirts rubbing on the nipples has been... a bit rough? Almost pleasing, I guess, but entirely inappropriate for work and normal life. Of course, any bra is safely stowed out of the way and inaccessible. My examining hasn't paid out yet so it's not like I have spare cash to get another bra for funsies. I did buy in some beer though.

Secondly, gender-handles.

Apparently women do not use your earth-desks and chairs
to access the webs of inter, they lie or sit uncomfortably
because there are no girls on the intartubes.
The response I read was honest and fascinating because it blocked out why it was done and did so in such a way that the person asking about it was not just mollified but actually impressed and respectful. Now, this is outside the bubble in which this blog operates, so it was remarkable in and of itself, but it was, of course, down to the way in which the response was written and handled. I lack that ability. I know I do. I read other people and I read the books that emulate it and it all sounds false, off, unreal. But others always respond positively, people gush about the way it is genuine and nice to see and such and I am usually left cold. And it got me thinking about why it is that I rather like masquerading as a female online.

I've talked about it before, but it continues to develop.

Here it is.
Part of it, I know, is just comfort. I am much more comfortable using Joanna online and using this space to be more myself. I feel that, if anything, I am more honest (if also more obtuse) here than I am in real life. And I am happy to lay that ability at the door of being able to identify with female pronouns and a female name. I like it. I do. I can't imagine it being used in face-to-face contact (but I'm not averse to trying it) and, as I have explained before, I am under no illusions that I can pass (I can't). I mean, I have a beard that I don't shave and when I shared the only photo of my face that I like (I was wearing a lovely pink number) it was pointed out that people hoped I would not be going out in public like that. So, I have no illusions, you know? I'm one of those people that cannot imagine the effort it would take to be able to pass and so I don't try.

Instead, I sit online and hide behind the name 'Joanna'. Because, you know, it's more my name than the one I got when I was born.



Tuesday, 3 October 2017

ULE in October

I never worked in the Library at University.

Of course, nor did any of my musing this evening include the
actual C19th library I used in for Military History that might
actually have an atmosphere worthy of the kind of magic realism
that I seem to have a thing for. No, I went for the passed library
at my first University without a soul.

I believe it has a tree in it now.

So that's nice.
Long ago, when I thought I could write fiction well, a friend challenged me to write a short story. I liked writing short stories as I believed that I could actually put into short form complex ideas, a misconception that took a long time to unpick and unravel, and I was arrogant enough to believe that I could do this with pretty much any inspiration. I was, however, beginning to realise just how unoriginal I was and how few workable ideas I had surrounding plot, hence the accepting of random writing challenges from friends. In this case I was challenged to write a story with the title of Unusual Library Efficiency. The story that flowed from this rather awful title was a bit shit. I set it in a legal firm, because if you have write what you know I knew next to nothing about legal firms. Or lawyers. Or case libraries. Or, indeed, anything to do with the legal profession. Obviously a legal firm then.

Yes, this seems to fit the bill for these days.

My idea of dress and demeanour probably stemmed from
badly-remembered snippets of Murder She Wrote.
In this office there was a library and our protagonist, never named, found that whenever he stepped through the doors he was transported to wherever he was thinking about at the time. Being a man of little imagination and even less of a curious nature (not deliberately) he never went too far from his office, meaning he was never late to work and this aspect was never noticed by his secretary. Who was, of course, older and female. And motherly. Cliches. Anyway, yes, she could enter and exit the library at will. I think, in my head, it was a small cupboard room with case files on it. Because this was around the end of the 1990s and there were no mobile phones or computers or the internet in my stories yet despite the fact that I was using all of these things at University. It was around this time that I heard people positing that these advances closed off standard lines of plot in stories and novels (and they do) and how they were thus avoided or ignored. Of course I just ignored them because short stories and arrogance.

The upshot of the story, after a tortuous 4,000 words of intensely written densely packed verbiage was that the protagonist stepped through the library doors whilst considering the nature of the doors themselves. It ended with his replacement being shown into the office in much the same way as the story had opened with the protagonist being shown the office, with the obvious hanging question. Or, at least, I thought it was obvious. And clever. And cyclical. It was, of course, mostly shite.

About the right age.

Still looks better than I.

But I do tend to drive one-handed a lot, which is about
right. Oh, and I probably need to unplug the car now.

Did I mention that the EV is automatic?

My EV is automatic.
Anyway, the concept returned to me today on the drive home from work. Coffee-fueled and impacted by a long day with various stuff to deal with. Alice dealing with a second pregnancy, running a game across two classes with my ex-newb (whose pseudonym I have apparently forgotten) - which worked but embodies all that I hate when teaching. One has to leave the groups to get on an do, with minimal input beyond policing and guidance, across two rooms and with the onus placed very much on their imagination and enthusiasm. It makes for a loud environment, much jostling and activity. Cutting leads to rubbish and waste paper everywhere, chaos reigns with pencil-crayons, instructions, confusion, some milling and no ability to properly filter in and out of conversations. I'm used to being able to jumps between... Hold on, one thing at once.

This concept. What if it were a University library room and linked to historical periods and inhabiting someone from that time for a, uh, time? What if it gender-flipped? Of course it gender-flips. A lot of research though, a lot. It whiled away a bit of the drive and a walk out to the shops this evening though, diverting enough to ameliorate the coffee a bit and play into the playing of Wardruna in my brain. In short, like a lot of what I think about, it masked the real world and the very pressing concerns of my actual reality for a short time in pointless ever-decreasing circles of headache-inducing tightness. A chorus of pointless shenanigans.


Wednesday, 27 September 2017

I'm useless, but not for long

Meanwhile, in stock photo land, this care home nurse has had
time to apply her make-up flawlessly and perfectly style her
hair before starting the 12 hour shift. She will, of course,
display no stress once it is over because her charges of sweet
old people will merely shake a little and talk to her of
memories. No one will need shit to be cleaned up and the
food will, of course, be prepared by someone else.
Sometimes things move quicker than one expects. My grandfather went to visit a place up where my mother lives this Monday gone and they liked him and he liked the place. He moved in today. And, more to the point, is a lot less confused. He is managing logical sentences and even jokes, looks like he was even more scared of the loud sweary guy in the hospital than we thought. The place seem pleased to have him in, my grandfather is the sort of helpful guy that people warm to, he always was - one of the reasons watching what happened to him with my grandmother all the more distressing (especially factoring in his loyalty). Anyway, yes, that is some good news. Still sobering when considering that I am watching at least two stages of my future, but good news all the same. I've said it before and I shall say it again, Him Upstairs knows what He's about.

Thank you, Laina, the original Overly-Attached-Girlfriend for
providing this almost stock photo of the popular conception
of what is meant by psychopath but actually totally isn't
what psychopaths are.

I like the photo though.
I had an interaction with a psychopathic student today, which was fascinating, and it went as one would expect from such an interaction. Not being able to link consequences with their own actions makes for a difficult conversation to have trying to get students to behave in a manner more appropriate to the situation. I also learned the difference twixt psychopathy and sociopathy - one is genetic and the latter is environmental (and can thus be 'cured' or ameliorated). At the same time Tilly had a run in with a young psychopath who was much more dangerous (he managed to menace our two and was behaving strangely around them whilst the mother divulged to Tilly about the time her child tried to smother her, just to see what would happen). This comes on top of a series of experiences in which other children with issues have been mean, violent or just rude to our two and our two have struggled to cope over the last week and a bit. I got the texts about this all at once this afternoon with another one, which is relevant in a moment.

Narcissus!
Coming home and talking about it... Tilly wanted to talk it out, like that time with the bus accident, and so 7pm - 9.30pm was 'talking about psychopaths' time with a break to get her some food (the worry meant that she hadn't eaten since lunch). Yay, such fun. Glad I didn't bring work home. (I got in at 6.45pm, for reference). I've been reading about ASD, ASPD and social relationships and wondering about my own stuff. Self-obsession again. Might I be a narcissist? Hmm.

Anyway, the other text that arrived in a lump at the end of the day was from this morning and I initially was bemused... no, confused. I did my usual in responding to it, which is to essentially lie by omission and assume it wasn't meant for me. I'm being circumspect, but it is an innocuous text, I just found it interesting how much I initially hide things. When asked to share and be a tad more open about things, with an offer of a conversation about chastity (an honest one), I dissemble and avoid. When offered actual space to chat I move instantly to jokes and ignoring issues. Fascinating.

In work news, my head is above water. So far. I am, however, struggling to get out bed in a morning. I wake up with my alarm, or a bit before, just fine. But then struggle to get the motivation to leave bed before 6am. Today was 6.10am, which meant another day without a bath. I am managing to get the pots washed and dried though, so that's good, I guess. I did skip breakfast though. Ah, boredom induced, time to get going.


Sunday, 24 September 2017

My Future

You get the idea. Stock photo.
Went to support my mother on Saturday. Originally we were meeting up to sort out my grandfather's house. See, since my grandmother died he has been going steadily downhill: Parkinson's; Alzheimer's; potentially a touch of Dementia. He was taken into hospital a while back and had an order placed on him essentially confining him there until his house could be made safe. His house can't be made safe enough. He needs round the clock care. My mother is too far away to provide this and is attempting to sort out a place for him. But it's taking longer than we thought and so we can't sort the house yet. Anyway, yes, I drove over to support her and visit my grandfather.


This is French but still...
He was a decent sort of chap, you know, and apart from one or two rough edges was a tolerably nice guy. Seeing him was... sobering. It took him three hours to get across the idea that a ward mate was making him scared in the night because they shouted swear words and threats. I get the impression they got personal. It was hard to talk to the nurses about this - what can they do? Space is limited, they can't move either of the people involved and my grandfather can't have a private room in case he injures himself. He'd packed all his stuff when we arrived, as he does every morning, and was waiting in the corridor - like he does every day - because he is desperate to go home. Not that he can communicate any of this any more, his speech is hopelessly mixed up now. Words appear almost at random with just enough internal logic to allow for some understanding on the part of the listeners.

Or I'm a dick, we'll see.
And it struck me, in my selfish way, that both my mother and my grandfather represent my future. If I am ASD and if that is from my mother and, in turn, from her mother, then I at least have Dementia on the way. My mother has many of my grandfather's traits and so do I. Which means I probably have Parkinson's and Alzheimer's too. And, before that, I'll have to deal with my mother hitting those points because it's unlikely that my brother will. With my mother's husband dying of cancer there won't be anyone to look after her other than me. Tilly won't have her in the house, of course, and I can totally understand that.

The point? This was sobering. Scary even.

Thursday, 21 September 2017

I am a Stegosaurus

Not pictured: me

In the office, I am the one sweating like a pig under the brown suit, stifled by the atmosphere, babbling about something only tangentially related to the question asked. The interviewer, busy and over-worked, scribbles down notes, attempting to appear innocuous but mired in judgements, numerically noted on the paper as inscrutable as it can be done. Of course, I catch the parade of zeros and twos, occasionally a one, and can see the words going down but, for once, I am unable to read the writing upside down. Either the handwriting is carefully created to be unreadable or it is an accident of happenstance, no matter, my usual trick of keeping tabs and responding accordingly is lost.


Me as a child
The discussion covers childhood through to adolescence, taking in sojourns to my adult life, always searching and probing for specifics that, as usual, desert me. Whole words, phrases and ideas flit away like mist when I grasp at them, though there is no pressure but the fact that the window won't open and the cold autumnal weather has cleared for a moment to allow the summer temperatures in beneath a leaden grey sky. Now and again, in the six hours, there are bursts of sunshine beyond the small window behind the interviewer's head. We cover the creepy behaviour of that cold child in school, the one that pretty much stalked the objects of their affection through classes and between home and school, the one that never received that which was sought simply because, like Neiman in Camp Weedonwantcha, it made them look wrong, out of place, and just plain weird. Questions were asked about development and academia, it was noted that there had never really been a struggle, how no learning difficulties were really present. It was noted that arrogance was a constant companion, unwarranted but still there, and how reactions to some of the less academically rigorous tests (like the fucking eyes one) were somewhat extreme.

Me in my head. But brunette.
He was a not nice boy, I said of the strange youth at Scouts that would physically assault others because they bullied or broke rules in games, no mention of the titanic rage or the fact that this boy just didn't fit in with the masculinity on offer. The affectation of being blase about it all. As an opening gambit - what would I wish for if there could be a swish of a magic wand - was itself an attempt at shock and awe, the arrogance of youth still there in all its tarnished turd: to die. What should have been said was to be deleted from History.

Had this cold child not been born then maybe the sister would have survived, being a first child she would have been closer to the parents, not in a crib outside the bedroom as had been learned with the noisy bastard who preceded her. Had she lived then the stresses that followed that death, made worse by the ever-accusing glare of that strangely quiet little bastard with the stare and the insistence in the grunting that would eventually become speech, would have been avoided. A marriage may have been saved by the affairs that never happened and, with that, the move that would never have become necessary to attempt a new start. The brother would not have been as extremely 'favourited' and so, if divorce did come later, would not have had so bruising a fall and so nasty a punishment from both of the parents as they strove to come to terms with the realisation that they had a favourite and it was the same child. Without that little shit there would have been no up-ending of friendships in the primary school on the hill, no brooding jealousy from a young boy with largely uneducated parents bombarding for so many years with the horrendous phrase, insidious and evil: "why can't you be more like him?"

So much easier.
No one to threaten people by being so different and strange, by being not of this world, by being a little less than human. No whiny little runt sapping the will of the Form Tutor to deal with their charges in a humane and supportive manner and thus no turn into derision and sarcasm as the go-to when faced by those who were upset. No victim to feed the bullies. No one to hit that girl with a chair in an after school club that had strangely no repercussions. No one to send those post-cards years apart to some poor sod who had no idea, but a sick inkling, who sent them nor how they got her address. No one to corrupt the girl at University looking for her first romance with 'dry runs' and pressure to conform to what amounted to sexual assault but for the poorly given consent from someone who didn't know better. No one to foment the divisions in a social group at University, to feed the petty squabbles out of a desire to interact because they did not understand human interaction.

Tilly would have stayed with Scrabble Boy, empowered when she dumped him and had children with someone who would not have introduced the genetic coding for ASD, thus preventing at least two more autistic children from entering the world. A boss who would have kept his choice for a job, created that person rather than having that resentment at having been wrong but being unable to place why eat away at his soul. No constant reminder to slowly drive him over the edge and into the abuse of trust in a relationship with students nor bullying of his staff. From that, no departmental issue for an incoming Head of Department. No quisling who went to another school only to return. Toby would have calmed earlier, found a secure relationship quicker and perhaps enjoyed herself more, maybe even stayed friends with those with whom she shared a house rather than employing a little entitled shit as a means to sow discord.

That was the real answer.

It was a six-hour appointment. I didn't realise how gruelling until I tried to function today and found my ability sapped. Until I realised just how much I couldn't give a shit and how little enthusiasm remained. Will it end with a diagnosis? Probably. Maybe not. It's another three months until I shall know. Were I deleted from history my interviewer would have had a better Wednesday, that much I am certain of, or at the very least helped someone who might actually benefit from the interaction rather than the piece of shit they got who will most likely undermine or subvert whatever comes from it.


Thursday, 14 September 2017

Corsetry

Still a lovely image of a corset.
Not long after the relationship with Toby foundered I was, for some reason, in a house with people preparing for a Princesses and Pirates fancy dress thing. Lord knows why. I recall asking one of the ladies there present, for whom Princesses were anathema (it was mainly a Pirates fancy dress), why she wore a corset (all the women were wearing corsets). She offered to explain by dint of getting me one. I turned her down. Later, I went home alone.

I think I was meeting with some friends of mine for some reason. I cannot really remember too much about, the break up with Toby was still a little raw and I recall that I wasn't eating properly, if at all, at the time. It is a fairly common stress-response, I now know, but I probably called it fasting because I am a pretentious little shit.

But what if I had said yes? That is the subject of tonight's fantasy used as misdirection.

The obligatory line-break follows, click onward at your peril.