chicken


I had a few issues with my luggage on my trip, and I was really truly worried I’d never see my suitcase again.  I packed my girly things with me for my week abroad, including my favorite panties, my size 8 breast forms, best (Paramore) bra, the Old Navy Classic (stretch) little black sleeveless dress, a new wig, makeup, jewelry, tights (to cover my presently furry gams), and my Sarah Jessica Parker black high heels.  I even brought an alternate outfit, and my sexy-when-pegrolled Lee jean cutoffs to boot.  In other words, I was prepared to go out “out” in frothy Amsterdam.  But my suitcase was not with me when I landed and went to retrieve my baggage from the claim.  Waited, waited waited.  Turned in a claim with the lovely Icelandair personnel, and traveled on to my hotel with the promise that my bag would be sent to my hotel.  I landed Friday, Saturday was to be my “out” night in town, Sunday and Monday were concerts (one of which I hoped to attend en femme), and Tuesday was going home night.  I didn’t get my suitcase back until Sunday evening just before the show, having spent three days in the same pair of jeans and some cheap, kinda girly tshirts from the H&M universally cheap clothing store (props to Darren and Alli for the tip, wherever they may be!).  I chickened out on going “out”, and dressed in private in my room, and enjoyed that a lot (I did not self-photograph), but I was quite shy about having the hotel staff, as well as people I met within 24 hours of being there (and who I’d likely never see again), see me dressed to the nines.  Weird, right?  A totally anonymous situation in a different country across the pond, and I lacked the nerve to be myself.  Ugh.

But the worst thought I had about the missing suitcase, and maybe what affected my confidence the most, was a fear that TSA opened my bag to inspect it, found my queerage — my breast forms — inside, then confiscated, and threw my bag out on the freeway where it could be destroyed in the rush of Charlotte or Boston traffic out of spite.  Cynical, right?  It really upset me by Sunday morning, when I realized my bag was just plain gone.  I worried that someone would send my open bag, incriminating bits inside, to the office address printed on the ID insert card that came with the bag, and my boss, my secretary, the big boss man, would all know my secret.  I was going to have to tell them.  A spiral of doom that drifted away with the proper dose of hash and weed, but a spiral nonetheless.

Yeah, I’m a little disappointed in myself.  But I was really high, and probably more paranoid than I should have been about the whole situation.  But I also got a major vibe from the locals that crossdressing is not big in the Netherlands.  There was a whole section in the hotel-provided local tourist guide on Gay Amsterdam, telling you where you can find the bathhouses where random sex acts are expected, and telling you about the going Euro/hr rate for the hetero hookers (50, in case you were wondering), but no mention of crossdressers except for a once-a-year parade of thongs thing for the transgendered, no mention of a scene, a CD-friendly club, etc.  I don’t use crossdressing as a means of luring in gay or straight men.  I do it because it is a part of who I am, for whatever reason.  I am complex that way.  I wanted to dress out, I really really did.  Eh, next time, right?  This time (won’t be my last to Amsterdam) took a little more confidence in myself/my look than what I had in mid-July ’11.

Sweaty from soccer tonight, and a long day on the road.  Told SO some hard truth tonight, in response to what seems to be an ongoing effort to wind down her career without talking to me about it, and who apparently now feels secure enough in her situation to pretty much become a layaround the house-a-watching tv wife, 4/7 weekly.  And I am a bastard for calling her out on contemplating quitting her current job, and casting about for a “part-time” situation, rather than full-time.  She didn’t consult with me about this move in advance because she knew what I would say.  When I met her, she was very career-focused, and she achieved a high level of proficiency and earned the respect of those for whom she toiled.  So much has changed.  She thinks I am abusive for sharing my pretty sharp feelings on the subject.  If she told me her plan to seek a half-job in this economy ahead of time, she knows I would have told her not to limit her options in that way.  You can discuss days in the office, and possibly some work at home when they make you the offer.  Hey, I’ve walked bricks in my life.  End of story.  She didn’t, instead she sprung on me that she had sent a resume over to someone with whom I’ve worked with and whom I know, seeking essentially a more comfortable situation than she has now (“I’m not driving to Greensboro five days a week.”  Er, ever heard of telecommuting?  It’s 2011 for god’s sake), as opposed to a job.  What a nice surprise to return home to, after I got up at 5:30am, left this morning at 6:30am for a 9:00 meeting in Raleigh, hustled my ass back to the office (rather than take a powder, go home and get high) when my meeting ended early, worked my ass off all day, assisted coaching the youth soccer team coached by my neighbor (her bff’s husband), and rolled in about 8:00.  Let her call me a bastard under her breath.  I love her anyway.  I have our best interests at heart in all I do.  I’m trying to get her there too, but lord knows she got a hard, thick skull.

Hugs – KMs

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