Monday, 16th January, 2006

On the Conflict Between Fantasy and Reality

tranny frustration

"I know! I'll spend the whole day dressed as a girl!"

Believe it or not, that's not the usual first thing that pops into my head each morning. The first thing is "ggeeerugh", swiftly followed by "need coffee", swiftly followed by "need nicotine", and only then does my transvestic brain kick in.

I've been bloody busy these past few weeks. I've had some things on the go that have suddenly turned into Actual Real Deadlines™, and have to be finished by tomorrow. In a star-studded crossdressing-version of that children's classic "The Ant and the Grasshopper" (or whatever it is), I'm the grasshopper — but instead of lying on my back thinking the world owes me a living, I'm lying on my back thinking the world owes me more unfeasable dresses.

Faced then, today, with having to actually do some work, I thought it would be a damm good idea to combine my theory about "clothes maketh the man trannie" and a need to be productive, by dressing up as a secretary.

My theory, which is worth repeating I guess, you see, is that it's not just transvestites that are affected by what they wear. We all change our moods depending on what sartorial decisions we made in front of the wardrobe that morning.

I often try to explain my crossdressing by asking guys how they feel when they're wearing a suit. I, personally, tend to feel a lot more 'swaggery' — I feel puffed-up and much more macho than I usually do in jeans and a t-shirt. And when that little analogy clicks in the head of whoever I'm talking to, it isn't too much of a mental leap to accept that I just happen to also like the way that women's clothes make me feel.

But back to the secretary...

I do my usual caffine/nicotine-morning-ritual, and I get dressed. In go the silicon mammaries, up goes the ponytail, on goes the black skirt and shirt, and I sit myself down to start doing some work.

Two problems though:

Problem (a) : I (as I've never been afraid to admit in the past) am one of those trannies quite happy to admit that there's a sexual element to my dressing. (Without wanting to start an argument, BTW, I'm starting to accept that maybe I was wrong when I said that all trannies are like that.)

Therefore, sat as I was in my studio, essentially re-enacting one of my more lurid fantasies, I was obviously not in the right frame of mind to do any work. No work could take place until I'd, um, "taken care of something"

Problem (b) : Even after that (and this is going to sound incredibly vain, but what the hell), there were plenty of distractions to take my mind away from marking-up a bunch of MS Word docs, and figuring out how to accept uploads from mobile phones.

For some reason — which really I'm not sure — I've got a mirror next to my Mac. It's either there because (i) there was nowhere else to put it, (ii) I intended on using my iSight a lot more and wanted to make sure I looked OK before I video-conference with people around the world, (iii) I'd intended to use this space as a make-up place, or (iv) I am a little vain cow who likes to look at herself.

Whatever (probably (iv) actually) — there's a mirror here, and so, inbetween vigorous if() statements and the like, I can't help but take little glances to my left and smirk in the cutest way I possibly can

...

What I'm trying to get at, is that sometimes the visions I have in my head of how I'd like to be a trannie, don't always live up to the fantasy versions of them.

For example: That dress. God I love it It's humongous and gorgeous and bouncy and I happen to think I look rather good in it thankyouverymuch.

And in my head is the notion that I could spend the whole day flouncing around the house, doing this and that, happy and content in that "comfortable space" you hear a lot of trannies talking about...

"Why do you do it?", "It makes me feel comfortable.", "How can it possibly make you feel comfortable if you have to wear a corset and 7 inch heels?!"

...but that's impossible isn't it? I couldn't get out of the bedroom door in that dress the other morning, let alone waltz round my house making coffee and being Scarlet O'Hara in a "comfortable" way

...

Which brings me on to something else. (Actually, there's no link whatsoever, but I realise I'm being disjointed tonight and not really saying anything remotely worthwhile. Sometimes it bothers me that I can't write cohesively like some people can, but I guess this is how I like to develop ideas — just blurting them out and seeing if any part of them rings true with anyone else)

The other morning when that dress came (actually, maybe there is a bit of a link), I'd barely signed for it before I was ripping open the packaging, stepping into it, and knocking everything in a 3-metre radius over.

Standing there, in my bedroom, staring at this parachute that was extending out from my waist, I thought "OMG, this is what I've wanted for ages".

I must have stood there for a good ten minutes, just admiring the thing, before a second thought hit me.

"Now what?"

It wasn't enough just to see myself. I wanted other people to see it. I wanted a reason to wear it.

I have no idea where this thought comes from BTW. But it's always there. Every time I put on a skirt, or a blouse, or even just a pair of stockings, I want someone else to see. Otherwise, what's the point?

After the initial euphoria of wearing such a huge dress had passed (yes, that was a euphemism ), all I was left with was a strangely empty feeling — a longing perhaps for some kind of formal event where I could go and wear it out in public.

It used to be that I'd compensate this need by taking pictures of myself and posting them on every single available internet site — I'd stick one on my own, shove a few in urnotalone.com, and bug the hell out of people in chat rooms by hogging all the bandwidth for the evening.

The thing is though, having tasted what it's like to have professional photos done of me, I'm loathe to post or take anything that isn't up to that standard.

So I can't take a picture of me in that dress and do what I so want to do and share it, until I've been down to see Pauline again.

...

Sorry. Bit rambly tonight

Basically, sometimes transvestism gets me down, because the softly-lit fantasy that exists in my head never quite lives up to the flourescently-lit reality.

Or should that be the other way around?

It should, shouldn't it?

Dirty Mice

mac mouse crud

Biscuit and Tish are not in my good books.

Biscuit has discovered that the best way to get her Mum's attention is to stand in front of the blue shiney thing that Mummy stares at all day — the thing that has moving shapes on it.

(Trying to be too linguistically clever there aren't I? I mean "the monitor")

As such, every five minutes I have to pick her off the desk (and if you know Biscuit, you'll understsand why normally Health and Safety Officials recommend that you don't try that without a crane) and shove her on my lap.

Tish on the other hand, has been lovely and sleepy all day, curled up on my bed, no doubt dreaming of chasing small creatures.

The reason why he's been asleep all day, is because he was awake all night, chasing small creatures, and decided to share the spoils with me at 5am.

But I'm having mouse problems of a different kind today.

Over the past week or so, I've been getting more and more frustrated with my mouse. It's one of the single-button optical ones — the lovely shiney things with the pearlescant white blob surrounded by the light-refractingly-goodness of perspex.

It's done me well, but recently it's been a little annoying.

I'm finding that it's too sensitive — too 'clicky', I just have to look at it and it's opened the entire folder-heirarchy or clicked on every single link on a page — and so, I decided to do something about it earlier. Theorising that there might be some crud embedded somewhere within it that was making it stick or something, I tried to see if I could find anything online about how to take it apart and clean it.

The only thing I found was a discussion on Apple's forums saying something along the lines of "we've put our heads together, and come to the conclusion that the Optical Pro Mouse wouldn't be able to survive being taken apart".

Rats

(Ha! A pun!)

Using some sharp implements, I poked around at it for a bit, dislodging a tonne of shit from around the edge and in between the cracks. But not really having much of an effect (apart from, perhaps, making it worse)

Good job I've got a few of them knocking around at work that I can 'liberate'...

Simultaneous Three-way Weblog Mind Experience

blogs quip

So I'm watching Richard Dawkin's documentary on Channel 4 just there now, and already I've got the discussion on Selina's blog in my head because of the content of the programme. And obviously I've got Joanna's blog in my head because if I hadn't read hers earlier I wouldn't have remembered that the programme was on tonight. But then, just in the closing moments — just before the credits — Richard Dawkins says something that makes me think of Becky's weblog as well...

"Nature deserves our respect. Look around you"

Shhhhh. You'll blow my cover