sistawendy: (Default)
It's been quiet the last few days. Work, housework, a little kiddo. I may be seeing Wonder Woman again because Ex, of all people, expressed displeasure that I took m'boy to see it without her. I thought her time without him was for her to have wild times with her Mr. Right Now, but what do I know? Apparently not much.
More evidence of advancing maternal incapacity: she texted me at 0440 a couple of mornings ago. I can't silence my phone at night because of work, and it's not a good idea for my son or my mother, either. She used to be able to do time zone arithmetic - she lives three hours ahead of me - but apparently no more.

Speaking of Mom, Good Sister gave me a link and asked me to be the point person for trying to tell her how not to get scammed. You'd think this wouldn't be a big deal, but you don't have firsthand experience of how prickly and touchy my mom can be as do we three sisters (and even more so our poor spouses, current and former). I'll do it, natch, but I'm not looking forward to it. Maybe I should be grateful that being trans has helped me grow a thicker skin.
Got on the bus home last night next to a creep who kept trying to talk to me, so I got off at the next stop, which just happens to be a transfer point to the light rail. Pho on the Hill, a little comics browsing, a train to the UW i.e. the end of the line, and a bus-and-walk home were just the ticket. (I had good transit mojo, by the way.) But here's a letter:

Dear Creep,

Yeah, I sat next to you because partly because the last seat available was next to you, and partly because I don't want to be that white lady who won't sit down next to men of color who aren't well off. Fuck you for taking advantage of that.

I don't know whether you would have done that to any woman who sat next to you, or whether you thought my being trans or wearing leggings was some kind of license to ill. But why you crept doesn't matter as much as your act of creeping. Stop it.

No love,
Sista Wendy
I was supposed to have a date with Temptress tonight, but she was in a car accident recently and is therefore feeling bad enough that she needs to stay in. Poor Temptress. I shall, of course, find something else to do. Merc as planned, or Substation? Or Both? Ponder.
sistawendy: (mad woman)
I had drinks with college chum H last night and told her pretty much everything I could remember about my life since I'd seen her last, which was right after surgery three-and-a-third years ago. And you know what? I didn't realize just how awesome that time has been. I mean, I knew good things had happened, but telling all those stories brought it home to me how good it is to feel young when you're not young. I guess dating and work shenanigans had been bringing me down enough lately to need that uplift. Resolved: make the next three-and-a-third years worthy of more stories for H.
Oh yeah: I'm back home from the conference. Did I learn anything? Yes. Was it worth StartupCo's money or my time? Not in my estimation. I've gained a new appreciation for E, the woman who does my employer's analogous conference and does a much better job of vetting the content.

E, by the way, is another queer woman, as were a surprisingly high proportion of the women at this week's conference. Yes, we all know women are underrepresented in the tech industry, but are relatively many of those few women dykes? And if so, why? The tech industry has at least historically been more tolerant of queers than most, though brogrammers may be changing that. Or is it that queer women are more likely to say a mental "fuck you" to the meme that tech is for boys because they say that to all memes that X is for boys for some X? If it's the latter, I pity straight women, and not for the first time.
sistawendy: (wtf laughing)
Greetings from the antiseptic heart of Silicon Valley sunny California! I'm down here for a conference thrown by the vendor of a deployment & config management tool. I just found out on Monday that they are indeed a vendor, not a prospective vendor. They're spending a lot of time selling their product, as in general they ought, but that's wasted on me and the eight or so of my co-workers here because we're already customers. What we need is more clue about how best to use their product, and they don't have their act together as well as they could for that.

Bad: This event is a sausage party. Women here, including me, keep silently giving each other the, "Power, sistah!" greeting.
Good: Women in tech are pretty motivated to network with each other.
Good: Decent pulled pork in downtown San Jose. Sure, it all looks either brand new and soulless or sketchtastic for blocks, but there are decent eetz to be had.
Good: The woman who taught part of my workshop yesterday is a dyke who lives in Seattle about a mile from me. She mentioned having a wife during the workshop. She's probably ineligible, but ten out of ten for coming out casually.
Bad: I've been eating & drinking too much.
Good: I did sun salutations this morning with sun streaming into my hotel room. It's easy to be a California stereotype when you're in California. The conference has organized yoga, but I gave that a miss.
Bad: Speaking of California stereotypes, I forgot to ping my many Burning Man buddies down here, the Beavers. I surely won't have time because...
Good: I'm meeting up with my college chum H tonight! I haven't seen her since surgery. So. Many. Stories. It's a bit of an imposition for me to ask her to drive down from El Cerrito, so I better make it worth her while.
Bad(?): I'll be skipping the Big Party that these events always have for it.
sistawendy: (drama)
Since this weekend was a kid weekend, complete with Red Mill and Cosmos, I could only go to the Seattle Erotic Art Festival while he was at work on Saturday afternoon. Getting from Kirkland to the Seattle Center & back was hellacious due to the 520 bridge closure and construction on Queen Anne Ave., but our heroine prevailed.

My attachment to my favorite pieces wasn't as strong this year as in previous years, but I did have a couple:

David Steinberg - Dammit, I didn't write down the title and I only remember it as X and Y where X and Y are a man's and a woman's names. It's black & white photo where a nude man is doing something to a nude woman's navel - you can't see what because his hand's in the way - and she's laughing with her mouth wide open. It's a wonderfully immediate portrait, and it could only happen in a photograph.

H├ęctor Pineda - The Exorcism of the Heart [rest of crazy long title omitted]. This is a digital montage of a woman suspended from a burning branch in the twilight, meter-long flexible thingies protruding from between her breasts, what looks like a fire kettle in the distance, heavenly bodies, and geometrical diagrams against the stars. It reminded me of Mexican religious art, if Mexican religious art were made by a kinkster with a computer. This was the one I came back to the most.

Honorable mention: Bronwyn Dexter is a friend of Foxy, former mayor of Camp Beaverton. After pestering the docents a couple of times I found her work, and it did have a nice visual pun: a print of a woman masturbating with enough fingers to send me to the hospital (no vaginal muscles here), printed on a sewing pattern piece for a sleeve. Nyuk nyuk nyuk!
This weekend I've been wearing my hankerchief-hemmed dress, which [ profile] sheistheweather helped me find at a thrift store years ago, with some new sandals. They're part sandal, part boot, all black and all me. I've gotten quite a reaction from them. While I was waiting to walk across Aurora, some dude in a pickup threw me the horns. I'd... never received the horns before. Then as I was walking into zappy, conversing with Ms. Zappy, two guys in a red, pimped-out SUV take a detour through the near-empty parking lot to talk at me. I didn't catch much of what they were saying - speed, distance, distraction - but apparently they seemed to think I owed them some attention. They didn't get it from me, mainly because I was already occupied. I don't know where they came from, and I didn't bother to watch which way they went. I was mighty glad when Ms. Zappy escorted my to the Sanctimobile after we were done.

Especially in light of recent events, this attention from men was... not enjoyable. I'm 46, I don't exactly have a figure to die for, and I'm not about to put myself in the middle of a het meat market. But a short skirt (or at least a skirt that looks short on a tall woman like me) and tall sandals worn in public are guaranteed get you the job of gratifying men's egos. I don't want that job, and I won't accept it.

I didn't mind when the queerish-looking woman in the Green Lake PCC complimented me on my outfit because - wait for it - she didn't radiate a creepy sense of entitlement. In fact, my first thought was, 'Oh no! My skirt's caught in my underwear again!' My son had already saved me from that once this weekend.
Speaking of zappy, I have been declared as clear as I can be for now. I can still see a handful of hairs, but they're not long for this world. On to my chest! Wait. That doesn't quite sound right.


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