Maura's Illuminated Manuscript

Good Sister is no longer, at least legally, the executor of my mother's will. As far as the courts are concerned, she's done. That means she doesn't have to periodically report to them anymore. (Yes, I just verified that.) She's relieved, and I have texted her mazel tov.

Does this mean that Mom's house has sold? Hell no. In fact, just the other day GS sent the other two of us a detailed list of the work in progress or planned to get the house ready for (mercifully quick, we hope) sale. Total cost: $16K. Even Niece E has pitched in, having refused our offer of compensation.

Now I have a mental image of my short, thin sister in a black, face-covering hood with a blood-stained ax. I'm sure she wanted to physically execute the will and a few people associated with it many times.

My college chum H, with a couple of days notice, told me that she & her hubby were coming up to Seattle for the Folklife festival, and could we get together? Shyeah! She was even willing to get on a bus, so we met in lower Fremont, ate some malatang at 19 Gold, walked around while I played tour guide, had some mead at Mr. B's, and then had to walk all the way to Wallingford to find a stop for their bus that wasn't closed! Even in sensible heels, it was a hike for me.

But yes, it was a lovely evening!

In other news, Good Sister is hip deep in the nitty gritty of plans for fixing up and selling Mom's house. I applaud her, and once again I think I have to whack somebody if she says to. Not that she would ever do that.

And what have I been doing instead of writing Dreamwidth entries? Hanging homemade devil girls* up high with the Wendling's help, staying up too late reading The Expanse, and cleaning up for a joint visit by Dancer and the Tickler. Ahem.



*Based on a drawing from Stjepan Šejič's "Fine Print".

Good Sister asked the other two of us to do a little research and come up with new, lower numbers for the asking price of Mom's house. That's all done, and honestly it's a relief. In related news, Good Sister, having all but fired her lawyer, now wants to fire her real estate agent.

Fine with me. As I told her, I'm not about to second guess her personnel decision when I have no direct experience with the person involved. I just want that place to sell before GS has an aneurism.

Good Sister, or rather her lawyer, finally has the court order that allows GS to sell Mom's house. I checked this here journal and it's been on the market for eight months. Might this be the year that Good Sister is Done With All This? I hope so. She has so very got it coming.

I wonder if homes in the inland parts of Florida, including the one I grew up in, are as uninsurable as on the coasts are these days. That may put a damper on my plans to swan around like an heiress.

I also wonder if the house's new owner will want to pry up all those bricks that my father laid in the sidewalk with so much swearing and bleeding forty fifty years ago. If they do, I hope it hurts them.

Speaking of swanning around, it's warm and sunny, a whopping 63°F (17C), so it's time to take The Coat to the cleaners.

As promised, I went to Flammable on Sunday night and shook my booty. Happiness. I finally, after all these years, realized that there's a ritual at that night: there's always a red light hanging over the DJ. It's customary for people to get on stage and set it swinging. Yeah, I did it, for Erin O'Connor. Next up: shooting pool at the Merc, which I've never done and may get to do with Funny Lady on Saturday.

Today is the first anniversary of my mother's death. As I told my sisters, it feels longer. I guess that's what happens when you lose your mother years before you lose your mother, if you know what I mean. Good Sister stayed in our old house this weekend, making last minute preparations for the sale of the house and its contents. This included removing paint that Mom applied to the tiles on the kitchen floor. (?!)

In Halloween prep news, I've spent an eye-watering amount of money on a telescoping ladder that isn't a Chinese knockoff. I don't have the space to store a regular extension ladder, and I have 15' ceilings. over the living room. Le sigh.

Saturday: lunch with cupcake_goth's pal T. I got to show her around lower Fremont and buy a couple of things, namely a little mead and a lavender to replace one of the hydrangeas that the builders planted in direct sun. Nice & mellow.

I'd planned to hit the Merc with Dancer Saturday night, but she was in some wedding-related drama with her sister and wasn't feeling it physically, due to poor sleep, or emotionally. I was disappointed, but I understand. I told her the tale of my Good and Evil Sisters, which she found a bit shocking.

And speaking of Evil Sister, she & I have exchanged mailing addresses — directly, and without Good Sister on the text thread! It's the first one-on-one communication that we've had in sixteen years. Might this be the beginning of something? Wayell, I don't have my hopes up. So far she's acting as if she never treated me like shit, which isn't OK.

But back to the Merc: a lovely time was had. I wore my spiky black bra and scratched people with it. I danced in heels for the first time in months and wrecked my feet a little. I was annoyed to see that the late-night schedule on the bus home from the U District has changed to hourly. It seems that the optimal time to catch the train is 0030; I left too early.

Sunday: art at Base Camp Studios with Tacoma Girl, and then at her suggestion Uwajimaya for grocery shopping, which both of us badly needed to do. I really like hanging out with her, and no, that's not dirty.

Dinner at Meesha with the Womanhandler, a drink and very trans chat at Mr. B's, and then some womanhandling until I got tired. I don't regret shifting my schedule to the mornings, but it does put a crimp in my dating life.

During one of the wee hours, my intestines emptied out rather dramatically. What did I eat that caused it? Either Meesha, which I don't want to believe because it was delicious, or the badly needed snack on the way home from Uwajimaya.

Good Sister has sent the other two of us the first paperwork for selling Mom's house. I think she's working ahead in the grandest GS style.

Edited to add: Sometime shortly before I finished my bike ride yesterday, I punctured my back tube. The back tire is bald and I found a crack in it through which I could see daylight, but I felt around for something stuck in the tire, found something, and extracted it. Or so I thought: I replaced the tube, but that one's now flat too. I'll be getting my exercise today by walking to a bike shop and getting a new tire and tubes. Le sigh. But honestly, it had been a long time since I had this kind of problem, and I really need to replace that tire before the fall rains. I'm kind of proud of myself for completely trashing a bike tire in less than a year and a half.

Tuesday was a free day because I couldn't get a flight out then. Shiny H had recommended that I check out the interior of Thomaskirche, which I'd walked past a few times. I walked into the quite lovely twelfth-century church and found, over by the chancel, a big bronze plate in the floor bearing the name Johann Sebastian Bach.

Folks, here I have to give you some background. I was raised on (Western) classical music. My mother taught music, and was constantly taking her children, despite the fidgeting of her youngest, to classical concerts. That may explain why I've absolutely loved Bach's music, especially his organ works, since I was a child.

It turns out that Bach was buried in the church where he worked for 27 years. The church has rightly and sensibly claimed him as theirs, to the degree that they can. So as recorded Bach organ music played, I saw the church's respectable exhibit of his memorabilia and thought of how much Mom would have enjoyed being there. So of course I had a good cry in the middle of a beautiful medieval church surrounded by Germans, who left me alone. They must get that a lot at Thomaskirche.

I bought a döner with everything for dinner by way of recovery. It was almost as big as its London cousin, and if anything even tastier and messier. Recommended, and a solid meal for €6.50.

On the way to the airport going home I got on the commuter train (S-Bahn) going the wrong way. What did I find at the end of the line but a campaign sign for Alternative für Deutschland, the party that wants to deport everyone who isn't German enough for them? The AfD has already gotten in trouble for their fascist activities at least once. Funny, I didn't see any AfD signs in Leipzig proper or any of its inner suburbs that I visited. I guess the political division between urban and rural, or at least exurban, works the same way in Germany as it does in the US.

I did, however, see a poster for the center-right CDU near my hotel whose slogan was, "More security and order." Folks, there wasn't a whole lot of insecurity or disorder evident on the streets of Leipzig, not by American standards.

Oh: also on the S-Bahn, I found out from the ticket-checker dude that my ticket* wasn't valid because I hadn't signed it! He signed it for me, thank goodness — maybe he took pity on a sincerely clueless Ausländerin — but that was yet another encounter with Germany's many less-than-obvious rules.

One rule that seems to be routinely flouted is that against drinking on trams. You can buy beer and other alcohol everywhere in Germany, and the drinking age is 19. The above notwithstanding, I personally witnessed no evidence of drunken jackassery, and I did a whole lot of walking around.

But aside from my S-Bahn misadventures, the trip home was smooth. I was surprised to learn that US Customs has a great big operation at the Vancouver airport, which has an entire concourse dedicated to US-bound flights. I later discovered that US Customs does its thing in Toronto and other airports that have many US-bound flights. I can't help but wonder if it rankles Canadians to see a sign in their airport saying, "Welcome to the United States." I got agriculturally inspected, but I was clean as a whistle; good thing I ate all that Müsli, cheese, and Wurst that I kept at the hotel.

I lost the detached back panel to my 50th birthday corset; I enjoy imagining the perplexity of the German who found it. Dark Garden says not to fear: the replacement cost is reasonable.

Did I have an excellent, mind-expanding time? Hell yes!
Did ignorance of German suck? Yes, but not nearly as much as it could have in a country that hasn't gone to extraordinary lengths to accommodate English-speakers.
Do I regret not engaging more with Leipzig's kink scene? Less than you might think; there was a language barrier and so much else to do. A city of similar size even in France might not have been so easy.
Do I want to go again? Preferably not alone, or at least if I do I need to make more effort to get together with other Sadgoths.

Edited to add: I'll get around to the photo uploads eventually. That's not exactly smooth on DW.



*I needed a paper, one-way ticket because my wristband had ceased to be a transit pass at midnight. It is now stuck into my scrapbook, along with the beautifully embossed ticket that I stood in line for.

The Social Security Administration says it owed Mom some money, so it sent my sisters and me each a check for five hundred and some dollars. I don't have any plans to spend it immediately, but it's definitely nice to have. What's odd is that I got SSA's letter of explanation, but Good Sister hadn't as of yesterday. She found out through me.

Speaking of money, I found out the other day that I paid just shy of $42K in mortgage interest last year. Most of that is tax-deductible. Maybe I'll be able to use the refund to pay off the sewer connection charge, which by the way is an example of how it's expensive to be poor: if you pay it off in one lump sum, you save $1000.

Good Goddess, I sound like a pod person. I promise to return to queer dating and kink ASAP.

I called up the people with Mom's retirement money and reminded them that Good Sister had sent the death certificate with the cause of death last week. They appeared to need the reminder. I also asked them, "Where's my dough, you goons?" "Do you need anything else from me?"

They said they needed nothing further from me, and that they'd get my request "processed". So yeah, I've been checking my bank balance about as often as observant Muslims pray.

I just got a call from Good Sister. Even though she, like me, was told in writing that she needed a version of Mom's death certificate with the cause of death and even though the certificate still hasn't reached her two weeks after she requested it, she, like Evil Sister, has gotten (some of?) her money.

What did they both do to deserve their money that I didn't, you ask? Apparently, they both asked for a live check. I asked for an electronic transfer, like someone born after World War II.

This isn't avarice or malice. This is pure Muppetry.

Good Sister graciously offered to request the necessary death certificate through an alternative channel (There's an alternative channel?!) on my behalf, because where the state of Florida is involved we don't trust bureaucrats not to screw a trans person if they sniff one out.

Updated to add: I asked GS if I should just call the investment company and ask for a paper check, and she said no. My sisters only got their money because of "a crack in their system", and alerting the company to that crack won't convince them to let me through it. If anyone knows this stuff by now, it's Good Sister. Le sigh.