Blog, Sweet Blog

Archive for May 2010

Mood: Wubba wubba Wednesday
Music: Current 93-Red Hawthorne Tree

Sort a way

Holy cats, you guys!  I’m actually writing a Blog, Sweet Blog post for its own sake and not just reposting mah tumblrs.  Don’t get me wrong, tumblr is my new spiritual home and the place I spend most of my time, but we’ve been through a lot, this blog and I, and I can’t stop loving it just because its not tumblr. Besides, this post is relevant to Blog, Sweet Blog‘s interests, which is why I’m posting it here first.

It’s my anniversaries!

I started this blog (well, posted first anyway) on April 23, 2008, or  2.0767 years ago, give or take. I can’t begin to tell you how important this blog has been to me.  It wasn’t ever about attracting readers or experimenting with practical narcissism (those came later).  I’ve always considered this blog to be a safe place for dumping the crazy, discussing whatever, and letting the air out of my head.  I’ll be getting to this in a minute, but it’s easy for me to forget how turbulent the first six months of HRT were for me.   I had just ended a three year long relationship with, until that point, the person I loved most in the world and I was in the middle of chemically altering my body and mind.  I felt unhinged most of the time and happysadangryhyperdepressedenergeticlazy the rest — but not in a bad way, if that makes sense; it felt right and weird.  Anyway, I don’t think I would have done as well if I hadn’t blogged and exercised.

My little blog, bless her, has changed with me.  I’ve struggled with moving from more of a personal/transition journal to an everything blog featuring my thoughts and creative work.  I’m still not sure of where I want to take it, but I  kind of like that it’s all over the place.

I started HRT on June 6th, 2008.  I had started some other transition processes before then (started seeing a therapist, my doctor), but I think it’s fair to call that date the start of my transition.  So, let’s see, that makes me 1.097 years old, in a way.  I won’t ever be celebrating my “new birthday” (the old one is just fine) but I do keep the date on my calendar.  Like I said above, a lot has happened since then (here are the big ones).  I think the process of transition is never ending, but I feel much closer to the end almost two years later.  There are still more physical changes to endure (bottom surgery, the neverfuckingending weekly electrolysis), but I feel like I might have finally graduated to late puberty, at least emotionally.

The last anniversary occurred 1.0548 years ago when I changed my name and started back to work as the real me, the girl named Anna.  Life has gotten kind of weird since then, but work has always felt like a safe place.  I’ve had better and worse days, but no one has ever made me feel uncomfortable or anything but loved and valued.  I know that my experience, sadly, is not the norm and I can’t fairly attribute the ease of my work transition to any more than luck…ok, maybe a little bit of preparation and moxy helped :-).

Still, I’ve struggled with my career choice.  I really don’t think I would have become an engineer if I would have transitioned earlier.  I’m not 100% sure I’ll stay an engineer until retirement, but I feel a lot better about it than I did a couple of months ago.  If I won the lottery or totally stopped caring about my current life, I’d move to New York or Paris and trade engineering to become a professional artist/bon vivant/salonnière/cultural maven/woman-about-town.  There aren’t any plans to move in the near future, but I’m working on my writing and art in the meantime, just in case.

So that’s it, you guys, happy anniversary/birthday to me and Blog, Sweet Blog!!!  I hope the following years are way easier/better than the last two.

Mood: Eh, you know, Tuesday
Music: Kaltwetterfront-revolverheld

The deadly marmot.

I’m posting this having just listened to an NPR segment on the dangers of Facebook, personal privacy, and our obsession with online exhibitionism. Here’s a quote…

“We increasingly know things about each other (or think we do) that we should not know, have no right to know, and have a right, actually, not to know,” Noonan writes.

And yet, I don’t think this applies to me because…I’ve been blogging for a while?  …I try not to shove it in people’s faces IRL and I keep it mostly anon online?  …I’m a carefree, fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants rebel who thumbs her nose at convention and quaffs from the chalice of rugged individualism and my every thought is like, important and stuff?  I don’t know, you guys! I’m sorry for contributing to the downfall of Western civilization and all, but I’ll just die if I can’t share my animal poop stories.

Speaking of…I went on 12 mile hike through Rocky Mountain National Park with my parents one summer when I was still in high school.  I’d had a “stomach ache” all morning, but decided to go on the hike in the hope that a grueling, high altitude summer hike would restore me to good health.

It didn’t.

I felt progressively more sick with each mile and prayed for a nice bathroom to magically appear just off the trail.

After a couple of hours, we stopped at a glacial lake to rest and sightsee.  The lake was beautiful, a clear pool of ancient ice melt resting in a shallow bowl of boulders and rocks.  By this time, my little problem had worked its way up to a Level 3 Bathroom Emergency.  I had to go and looked around for a private spot.  The best I could manage in a glacial field filled with giant rocks, less giant rocks was squatting behind a boulder with my parents on one side and the lake on the other.

So, I’m squatting there, “doing my thing” when a little (and by “little” I mean as big as the fattest housecat you’ve ever seen) marmot…

walks up to say hello…or murder me…or give me the rabies, not sure.  I had never seen a marmot in real life (let alone 4 feet away) and I was excited…also embarrassed, kind of scared.  Most of all I felt sad that this pathetic display was my new woodland friend’s first impression of me.

I tried to shoo it away but it wasn’t going anywhere.  We watched each other for another awkward few minutes before I finished and broke the silence.

“Well, I’m going to go.  It was nice to meet you.  I’m…um…really sorry, ok?  Ok, so…bye.”

The marmot said nothing. I didn’t look back.

I found my parents, but couldn’t bring myself to mention the meeting.  It was too shameful, too fresh.  I finished the rest of the hike but the look of pitying judgment in the marmot’s eyes followed me home and for years afterward.

Mood: Blllurggghhhhffffnnnntttt
Music: Camera Obscura- I Need All the Friends I Can Get

I went to a different goth night on Friday with my new favorite gay couple and a college friend who’s visiting from San Francisco.  Goth night with mah gays is usually a lot of fun, but Friday was only so-so.

Friday nights are usually hard for me; I’m tired and so over the long week and I’d much rather go home and eat pizza and watch The McLaughlin Group.  This week, I felt nauseous and bloated and gross and I wasn’t really in the mood for people, let alone club people.  I considered calling it off, but this was my only chance to see my friend before he left town again.  Also, it was rainy and humid and it took me two fucking hours to get ready.  So, I felt harried, yargy, and tired before I even walked in the door.

It got better.  We all walked and talked and drank (a lot) before the end of the night.  I caught up with my friend and made eyes at the cute, twink-y bartender.

I’m kind of an adorable, charming, bumbling drunk but I really need to be looked after.  I tipped the bartender when he closed out my tab.  Ten minutes later, I was interrogating him, asking him why he wouldn’t let me tip him.  He assured me that I had, in fact, already tipped him, generously, but I didn’t believe him.  I thought he was flirting with me by making up some elaborate story about tips and my credit card bill.  I made him charge my credit card a dollar so I could leave him another five.  Thank God I didn’t run into a charming grifter on the way to the bathroom, you guys.

I met a man in there somewhere.  He was standing at the end of the bar near my boys, desperately trying to make eye contact with the bartender.  He was jealous of our special connection and asked for my advice.  I suggested he flash a little skin and make with the sexy winking.

We talked a bit while he waited on his drink.  He was an ok looking guy, older, an inch or so taller than me with longer blonde hair and a slightly receding hairline; a nice guy, but not especially remarkable in any way.

A couple of minutes into our conversation, I thought, He’s lying.  He’s a serial killer and he’s cruising for his next victim.  He wants to take you back to his house so he can drug you and tie you up in the basement and videotape you and torture you and murder you and have sex with your corpse and make a lady suit out of your skin.

I don’t know why I felt that way.  He hadn’t flashed any psycho googly eyes or let anything untoward slip out. I just got a sudden lotion-in-the-basket kind of vibe off him and I felt like I had to get out of there.  I made an excuse about having to say goodbye to my San Francisco friend and I walked with him out to my car.

I hope I’m wrong, it sounds like we go to a lot of the same places and that I might see him again.  I hope it was just the alcohol and my crippling fear of intimacy making me crazy.  Then again, it’s like my momma always says, it’s better to be safe than hacked up into tiny bits in some psycho’s soundproof, easy clean murder room.  So, of course I spent the entire day reading about serial killers.

Have any of you ever felt that way, like you just narrowly escaped getting murdered?

Mood: Miffed, freezing
Music: No Anchor-Drone Me Out Part Two

Originally written for mah tumblr, be cool.

Look closely at that picture, my friends.  What is that white stuff?  Is it cocaine?  Powdered sugar?  Unflavored, loose snow cones?  No, mah dear tumblrs, it’s snow.

Yes, snow.



What’s today date?  How cold is it right now?  Would a helpful infographic answer some of those questions…

What the effing eff, you guys? Is this the dawn of a new Ice Age?  Is this the face of Springtime from now on?  Is blogging about the weather outside ever interesting?

We’re supposed to be due for a new Ice Age any time in the next few thousand years, right?  Actually, I looked for a pat answer to the question, “When is the next ice age, yo?” and found nothing but a lot of academic argument and speculation.  Thanks a lot, “Science”! Let’s just say we’re due for one “any time now”. Maybe this is The Big One….er, the start of One of the Other Big Ones?

For the record, I’d be happy if it never got above 80 degrees, but this is a bit much.  I don’t have a cute pair of stylish,  but funtictional boots and now I’m supposed to be wrapping myself in furs and cooking up the butchered seal and woolly mammoth meat that the menfolk haul back to the cave?  No thank you!

I’ve made the Ice Age joke a few times before, but really, May 12, snow?  What are you going to do tomorrow, Nature?  Make it rain kittens and then chase us around with pepperoni pizza tornadoes?  Come on!

Mood: Eff this effing eff eff
Music: Elizabeth Fraser-Moses

Originally written for mah tumblr, apologies for the cross-posting and etc..

This is what my cat’s imaginary next door secret boyfriend looks like, crossed eyes and all.

I’ve lived in the same townhouse since 2001 and have had the same, next door neighbors for most of that time.  Their cat, lets call him Tommy, seems to spend most of his day on my deck or curled up in a ball on my welcome mat.  I don’t really mind.  He seems like a pleasant sort and always moves out of the way when asked.  But the fact that he hangs around so much, makes me want to gossip and tell wild stories about him.  And, like any other mother, I wonder about his intentions, with my cat…my painfully single, sweet, soft-spoken, pure-bread, indoor cat.

It’s the crossed eyes that give me pause.  I know, I know, I should really grow up already and stop giggling whenever he looks up at me, but he’s just so dopey looking! Every time I see him, I hear my ex, imitating his slow, dimwitted drawl.

DURRR, hello Miss Lady.  Is Torrie in there? She’s so pretty! Can I go inside to talk to her?  She’s my friend.  Are you her mommy?

His dopey eyes and that imagined voice make me want to shoo him away.

NO!  Bad cat! Go away!  She doesn’t want to see you.  She’s too good for you!  YOU’LL NEVER BE TOGETHER!!!

Which would be a mean thing to say and kind of sad for Tommy, if I thought he could understand any of it.

Unfortunately, I think Torrie’s into him.  She’s never even been outside and I’m sure he represents the excitement and mystery of an outdoor life she’s never lived.  We’ve all been there, right?  The sexy rebel, the badboy/girl; we want what’s bad for us.

I’ve seen how she looks at him.  I’m worried that she wants to run away and make the slow, goofy looking babies with him (or at least make out a lot), but I can’t let that happen.  She can do better.

an introduction

Hi, I'm Anna and I love cheese!

This blog is a chronicle of my life and a catalog of happy ephemera. The About page has a little bit more information, but, remember, none of this is really's just a supplement, a thumbnail sketch, a mostly anonymous Intarwebs placeholder. I'm way better/less wordy in person. :-)

Oh, and if I wrote something about you and you thought it was mean or hurtful, I'm sorry. It's how I felt at the time, but probably isn't how I feel now. Chances are, I love you and I think you're awesome.


All content on Blog, Sweet Blog is copyrighted by me, Anna Hell. Unless otherwise noted, all photos, words, and content on this site are mine, created by me, and should not be used without my permission (or at least attributed and linked back). I try to embed links or quote original source material if I use another person's work.

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May 2010