As the New Year kicks into gear I am pleased to see Ali getting to grips with my garden. As you know, Ali is my Syrian gardener, and a recent immigrant to Canada. He is a diligent worker and has thrown himself into the task of managing my garden in preparation for spring.
A university professor of botany in his home country, he has come to build a new life here in our country, along with his lovely wife and two delightful daughters. Here in Canada we welcome new friends from around the world, and embrace the chance to add to the deep culture of this diverse and remarkable country.
“We don’t have an equivalent of your ‘Santa Claus’,” he recently explained while we were working at preparing the greenhouse for this years plants.
“Besides, anything flying over our airspace at low altitude stands a good chance of being shot down. And… well, reindeer meat… I think he’s well advised to respect the no-fly zone.”
“Be that as it may, Ali,” I said. “I’m most concerned about Amanda and Marjory. All through winter I’ve barely seen them.”
“Fiona, they’ve been very busy. Amanda’s been there all week. And you know what they’re like,” replied Ali.
I don’t think Ali really approves of the nature of Amanda’s relationship with Marjory. Same sex partnerships are not exactly common place in Syria, on account of people not wanting to be stoned to death in the public square.
“All the noise and fuss they make,” said Ali. “It’s very disruptive.”
“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “You’ll get used to it. Besides, it must be nice to be in love.”
“They were making an Italian dish yesterday with the left over turkey,” he mused, while cleaning one of the planting beds in the greenhouse.
“That sounds lovely. One of the things I enjoy about home cooking is getting creative with all those meals using left overs. I had turkey curry yesterday, myself.”
“If I over heard it correctly, Amanda got her finger stuck in the pasta maker. It was quite disturbing,” said Ali.
“Oh,” I said surprised. “I thought Marjory made the pasta.”
“Yes,” replied Ali. “She does.”
But that’s not the main reason I am writing to you today, as we go into what I think we are all hoping is a more hopeful year than last. I understand many of us are finding it harder to dress during the lockdowns that we must inevitably endure. I also realise that this increases the stress for all of us, and I want to make a suggestion that I find has helped many of my members.
While it would be wonderful to be able to dress everyday, all day, many of my members are simply unable to do this. When it is impossible to dress, for whatever reason, there’s still the middle ground, of becoming more androgynous. This is a way to start shifting what you wear to something somewhat more feminine, though without being entirely crossdressed. If you get creative you’ll find ways to do this, and enjoy that middle ground in the gender spectrum.
It could be as simple as shifting the colors you wear. Pastel colors and moving away from hard contrast color patterns is somewhat more feminine and gentle. Equally, going for the lambswool sweater and softer fabrics is always more enjoyable.
For others it will be engaging a more feminine clothing style, without crossing the line. Nice jeans can bring out the shape of your legs, and if all you need to do is add heels to shift over the line, then you’re always just moments from being able to express yourself in a gently feminine manner. Sometimes the only difference between dressing straight or crossdressed is the presence of eye makeup.
It’s always important to remember though, the clothing is really only the aesthetic. How you feel and how you think will always be more important. Check out my Patreon for more ideas.
“That’s a nasty gash you’ve got there,” I said to Amanda, as she was bending over.
“Yes,” she said, turning from the flower bed she was weeding. “I caught my finger on that rose bush.”
“Perhaps you should come into the kitchen, I can put some ointment on it,” I replied. As you know, I am really quite compassionate, even with my wife’s dreadful friend, Amanda.
Amanda hesitated for a moment, her brows furrowing in consideration, but then she nodded and followed me into the house. The kitchen, with its warm, golden light filtering through the curtains, offered a comforting sanctuary from the sharp thorns and relentless sun outside.
I rummaged through the medicine cabinet and found the ointment, along with a clean bandage. Amanda sat down at the table, cradling her injured finger gingerly. I couldn’t help but notice the way her face softened in the light, revealing a vulnerability rarely seen behind her usual abrasive demeanor.
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.
“It’s no trouble,” I replied, carefully applying the ointment and wrapping the bandage around her finger. “You’ll need to be more careful around those rose bushes. They’re beautiful, but they can be quite treacherous.”
Amanda gave a small, rueful smile. “I suppose that’s true of many things.”
“It’s remarkable what modern medicine can achieve,” I said. “Take that rapist soon to take up residence in the Whitehouse. They cured his bone spurs magically shortly after Vietnam war conscription ended. And soon he’ll be the commander of American forces. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Amanda looked at me skeptically. I must admit, I was thinking about attending the inauguration. When my invitation arrived in the mail I thought seriously about it, however I have a hair appointment that day. I rarely mention this, but I am also a little sensitive to odors and I had heard that Elon Musk was attending, so I should have opted out. Instead, I put my invitation on Craigslist, but no one has come forward for it.
Interestingly, Epiphany (Rainbow’s girlfriend) has managed to get herself a job in the new administration. She’ll even be working in the Whitehouse. For someone who I thought was basically unemployable I thought this a little surprising, however after seeing her credentials it turns out that if anything, she was over qualified.
Not to worry. By the way, as you may know I do have a support group running for any of my members who are concerned about the incoming rapist. It’s a nice group and they are quite talkative. If you feel in need of a little support come along and join the free service. If you feel you’d like to contribute to this support group please feel free to jump in.
If you’d like to support my efforts here feel free to join my Patreon, for as little as a dollar a month. You can join here.
Preparations for Christmas festivities are creating an air of expectation and excitement around Huckleberry Close this morning, and I couldn’t help noticing that next door people seemed to be stopping by at my neighbor, Marjory’s house looking at the rather imposing Christmas decorations in front of her house. A truly excited sense of seasonal cheer has developed in our little community.
The children have had their last day of school, and inspite of the unseasonably warm weather they are playing in the street and throwing snowballs at one another and laughing. Indeed the festivities this morning spilled over in a rather unusual incident worth recalling. It all started with Auntie Kittie rolling into my kitchen at 9 am, a little bleary eyed, looking for coffee and advice.
“Fiona,” she said a little groggily. “I think I may be experiencing hallucinations.”
I did my best to calm her down, as she sat looking worried.
“I swear that Santa Claus in Marjory’s garden just flashed me,” she groaned as she shakily took the coffee I offered her.
What a lovely time of year it is. I’ve been trying to think of the perfect present for Sylvester. Being a mechanic, and also a lover of dogs, it had crossed my mind that an adjustable spaniel might be just the thing, but I never give pets for Christmas.
As friends gather and feast their eyes on my mince pies, as I whip them out of the oven, and Sylvester dribbles cream over Amanda’s pudding, I can only conclude that I do love this time of year. I’ve just come back from Auntie Kittie’s up the road. She’s been entertaining a few of the neighbours in Huckleberry Close, and of course her lovely nephews and nieces. The young ones are all fascinated by her record player and her record collection.
“But Auntie, it’s all hardware! Where’s the app?” asked Gerald.
It’s interesting watching them try to figure it out. To them, of course, it all seems archaic.
None the less, we all enjoy it when Auntie gets out her voluminous greatest hits and lets us play them. The music of the seventies and eighties is making such a come back.
We were playing Scrabble this afternoon, and when Gerald lay down W E T H E R, Amanda (who is the esteemed editor of Pig And Pig Farmer Weekly) commented, “That’s the worst spell of weather I’ve seen in a long time.”
I thought that rather amusing.
But that’s not the only reason I am writing. I had an email from Mildred in Colorado Springs. She’s been making her own facial scrub. Two tablespoons of honey, four tables spoons of oatmeal and a table spoon of ground almonds. Then go for a drive and stick your head out of the car window as you are passing a road gritting truck. She tells me it refreshing and invigorating.
My members are very helpful, as you can see.
As we progress into the Musk Presidency and his little fat sidekick Donald prepares move his toys into the White House, I am seeing increasing numbers of people join my Support Group. It’s free and if you have concerns about the idiot recently elected you may find it of use. Certainly it’s somewhere to connect with other people who have concerns. You can find it here. https://fionadobson.com/you-can-now-join-our-online-support-group-for-us-based-trans-people-for-free/
Enjoy the weekend and get that last bit of Christmas shopping in if you can. I always buy a few random gifts to give to people in the office with a cryptic but knowing smile. It keeps people on their guard. A nice card to go with it saying something like, “I admire your courage!” confuses the hell out of them.
I am gradually moving more content over to my Patreon. Be sure to join if you’re enjoying my work. It is encouraging to me, and it really helps.
Just the place to jam the shaft of your pen in! Vice President Trump as President Musk’s pet toy poodle. A talking point for any polite dinner party! Just $17.97
I was talking to Sylvester this very morning. He said to me, “How is it that anyone who was alive in the eighties and nineties- people who listened to our music – could possibly vote for that stinking pile of orange crap?”
“I assume you are talking about Mr. Trump,” I said. “And I’ll thank you not to use that language in my kitchen.”
“Really, though!” He said. “How can this election be this close? People who lived through Boy George, The Thompson Twins and David Bowie… How can they betray the things we all believed in?”
“Sylvester, calm down,” I suggested. “In any given population you are going to get a certain number of people who are either misinformed, selfish or monumentally stupid. People who don’t understand how to use Google to check facts. They’re what we call in Canada, ‘Morons’. We will see exactly how many there are in the US in a few days.”
“You can usually tell them apart from normal people,” I continued. “They refuse to consider any opinion but their own, often buy into ideas that keep them at the bottom of the social pile, and are too uneducated to realise that what they think is commitment is actually ignorance. They fear women, they fear immigrants and they fear people who don’t subscribe to their brand of idiocy. They also often think that their gun is a solution.”
As you likely know Pig And Pig Farmer was one of the first publications to endorse Donald Trump in 2016. Even Amanda, who edits this venerable publication has refused to endorse the foul pile of orange crap this year.
She just can’t bring herself to vote for a person who sexually abuses women, pushing policies that will damage so many people, and only enrich the wealthy few. While Trans healthcare is not her foremost concern, as a mother she can’t in good conscience vote for a person who is denying so many women the right to autonomy over their body. She knows that if one of her daughters needs an abortion, she doesn’t want to have to argue the point with a politician or a law enforcement officer.
“Amanda,” I said as we chatted on the phone while I organised a few things in my office, “most of the things they blame on Biden are nothing to do with him. I assure you this isn’t the first time the middle east has had a war, and while they blame Biden for the immigration situation, I guarantee you that’s something that’s been developing over decades. They’ll take these issues and try and manipulate you into thinking they’re all the fault of the person in power. As for that Afghanistan mess, Trump created the whole thing by being an inexperienced and naïve commander in chief. The truth is, neither of them are great, but Trump comes with a whole fascist agenda – and that’s what our parents fought a war to overcome.”
I then had to ring off as I told her I had to assign a few jobs to the team her and hand jobs out in the board room. I really do think her hearing is going.
“Hand jobs out in the boardroom?” she replied.
“Don’t worry, Amanda,” I said. “Things will work out if everyone keeps their heads.”
Sebastian stopped by during the morning, too. As you know, his sister is named Rainbow. What you might not know is that she’s named after the Greenpeace ship, Rainbow Warrior. As you can imagine she was raised with values around the environment that are dear to my own heart. Here in beautiful British Columbia we live by the words, leave only footprints behind. To be fair, my footprints are usually with a very pronounced four inch heel – but looking after the environment is very dear to my heart. It’s a small thing, but I don’t want my children living on a burned out cinder of a planet. And talk of ‘drill baby, drill’ turns my stomach. If you can imagine a dinosaur looking up at the sky and saying, ‘Gee, isn’t that a great looking asteroid heading our way! Let’s try and get a closer look!’, then you can imagine the way I feel about pushing carbon fuels further than absolutely necessary.
Personally, it’s the trans persecution that is the hardest of many lines that have been crossed. I know of many trans people who are feeling frightened by the possibility of losing health care. If he gets in, that’s practically guaranteed to end. Any thought that RFK has any knowledge or understanding of modern healthcare is beyond comprehension. That Trump would give that antivaxxer any say in health matters defies understanding – yet no more so than injecting bleach to overcome Covid.
Only someone who fails to understand how tariffs work could ever suggest the idea of bringing in tariffs in a country that imports so many of its consumer goods. The tariffs will come straight out of American pockets and trigger one of the worst recessions the US has ever seen.
And let’s be honest here. He’s going to be dead long before his mess gets cleaned up. He’s an old crock who is making his last play before he dies a lonely failed little man. Most people stupid enough to vote for that will have to live with the results longer than he will. Unfortunately, if he gets in, so will the rest of the US. For those of us who are trans, the consequences will be far reaching. Fortunately, Canada will always provide a home to people persecuted in their home countries.
As for making America great again, if Trump is elected the US will become the laughing stock of the world. Except that if you’re trans, it’s not going to be very funny. Anyone voting for Trump is no friend of the Transgender movement, and they’re no friend of mine.
Many of us are worried. Of course, it’s a worrying time. However, we will get through this. I’m online much of the time over the next few days. Visit the website if you need to, and look for the chat system if you need to talk. I will make m yself as available as I can. We’re going to be ok.
Have a voting plan, take a friend and bring whatever you need in case you need to wait in line. Make it count.
Max, my neighbour’s son, came round this morning. He was full of patriotic fervor, as it’s Canada day. He was wearing his red and white tea shirt, and his strong muscles quivered beneath the cotton.
“Fiona,” he said excitedly, “Can I look at your beaver?”
I shifted uneasily. It’s not like Max to be quite so forward.
“Your beaver… Mother says you have a very special one!”
This seemed a little odd.
“She says you had it specially mounted,” he continued.
“She did, did she?”
“Yes, and put in a glass case.”
I suddenly remembered the revolting piece of taxidermy my wife’s equally revolting friend Amanda had left in our garage storage area. It was a beaver in a glass case.
“Of course you can, Max. You’re such good boy!”
Today, as you likely know, is Canada Day. This is the day on which Canadians celebrate the founding of our great country. Now, for those of you who are not Canadian and are hard at work – and from some of the emails I’ve been getting, I can honestly say I mean that in the most literal sense – I want you to try and share in my happiness in this day.
As you probably know I live in Vancouver, that most cosmopolitan of modern cities. Here we enjoy a wonderful tradition of music, performance and fun.
Not to forget my American cousins, I hope you too have a wonderful Fourth Of July. Here’s a nice video to help you celebrate! This is very funny – https://youtu.be/n2b3mkipd3U
So, on this special day join me in celebrating Canada. Think of it as embracing your inner beaver. I know you’ll enjoy it as much as I do.
It’s the weekend of the company summer party. An air of excitement is permeating all of Huckleberry Close. Naturally a few of my friends have come by and will be joining me at the costumed event.
After finding the perfect ensemble, I decided to go a little retro and go as Xena Warrior Princess. I have always liked that look, and like Xena consider myself something of a problem solver. It’s just the kind of gurl I am. As Sylvester, Ali, Max and I prepared for the party and got into our costumes Max’s mother, Marjorie, came over to see what all the excitement was about.
“Hello, Marjorie,” I said as she wandered into my kitchen. “We’re almost ready.”
“So, I can see,” she replied eyeing my breast plate. “And Max is doing a wonderful job of buffing up the brass of that breast plate.”
“He’s been most helpful,” I replied.
“Wouldn’t it have been easier if you’d taken it off first?” asked Marjorie.
“Oh, no,” I replied. “What with Max so hard at work…”
At that moment Ali came in, dressed in a set of Klan robes.
“Ali,” I said. “Are you sure that’s entirely appropriate?”
My Syrian friend replied, “I thought I looked very presidential.”
I could hardly fault that, and said so.
“Perhaps we should all go out and stand on the front lawn. Marjorie could take a photograph of us from the landing upstairs? That window overlooks the garden and the picture will lovely with the roses in the background.”
Marjorie agreed and went up the stairs. A moment later she called down to say she couldn’t get the window open, and that she needed a little help. The window seemed blocked by something from the outside.
“Don’t worry,” cried Ali. “I’ll get a ladder and clear it up.” With that, and a flurry of robes, Ali disappeared to get a ladder. Now the reason I explain all this is simple enough. You can imagine the scene when I was then standing on the front lawn, along with Sylvester dressed like a warrior from Middle Earth, about to go on a quest, Max as a Viking, and all of us staring up a ladder at Ali dressed as a KKK klansman, complete with hood, trying to open the upstairs window of my house on a sunny midweek afternoon.
As the sun glinted off my breastplate, we heard the silent hum of Amanda, my wife’s appalling friend, arriving unannounced to visit my wife – who is unfortunately travelling at present.
With the unmistakable sound of tweed rustling she stepped from her car, open mouthed, and said “What on earth is going on here?”
“Ali’s taking care of a blockage,” I said helpfully, and stared up the ladder. Amanda followed my gaze.
“That’s Ali? I thought you’d finally upset the wrong people,” murmured Amanda with her usual distaste for everyone around her.
Ali’s voice drifted down, “Marjories Areolas are coming out beautifully this year. I’ve not seen her garden from this angle before.”
Sometimes I wonder about Ali’s English lessons. Being a Syrian refugee, who was welcomed to Canada in somewhat disadvantaged circumstances, one might forget that he was also a professor in Damascus University prior to the war.
“I thought something dreadful was happening, as I drove up. I could see this crazy Klansman trying to break in through the window. I thought maybe… Honestly, those people should be bloody well hung!”
Looking up Ali’s klan robe, I replied, “Amanda, from where I’m standing, I think Ali’s pretty well…”
“Oh my god,” said Amanda. “You people make me bloody sick. I just dropped by to tell Max, he’s got the job at Pig And Pig Farmer Weekly as my editorial assistant.”
“Oh,” I replied. “What a sparkling start to a career in journalism. Today Pig and Pig Farmer Weekly, tomorrow the world!”
On the whole I do not approve of large people with too much facial hair looming in my doorway. Even more so at 3 am.
That was the sight that greeted me this morning. I enjoy my beauty sleep, most of all to protect my looks, but also so I am fresh in the morning to write to my members. And last night, as my very understanding wife was once again traveling, this time at a conference in somewhere called Poughkeepsie, I was enjoying a night of calm sleep wearing a pink teddie. When I heard the chiming of the door bell, I pulled on a thick robe and went downstairs to find the henge-like form of Amanda, my wife’s appalling friend, blocking the doorway, like a couch abandoned by someone who had been trying to get it through a door that was marginally too small.
Sebastian, my personal trainer, was standing in my kitchen, looking distraught. It’s not a good look for a slim man in spandex. He’d cycled over to my place for a coffee.
“The stuff’s everywhere,” he moaned. “I can’t move in my apartment, there’s so much Jiz everywhere!”
“I’m sorry?” I said, adjusting the peach colored silk robe I was wearing. I had just waxed my legs and chest and the soft silk felt magnificent on my skin.
“It’s all over the place!” He went on.
“Sebastian,” I said, “What on earth are you talking about?”
“It’s the week of the Junior and Intermediate Zumba challenge. Everyone down at the gym enters.”
“Is that a ‘thing’?” I asked.
“I get to do the Jiz thing every year, and every year it’s a nightmare. I just get overwhelmed. And this year, honestly, I think I’ve taken as much as I can take. I’ve bitten off more than I can chew and I’m practically choking on it!”
“I believe the expression is ‘gagging’.” I added, helpfully.
“All the other personal trainers down at the gym leave it to me, and every year I just get sucked in!”
“I wonder why,” I said rhetorically.
“My whole place is covered in the stuff to arrange it, costumes, posters. I even had to design them myself.” Sebastian reached into his back pack and brought out a folded-up poster.
“Oh, Let me see it,” I said trying to sound enthusiastic.
“Yes, of course. Your friend Amanda helped me with it.”
“Amanda is my wife’s friend,” I pointed out. Because she edits a trade publication, Pig And Pig Farmer, Amanda considers herself something of a media mogul. I think you’ll agree that’s a bit of a stretch.
Sebastian unfolded the poster. An image of two young dancers, breathlessly whirling across the floor filled the page, with the headline, “It’s Jiz Time! You’ll be glad you came.”
Sebastian looked at it thoughtfully. “They wouldn’t let me put it up at Starbucks. They got quite snotty about it.”
“I wonder why,” I said.
But that’s not the main reason I’m writing to you today. It’s going to be spring soon, so it’s time to start getting ready with some new looks for Spring. I thought I’d make a couple of suggestions, to help you along.
Spring is a time to emphasise the soft pastels, using both cosmetics and clothes that lift and brighten their surroundings. This is a great time, if you don’t dress outside of the house, to bring some more feminine colors into your selection of clothes that you’d wear day to day.
If you wear glasses, think about getting a pair that are softer and more blended to your skin. Be prepared to experiment with your daily look, softening it with colors that convey gentle forms. Hard black frames may be better replaced with a softer color, for example.
As you color your life more gently, you may be surprised to find yourself feeling more gentle. You’re going to love that. You may well find that wearing pastels and muted colors contributes to a more gentle mood, and as you look the way you know you should, you start to feel the way you should, too.
I sincerely hope you are enjoying the news I share with you. You can participate and comment even more at http://FionaDobson.com
“There is no way,” I said to Amanda, my wife’s awful friend.
“Oh, please,” she begged. “Just pretend. I mean, really, you can pull it off.”
“And I’m not ‘pulling him off’, either!” I protested.
“Look,” she insisted, “all I’m asking is that you hang out with us. I promised!”
“You set him up on a date with some… some… some floozy, and she’s now dropped out. And you’re asking me to step in. And let’s face it, your brother isn’t exactly a catch. This is going to be the first time he’s visited you since he was in jail. That’s not what I think of as a good catch. Besides, I’m married,” I stammered. “You’re a friend of my wife’s. How can you even suggest this!”
I have been treating myself to a few enjoyable gifts to myself lately. Victoria’s Secret, and one or two other places have been benefiting from my self indulgence.
On Wednesday, this week I asked Max, my neighbours twenty-year old son, to come with me to a lingerie store. This was admittedly partly to tease him, and partly to teach him a little lesson. He’s been hanging around a lot lately, and seems to spend way too much time at my place. When I am doing yoga he seems to get extremely agitated. When I am working up a sweat he seems unable to stop watching at me.
“Max,” I said to him, “sometimes I don’t know what’s got into you. You spend so much time over here! You might as well help me with some shopping.”
I drove down to the lingerie store with him, and explained, “Things have been so hard lately,” as I smoothed down the skirt I was wearing.
“Don’t you ever feel like,” I searched for words, “…splashing out on some new underwear?”
Max seemed quite overcome by the thought. He carried my bags back to my car once I had bought some new items of hosiery.
Once at home, I took out several boxes of my underwear and asked him to help me sort them into colors and fold them nicely. He seemed very happily engaged in this task when there came a knock on the door downstairs. I asked him to go down and see who it could be.
Max took himself off and some minutes later, when he didn’t return I glanced out of the window to see him clutching at his stomach and heaving into a flowerbed in my garden. This wasn’t going to help the petunias. After all his efforts to keep them looking full and flowery, Ali, my gardener was not going to like that at all.
I opened the window of my bedroom and called down, “Max, are you all right?”
In reply he pointed toward the kitchen and called back “Amanda,” And then staggered off toward the gate to his parent’s house.
I groaned inwardly. Amanda, my wife’s obnoxious friend, had obviously slipped through the perimeter defences. I decided to go downstairs and see what the unbearable woman wanted. I slipped into pair of gender neutral yoga pants and descended the stairs.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with that boy,” Amanda blurted out as I entered the kitchen. Apparently she had got away from work editing Pig and Pig Farmer Weekly a little early today.
“What did you do to the poor lamb, Amanda?”
“I just asked him to help me with something. You see, I’m taking some pain medication for my back. Anyway I’m supposed to,” and at this point she lowered her voice, “use these.” She pulled a package from her sac like handbag.
“And what are these,” I asked not wishing to get too close.
“Suppositories,” she relied, and my stomach turned over.
“And you wanted Max to help you with them?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied in a matter of fact voice. “They’re supposed to bring my temperature down. It’s a side effect of the medication, you see.”
“You don’t think that’s a little odd?” I said, my mind reeling as I stared at the pack on my kitchen counter.
“Is that even a thing?” I made a note to Google suppositories and temperature.
“You don’t understand,” she stammered as though suddenly realising she’d made a horrendous mistake.
“Amanda, I really don’t think you can ask young Max to…”
“It’s the packaging. I can’t get it out of the blister pack,” she protested, suddenly realisng there had been an unfortunate misunderstanding.
“There are some things, Amanda, you just can’t ask people to do!”
“I can’t open the packaging, it’s my fingers. Not with my arthritis!” she protested.
“All the same,” I said doubtfully. “I think you may have scarred Max permanently. He looks pretty traumatised.”
“Oh, my goodness,” she gasped. “You don’t think he thought I wanted him to…” Amanda looked horrified.
“Yes, I do, Amanda. I think you may have left a very damaging and lasting impression on his fragile young mind.”
However, all this is not the main reason I am writing to you this evening. We’ve got some great new content on the website here: http://FionaDobson.com and I’d love to see your comments and questions about it. Go right ahead and make comments on the site, and I’m thrilled to answer them.
Have a great week and remember not to let your temperature get too high.
I am out of breath as I write this. I’ve only just got home after a most disturbing incident. I feel I have to write and tell you about it.
The day started calmly enough. I did my early morning yoga class, and then as I sipped a morning coffee I watched Ali, my gardener, picking figs from a tree I have in the garden. He really is a treasure, and as I went out to check on my bees, who are prodigiously working away producing honey, I could hear him humming a strange tune.
I am finding these summer mornings delightful. It’s my usual practice to wear something simple – a plain tennis skirt, some wedges, and a pastel top. I like to keep things very simple. My brightly colored nail polish sets it all off rather stylishly.
Ali glanced round and saw me in the garden and then fell into silence for a moment.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully, and carefully selected a juicy fig and handed it to me. “Such a health food, and a perfect one for you.”
“I do appreciate healthy foods, Ali,” I mused as I bit into the succulent fruit.
“That must be how you keep so trim,” he continued. “And is it not written that it is easier for a fat man to enter the kingdom of heaven, than to pass through the eye of a camel.”
I frowned and said, “I don’t think it is written. At least nowhere I’ve read it.”
I do wonder about Ali’s English. He was a professor of botany in Syria, before the terrible crisis over there. However, since coming here he’s been studying English. I’m not quite sure where his difficulty with English begins and his sense of irony ends. I added, “However, that is a perfect fig.”
It really is peaceful in my garden. The ripe fruit and soft early morning sun on my face reminded me how very fortunate I am to live here. Canada is truly a blessed country.
Picking up my bag and cell phone I decided to make the most of the morning, and took Hannibal, my dachshund, for his morning walk. As I strolled down Huckleberry Close I got a call from Sylvester, who has been learning to drive the Zamboni at the local ice arena. He’s really becoming quite skilled. He called to ask if I wanted to have breakfast with him at a café nearby. Naturally I agreed. They do the most delightful croissants, orange juice and coffee. The mother of the family that runs the café keeps bees and brings in her own honey. It’s really most delightful.
And so as Marjory was leaving for work, rather than drive I asked for a lift and rode with her the three miles to the arena, where she dropped me and decided to join us for breakfast. I think that after some years Marjory is warming to me. She still finds me a trifle odd, but she’s been a lot more settled since she started dating my wife’s childhood friend, Amanda.
Marjory and I walked into the huge ice arena, and there across the rink was Sylvester driving the Zamboni. The cool air wafting off the ice was a welcome relief from the heat. When Sylvester looked up he recognized Marjory and I and stopped the big ice grading machine.
“Come on over,” he shouted across the ice. “You want a ride?”
I’ve never been on a Zamboni before, so Marjory and I gingerly stepped out on the ice and tottered across to the vehicle. For those not familiar with the Zamboni, it’s a vehicle driven on an ice rink to resurface the ice. We do this so that the hockey games are played on a very flat surface. Ice has small crenelations if not properly smoothed making it unpleasant to skate, and the Zamboni does the job very well. Sylvester has been learning the skill recently, and now does the occasional turn at the arena cleaning up the surface for the skaters, and preparing it for the ritual slaughter of foreign hockey teams that keeps Canadians so amused. Really, it does. And they just keep coming back for more!
I stepped up onto the vehicle, my little tennis skirt riding a little high as I did so. Marjory followed me, looking a little bemused, and then Sylvester was off and driving around the ice, leaving a smooth glasslike finish behind us.
Now, keep in mind this was very early in the morning, and through the large windows out in the deserted car park I could see Marjory’s solitary car. As we rode around the ice I noticed someone was doing something to Marjory’s little car. The next thing I knew, the car was pulling away toward the exit of the car park.
“Marjory,” I said. “I think someone’s stealing your car!”
She looked out of the window, and sure enough, she shouted, “My car! My car!”
With remarkable composure Sylvester swung the big machine around toward the huge doors of the arena. He hit a remote control and the doors slowly began to open. I have to say I was most surprised at the turn of speed the Zamboni then displayed. Accelerating toward the opening doors Marjory and I clung on to our swarthy friend as the Zamboni flew off the ice and started out across the car park.
“Don’t worry,” said Sylvester, his hair swept back in the morning air as we raced across the car park. “I’ll catch him!”
The little car was exiting the car park and moving out into the slow moving morning traffic. Sylvester piloted the Zamboni skillfully out into the road and we shouted after the car thief, who was becoming increasingly ensnared in the traffic as we maneuvered between lanes, to the surprise of other drivers.
While Marjory called the local police, I hung on to the Zamboni and Sylvester steered us skillfully between cars with startled drivers looking incredulously at us as we navigated down the road in the ice smoothing machine. It’s really not the sort of things you expect to see on the morning commute in 32 degrees of heat (89 degrees Fahrenheit).
As the cars ground to a halt at the traffic lights ahead, a police car appeared and started cutting through the traffic. Marjory was talking to the emergency operator, who relayed her instructions directly to the police cruiser.
A moment later the traffic stopped, police car on one side of Marjory’s car, and Zamboni halted flush with the drivers side. Marjory’s little car was completely boxed in. It was at this point that I decided it might be wise to make myself a little scarce. With a smile to Sylvester and a polite wave to the car thief, who was trying in vain to open the car door, I slipped of the Zamboni and made my way to the sidewalk.
As I left I could hear the sound of other sirens. Likely this would turn into a dogs dinner of police and press and god knows what.
At that moment the appalling Amanda called my cell.
“What on earth’s going on with Marjory? I’m trying to phone her and it just rings and rings,” she said sounding both annoyed and annoying.
“Ahh…. Her phone’s probably in her car.”
“So?” came the reply.
“Well, nothing really…” I wasn’t going to get into that with Amanda.
So, next time someone asks you if you’d like a ride on a Zamboni, keep in mind it may not go the way you planned. So much for breakfast! I’m sure Sylvester and Marjory will be occupied for a while there. I felt it best to hurry home to my kitchen, where I am writing this to you now.
I hope you’re enjoying the site. If you’re not, just come back a couple of days later and you’re likely going to find a whole lot of different content!
I do so hope you’re getting ready for a lovely Christmas. I will likely be on the website chatting with members and friends. We will manage though, but I feel it is important to remind my lovely members we are still in the throes of a pandemic. Just be a little careful.
In the meantime some of my more organised friends are getting ready for the New Year. I think it might be a little optimistic, but Marjory (who you will remember does well on the competitive eating circuit) is already going through her schedule for next year’s competitive eating events. It’s very competitive as you probably know. The organizers stage legs in various cities throughout the South. She is diligently trying to plan out next year’s schedule.
Inevitably it’s always at a time when Amanda is also very busy. However she usually manages to slip away from her demanding schedule at Pig And Pig Farmer a few times in the season to meet up with Marjory and give her a kiss between the legs.
But that’s not the main reason I am writing to you. I was most surprised this morning to look out of my back window and see Sylvester struggling up the back lane with a trailer behind his truck. Apparently, with all these restrictions on gatherings, the local church has taken the opportunity to do some much needed maintenance. Sylvester has helped by delivering some of their things to the company that services them.
Looking from my kitchen window I saw his truck approaching in the lane behind my house pulling an enormous trailer. I opened my window and called out to Sylvester, “What on earth do you have there, dear?”
“It’s the organ,” he replied. ‘I need to park it up while I get a tarpaulin. It looks like it might rain in a little while.”
“That’s OK,” I called down the lane. “Just leave it in my back passage.”
I hope he gets a tarpaulin for it quickly. It’s much better wrapped, I think. Parked there it will be fine for a couple of hours though, I think. What a very big heart Sylvester has, helping the church out like that. Rainbow has in the past offered yoga classes at the church, and when the members of the church council organised a collection for her, knowing she’s not got much work at present, they presented her with a handy and much needed windfall.
I asked her what she was planning to do with it, and she said she was very grateful to the gentlemen of the church council and that she was planning to blow the whole lot over Christmas. It seemed a rather unusual turn of phrase, I have to admit.
For those of you alone this Christmas I really do think you’d enjoy my Whatsapp Group. It provides a level of community connection many of us are missing in our lives. There’s an active group of crossdressing friends there and we’d welcome you as well. You can find all the details HERE. It’s much better than feeling alone over Christmas. Of course I also have a couple of other ways for you to connect and feel part of the community.
I will be writing again soon, but if you find yourself with a little time on your hands over the Christmas period, be sure to check out my Patreon. For those who don’t have much in the way of community around them, I would suggest you join my Whatsapp Group and connect with the lovely group of members who are chatting so nicely on there.
I’ll be in touch soon, but now I have to go and see what Sylvester is up to. He appears to be putting some sort of lubricant on his organ.
Well, it’s been a lovely week already. Here in Canada we have just celebrated Thanksgiving.
Amanda, who hails from the Midwest and is the esteemed editor of Pig And Pig Farmer Weekly, recently asked Sylvester why we celebrate Thanksgiving at a different time to our dear friends to the south, in the US. Sylvester cryptically replied, “That’s one of those climate change things, Amanda,” which appeared to satisfy her.
I have to draw attention to a slight correction on the website, where some confusion arose among readers. As you know people ask my advice for all kinds of things. When Mildred, from Colorado Springs recently enquired about how to help her niece house train her new puppy, naturally I replied on the site with what I felt was very good advice.
“Pick the puppy up, and take it around the house, saying ‘no’ at each location, before carefully putting it down on a piece of old newspaper.”
A surprising number of readers thought I meant shoot it through the head. Well, it’s an understandable mistake.
To compensate I am offering those members who mentioned this a booklet I have prepared on how to remove animal blood stains from curtains and soft furnishings.
But that’s not the main reason I’m writing to you tonight. I thought I might mention to you a rather sweet gesture made by one of the ladies who are members of my feminization program for wives. You can find it here. What a thoughtful sweetheart she is.
Be sure to join my Patreon to show your support for my programs HERE.
This afternoon I organised a delightful lunch to welcome Bernard, my photographer, back home. You will doubtless remember that he has had some health issues and was visiting the UK and staying at The Devil’s Dyke Health Spa.
It is unsurprising that following a tazering and being shot in the chest with a carrot, he should need extensive rehabilitation. However, the Devil’s Dyke facility, according to their internet profile, specialises in heart, digestive and gastrointestinal tract treatments, including extensive use of colonic irrigation. Ali, my gardener, informs me that this has nothing to do with the irrigation he is dutifully installing in my greenhouse, in expectation of a warm summer.
Sylvester, Sebastian and Bernard all joined me, as well as Amanda, who ‘popped in’ slipping past Hannibal and the security system. That woman is like a ninja. I should point out that she is an old schoolfriend of my wife, and often appears in the hopes of finding her. Unfortunately my wife is travelling at present, studying flora of the Limpopo.
Amanda was most upset. It turns out her therapist, who she’s been seeing twice a week for the last two years, committed suicide two days ago. This is not made easier by the fact that her previous therapist did the same thing some years ago. At the funeral, it turned out that Amanda was the only person attending, and likely his only client.
“But somehow I feel like it’s my fault,” she said tearfully.
“Nonsense,” I said. “It’s his job to talk you off the ledge, not the other way around.”
“But twice! That’s quite a coincidence, don’t’ you think?”
“Well, not really. I’m sure lots of therapists go that way,” I replied.
“Apparently he leaves a very extensive library of self help books.”
Returning to our lunch, Bernard enthused about his trip to the UK. As we sipped a light chardonnay he told us as much as one can about colonic irrigation at the dinner table. Sebastian asked about the exercise, and probed him about the diet.
Bernard had brought a couple of bottles of Devil’s Dyke bottled water, one of which Sylvester picked up and inspected.
“Devil’s Dyke Water,” he read from the label, holding is at arms length to be able to read it properly. His eyesight is not what it once was. “It say’s here, it’s a great tonic, and good for digestion and flatulence.” Amanda seemed excited, and asked to see.
“I should try this,” said Sylvester enthusiastically with a laugh.
There was an awkward pause, and then Bernard said, “I think they mean it’s good for stopping flatulence, Sylvester.”
“Oh,” he replied, a little disappointed. “Why would…” and his voice tailed off.
However, that’s not the main reason I’m writing to you today. We now have a little more space in our Premium Feminization Program – and we’re adding some new tasks. So, there’s never been a better time to put your best foot forward and mince into our wonderful Premium Program and enjoy the fun and games we have to offer.
We’re enjoying a great deal of success with our Premium Feminization Program. If you’re not already a member, then think about joining. I get email daily from my members telling me how much they love it. It’s only $10 a month and provides you with valuable training and exercises to help you get the most out of crossdressing. As a Premium Member you’ll find my emails help you progress and enjoy your crossdressing even more than you do today. Sign up HERE.
Have a wonderful week.
😊
Fiona
Boggie is a hugely talented young lady. More than that, she’s a very brave one. This song is wonderfully written, but also bravely filmed in a manner that challenges the societal norm of beauty. Here’s a translation of the first verse.
Hundreds of perfumes, like daydreaming wildflowers Sweet, bittersweet negligence now overpowers Rose and oleander in their tiny glassware, shimmer me on Myrrh and almond fragments in small portion balanced, lilacs and violas, in hidden small vials Dripping them, spraying them, one by one testing them – that mist dazes me so.
I post this song from time to time to remind my friends and members that the image we see on TV is not the true rendering of the person. Boggie is courageous enough to demonstrate this with great honesty. FD
Looking for that special gift for the dominant uber bitch in your life? What could possibly be better than this Sexy Leather Bodysuit Leotard? Nothing says “I want you to dress me up like a sissie and beat the heck out of me” quite like a faux leather leotard! Just $19.95.
The long sultry days of summer are easing to a close, and the sun sliding from the sky a little earlier each day now. Here in Canada we’re experiencing a delightful Indian summer, as the last days of this season slowly ebb away.
This week I enjoyed a moonlight paddle in a kayak with one of our members who’s birthday fell on the night of the full moon. A small group of us paddled out in the night across English Bay, in Vancouver. It was a magical night. We sang The Volga Birthday Song ( https://youtu.be/1oXsRteMGy8 ) beneath the majesty of the BC coastal mountains as we drifted on the gentle swell of the inky black sea.
Perhaps it’s the easy going nature of people here, or maybe it’s the liberal nature of society that makes living in Canada so agreeable. Those of us in the gender queer space are generally well received, particularly on the west coast. So it’s really quite a downer to see Sylvester mooning about the place, and that’s not a sight for the feint of heart, let me tell you.
I’m so sorry I’ve not been available much this week. I’ve just got back from a brief expedition with Bernard my photographer. He had me out in his boat this week. What a salty little sea dog he is, whipping out his equipment at the least expected moment. He likes to do a little wildlife photography on the water.
For those of you who read my messages regularly, you’ll know that my wife’s childhood friend Amanda, is something of an unfortunately regular visitor to my house in Huckleberry Close. My wife, who is regrettably travelling at present in Bulgaria, or Belgravia… or was it Bolivia, insists I treat Amanda with kindness.
“If you love me,” she said before leaving last time, “you’ll be nice to Amanda.”
I understand that doesn’t include pretending not to be home when Amanda visits, telling her the party is at an obscure address in Poughkeepsie, or creating fake profiles with her picture on Grinder. So, I have to watch my step. All that said, when I arrived home the other day only to put down my bags and hear a knocking on the door I was surprised to see a very upset Amanda on the doorstep, swathed in her usual tweed.
Seeing she was clearly upset I invited her in.
“What on earth is the matter, darling,” I asked as I poured her a large glass of wine, and an appletini for myself.
For those of you who wish to learn more about the various people in my life, just drill down using the hotlinks in these emails. I usually put a link to all the tags mentioning them early in the email, so it’s not hard to learn more about any given person. Amanda appears a great deal, as does Sylvester and Sebastian. You’ll find it’s quite a rich world of personalities and situations.
Amanda, as you possibly know, is the editor of Pig and Pig Farmer. This pillar of the journalistic establishment has been described as the fourteenth most influential publication in the sphere of Pig and Pork production monthly periodicals. As you can imagine, this makes Amanda quite an influential voice in the world of pork.
“It’s work,” she said. “I just feel so… so… so overlooked.”
“Why on earth is that,” I asked.
“It’s these bloody men! They’ve passed me over once more. I was hoping to be made group editor this year. I just feel I have so much more to offer,” she said between sobs. “And now they made Jed Richardson group editor and he’s barely been with the company three years.”
“Don’t worry,” I said trying to hug her and keep socially distanced. To do so I’d have to be an orangutan, I suppose, but I tried to show some human kindness. I know what you’re thinking. I give too much of myself to others – I know. Well, it’s just who I am, I suppose.
“I know it must seem terribly unfair,” I said. “These things happen. Don’t worry. Perhaps he’ll have an unfortunate accident, or something. You never know when fate is going to play a hand.”
“But it’s such an insult, being passed over again. It’s like I’ve hit a glass ceiling,” she said between sobs, pushing her face between my breasts.
I have to say the estrogen regime has done a great deal to help me comforting those that lean on me. You just can’t beat breasts!
“The workplace is a very unfair place,” I said to Amanda. “If it doesn’t feel right, you should just tell them where to shove their job.”
“In this economy?” she replied. And she did have a point.
“I remember all the trouble Sylvester had years ago when he was looking for a career in healthcare,” I said. “He got fired from that centre where they do the long term care for people with leprosy.”
“He worked in a leper colony?” said Amanda perking up a little.
“Well, they don’t call it that now,” I replied. “It’s some sort of long term care facility. Anyway, he started a poker school for some of the patients and ended up getting fired over it. Apparently someone threw their hand in, and lost their head. It was all very distasteful. Anyway, you know what a sweetheart he is. Employers are usually completely insensitive and out of touch. You just have to learn to take their money and keep on smiling.”
Amanda looked at me doubtfully.
“I suppose I do get some good perks,” she replied. “The bacon, and stuff. And I get to go to Porkers every year.”
“Porkers?” I said.
“It’s the Pig farming convention,” she explained. I should add that there is an irony here. Amanda is currently in a relationship with our next door neighbor, Marjory, who is quite a big noise on the competitive eating scene. https://majorleagueeating.com/ She is apparently accomplished in the sausage category, which seems unusual, with her being a lesbian and everything. Anyway, there’s Amanda growing the stuff, and Marjory wolfing it down. I can’t help thinking there’s a joke somewhere in there about Amanda firming it up and Marjory swallowing… well, you get the idea.
“Look,” I said comforting Amanda. “You have to remember, there’s a lot of people down at that paper who look at you with admiration. They’ve watched you from behind their desks as you’ve climbed higher and higher, and eventually burst through that glass ceiling, in a shower of glass and workplace discrimination. I mean, come on! You’re the first women to edit Pig and Pig Farmer in the history of pig journalism. And all those other people are left below in a pile of glass, looking up at… at… your crack. The crack you left in the ceiling.”
Amanda’s shoulder’s heaved and she sobbed again.
“Really, Amanda,” I said. “You know it’s no measure of who you are. We all admire your crack. The way you’ve opened things up.”
I had the distinct feeling I wasn’t helping. At that moment Marjorie’s F150 pulled up next door and I heard her boots on the gravel path. I let out a sigh of relief and Amanda pulled away and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
“I’d better go,” she said. “I don’t want Marjory to see me like this.”
So, this week as we move further into a difficult time in the workplace for many of us, I’d like to take the opportunity to remind all my lovely friends that you are not defined by your work. It’s good to remind ourselves from time to time that our work is only a small part of who we are. We work to support our life, we don’t live to support our work.
Many of my friends can’t work dressed as they wish, or even being the person they really are. When one is fortunate enough to live as one desires life gets a whole lot better, but many of us don’t have that opportunity. If you’d like to explore this idea further you may want to read this – https://fionadobson.com/can-i-be-femme-behind-closed-doors-but-masculine-in-public/
I should say, I’ve been very fortunate. Having worked in the press, I can honestly say I’ve been fired by some of the finest papers in the world. To be honest, when I was in the press world that was practically a recommendation, and no one was considered very serious if they hadn’t been fired from one or two papers. I’ve even been hired back by a few, too. I think things are a lot different today, though not particularly better. Times change. For those of us who are gender fluid, keeping things in perspective is important. Workplace discrimination is a pretty serious and massively prevalent issue. We have to learn to laugh, and have patience. Being trans sure teaches us that. But we’re still here. And we aren’t going anywhere.
Have a lovely week, and don’t let Covid get you down. I must say, my good friend and Prime Minister of Canada, Justin was on the news today. Which reminds me, I think he’s still got my copy of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. He always leaves the pages of books I lend him with the corners turned down. I’ve given him no end of bookmarks, but what can you do!
After a busy morning I returned to my house today to find my wife’s appalling friend Amanda waiting for me.Max had let her in, something I’d warned him about, but he seemed to have forgotten. I was a little irritated as I had a lot on, and had to get to a jazzercise class which would start shortly.
As I hurried in Max silently mouthed his apology.
“Hello, Amanda,” I said as I heard her beige trouser suit rustle in my direction and she appeared from the living room. “Have you been having fun on the newsdesk?”
“Why, what have you heard?” she replied nervously.
I couldn’t really imagine what fun one could have on the newsdesk of Pig And Pig Farmer Weekly, but didn’t waste too much time thinking about it.
“I wasn’t expecting you today,” I said. Had I known she’d be coming I would have been out.
“Well, I thought I’d stop by. Leo’s with me today,” she said, and glanced over her shoulder into the living room.
I should explain, and I’d like to do this with the sympathy and delicacy this subject deserves, that Leo is what we used to call ‘developmentally disadvantaged.’ He is a very sweet young man, but has never really progressed beyond the early stages of mental development. Now, I should point out that in Canada we have a very inclusive approach to those less fortunate than ourselves, and we embrace those less able than the rest of us. It’s a point on which we stand with great national pride. Not withstanding my recent unfortunate episode with a homeless person, I believe we measure ourselves as a nation by how we treat the less fortunate. To us, universal healthcare at no cost whatsoever, for example, is an absolute no brainer. Which, in it’s way makes what happened this afternoon even more difficult to relate.
I made my apologies to Amanda and said I had to hurry to get ready for my Jazzercise class, and had to change, and so hurried upstairs. I had washed and prepared a few things, and as I gathered them together and put them in my bag, I realised I’d left some clothes lying in the living room.
I called down to Max, who came upstairs.
“Max,” I said, “I seem to have left some things in the living room. Some tights and a leotard, they’re probably in the living room. Can you be a sweetheart and see if you can find them. I think they may be lying over the back of the chair by the window.
With that I changed out of my office clothes and into a light summer dress. I’d slip into my dancewear at the studio.
It was then that I heard a commotion from downstairs, and the slamming of the front door. From my bedroom window I saw Amanda hurry to her Prius, and help her brother Leo into the passenger seat. I couldn’t think what had caused such a commotion, and a moment later Max was politely knocking on my bedroom door.
I opened it and stepped out.
“What on earth was that all about?” I asked.
“I think I must have said something to upset Amanda… I don’t know what I did. She just erupted.”
“Max, calm down. I’m sure it’s nothing. Just tell me what you said.”
Max followed me downstairs, and recounted his words.
“I just walked into the living room and said to Amanda that you were changing upstairs and I had come down to find a leotard that was lying around in the living room.”
“That’s all you said?”
“Yes,” he said looking hurt.
“Those were your exact words?” I pressed him.
For a moment he closed his eyes, and then in a moment of reflection he said, “No, wait a moment… I came through that door, and then I said “Is there a leotard lying around in here?”… And that’s when she took off in a huff!”
“Oh,” I replied. “You don’t think she thought you were referring to her brother, do you? I mean, his name is Leo… and he is… well, you know.”
We looked at each other ashamed of ourselves. I felt pretty sure I had an awkward phone call ahead to make to Amanda.
But that’s not the main reason I’m writing to you today. I thought I’d drop you a line and tell you about some of the spectacular leotards that you can find on my website. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? They’re versatile and fun, and as you’ll see can be worn either in a very femme way, or quite an androgynous manner. Check out the page on my site that tells you about them and you’ll find they’re fun and can make you look great.
Till next week.
🙂
Fiona
If your mum comes in while you’re watching this, switch to porn whatever you do. It’s just easier to explain away!
It seems like I spend half my time on texts these days. And then Sylvester will send something stupid like the text he’s just sent me.
Really, I’m running between meetings, trying to keep my hair nice, checking out the new boy in the post room (yes, we still have one) and helping one of the senior partners arrange his meat and two veg. Oh, I should explain Bernard is doing a shoot for a client who has a string of restaurants, and we have to photograph some of the food for the advertisement. I can’t’ tell you much about it as it’s not yet been released, but jeez, you should see the size of the client’s sausage.
And then I get a string of texts from Sylvester.
Sylvester: …by the way Fiona, I want to tell you something.
Myself: ?
Sylvester: Did you hear about the explosion?
Myself: What?
Sylvester: Yes. I’ve been showered in letters.
Myself: What are you blabbering about?
Sylvester: Since the explosion at the Scrabble factory.
Myself: I suppose you think that’s funny.
Really, I have to put up with the most annoying things at times, and Sylvester is one of them. If he’s not moping around and looking doe eyed at Amanda, he’s out trying to teach Rainbow how to drive. He came in to the kitchen yesterday after taking her for a driving lesson. He was shaking so much I had to comment.
“Sylvester, if that’s not early onset Parkinson’s, I’d say you’re looking a little shaken up,” I said as I poured the tea.
He gave that thousand mile stare he sometimes has, and while clutching a traffic citation in his hand he said softly, “How can you break the speed limit doing a three point turn in a cul-de sac? How did she do that?”
“Goodness me,” I said, adjusting my tartan three quarter length skirt. “Just what is it you’re teaching her to do?”
“It’s for her driving test,” he replied sounding quite dazed. “’Nineth time lucky’ she said. Ninth time.”
“Oh yes,” I replied. “Ninth time is always a charm.”
But that’s not the main reason I am writing to you.
I thought I’d just remind you that this is Pride Month, and inspite of what a few Neanderthals would have you believe, in most of the civilized world Pride is being celebrated with joy.
If you’ve not done so already, take a moment to find an appropriate way to support Pride in your neighborhood.
I am very proud of my legs. As Sebastian, my personal trainer has often commented, during our yoga practice, I am able to place my legs in some most unusual positions. As I was doing ‘downward dog’ the other morning I felt first a twinge and then one knee collapsed, and I was revisited by some damage incurred during an old skiing accident.
I am very happy with my general health, however in the fall, now and then, I get a twinge. It passes within a week or so, and then I am back to tip top health, but this week I am very slow. I know you are wondering what all this has to do anything, but I felt I should confide in you, as what I am about to say might sound just a little odd.
Part of my morning fitness routine, usually following my morning swim with Sebastian – he really does enjoy giving me a morning work out – is to walk my dog, Hannibal. Now, some of you may remember Hannibal has had more than one run in with Amanda over the years. He once found a marital aid under her sofa and the resulting drama was traumatizing for myself and my poor little dachshund.
He subsequently saw Sebastian’s homeopath for PTSD for several weeks. Pet’s Traumatic Stress Disorder is not a widely recognized, at least not in the DSM, but if you were exposed to Amanda’s adult toy collection I guarantee you’d not be the same person after the experience. A whole teamof therapists wouldn’t be enough, I assure you.
looming in my doorway. Even more so at 3 am.
