Musings: My Protector

A recent post consisted of the result of a recent writing exercise in which I took part. The exercise was to write a letter of compassion/like/love to yourself. I did something a bit different and wrote a letter from pre-transition me to myself, Cassidy. I decided that turnabout is fair play, as the saying goes, so this is a brief letter from myself, Cassidy, to pre-transition me. Follow along below the jump.

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Some Christmas Cheer I Ho-Ho-Hope You Like!

Given how somber my last post was, I thought it only proper to follow up with something much more upbeat. Also, I literally did  not sleep a wink last night, and do not currently have the wherewithal to write something from scratch. :-/ 

A surprising number of people have started following my blog this past year. (P.S. I'm sorry). :-p The majority of them quickly - and wisely - opted not to slog through two-plus years of angst, misguided attempts at humor, and questionable fashion and hairstyle-related decisions.

Nonetheless, buried amongst the dross there are a few posts that only make me cringe a little bit. I beg your indulgence in letting me share one of those posts again.

Oddly enough, I wrote it two years ago to this very day - December 23, 2011. It's about my favorite Christmas ever, when I was nine years old. I think it helps paint a fuller picture of my family - such as we were - when I was growing up.

I am still very pleased with how this turned out. While my current Christmas has turned into a bit of an adventure, I promise that this post has a happy ending. :c)

Enjoy!!!

Christmas Time Is Here

***

I wanted to share a pic I took after work today. This is my first effort with my new curling iron that did not result in: a) a visit from the fire department, b) a trip to the local trauma center for burns, and/or c) a more than passing resemblance to Little Orphan Annie. :D

But here - judge for yourself!

Not bad for my first serious attempt. I even received a compliment about it!

I was walking into Starbucks this evening just as an older gentleman was trying to open the door and balance a tray with four cups of coffee.

He gave me a grateful smile when I ran up and held the door open for him.

"Thank you, Miss," he said. "Polite, pretty, *and* a redhead - it's my lucky day!"

My face matched my hair as he wished me a Merry Christmas! :#)

***

Again, I wanted to share a few of my favorite humorous Christmas-related clips and songs from the past two years for anyone who hasn't seen them yet.

And also for those who have seen them, but still love a good laugh. :c)

First, a Liberace Christmas, with a guest appearance from the great (and hungry - watch that turkey at the end of the sketch!) Orson Welles:

Next up we have Christmas music done Muppets-style, starring the eternally put-upon Beaker:

If ever there was an eternal optimist, however, it is Beaker. No matter how much evidence there is to show his faith is totally unjustified. :D

Last but not least, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer is reinterpreted for the 21st century - courtesy of Martin Scorsese:

April's observation from last year remains a propos: "Like I always say: never trust an elf."

True that. :-p

Coming up next: Cass meets Santa - in the salon!!!

Blind Spots

I wasn't sure about posting this one, as I was worried it might come off as a bit self-pitying. That still might be the case, but I refer to this incident in another post I'm writing, so I figured, what the hell, right? And it still makes me laugh (and wince) to think back to how my baseball career both started and ended simultaneously. :c)

***

“Hey L - catch!”

My friend D tossed an outfielder’s mitt at me. It bounced off my chest and flopped to the ground. I picked it up and tossed it back.

“Sorry,” I said. “I have an old war wound and can't lift my arm.”

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The Awakening #1

Thanksgiving Day at my uncle's house. I was five or six years old. My parents both come from large families (each was the youngest of eight), with a considerable gap between them and the next oldest sibling. As a result, my brother, sister, and I were typically the youngest children at family events.

I'm the oldest of three, with a younger sister and brother, all of us born in a span of less than two and a half years. People didn't mess around back then after marrying, I guess. Well, actually I guess they did, based on the evidence. :c) (As an aside: Oddly, most people, relatives included, assumed - and still assume - that I was the youngest and my brother was the oldest. My brother, actually the youngest, was big for his age, much more outgoing, and a natural athlete and leader. By contrast, I was very small for my age, quiet, artistic, and, in retrospect, pretty sensitive, especially for a boy.

My sister, the middle child, was more than a bit of a tomboy back then. She loved nothing more than to be outside playing baseball, football, or whatever sport was in season. I played too, but in spite of being a diehard baseball and hockey fan, I didn't really have any aptitude for sports in general. I have a long list  of sports-related injuries, mostly self-inflicted, to prove it too. :c)

Anyway, like all tomboys she hated having to wear a dress at any time. And on this Thanksgiving day, I have a vivid memory of standing in my uncle's living room next to the television set, The Carpenters singing "Top of the World." I'm styling, albeit somewhat uncomfortably, in all the sartorial splendor of a hip kindergartner circa 1971-ish. At least hip as imagined by a baby-boomer mother who listens to Danny Davis & The Nashville Brass on 8-track (think plaid pants, polka dot tie,  purple shirt with collars pointy enough to use around the fondue pot - you get the picture).

I'm looking at my sister standing in the hallway. She's wearing a pretty white dress with strawberries on it, white knee socks, white patent leather shoes, and a white ribbon in her hair. Arms rigid, hands balled into fists, legs spread defiantly, a scowl etched across her face, she remains consumed by the righteous fury of the wronged that only a four-year-old can muster, a fury that remains undimmed even after an hour-plus car ride.

My cousin N, a teenager at the time, is attempting, without much success, to draw my sister out of her funk.

"That dress is so pretty!"

My sister remains unmoved.

"And look at all of those strawberries! Can I have one of your strawberries, please?"

No response.

"Well, I'll just take that as a yes!" She reaches down, plucks off an imaginary strawberry, pops it in her mouth, and savors it for a few moments.

"Mmm! That is the *best* strawberry I've ever had! I'm so glad you wore that dress, or I wouldn't have been able to enjoy it. Thank you so much!"

Sighing mightily, my sister stomps off, determined to nurse her rage in indignant solitude.

N watches her departure, shaking her head slightly, then turns to me and smiles as she walks away.

"Why can't your sister be more like you, L?"

A thought flashes across my mind:

"I'd wear that every day if I could."

Instantly, my heart flutters. My legs feel like Silly Putty. I sit down on the couch, a strange tingling sensation in my stomach.

And I know I can't ever, ever tell anyone what I just thought.

Even if I don't understand why.

In fact, I know I can't ever let myself think anything like that ever again.

And so I don't.

Until I'm thirteen.