Gruncles, Goblins, and Other States of Being

We’re just a few short hours away from the end of May and I think I’ve reached the bottom of its sack of miscellaneous side quests.

As always, I accepted every quest, because you never know just how good the loot might be. 

Before we go any further, however, I have finally settled the Gender Discourse.

There are six genders:

1. Fred
2. Daphne
3. Velma
4. Shaggy
5. Scooby-Doo
6. The Mystery Machine

Scholars may submit appeals to the Department of Mystery Solving and await their rejection letters. 

The actual state of my own gender remains delightfully feral.

A few days ago I went grocery shopping. At stop one, the cashier looked at me and confidently declared, “Have a good day, ma’am.” At stop two, the cashier saw the exact same cryptid (me) in the exact same outfit and confidently declared, “Have a good day, sir.” And at stop three, the cashier gazed into the abyss, the abyss gazed back, and we eventually settled on a mutual understanding of “Have a good day.”

To speedrun the entire spectrum of public gender perception in less than three hours while dressed exactly the same is a rare achievement. I assume there’s a badge for it somewhere. I hope it’s enamel with a locking back. 

Similarly, I attended a production of Jagged Little Pill wearing jeans, a My Chemical Romance shirt, and a green hat.

The woman next to me apparently looked at this collection of clues and arrived at “woman.”

And honestly?

Yes, please and thank you, and I hope you have a marvelous weekend. 

The thing about being nonbinary is that sometimes people get it wrong, sometimes people get it right, and sometimes the answer is simply, “Yes.”

Meanwhile, I have also acquired a great-niece and the title of Gruncle, which sounds less like a family relationship and more like a woodland creature that steals your sandwiches, or possibly sets up a roadside attraction in Oregon. 

I accept this honor.

The forest has spoken.

Unfortunately, Congress continued doing whatever it is Congress thinks it’s doing.

The House has now passed H.R. 2616, and eight Democrats joined Republicans in support of it: Henry Cuellar, Don Davis, Cleo Fields, Laura Gillen, Vicente González, Marcy Kaptur, Marie Gluesenkamp Perez, and Eugene Vindman.

My own representative is on that list, so I have apparently “upgraded” from a representative who openly disliked people like me to one who politely assists those who do.

As always, I continue lighting candles for trans people – for myself. Not just for resilience, or courage, or strength – – the world asks us for those things often enough.

I light candles for long lives. For trans people to become the neighborhood eccentric who yells at squirrels; to develop strong and increasingly specific opinions about bird feeders; to spend decades arguing with beloved partners about the thermostat; to complain about their knees, collect too many mugs, forget why they walked into the kitchen, and become deeply invested in local gardening disputes.

For comfort, contentment, ordinary happiness, and the privilege of becoming gloriously, spectacularly boring.

That has always been the dream.

Which is why I reserve the right to judge people who support policies designed to make that future impossible.

Not every disagreement is a harmless difference of opinion. Some things deserve judgment.

But let’s move on to other matters for a moment. 

At 1:00 a.m. this last Friday, I successfully acquired the re-released GASH eyeshadow from Urban Decay.

Worth it.

What isn’t worth it? Junkless bars. 

If your company is called Junkless and you replace sunflower oil with palm kernel oil, you have completed a remarkable transformation from Junkless to Junk.

I purchased six boxes of the old version on sale.

The thrift stores have also continued their noble work of supplying me with side quests.

I restored a lovely Art Deco metal shaker using ketchup, determination, and the sort of patience usually associated with monks and people assembling LEGO sets.

It gleams.

I finally unpacked the good glass and used it for its intended purpose. A surprising number of us spend years saving special things for special occasions when the special occasion is simply being alive on a Tuesday. And so, the good glass has entered active service.

Most importantly, one of my thrifted dessert cups turned out to hold a single orange with such perfection that I can only assume destiny was involved. 

It is now the orange cup. 

The orange belongs there. 

The cup knows it.

The orange knows it.

I know it.

Who am I to stand in the way of fate?

Speaking of things becoming what they were always meant to be:

You know that conversation about the former Pizza Hut building that’s now a different business entirely and somehow it became one of the internet’s best metaphors for being transgender?

My town does not understand the assignment.

One of my favorite local restaurants suffered a fire in November and is being torn down to be rebuilt.

The comments section beneath the news story is filled with people insisting that the location isn’t really the restaurant at all because it was a McDonald’s forty years ago.

Friends.

My dear, beloved, accidentally philosophical friends.

The internet remains committed to missing obvious lessons. This is perhaps why X continues to resemble a cursed bog where every troll in the kingdom has gathered to yell at one another.

Life is too short.

There are birds to watch.

Books to read.

Oranges to display.

And yet, technology continues its campaign against my personal peace.

Facebook keeps hijacking my music.

Websites log me out while I am actively using them.

Cars increasingly replace perfectly good knobs with screens.

Software wants my personal device involved in every authentication process imaginable.

And somewhere in North Carolina, a toll road camera remains absolutely convinced that I am the owner of a vehicle that is not my vehicle.

The photograph shows a different make.

A different model.

An unreadable plate.

Yet the official response remains, essentially, “The magic box says it’s you.”

A remarkable system.

No notes.

[There are lots of notes]

Fortunately, the universe occasionally remembers to balance the scales.

A few casual acquaintances invited me to attend a My Chemical Romance concert in August after someone in their group had to cancel.

Not because I asked or hinted or lurked mysteriously in the background radiating emo energy (okay maybe I did that last one subconsciously), but because I was apparently one of the first people they thought of that would like to go. 

I do not apologize for the person I have become, or the person I am becoming.

If my reputation now includes “person you call when My Chemical Romance tickets unexpectedly become available,” then I consider that a success.

The universe has distributed a reward, a treat if you will, and I have accepted it.

The month also saw the return of a beloved NPC: the cones were down and Chauncey was back! I got to stop and say hello.

Some joys are small enough to fit in your pocket and somehow still large enough to brighten your entire day.

And finally, because no collection of my thoughts is complete without Terry Pratchett:

Almost every positive thing anyone has ever said about me can be traced back, eventually, to Terry Pratchett showing me a better way to be a better person.

Recently I read an article in the Atlantic arguing that not enough people are reading Pratchett.

The author was correct.

Unfortunately, they also appeared to misunderstand Pratchett so thoroughly that I spent most of the article wondering whether we’d read the same books.

If you want to understand me, read Monstrous Regiment, Small Gods, and Carpe Jugulum.

And if you happen to have been wearing lilac on May 25, remember the fallen of Treacle Mine Road: John Keel, Billy Wiglet, Horace Nancyball, Dai Dickens, Cecil “Snouty” Clapman, Ned Coates, Reg Shoe.

Remember their cause: Truth. Justice. Freedom. Reasonably-Priced Love. And a Hard-Boiled Egg.

The weekend is over.

The world remains deeply peculiar.

The orange still lives in the orange cup, at least until tomorrow.

The good glass is finally being used (it’s in the sink right now).

Somewhere, a toll camera is accusing a stranger of being me, and vice-versa. 

And somewhere else, trans folks, weird adults, thrift-store goblins, Terry Pratchett readers, and aging emos (sometimes all at once) are stubbornly continuing to build lives worth living.

May they all live long enough to get old as dirt.

(I originally ended this with a different word, but some folks don’t like it when I swear. Use your imaginations and I’m sure you’ll get there.) 

Until next time!