What a difference 4800 miles make!

Hello,
It's been a while - only almost 8 months - since I composed a blog entry but I thought that it was time that I should put finger to keyboard (modern equivalent of pen to paper). Yes, I'm once again ensconced in Merrie Olde England. London to be precise. This times I'm here for quite a few months; I've settled into a flat in a rather leafy part of South London - Balham, gateway to the south (TM) as everyone reminds me every time I tell them where I'm located. I'm right next to Tooting Bec Common and close to the high street and the tube station. So it's fantastically convenient for going jogging and tubing into London for shopping. And also to my job. That I don't have. That's the big downside so far - no job and no income. I'm thinking I might have to walk the streets! Well, maybe not.

Things are going pretty well. I'm much happier than I have been for a long time in Redmond. There are several reasons for this: Redmond/Seattle is a dead area, particular for the transgendered community and well, London isn't! Secondly, I'm no longer subject to the oppressive politics and religiosity of America. Frankly, it was getting me down. I have had more than I can stand of the Bush regime. If McCain gets in, I'm out. I'm not even that keen on Obama, except that he's the anti-Bush. Except of course that he isn't really. Anyway, that's getting into politics and I really don't want to go there. All politicians are venal power crazed liars with no more solutions to the country's or world's problems than anyone else, and frequently less. We'd be better off without them.

I've been living full time more than I had been in the US. In America I'd hang around the house en femme but would rarely venture out, mainly because there was nowhere to go and nothing to do. Here I've been going out en femme to just hang around the neighbourhood, do my grocery shopping and going out with friends to bars, clubs, restaurants and all manner of venues. London is great in that it's already full of eccentric people and a 6 foot transgendered person just isn't worth a second look. I travel frequently on the tube with it's harsh fluorescent lights which do me no favours whatsoever but no-one can be bothered to bat an eyelid. If someone does sneak a peek in my direction or can no longer stifle a titter, you can bet any amount you like that they're a tourist and by jingo they will be! Even at 6 foot 5 in my smallest heels (OK, they're four inches!) I don't feel very conspicuous. I've even been going out in my running shoes (aka flats). That's how I know I've made it to being a TS!

Talking of being TS (transexual), I've been on a supervised hormone regime now for just comng up to 9 months as of this writing. I felt fantastic for 7 months while on a regime that seemed to allow me to overcome my usual depressiveness and really enjoy life and being TS. I decided that since I'm in London for quite a while that I should seek out a local doctor to supervise my regime whilst I'm here. So I went to see one of the top TS docs in London. He started me on a regimen using patches which I was quite thrilled about because it is supposedly better for you, not requiring so much stress on the liver as it tries to metabolise estrogen taken orally, or as I was, sublingually (under the tongue). Unfortunately, the dosage seems to be too low. I went from 8mg/day sublingually to 150ug (micrograms)/day dermally. Right away I knew this was too low - after 5 days I was experiencing hot flashes, then went into a severe hormone-induced depression for 10 days. I clawed my way out of that as my body (and brain) readjusted to the low level. The really bad thing is that I seem to be going backwards: my breasts have deflated, body hair is regrowing and a few other negative physical effects have started to manifest themselves (basically, masculinity is reasserting itself, inasmuch as it is able!) But the biggest problem for me is that mentally I'm not as optimistic nor feeling as femme as I was on (what I consider) an appropriate dosage. I've tried to get back in touch with the doc a couple of times but he never gets back to me. I have a feeling that if I threw money at him (he's not cheap and I'm doing this privately) that he might respond. It's not encouraging but unfortunately that's another negative aspect of London: it's very competitive and avaristic: everyone needs as much as they can get to keep their head above water here. If you're paying money to someone they will listen to you but if you stop paying, they don't know your name. And I thought that America was the last bastion of naked capitalism. Compared to London, it's a newborn babe!

Bottom line: even with the hormonal setbacks, I'm enjoying being in England immeasurably more than I like being in Seattle. Sad but them's the breaks.


© 2008 Rachael Fox

Well, it's 2008 and high time that I wrote a blog entry. Happy New Year to everyone and I hope that 2008 ends up being a lot better than the way it seems to have started!

Don’t be alarmed by the blue mood of this image. It isn’t a metaphor for my life or my emotional state at the moment. It isn't even because it's 2008, an election year, and while I'd love to see a woman president, all we have is Hillary. I guess Rudy is a honorary (part-time) woman but unfortunately, we've had enough of the extreme right-wing for a while, don't you think? It is true that I’ve gained some weight over the holiday period and I’m feeling fat and frumpy but mostly just middle-aged; I’m not depressed or anything though. Well, not any more than usual: I mean, I don’t need an intervention. Not after that last one anyway, thank you very much! However, I have been feeling down a bit lately because I recently heard that a good friend was in the hospital. It turned out that over Christmas he had popped his weasel. In fact, the weasel hadn’t so much popped as exploded. By the time the emergency medics had gotten to his apartment, there were bits of weasel everywhere and my poor friend was lying prostate on the floor. So naturally, the medics examined him, checking for inserted gerbils, sellotape and suchlike, and finding none, strapped him to a gurney and raced like mad March hares to the hospital, whereupon the ambulance finally caught back up with them. They removed the larger pieces of embedded weasel and he has been in the intensive lotion unit ever since. Meanwhile, the police were called to the apartment. Right away they smelled a rat! They decided that this wasn’t simply a case of a weasel with bad gas – I had warned my friend time and again that weasels were naturally carnivorous and couldn’t thrive on a purely vegetarian diet, especially that they needed to eat more than just “Cheese Whiz” and cold baked beans – and that this really looked like a case of home-grown terrorism. I think the real problem was that the weasel had been eating left-over hummus at the time. Now my poor friend not only has to find the funds to pay for his medical treatment but when he awakes from his coma – if he ever does - someone will have to give him the bad news that his beloved pet, his little friend Freddy the Flatulent Ferret, has been martyred. And to make things worse my friend is now under suspicion of being a terrorist! Yes, a terrorist. Can you believe it? Because of the nature of the explosion and because he’s in a coma in the hospital, those geniuses from the police department believe they’ve found a member of a sleeper cell. To add insult to injury, those wrongers of rights at Fox News (no relation!) have begun to refer to Freddy as a "homicide weasel"! Oh, the humanity! I knew that having flying squirrels emblazoned with the logo of the Polecat Liberation Organization (PLO) in your apartment probably wasn’t a good idea and could be used in evidence against him sooner or later. Well, they would have been had the cops not opened the apartment window to let in some fresh air and simultaneously let out the rancid whiff of stale stoat exhaust. Quicker than you could say “semtex” those inseparable furry little adrenaline junkies, Gilbert and Pierre, had seized their opportunity, carped the diem, grabbed each other by the well-manicured little paw and made a bid for freedom by parachuting out of the window, the rainbow flag motif of the Polecat Liberation Organization flag fluttering in the breeze as they descended. Apparently the Flying Squirrel Squad has now been called in to locate the lovable little miscreants, last seen gliding earthwards in the thermals created by the giant air conditioning fans in the mall in the next block.

So now, with my friend indisposed and doing his impression of The Big Sleep at the hospital, I have to look after Fruity, the Flying Fox. She’s very picky but thankfully normally only eats grapes which, unfortunately, I have to manually peel (how do Flying Foxes get peeled grapes in the wild?) and mashed bananas (similarly, do wild fruit bats mash their own bananas?) However, she’s recently taken a liking to Gruyere and Belgian waffles. I’m worried that by the time – if! - my friend comes round from his coma, he’s going to be owner of the world’s fattest Flying Fox and that she’s going to be, not so much flying, as plummeting. And quite possibly constipated. It’s enough to prompt one to observe, that with friends like me, you also need enemas!

This story brought to you by the letters S & M, and the number 69



(This "story" first published on Flickr)

© 2008 Rachael Fox

Let's go ... to England! Yes readers, I am once again ensconced comfortably in the land of the rising Pound, Jolly Olde England, cor strike a light guv'nah knees up muvva brahn me old cock-sparra. And all that rot, what?

Of course, its only those of us raised on "Moyrie Popp'ns" (that's "Mary Poppins", in English) movies and the lovable chimney sweep as played by American Dick Van Dyke (who later went on to greater fame and fortune as the inventor of the DVD player) who think that Brits and particularly Londoners talk like that. And I should know, I'm actually from here! Sometimes I forget. England has changed a lot (but not as much as me! Ha! Pow! Zing!) in the 16 years I spent working for the man and helping you all to surf this web thing. Heck, it didn't even exist before my good friend and president-in-exile Al Gore invented it.

But 16 years of America is a tough row to hoe, whatever that means, and I find myself being drawn back here more and more. In fact, I was just saying the same thing to Rupert (Everett that is) as we nibbled on our breakfast of toast and blackcurrant jam that had been hand-delivered to us in bed by Raquel Welch. It was at this point I awoke and realized that I had been watching "My Best Friend's Wedding" and the original version of "Bedazzled" (and only one worth watching, as much as I love Liz Hurley and Brendan Fraser.) Somehow the two had become intertwined in my fevered dream state. Not many things get better than the humour of Peter Cook and Dudley Moore in their heyday, and Rupert Everett singing Aretha Franklin's "I Say A Little Prayer". How dreamy. If only I could be Julia Roberts...

Back in the land of reality, where were we? Oh yes. In England. I've been here since June 19th and its now July 11th. The first thing to come over for was Sparkle which I had never been to before! It was relatively short but hectic, rainy and boozy. I didn't seem to end up doing very much, unlike Southern Comfort Conference which has you on the hop all day for 3 or 4 days, but as with SCC, the best thing is the people: meeting up with friends and acquaintances and meeting people for the first time, particularly those who you've previously conversed with or admired online. I have to say that the standard of TGirls in the UK is uniformly high. I first met up with some friends from last year - Rachel Anderson, Marolyn and Vicky Lenoir - but also ran into some of the young up-and-comers like Rachel Boomboom and Katie Marsh. Extraordinarily scrumptuous young gels they are too. Quite quite lovely.

After the hecticness of Sparkle, things have quietened down quite a bit. Too much in fact. I'm now in London and have only been out once really. I went for an evening out with some (non-TG) friends (I was en femme, naturellement). That was fun but nervy at the beginning, just because I was going out in London, during daylight, en femme and braving the overcrowded public transport system. Its a bit of a rite of passage. Or passage of rites, I'm not sure which.

After that, I just went out this weekend to Pink Punters with the darling Vicky Lenoir and Fiona. Sometimes I just think I'm so lucky because I know some really really wonderful people. Punters was a little on the quiet side but we had a fun time and I got to dance again, as one is wont to when one is a bit inebriated and there's good music playing. Vicky drove and I felt a bit guilty about that.

I really need to get the old finger out. Part of the reason to come to the UK was to get out and enjoy the TG lifestyle. There's a heck of a lot more of it in the UK than anywhere else that I can think of, although I suppose the summer is not really the season for TGs anywhere! But I came here initially to be at Sparkle and I'm glad I did. There is a Gay Pride festival coming up in August I believe, in Manchester, and I intend going along to that. And I might just go out in Manchester anyway since there are so many bars and clubs there catering to the transgendered community. I really ought to exhaust the possibilities of London whilst I'm here though. I can't possibly have done that! I must find places to go. If anyone has any suggestions, please mail them to moi (rachaelfox@yahoo.com)

Ta ta for now!

PS: "Ta" means "thankyou" and "ta ta" means "goodbye". Thus endeth the English lesson for today!

PPS: In case you were wondering, no there's been no sex or anything to report! I'll let you know if it ever happens. Heck, if it ever happens, it will be breaking news on CNN.

© 2007 Rachael Fox

It seems that once again I find myself spending time retracting and back-pedaling from things that I have previously said online.

The latest case-in-point is my blog entry of April 3rd 2007 in which I claimed that I was moving to New York to take up a job trading natural gas ( Sorry - my sophomoric sense of humour always gets me when I say that) at Nymex.

It was a joke. I did acknowledge the purported frovility and even frivolity of the claim in the entry but too many people have congratulated me on the move, or expressed dismay that I was going.

It wasn't a very good joke, its true. And for my lame and puerile sense of humour I am truly sorry. I am also disappointed that my communication skills aren't sufficient to get across a (already admitted!) lame joke without causing confusion throughout the land. One thing I am not sorry for however is my willful and persistent spelling of humour with a 'u', no matter how much this nifty new dynamic spelling checker within edit controls in Vista, or is it in Firefox 2.0 (ooh! Zing! Zap! Take that Microsoft!) complains at me and underlines what it thinks - incorrectly! - is a misspelled word (personally, I find the (mis)spelling-checker capability somewhat stern and humourless.) Ha! You can take the Fox out of Britain, but you can't take the Briton out of the Fox (your mind is now free to muse on which Briton I am talking about.)

So to reiterate, allow me to, here and now, let everyone know that I am not moving to New York City. To trade natural gas (ahem!). Or anything else for that matter.

© 2007 Rachael Fox