Getting back to Petra. SCC Part 1

The Southern Comfort Conference finished up, dear friends, just last weekend, and your fickle Pen Pal was en scene, embedded, engaged, bedecked, bejeweled and altogether beguiled for two glorious days of full Petra immersion. This was my third visit, and SCC, is now pretty well established as where and how I wriggle out of the summer cocoon and spin myself up in slinky silky stuff for a new life, a new season.

Still shocking too how natural and easy the chrysalis is. Lasting too. Par example, I was in a drab social setting later that weekend, after my SCC time was over. There I was, unshaven, butch wallet, no spritz of perfume behind the knee, and I still had to absolutely bite my tongue when introducing myself to strangers. Having spent the prior couple of days with “Hi! My name is Petra …”, I was still quite in the habit. It took the full evening to comfortably find my way back home to my more commonly known given name, with some damn near misses along the way. I had to smile.

I had much to smile about.

This year, I chose to stay at the host property, the Perimeter Crowne Plaza. Mrs. Bellejambes, you see is quite concerned about Petra getting clocked making daylight dashes through our close knit neighborhood. I take her point quite well. Yes, there does lurk a silly adrenaline junky within who rather enjoys the thrill, the sound of the drum pounding away inside my amply padded chest cavity. That cheap thrill doesn’t tip the scale when measured against the value of my wife’s peace of mind though. And on the upside, a second or perhaps a third glass of wine would not be out of order if I was only a short elevator ride from my crib rather than even a shortish drive home. Virtue and necessity do accessorize perfectly from time to time.

And so I rose early Thursday morning, burned through the final thousand requirements of the work week, set auto-reply and phone messages for the long weekend, and stepped off the grid. I then took a deep breath, the first in a series as it happens.

After that moment of calm collection, I proceeded to pack like a refugee.

Ginger Grant wheeled 3 full seasons of glittering evening gowns aboard the S.S. Minnow for a 3 Hour Tour. Ginger Grant ain't got nothing (but looks) on me. I had been too damn busy to really have anything more than a sketch of a wardrobe plan, and this absence of forethought showed in the Sherpa-sized bail of gear that I schlepped across town. What really stands out though are the things forgotten. A decent facial soap for instance, or hey girl, would it kill you to bring a camera maybe?

No time for regrets on these matters though. It was time to change time, to slow time down, to anticipate the change and savor it. First things first, the room, Petra’s room. Not a place for either a chap or a chaperone. Petra’s room. Unpack first, populate the drawers, drape the closets and cover the counter tops with an orderly display of feminine occupation. The last vestiges of drab me folded away, given the dignity of a plastic bag burial and slid beneath the pillow array on the spare bed. 

Time for another deep breath.

Now for the body. Not the pressed and practical prep of the man day. The patient, purposeful pamper, the care of the skin that soaks in so much more than skin deep. The first autumn shave, all the shearing and plucking and gumming the plumbing required to achieve my undoubtedly preferred surface characteristic. Buffed, moisturized, painted and powdered, the body feels new and young again. 

Time then for the face. On with the wig cap and off with the glasses, the eyes another year worse for the wear, the hands and fingers months out of practice, but surely and slowly connecting with habits long gone but not forgotten. An afternoon palette for the eyes, nothing too dramatic, thin as they are, my own lashes with a few coats of lacquer will do. I am glad I cleaned my brushes before putting them to rest in the spring. A couple of false moves and uncertain strokes, nothing Q-Tips and Kleenex can’t obscure.

The foundation and powder shine up and smooth out things well enough, some cheek color and lip contour. I finish by reminding myself and a gentle reminder that I am a 50-something now, and didn’t have soft facial contours and bee sting lips for starters. I feel proud in a different way, a way unique to Petra-time.

Nails on now, and finally, the crescendo moment of the coronation, the hair. It never fails to feel awesome. I can believe myself fully now.

I know now that I am really only short minutes away from the world. Just the breath-catching moment as the dress hugs me in snugly. The shoes then, the jewelery, lovely big chunky things, the mist of fragrance, a check of the contents of clutch, a last look in the mirror, and the last deep breath of the day.

The one just before the door opens, and closes, clack, locked behind you.

More later on so many lovely people and moments.. Nice to be back.

Strange Fruit

I sprout in the autumn and flower all winter long. Come spring the leaves fall and flutter away. Then summer. The dormant time. I go entirely to ground.

It is all upside down, yes?

Upside down, back to front, topsy-turvy yes, and all that, truly but not chaotic no, nor random. Cyclical. Orbital. Predictable even when I take a peek at the cheat-sheets of hindsight.

I am a bit of a feather head friends and slow on the uptake. It only occurred to me this year that I feel the same way in Atlanta early in August as I did eons ago in March when I lived way the hell up north. For those of you who have not lived in Canada amongst Gods Frozen People or in other places of extraordinarily dark, chill, and long winters, let me describe the day of light and hope.

Up north, it happens in March. Out of the blue comes a day that nukes snow banks and sets spirits soaring. Beautiful human forms emerge from shapeless fleece and feathered cocoons. The UPS dude wears shorts. Umbrellas pop up and open on long shuttered restaurant patios. Lunch runs long and loose and, for me back then, liquid. You know with absolute certainty that you will get flattened by one more soul crushing blizzard but you know even more that you have survived another gawdawful winter.

And what a feeling that is.

Here in the south it comes in August. After long months of sprawling, sweaty summer where every outdoor breath is a soggy shot glass of 5 Hour Apathy there comes a day of lightness.  Air, first thing in the morning, is cool and crisp. At lunchtime, the car is not a hellacious furnace. Early in the evening, while the sun is still up, the dogs bark and bay for a good walk. The mosquitoes might be carrying something that will knock you flat, but the odds are that you will see Autumn again.

And what a feeling that is.

Way back in March, on a Friday, I had my last real night out en Femme. That Saturday, the wardrobe was folded, the makeup cased, the bags, shoes, wigs and the rest of the pretty accoutrements were put away. Ploughed under, furloughed away.

Here in August, come the early shoots, stirrings underground, in the quiet times before the sprouting and flowering. Foreshadows and rumblings of the riot of fecundity and flat out fun that go along with my topsy-turvydom.

And what a feeling that is.

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To those of you who have reached out with the odd hello, I am very grateful. Believe me when I say that you have my very full respect and affection. You know who you are. Thank you sincerely.

To those of you whose blogs I love, please accept my apologies for not following you on your journeys as well I would like, and for not cheering you on from the comments section. I admire your ability to write and share with such constancy and care.

And to those of you who drop in here time to time looking for something scandalous or halfway witty, thanks for coming back. I am promising to myself to have great experiences this autumn. There should, therefore, be much to propose and prose on about here on Voyages en Rose.

January seen from February.

Shamed I am, by my lack of attention to this old house, Voyages en Rose. Much to chat about after all, just precious little time available to your humble hack with which to tumble thoughts into keystrokes. I did get a post out in January, and with today’s effort, will be able to count one for February too. A streak of sorts I suppose.

This evidence to the contrary, I have been pretty well steeped in the life of Petra year to date. With my pal Ally on an extended tropical retreat, editorial responsibilities with Guilty Pleasures have taken on a life of their own. Samples from lovely vendors have been piling up here at home. For those of you with an interest in largely favorable and hopefully witty reviews of pretty intimates, do take a moment or two to visit.

Mrs. Bellejambes and the UPS man have both become accustomed to parcels addressed to this mystery woman. Not so concerned with the UPS man of course, but happy to report that my admittedly non-normative fascination with the life of women is, well, normalizing here at home. Mrs. B. does rather wish that we shared more sizes and is wondering when my wardrobe will squeeze us out of our home, but Petra is, on the whole, not a troubling tenant.

So, where was I? I did have a great January. The first planning session for the not-to-be-missed Southern Comfort Conference happened one sunny Saturday. SCC has a new-look, new-function web-site, and a massive crew of volunteers laying into the epic effort of staging a big, complex function for complex people. Wonderful stuff. Your attendance will add considerably. Please mark your calendars for Sept 21 – 25. Friends of Petra will reliably find her perched on a tall stool cradling a chilled glass.

I dressed on this day for the fitting room and was mission driven to find a great pair of wide lined black pants. This wardrobe staple was absent from my closet. Bulls eye on first pick with the always reliable I.N.C. line. Guy mode me has not worn flared pants since Frampton Came Alive and will not even long after he is dead, but Petra delights in the look. Shopping for slacks is, by reliable reports, a typically traumatic day for many women. I remain blessed by good fortune, and love the look and feel being the woman in perfect pants.

Next stop Ann Taylor where I scored a gorgeous new skirt (pictured above) for a song, and again enjoyed fashion chit-chat in the fitting room warren with other enthusiastic fashionistas. This skirt is by the way, still available in a great assortment of sizes and can be yours for a mere $15.00 for the next few days. Go click.

Last stop, the lamentably soon to be shuttered Bloomingdale's Perimeter store for a romp through their store closing clearance event. My finds from TC Intimates found their way up and over my hips and into the pages of Guilty Pleasures in the form of a loving review. The ravages of time and a general lack of exercise have contributed to a little weight gain about the waist friends. You know my vanity well by now, and so should not be surprised to see me singing praises about foundation garments that help order ones shape about. If you do not have a seriously smoothing slip in your wardrobe, you should, and could do much worse than the TC Torsette, seen below. The pull-on Nipper too helps provide a little waist to hip relief.

I spent a couple of hours wandering about, bags slung from shoulder and honestly enjoying what amounted to a spa day for my soul. Never an unkind glance or unwelcoming word from any of the civilians and staffers I chatted with, and this in broad daylight at the busiest time of the week in a thriving suburban setting mall. I have said it before, and reinforce it here: Even just a few hours out and about with the world from time to time does the rest of me a power of goodness. Lovely memories to carry about long after the bags are emptied, and the wig and the rest of it all folded away until next time.

Next time did not wait all too long either, and I claim a personal first on this recent Voyage en Rose. I packed a second bag for a business trip to the sunny west coast and saved myself a gruesome red-eye flight home by allowing for a little LA time en Femme. I had a theme of holy pilgrimage in mind as I begged off Friday evening invites, swapped identities and strode out of my hotel for a drive up to Studio City and a visit with the famous and fabulous Alison of Faire Frou Frou fame.

Faire Frou Frou is the epicenter of intimate wardrobe luxury, and I have enjoyed a friendly on-line relationship with Alison and her equally darling mom Gail for some years now. Nothing will get you past the rigors of LA Friday traffic more quickly than a little visit and modest shopping splurge in this Oasis of Underwear. Entirely refreshing and luxurious for the blogger to meet, in the smiling flesh, someone you really admire. Loads of girl talk ranging from fashion, knickers, relationships and even business of all topics. Wonderful shopping too, bien sur, and precious moments in the prettiest fitting room in the inner solar system. Read about the whole intimate idyll over here.

From there, the sublime, and slowly into the tawdry heart of Hollywood for something closer to ridiculous. We have to give credit to Fredericks of Hollywood for romanticizing lingerie and bringing sexy to market. Their flagship store is right on the Walk of Fame, vogueing vainly for attention amongst the dispirited tourists and busking Peruvian Pan-flute bands (yes, two of them) thronging the broad sidewalks. I executed a near-perfect Carrie Bradshaw stiletto-heel, gazelle-leap, hair blowing and bag flailing, darting through the vehicular mosh pit, and burst quite delightedly into Shrine # 2 of my evening.

Fredericks is too brightly lit for my liking, and the lingerie is of suspect quality for the most part. But still, I was nearby and dressed, so a polite genuflection was certainly called for. I did genuflect around the shoe department, and could not find a comfy fit amongst the towering platforms and over-the-knee boots on display. The prices were right yes, but the costs of pinched toes and aching tendons are to be weighed more heavily in my view. Out into the night empty handed therefore, one more swan dive into and through the Hollywood Boulevard chaos, and back to my hotel for a little end of day supper and perhaps a glass of wine.

Now, the Cross Dresser is accustomed, when out and about, to feeling like the most conspicuous person in most settings. This was not the case upon my return to the LAX Westin. I popped up to my room first for a quick refresh of the maquillage, and met fascinating company in the elevator back down. You see, there was a Wrestling Convention of some sort in my hotel. I shared the ride with three entirely cute and menacing young bustier-fishnet-and-boot clad Gladiatrixes who were practicing well choreographed moves in the tight elevator confines.

Awesome physicality, youthful beauty and an outrageous sense of fun was the general vibe. I share at least the outrageous sense of fun, and so we paused in the lobby for a while together. I was introduced to a handful of their male counterparts, massive hulking presences, neon tights, cowboy hats, evil Ninjas, hillbilly bullies, you name it the whole crazy assortment of personae that populate the squared circle.

And me.

Proper in Ann Taylor, dripping in faux pearl, shining in Donna Karan sheers, and clearly the least remarkable presence in the whole damned hotel. Top that, dear friends. There was absolutely nothing I could do to scandalize the setting. Time for hugs with the new girlfriends and retreat to a smallish booth in a dimly lit restaurant. My waitress was a complete sweetie, ready with the black table linen and a warm welcome. A super evening altogether, and one I will long remember.

My senses are always a little more lit when traveling, and seeing a place less well known. These feeling are magnified magnificently when traveling en Femme. I will have occasion to do this again this year, and the thought, amongst others, helps time click happily along. Perhaps I will have another tale of this variety for you in March.

Thanks as always for your visit, for your stamina, and for your curious appetite for my odd tales.

Happy dressing and everything else too.

Prowling and Pouncing on the New Year

Putting aside, for just a moment the still real possibility that the Mayans were right all along, and our whole loving world goes kaput some time or other this year, I am quite looking forward to 2012.

Amongst other things, I feel driven to expand my animal style menagerie to include Zebra prints. Yes friends, Leopard has been done to death, and I feel partly responsible. So, yes, the 2012 forecast is all about Zebra. Tiger too. Ocelot also I suppose. And more Snakeskin and other motifs Reptilian, ne c'est pas??

Oh, who am I fooling? There will be Leopard too.

(ed. Leopard, darling, I was only joking. Those other animals, they mean nothing to me. It’s always, only been you.)

As busy as things have been with work, family, holidays and the rest of the year end madness, I am happy to report that Petra has been shown some good loving care of late. There were three life giving outings in  December, our darkest, brightest month.

A few weeks back now, dear friend Gabrielle put together a social at Atlanta’s Club Chaparral, and I was delighted to see a beautiful brace of local luminaries and various Gendernauts all dolled up on a school night.

Gabrielle starts off at 6’ tall before the heels go on. And this evening she had the absolute nerve to fix her hair in an up-do. That’s a whole lotta girl. It was good to catch up with her not having chatted since Ramona’s memorial service. Managed as well happily to spend time with the inexhaustible Miss Edie, Phoebe Reece, Debbie Lynn and other friends old and new. Gabrielle plans to make a Thursday evening social a regular feature of life here in Atlanta. Drop me a line here if you are local and looking for more information.

Pastor Paul, leader of the epically open minded, liberal faith community at First Metropolitan Community Church was in attendance too, and tendered an invite to his Christmas service luncheon for the following Sunday. I ran a little late because honestly, I simply don’t know how to do Church appropriate eye make-up.

Loads of families, a wild palette of complexions, young and old and warm welcomes all around. Miss Edie brought along her Gretsch, a stack of amps and her sweet, sweet voice for musical entertainment. Real holiday season stuff. Nice to catch up with Barbara especially. My Lizard pumps were a big hit with the choir girls.

And with the curtain closing on 2011 last night, I slithered into a party frock and shimmied out into the night. CyndiLou and Joanne Purcell managed to organize cocktails, dinner and entertainment for twenty or so local ladies and loving partners. I had a prior obligation and so sadly could not stay for supper or the undoubtedly fun times had by all at Le Buzz. Do you know though, even a short few hours en Femme in great company really goes a long, long way.

Loads of gold(ish) bling, a clingy dress, powdered and perfumed surfaces, a genuine New Years Eve effort. I felt like a million dollars my dears. There is a vast wide river of confidence that flows from having a well put together look. The belief that you are wearing the nicest lingerie in the room doesn't hurt either.

It comes out in the walk, shaking the hair out, throwing the shoulders back and smiling as the doors slide open into the lobby of a nice hotel. Stop a moment, scan the room, meet all the eyes, spot the bar and stride on in, heels on tiles and that slightly breathless feeling that I still get, that feeling that I hope never goes away.

The feeling that I can summon up even the smallest fraction of power that women have. The power to make the world stand still. How dazzled I have always been by that power, and how privileged I feel to touch it as fleetingly as I do.

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I did mention prior obligations though, yes? They necessitated a fast drive home and transformation back into the more broadly known me for a most excellent celebration with Mrs. Bellejambes and the company of a lovely couple to usher 2012 in with.

We spoke briefly, Mrs. B and I about the possibility of ushering in the year in Petra-mode. It was a serious discussion and a real coin toss in my view. Ultimately, my beautiful wife came upon words that made it a no-brainer for me.

“I want to go into the new year as us”.

And so we did. It was good. Great in fact.

I still have a facility for trousers, cuff links and a smart blazer after all. Yet another Leopard that cannot change spots. 

Each of us, Mrs. B. and I, are accommodating “Petra” better here now than we did a year ago. I feel as though the year ahead holds even more promise of understanding, discovery and sharing than any year in the past. I most sincerely hope that you are feeling that way about your prospects too.

Happy New Year.

Chemistry

Excluding SCC, I have been out and about as Petra only thrice this year. Ouch. Well, four times now as of last weekend. I did then rather enjoy things seen through pink lenses, and wrote effusively about the whole pretty pageant here.

Time has been the principal thief of opportunity. Work stuff is planted to rails of my metaphorical farm. The fallow, clovered pastures that Petra did once flourish and frolic in are presently under plough, upturned and nitrogen fixed for commercial purposes. 

I have come to think that work, the way I spend my days has a pretty big impact on my “Petra-ness” beyond simply being a time soak. The impact is behavioral too. Like any job with grazzilions of dollars at stake, the day is composed of a fair amount of adversarial posturing, the odd volley of tactical aggression, and an always-present sense of wariness about things in general. You know, the generalized chest-beating, loud tree-top howling and Samsonite-hurling that corporate Great Apes conduct in the service of the business.

Women can and do succeed in my role, in my industry, so the exercise of masculine traits is not a pre-requisite of success. A little more project nurturing here, a dose of quiet collegial grooming there, terrific female Great Ape behaviors, these work too.

And ya know, dear friends, I am not proposing that one behavior or another is the exclusive domain of one gender or another. I am merely suggesting that having spent about 99% of my life expressing male, those are the behaviors I reflexively lay hand to under pressure. I call frequently on those traits in part because there is so much newness in the work that I need to rely on a lot of background processes, reflexive stuff to keep my higher mind available for the work.

And so “Petra” has been a little less available to the whole me just now.

Darling friend Janie, of CD Janie blog-fame touched on a related topic recently in a series of short, revealing posts starting with Inner Voice deliberating on the process of going rapidly from femme-space to drab-world and back again. Go read. Janie is a star. Do come back then, will you?

These posts struck a chord in me. It seems that while there is a certain amount of biology that manifests itself in the life of the gender-curious, there is a pretty big beaker of chemistry in the mix too. My brain chemistry, just now, is wired more for my familiar male life than it is for wonderful explorations of the less familiar, the more feminine.

I will tell you this though:

Getting out for a gorgeous evening really has the effect of shaking that beaker up and generally catalyzing and effervescing things. I have spent this past week more distracted by thoughts of a dreamy nature than I have been in a good long time. I popped into a shop in drab mode and snared another gorgeous new outfit at a shocking price (pictured Harvest Gold Ann Taylor skirt for a dumbfounding $7.00, 8% of original retail and a smart top too). Chatted with the (typically) gorgeous sales assistant at length. She was in a sad state having just found out that she was on duty at Midnight, Thanksgiving Day for the increasingly insane rigors of Black Friday.

I wanted to touch her hand and say it will be ok more than I wanted to throttle the throat of the insensitive, short sighted lemming at HQ who thought that an upmarket woman’s boutique should follow in Wal-Mart’s less than stylish footprints. I drove home closer to the speed limit, leaving more room between me and the next vehicle, weaving less and exercising patience more. I found a tiny tributary of pretty thought to paddle around in and express in a product review for my friends at Guilty Pleasures.

Lovely things, lovely feelings. I hope that as more and more of my work becomes a little more reflexive to me, that I will have more room in my higher mind, room for Petra. It feels good when this part of me has room to stretch out and touch things as surely and gracefully as she can. I suspect that, with time, I will be able to employ my fortunate access to wells of feminine strength and wile more easily, more purposefully in my everyday life. Better living through Chemistry indeed.