Hemidemisemiferal

Good Sister texted* and then called to tell me that she has in her hot little email inbox a copy of the signed court order that will allow her to sell Mom's house. The lawyer finally came through. And the United Sister Front has, at least in theory, taken a giant step towards its inhertance.

It was supposed to take a week or two, she said. It ended up taking seven months. I told GS that she could be done with everything this calendar year, and she said she was hoping to be done with it in the next couple of months. It's the peak of house-hunting season in the US right now, and she's hoping to unload the place before the entire economy goes down the drain.

Good Sister said I should celebrate tonight. I don't need much encouragement.



*She texted a golf victory video. That must be her husband's influence.

Friday lunch: my son took me out for a burger. We talked about current events because we always do that.

Friday dinner: Funny Lady took me out for a very belated birthday dinner at Shiro's. Excellent company, and some of the best sushi in town.

Saturday morning: the Lambert House trans group facilitators got together at Lost Lake. (We ended up sitting in the Comet and ordering from Lost Lake's kitchen, which was a bit weird, but I'll take it. Moral: if you want a table in Lost Lake proper on a Saturday, be there by 9:30.) We talked about trans stuff. And facilitating. And Lambert House. It's a weirdly comfortable feeling to hang out with a group of people who Get You in ways that hardly anyone else does.

Saturday evening: Pony with Tacoma Girl. I hadn't been since before the pandemic, and she'd never been. It's very gay, with big photos of naked men (and one trans woman) on the walls, sculptures of genitalia hanging from the ceiling, and a sticker game that in places rivals the Blue Moon. Tacoma Girl is convinced that some of the graffiti is by art students. The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence and Seattle Ms. Leather, who organizes the women's munch I've been to, showed up and sold us candy. The crowd is way more varied and thereby interesting than the one at, say, Union; I think it's fair to say that Pony is a queer dive bar. Tacoma Girl loved it, natch, and so do I.

The two of us failed to scare up eats that didn't involve a long wait, so I got home at a reasonable hour via busy mass transit.

I was too wiped out for housework last night, and I ended up turning out my light around 2130. True to recent trend, I woke up at 0230. The good news is that I fell back asleep around 0330 and managed to get enough sleep last night.

But that's not really what I'm writing about. What I'm writing about is that sometime around 0245, I heard what sounded like a door slamming, more than once, in the apartment right below my bedroom where the Wendling lives. You see, he's got the 'tism: flinging your body around heedlessly in whole or in part is a hallmark of that. Has my son been keeping me awake?

Luckily, we're about to find out. Ex's cousin is gathering the extended family down in L.A. for Passover, just like her mother did in the aughts. If I start sleeping better starting tonight, that might just confirm my hypothesis.