Eating Crow: a rewrite to Hey-la-day-la, my Mojo’s back

Looking back at my run-at-the-mouth exposé about testosterone-induced stupidity, I now realize that I have done the male half of our species an injustice by my new-found, woman’s heart.  At least I am able to “eat crow”, that is, to display total humility, especially when shown to be wrong, so I left that original intact and now offer my revision.  It also has allowed me to grow up a little more to becoming that woman that I have dreamed to be which includes having the humility to take responsibility, even when I sometimes go “over the top” in some of my blog posts.


Forgive my somewhat quirky impertinence, and though I may be somewhat gender-biased and intentionally mean no disrespect to any man, I have been wondering lately, when I log on to the blogosphere as a vocal advocate against discrimination, whether I have gotten that much more intelligent, since I began hormone-replacement-therapy, or has the hairier side of the gender spectrum, reverted back into a stone-age Neanderthal humanoid, which is often characterized by a wooly fur ball, with spindly legs, carrying a massive club the size of a small sofa on one shoulder, and dragging back to his “man-cave, an hour-glass-shaped figure, by her long hair, with X’s for eyes and tongue hanging out, like a panting dog ?” Can you get the picture?

This, so called, exposé on the stupidity of testosterone-induced machismo, which sometimes seems to nullify common sense and propriety, began one evening this past week, with a confrontation, of sorts, with my car-buff neighbor next door, who tried to interrupt a private conversation with his wife on my property, who I had pulled aside to address the escalating intolerable situation with all his cars, which took up the whole front yard for years, and almost daily needed to shuffled around like pieces in one of those puzzles with pieces that slide about in  a locked grid, with only one unfilled space. His “storage lot” had also migrated out to the street, not only in front of his house, but in front of my house and the house across the street, many still in questionably operating condition. In both the latter evening or early morning hours, he sometimes revved up like a deuce*, meaning in a manner similar to the way a 1932 Ford or deuce coupe engine would sound, starting up and running for too many minutes, from my ears and throbbing head’s POV.

I had tolerated his daily and sometimes nightly shenanigans for the past month, but as the weather has finally become significantly hotter and I have been spending more time out-of-doors, the shuffling around of his cars, which often had to be pushed, by strong muscular men, or worked on in front of my property. Now I found myself at my wits end as to what to do about the situation without having to call the local constabulary. Since I have become a woman of tact, in my humble opinion, I decided that rather confront him directly or call the local constabulary, I would talk to his wife, who I had befriended, when I moved back into my home after the passing of my beloved, 31-year marriage partner, last October.

Here I was standing on my own property, where I had pulled his wife aside to speak in private, when he approached us on the sidewalk in front of my house,  and in a somewhat belligerent tone of voice, dared me to call the cops, within earshot of  his wife.

I asked myself how intelligent was that? I already believed I had him dead to rights for disturbing my peaceful enjoyment of my property and being a neighborhood nuisance,  along with at least two possible parking violations for storing  semi-operable vehicles on a public thoroughfare where he worked on them, both against the law, which I knew because my son was sited on both counts a decade ago. Since I have rediscovered my innate intelligence and where-with-all to attempt to peaceably mitigate this rapidly escalating situation by talking to his wife, who I regarded not only as my neighbor, but a sister under the skin.  When he raised his voice at me, he had crossed over my line of neighborliness, in my humble opinion, and I thought to myself that he didn’t know with whom he was dealing, namely, lil’ ol’ Miss Deanna from Virginia, the Old Dominion State.

Anyway, my neighborly sister promised to talk with him to just let him think that probably he had taken things too far. Forgive my impertinence, but I really doubted that he had an adequately sufficient number of functional brain cells in his head but, I wasn’t going to lay my cards on the table to escalate the situation.  The next day he came to the fence with the proverbial hat in hand to apologize for his rude behavior and promised to be more mindful of his neighbors and to move some of his cars to another place, as soon as he could. This only goes to prove that men can be reasonable and admit fault in any given situation where they have let testosterone do the talking instead of using their brain, which has greatly evolved from that of Neanderthal man. I just wish that there were more like him than there often seems to be, in my experience as the woman I have become.

I also now know that without any doubt, that “I am woman, hear me roar.”

Deanna Joy

* from the song “Blinded by the light”, written and performed by singer-songwriter Bruce Springsteen

About Deanna Joy Hallmark

I am a post-op transgender woman who has now completed transition and living my life as the woman I was born to be. I have been writing my blog, now titled "A Spy in the Enemy Camp - A transgender woman’s perspective from having lived as a man among men" since December 2011. Originally a record of my process and feelings in transition, last summer in 2013 it took on observations from both sides of the gender binary and now will also be looking at my past life pretending to be the man I never was and how it finally brought me to where I am today, the beautiful intelligent woman I had always believed I should have been since I was little.
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