Buying a Red Cedar Log from a transitioning Transgender Person

I consider myself an  accepting, politically correct person. I teach Juni not to stare at anyone. To celebrate our differences. Realize it's those differences that make this world beautiful and interesting.
So imagine my surprise when I found myself stumbling over my words and struggling to peel my eyes from a person different from me.
Jasen had lusted over a gigantic red cedar log in the front yard of a blue house on the other end of our road. I know the question...what would one do with such a log? The answer is simple, if you are a proper Redneck. You take it to your buddy, who happens to have a mobile sawmill, and make boards. Then you dry the boards for months, then you create furniture. My husband crafts some of the most amazing furniture. He's a perfectionist, so he'd argue with me, but I love what he creates. But, as usual, I digress.
I wrote down the number for the person selling the log, and called. The man who answered said his name was Julie. Okay. A little odd, but who am I to judge? Juni isn't exactly on the top 100 list of names for 2006.
We talked price, and I told him I would drop by and pay him that day. And then he kept talking. About what I'm thinking are inappropriate things for someone you've never actually met. His divorce. His kids. His job. His age.
Shit. He's going to flirt with me when I get there. Not a good situation. Especially with Juni in tow. But Jasen had his heart set, and I knew I had to suck it up, grow a pair, and knock on the blue house's door. I saw his neighbor in his yard, so I felt safe. Plus, I told my ginormous tree guy, Dallas, where I was. Just in case.
I walked up the steps, and knocked. The door opened, and my jaw dropped. I couldn't move my eyes. I couldn't think of words, or get them out. This is not going well. Not well at all.
Here's what opened the door: a person towering over me at a good 6 feet tall. Man feet, without shoes or socks. The largest hands I've ever seen in my life. Larger than Jasen's, my Dad's, even Dallas'. Short, permed hair. A hot fuscia, short sleeved, mock turtleneck sweater. Makeup from 1985...we're talking blue eyeshadow, hot pink lipstick, and enough blush to cover four faces. Perfectly smooth skin.
And yes...my eyes had to check to see if there was a package. Nope. But, as my sister informed me, there is such a thing as tuck and tape. Who knew? Julie also had giant boobs. Perfect boobs. Obviously fake boobs.
Did I mention this person had the deepest voice I'd ever heard? Yep.
"Ummm...I'm looking for Julie?"
"That's me. Hold on just one sec. I'm giving my mom a perm."
"Ummm...Oh. Oh. OK."
Internal thoughts "Oh my friggin lord. This is insanity. If Jasen only knew. Oh holy Hell. Dallas has to come over here and get the log for me. Geeze. Can he handle that? Poor Dallas...such a good 'ol boy."
Juni noticed nothing but the old dog and kitty inside the house. No mention of the obviously transitioning Julie.
So I paid the money, got in my car, and dialed Dallas. He said he'd be there in 45 minutes to check out the situation.
The situation, as it turns out, is that Julie liked Dallas. A lot. His name used to be James. And how he is becoming Julie. Dallas was obviously being hit on. He couldn't figure out why.
But I could...he's a tree man. And his truck's license plate says...wait for it... okay, this is so good you have to again... his license plate says...

LUVWOOD

The Unforgettable First Date

Jasen and I originally dated in high school. He was my first "real boyfriend." The first boy my parents let me ride in a car with, yadda yadda yadda.
The first time he picked me up in his 1973 white-with-blue-interiour220D Mercedes I felt smitten. I loved that car already. It smelled like vanilla sex wax. With maybe a hint of beer.
Young redneck took me to a nice restaurant, Carvers, in Greenbrier. He ate like he'd grown up with 12 older brothers, guarding his food like a pit bull. I was half-way through picking at my food when he sat back, grabbed his non-existent belly, and let out the loudest belch I'd ever heard.
It's important to note a little tidbit about my upbringing at this point. I took manners classes. We're talking enough silverware to make you dizzy, walking with a book on your head, and learning the exact way to cross you ankles and let your server know you're finished with the salad plate. Insanity. But educational.
So imagine my surprise when my date, the boy I'd stared at for years, burped, and then smiled "Sorry. Had to make room for more." He then took my plate, and scarfed it down. Nice.
Before we left, Jasen began eyeing the leftover bread in the center of the table. "Hey. Put these in your purse."
Who IS this guy? "Are you kidding me? You must be kidding me. Absolutely not!" I remember the tingling heat on my cheeks. The urge to run away. No wonder my dad took one look at him and handed me a $5 for a taxi home.
Apparently Jasen didn't need my purse. His pants would suffice. He stuffed countless rolls down his Ralph Laurens, left some cash on the table, and hobbled to the door. Lovely.
It was chilly that night, and the car wouldn't start. He was the first person I knew to have a cell phone. That sucker was so big it pulled the back of his pants down. But he refused to call my dad.
"It's no problem. Listen...I'm going to spray some ether under the hood. You hold this button until the car starts." Excellent. We're going to blow ourselves up, right here in the parking lot. And I'm freezing in this skirt.
Apparently, I didn't know when to let my finger off of the button. He yelled at me. My dream boy friggin yelled at me! After that night I realized no one in perfect. Even the boy I stared at. He wasn't perfect. Best date ever.

Perspecitve

Gaining a bit of perspective seems to whack me in the head when I least expect it. I spent last night tossing and turning, worrying like only a mother can about Juni's impending upper GI study this morning at CHKD. I worried that he'd be scared, wouldn't drink the chalky goo, and what they'd find. I was worried we'd oversleep.
He's had tiny, intermittent belly aches for months. The pediatrician wants a definite diagnosis of reflux before he begins treatment. Not a big deal.
I rushed into the childrens' hospital, and stopped dead in my tracks. The first hallways read oncology. Then a sign for the neonatal ICU. My life, and my child, it seems, is charmed in comparison. We headed to radiology.
Juni bounced off the walls, alone in the waiting room. My worries erupted into stress about Juni not behaving. I know. Ridiculous. Before his appointment a 5-year-old girl entered, grasping her mother's hand while she struggled to lift her toes off of the floor while she walked. She pushed a hand-me-down wheelchair. She was waiting for a CT.
Another mother came in with an infant; maybe four months old.
A father brought his son, a teenager, who couldn't speak.
Juni had an 18-month-old little girl attach herself to him. I don't know what procedure she and her parents waited for, but Juni and I could both hear her screaming down the hall.
All Juni had to do was drink apple-flavored chalk goo. And watch it go through his tummy. He thought it was cool. For Juni, it was a special trip. For many children, it's their way of life. Hospitals. Rehab. Worry.
I left CHKD with a new perspective: I am now unequivocally grateful that my child can talk to loud, bounce too much and move too many toys in the radiology waiting room.