Marc/Dustin: Fake It Til You Make It

Sometimes I look at my life and wonder how I get myself into these situations. Mostly, I figure, it's be being an idiot. And a rather emotionally susceptible one at that, as much as I try to keep people at a remove, for my own safety and theirs.

It's been over a month since "Dakota" and I started working on openly portraying a couple. What some of you readers may glean, but others may not, is that as much as it goes with the territory, it's actually not always easy to play-act like that. In my previous lives, I was somewhat lucky -- As Chantelle, I only had to pretend that Damian and I were not involved, which became easier once I realized I had lost my wife to her new life. As Ryan, I didn't have to pretend anything, and as Ed I only had to pretend to be a crotchety old father figure to Pamela. It's easy to fill a role for somebody who doesn't know you're lying, because you can draw on whatever feelings you really are having. But it's really hard to perform and be a co-conspirator.

The truth about the Inn is that while having your body changed (and changed again and again) can unlock parts of you you may not have known, by and large people can't pretend to be something they're not for very long. The Inn's curse, which insulates us from suspicion, does more to protect our secret than any ability to portray the person we appear to be. All of that is to say John makes for a very weird Gen Z: serious and contemplative and icy, a far cry from what I believe to be the bubbly and available blonde Dakota. In terms of John failing to "pass," witness his conversations with housemates like PJ and Ify about the prospects of Mamdani's campaign for Mayor of New York. ("Sure I'd vote for him, but does he really appeal to that many people? And if he wins, don't you think he'll encounter problems governing if he doesn't at least play ball a little?" Doesn't sound like anything a real 23-year-old would say.)

John and Mary have both noted how stilted it sounds when I call "Dakota" "Babe" or fumble to make tentative physical contact with her. Even though I have known John for a long while at this point, it feels like this person is a stranger to me.

John doesn't seem to have the same issues, I can see it in his big blue eyes and the slight smile he gives me. That's the kind of stuff that sends a really mixed signal because part of me thinks it's authentic, that John really likes me and is using Dakota's body to express that. Getting all this attention is a little bittersweet, especially when Mary happens to be in the room -- John certainly isn't modifying his behavior out of sensitivity to her, he'll behave the same way whether she can see us or not. Mary, for her part, just seems to endure it. 

The strange thing is, away from everyone else, as Marc and John, there actually is a connection. I feel like John has been trying to actively remind me of reasons why our fling became so strong in the first place. We'll go out to run errands and he'll strike up a conversation about serious topics like what it would look like to finally stop hopping from body to body, what I hope for the future, what the difference between performing and real feelings... rational debates that remind me he's a smart, insightful, inquisitive guy.

Things that make me wonder why I'm holding him at arm's length because he's all that in a cute, seemingly available package. The other day we were at the pharmacy and I reached for his hand without thinking, without anyone being around, and he held on and smiled at me before I realized what I had instinctively done. ("We can table that," he snickered when I seemed visible uncomfortable.)

We've bonded. At night in our bedroom, we'll watch old movies like Rocky or Apocalypse Now or the French Connection. He told me he cried afterward remembering how Gene Hackman and his wife died. ("It just hit me in a different way all of a sudden. It just hit me and made me feel.. strange.") Then afterward I'll slip onto my makeshift bed on the floor, and as usual he'll ask me, "Isn't your back getting sore? There's plenty of room..." 

And there are nights I wonder why I just don't give in. The Inn has given so much to others and taken so much from me that I wonder, on balance, how it could be wrong for me to just submit and enjoy this. I have some guilt toward Mary -- as much as she seemingly endorsed this scenario, I'm not sure I can feel like I have clean hands until she knows the truth and every party involved has full knowledge and informed consent. Yet at the same time, I'm not rushing to spill the beans, maybe because I want that barrier there (maybe I think I don't deserve happiness?)

And then there's John himself. Though he denies it, how can I truly believe him when he says he didn't time his return to the Inn to coincide with mine? To make a deliberate effort to cast his wife aside in a way that absolves him and positions him intimately with me? Is that paranoid? John is a savvy individual and must have recognized the Inn's potential from the start. I wonder if he's capable of something like that.

And even if not, doesn't the fact that I have such a suspicious mind mean something? How can I commit to this person if this is what I think of them?

And all the same... if not John, who could I ever find happiness with, in this ever-changing chaotic life?

-Marc

Ande: Movember!

Has any girl turned guy talked about shaving on this blog yet?  I haven't seen any, but then we're really outnumbered by the folks who went the other way, which makes sense.  I mean, it's hard losing a big part of your identity and all, but a lot of day to day stuff gets easier and who wants to complain about the creepy teacher not staring at your boobs, or claim that morning wood is more annoying than periods?  There's some hidden things that aren't great in terms of expectations and I still worry about losing my temper and losing control, but I know Andie got the more difficult situation. 

And shaving your face is pretty easy.  I haven't gone more than a day or two without doing it since becoming Andrew and by now it's just part of my morning routine.  At first, it was really important - neither of us wanted to be the guy who grows a full beard in high school, it was an unwanted reminder of my new masculinity every time I looked in the mirror, and it's just itchy and annoying when you miss a day.  Some guys get really into it, heating up foam and using a straight razor, but when I was a girl, I just took a bath rather than a shower and used a pink disposable every few weeks, since it's not like I was wearing miniskirts to school or on the swim team.  As a guy, I've basically been doing the same, just keeping a razor in the shower and doing it by feel while the steam and hot water has my pores or follicles or whatever open.  Don't even need shaving cream. 

There's some downsides to this, of course.  I'm basically doing it blind and shaving the sideburns off entirely rather than have them wind up uneven, and that wasn't really a big deal at first, and even desirable - I was still thinking of myself as a girl and didn't want 'em - but now I'm starting to look a little more baby-faced than I really want to, and it kind of feels like the sort of thing a grown man should be able to do. 

So, when a couple guys in one of my study groups came in looking a bit scruffy and mentioned that they were growing their beards out for "Movember", I figured what the hell?  If I don't like it, I can shave it off, and it's dumb to not see what I look like now that I've more or less accepted that this is who I'm going to be .

Right now, I look like a caterpillar is clinging to the very bottom of my upper lip for dear life. 

It's apparently hilarious. 

Don't take my word for it; Hildy apparently didn't even see it the first time she leaned in for a kiss and came away saying yuck, although she then said it was promising for just a few days' growth, with only a little detectable insincerity.  Griff was walking by and asked what was so funny and said he would try that.  He woke up the next morning with more than I'd managed in three days.

And I just got off a Zoom call with Andie, who saw what was on my face and then immediately started laughing, putting her head down on her desk to smother it, holding up a finger after a minute to say she needed another few seconds when I asked if she was done, and then letting out one last snicker when she sat up straight again. 

"Sorry, man, I just feel like I dodged a bullet, you know?"

"Har har.  But did you?  Do you think I might suck at growing hair because of some Inn thing, like it didn't make me male enough?"

She snorted.  "If it worked that way, I wouldn't get the cramps I do."

I allowed that, and talked with her a bit more.  She insisted on taking screenshots to show Mom & Dad, and that reaction will probably be interesting.

-Ande

Arthur/Penny/Millie: Halloween Project

Between tennis, and school, and editing a manuscript, and trying to find out where my daughter had vanished to, I hadn't even thought about Halloween, at least, not until I was hanging out with a couple of Millie's friends after school and one of them looked at me nervously and asked if it would be weird if we did KPop Demon Hunters as a group costume.

Which I should have seen coming; much as a tween like Millie isn't going to get that excited about a cartoon, or at least isn't going to show it, a thing everyone was watching that was all about Korean girls was a big deal, especially since, between Ray and myself, we kind of get frustrated in terms of finding stuff a Korean-American girl her age would like that doesn't position girls like her as a sidekick.  Her tastes don't really match up with ours, and both Ray and I will look at a lot of the Korean import stuff on Netflix and think it's too violent.  It's kind of a reminder that, while I may be closing in on 20 years as a woman, I did it without ever having been a girl, and a lot of this is new to me.

Also?  It's kind of cool that her friends asked if this would be weird, given that Millie's the only ethnically Korean or Asian one among them.  I'm not sure that 13-year-old Arthur would have really given a lot of thought to appropriating something like that.  Blackface probably would have been right out, but a cool costume?  Maybe not.

We could have gotten pre-made costumes easily - I think half the girls in Millie's class are dressing as KPop Demon Hunters this year - but I made the suggestion that it would be more fun to make our own.  I've kind of gotten used to doing this; as Penny, I'm about six feet tall, which means I'm kind of limited in terms of options when I just go shopping for regular clothes, but for Halloween, anything short and sexy is going to show off my entire ass, which was kind of fun as a younger woman but kind of inappropriate when chaperoning a party for kids or answering the door for trick-or-treaters.  So I've gotten pretty good at making my own costumes, although I'm not any kind of expert cosplayer who goes to comic book conventions to show them off (and I've attended conventions to promote my book, so I know of what I speak).  There's a whole blog post about guys who become women and have to learn how to alter clothing or otherwise sew and then feeling strange because it's one of those gendered activities that might be a blind spot for a lot of women, too.

The point is, though I have made an effort to train myself to be good at it and find it a lot of fun, I vastly overestimated how much a couple of twelve-year-old girls would maintain interest in this and wound up doing most of it myself.  Which was fine; it gives me something to do after school and Millie's friends think I am/she is cool for doing all this, so I'm doing what I can to maintain her friendships while not actually hanging out with a bunch of kids.  Millie's friends are, by and large, pretty cool kids, but it gets very weird when they start talking about boys in their/our class.  I'll come home and think, do all of these costumes need to include crop-tops?  Am I worried about this as a mom because it'll be chilly in the evenings all week or because I know boys are going to be looking at our waists?

I did a pretty darn good job, though - I think we definitely will look better than the folks who went to Spirit Halloween, and kind of wonder what Millie will think when/if she sees the photos Ray took last night to post on social media.  That was maybe the most surreal thing, striking superhero poses with the girls and finding myself giggling along with them.  It's not entirely a tween thing - adults who get dressed up for Halloween do the same thing - but I was definitely vibing with them in that moment in a way I'm kind of wary of most of the time, knowing how the Inn can mess with your head.

The most annoying thing: Harmon being a jerk about me borrowing some of my own boots for the costume, or when I ordered a couple things online.  She acts like she's teasing me, but even where Halloween costumes are concerned, I think it's really important to not rule play mother and daughter in the apartment unless there are guests. 

Anyway, I hope Millie sees the pictures her father is posting and likes them, and maybe even wants to try the costume on once we're back to normal 

- Arthur/Penny/Millie

Tom/Kiara: Down but not out

So here I am.

20 weeks -- five months in this unlikely role. Teenager. Daughter. Mother.

There are times, God help me, that I seem to forget I was ever Tom Nishimura -- was ever myself. Not to be too dramatic. It's actually easier in some ways to look at it that way. I have a lot in front of me. A daughter. A family. School. None of it is supposed to be mine, but that's what I'm dealing with. I don't work in "supposed to," I have an objective reality. Today I am Kiara. I might not always be, and maybe if the tides somehow completely turn I might even be Tom again, but... well.

I don't even think of myself as a woman. Or a man for that matter. Sure, when I pull my clothes off at night there's a woman's anatomy, but what I am is just a big, sleep-deprived, milk-producing mess, one with long hair (but not as long as it used to be thanks to a very helpful hairdresser I befriended) and who sits to pee. Gender, I'm learning, is even more of an illusion than I thought -- even with my body this way, I don't feel too much like a girl and I don't seem to get many of the "looks" some women get just for existing, maybe because of my constantly disheveled state. ("Sex" is a little more tangible, as I learn every month when the cramps come in.)

Still, I'm nothing like the Tom I used to be. I even considered excluding his name from this post's title, but... that would be giving in to something I'm not ready to face yet.

Sorry, for someone whose job is communicating clearly, I must not be making a lot of sense. Chalk that up to said lack of sleep. At the very least, the chaos of these opening paragraphs -- the first thing I've written in months -- helps express my frantic state of mind. I'm Kiara. I'm Tom. I'm a kid. I'm an adult. I'm a man. I'm a mommy.

Summer in North Carolina was... hot, sticky, long, and irritable. I integrated, as best I could, with Kiara's family. One thing that can't be denied is that they know how to take care of kids. They know that when a 17-year-old gives birth, the response is to both step up and help, and also always make sure she knows she screwed up. It's a rite of passage that I gather Kiara's mom faced, and her mom too. On that note, there is always someone to take care of the baby, to feed her strained squash, change her and keep her occupied, so that I can focus on living my life -- whatever kind of life I'm supposed to have. Of course, I'm still pumping, and breastfeeding directly when I can. Which sucks because in the last few months the girl has started getting teeth.

Sometimes I look at her, and I think about where we were when we started this -- how small she was, how new it  all was to me... and I melt. I have to admit it. I didn't want to be a parent, certainly not a mom, and yet I look at the little peanut and I think, holy crap, we've already been through so much together. It humbles me, and it also fills me with rage at the notion that Kiara may have willingly and knowingly walked away from this (we don't know for sure yet, so let's give her the benefit of the doubt.) 

Shit, I'm getting teary-eyed just thinking about it. That's the Kiara in me.

That's the real curse. Not losing my junk, or my professional standing or the years of personal living. That could all be returned. But being linked with this baby, feeling like she's my responsibility and I'm all she's got (which is not true and yet feels suspiciously true) and that I would be doing a bad thing by leaving her... that's the curse. That's the thing that's got me damned.

As far as daily-life goes, I'm navigating that daily tango of support and judgment. I try not to take it personally -- I can't be held accountable for decisions that Kiara made before I became her, but I'm the one that has to live with them. Ultimately I decided not to enroll at her high school. That would have been too weird. Kiara herself may have felt some attachment to friends and teachers and the fact that she was only one year away from graduation, but Tom-as-Kiara prefers a different approach. Instead I signed up for Adult Learning to pursue a GED. With the pace of classes, it's something that would take more than a year -- which means that if I get away from this life by next summer I won't have graduated for her. It's a better environment than a normal high school because everyone else here has some similar thing about them to brand them as an outcast: a criminal record, a history of addiction, a brain injury, kids of their own. I've made really good friends with the Indian woman named Sunita who is new to the country and reasonably smart but needs something to show for it.

I'm not ready to give up on Tom's life. I still have his goals in front of me: publish my expose, learn the truth about the original Kiara, do something that feels like putting this situation right. They just feel a lot further away than they once did, with a lot of other obstacles in between. Sometimes it's hard to determine what's really important -- the big things I can't affect, or the little ones that I'll get in trouble for ignoring.

Like homework. You've still got to do algebra when you have a kid at 17.

Hope to speak to you again soon.

-T/K

Ande: First Anniversary

So here's a kind of funny thing:  Andie and I both had our first-anniversary dates about a week ago, and it's kind of funny how sometimes we're in sync like that, even though we're in different parts of the country.  I mean, we should be - we're twins and we've exchanged lives! - but things don't quite wind up lining up quite so often as we'd like.  

She and her boyfriend did fly out this summer, though, to see the fireworks on the Fourth and get a chance to hang out with me and Hildy.  The spare room they used has since been filled with Griff's girlfriend - they really like having their own space - and I like Chipper.  I don't think I would have dated him myself, though Andie does think about what might have been when hanging around Hildy, but he seems like a pretty good guy who likes Andie a lot.  I'm also glad to see that long Covid isn't completely kicking her ass these days, though she shows symptoms often enough that we didn't bring up the idea of switching back.

Strangely enough, I may have felt more pangs for my old life during the anniversary date.  Hildy and I don't dress up much when we go out, to the extent that she was making jokes about how completely buried her one pair of heels were in her closet, but she clearly spent a lot more time than usual, curling her hair, doing her makeup, waxing her legs, all that.  On the one hand, it kind of sounds like a real pain in the neck these days, but in the other, my heart kind of jumped into my throat when I met her at her place.  Sure, I was wearing a coat and tie,  but it wasn't the same effect. 

The date itself was fun - we had a nice meal at Legal and then went to a show at the A.R.T., then got snacks at Insomnia Cookies because we didn't really want to mar the night by not being able to talk or way into a bar.  We spent the night at her place (we didn't want to get the stink-eye from the new roommate either).

Andie texted me a selfie overnight, saying she knew it was weird for me but if she was wearing garters and stockings and had a big old slit practically all the way to her butt, plus a push-up bra, she was showing off.  I laughed, saying she looked good and I don't know if I would have had the patience, and she said, yeah, probably not, but sometimes we both overcompensate.  I asked how I overdo it, and she said she couldn't help but laugh at how short my hair was in July  especially since I had to wear a baseball cap in order to avoid sunburning my scalp. 

She's got a point, I guess. 

Anyway, it's kind of worth noting that I've been doing my thing as a guy long enough to have an anniversary that's more about being happy about something in this life rather than thinking that i can't believe I've been a guy long enough to have dated a girl for a year. 

-Ande

Rusty/Monica: Does this count as a long-term plan?

I've enrolled in a new class.  Not a language one - I'm kind of getting nowhere with Korean and while I'm going to keep plugging away at that, I'm guessing it probably wouldn't be a great idea to try to learn something else on top of it - but studying for a real estate license.  Basically, I really enjoyed working in sales with Dragon Energy, in part because it got me out and about in the city, as opposed to sitting at a desk and making phone calls all day. 

The class is on the same building as the language school - I'm not sure how many times I started at the sign over the past few months without thinking that it might be fir me - so it's really convenient.  On Fridays, I finish work at about six, run out to grab a slice, and then head back in.  Even if you're calling me 23 rather than 16, I'm still the youngest person in class by a lot.  About half the class is recently-divorced women from Long Island, one of whom did not take me saying that it was either this or medicine well at all, because I guess her ex is a doctor who cheated on her with a pharma girl.

It's kind of nice to have something to do on Friday nights when Katey and Dad are out with their boyfriends.  I'm starting to think that I'm the "A" part of LBGTQIA+, and that the original Monica was too.  A few of her college and high school boyfriend have messaged me about getting lunch or a drink while they were in the City for a meeting or convention or something, and they all seem to like Monica and wish it had worked out, but they just weren't a physical match or something.  A couple apologized for being impatient because she wanted to take it slow, or getting the wrong idea because she liked running around campus in skimpy workout clothes.

I haven't really talked about this with Dad and Katey, specifically, because I'm not totally sure.  Like, I'll be runningin the park and someone will make me turn my head, but it doesn't feel like desire so much as appreciation, I don't think.  Dad's not sure i can tell the difference, and maybe she's right, but it just doesn't ever feel important. 

And it's important to them!  Things are going surprisingly well with Dad and June/Jonah. Dad still really doesn't like getting dressed up or made up, and she's always really embarrassed when she doesn't get home until the next morning, like she wouldn't enjoy being with someone who was a woman for decades and really knows what's going on inside her. 

And I want Dad to have fun and be happy, but it's kind of making me feel like a fifth wheel.  J/J joined the trivia team yesterday, and Katey is always flirting with Omar during trivia,  so i feel a bit left out.l, kind of wondering if the original Monica would let folks at her up because it made hanging out with her friends easier. 

Anyway, it's nice to have something to do on Friday night, and I really do think being a realtor could be a really fun job! 

- Rusty/Monica

Toby: Dunia & Papi

(Wrote this October 1st, forgot to hit send!)

Doing this again to try and forget that I'm in a flight attendant's uniform and will soon be flying to Washington, doing a job i haven't trained for at all. 

The strange thing is, that feels like the first thing that had me really nervous since arriving in Miami.  It seems crazy to say that, because nobody else seems to really click into new lives quite so fast, but as soon as Lambert dropped me off in front of this pastel-colored building, her father ran out and squished me to his chest.  "Where were you?  Everyone has been so worried!"

"We, uh, got lost in the woods.  Ms. Polawski... Alicia... had this 'glamping' idea, and while she backed a ton of extra food, she apparently forgot a compass, and after these other guys found us...  Well, it was just so embarrassing..."  I felt embarrassed saying this, but I guess that made it sound believable, because he just kissed the top of my head, said I didn't ever need to ashamed to tell him anything, and then picked up my luggage, apparently not noticing that there were two suitcases instead of one.

I'd seen pictures and video of Enrico Cortes on Dunia's phone, but somehow hadn't expected a few things.  You can always smell the garage on him, for instance, even underneath the Old Spice (also: Dunia has an unnervingly good sense of smell), and even when he's so happy to see you that you think he'd overdo a hug, you can sort of feel that he knows when to stop.  He's also strangely tidy - his mustache is perfectly trimmed and every room in this little house is so well-organized that I haven't had to arouse suspicion by asking where anything is in the past week, or at least every room except for Dunia's bedroom.

It wasn't quite dark yet but I was tired, and fell asleep practically as soon as I sat on the bed.  When I woke up the next morning I saw my shoes were neatly placed at the foot of the bed and I'd been covered with a light blanket, which was kind of creepy, but maybe that's just what fathers do when they see their daughters sprawled out with the door open?  I was kind of fuzzy - this was, like, my third day as Dunia and I was kind of jolted awake by her face in the mirror, but let my nose lead me downstairs to where he was scrambling some eggs, and perked up on seeing me.  "Hey, you're up early!  Although I guess you went to bed pretty early for you, so it balances out.  Join your old man for breakfast?"

"Uh... okay."  I sat down and he handed me a plate.  I was a little nervous at first - there were bits of peppers in the eggs, but it wasn't bad at all.  The orange juice was fresh-squeezed, too, and for as silly as I feel silly getting all wide-eyed at my first sip because it's nothing compared to what else is new, it really was different. 

Her dad noticed and chuckled.  "They don't have the fresh aid up in Maine, huh?"  I imagine it's like North Dakota, where they have it in the fancy places folks like Lambert so at but which is out of my range, but obviously didn't say anything  "Well, I'm off to the shop.  Anything you need me to bring home?  I got those bath oils you wanted while you were away, and I imagine you're looking forward to that after your adventure!"

Taken aback, I lifted an arm and smelled my armpit.  I've smelled worse, but I imagine a girl who asks her dad to pick up bath pills doesn't often go 48 hours without showering, especially in this humidity.  I let him awkwardly hug me goodbye, and then made my way to the bathroom 

There was a whole line of products against one wall, and I sarcastically took a picture and texted it to Dunia:  "What an i supposed to do with all this?"

It was only a minute or so before she texted back: "Hahahhaha, that must seem like a lot

"Why don't you just get in and soak and I'll write something up?"

I was kind of surprised by the quick response. "Isn't it like 5an there?"

"4! No daylight savings time

"Guess I'm an early riser now and still sort of on eastern time"

I turned on the faucet and put a door under the tap until it seemed okay.  "That sucks"

"Could be worse, I guess.  I'm kind of hot for an odd man"  She sent a selfie of a silver-haired man in a wide-beater.  She did look like she was in pretty decent shape.  "Now you"

I tried to be cute, throwing up a v-sign and posing with my mouth open so I didn't look annoyed to be her.  There was a brief pause, and she texted back not to make hand signs unless I really meant it.

Then:  "Hey don't be shy about washing my v, ok?  I know it's weird - BELIEVE ME - but I want EVERYTHING in good shape next year"

"Um, k"

She didn't respond door a minute or two, so I took a deep breath, stripped, and lowered myself into the bath.  I winced a bit when the warm water touched my new private parts, but once I was in, it wasn't a big deal.  I mean, it was weird, but it wasn't arousing or anything.

I exhaled and looked down.  Dark-ish skin, perky breasts, tight waist, landing strip, butt flaring out, pretty nice legs.  Little landing strip above a slit, yes, but it kind of hit me that this at least looked tidy, compared to what Dunia must be seeing from the same angle.

I just sat there for a bit.  The warm water felt good, the house was quiet except for some birds outside.  It was kind of peaceful.  I closed my eyes and let my head sink below the water, feeling my hair float on the surface, then popped back up.  That felt like enough doing nothing, so I picked up a lavender-scented beauty bar and started rubbing it on my body.  My skin was soft, and kind of sensitive, but it wasn't ...  Like, you spend a lot of time as a guy thinking about how everything about girls is sexy, but it's actually just skin muscle and fat the way my own body is.  Even when washing my chest, it was like, there's weight and mass there, but touching it doesn't make me go nuts or anything.

Anyway, I got washed up and smelling nice, and once I'd tried off I walked back to her room to get dressed.  Just a simple t-shirt and shorts - it was in the 80s - and spent a little time zooming with Dunia afterward, as she went through all the stuff in the bathroom and said what it was for.

We zoomed a lot over the past week, and I get the impression that's not normal - like, a lot of folks just get thrown into a new life without a lot of help, but I kind of get the impression that Dunia is kind of bored between trips and is in kind of a similar situation to me - she's getting instruction on driving an 18-wheeler and kind of worried about it, so when she has a chance, she's helping me with makeup and going through her Instagram feed to fill me in on everyone.  I complained about her wardrobe a bit but she said I'd like having this butt when her girlfriends get me out dancing and the halters make it look like we've got enough up top to balance them.

And her dad...  Her dad is kind of great!  He's fretting a lot because of the whole going missing thing, but seems really proud of her, and even when he comes home from a long day at the garage smelling like grease, he likes to cook Dunia's favorite foods and ask how my day was, and when I say I've spent the whole day studying, points out that I should have some fun, too.

I've only seen Lambert a couple of times over the past week - I gather that Alicia is the new roommate in an apartment with a few other flight attendants, having just relocated to Miami from New York, and apparently the previous Alicia didn't make a very good impression.  I don't think he's ever had a roommate before.

Anyway, I'm leaving out a lot, I know, and getting into too much in other spots, but I'm about to start my first shift and I'm nervous.  Wish me luck!

-Toby/Dunia

Marc/Dustin: Peace in our time

As you might expect in a house with so many people, not the least of which are three Inn-transformees, there are some pretty complicated interpersonal dynamics at play, and simply navigating them can be exhausting.

Our initial instinct was to stay off the radar while carving out a dynamic that worked for us. John and Mary were bunked downstairs in Cassie's basement bedroom while I was on the top floor in a room of my own.

Unfortunately, questions were being asked about why Dakota was suddenly so distant from Dustin. Personally, I was keeping John at arm's length, giving him space to work out his issues with his wife. I sat next to him at the table for meals, being that he remained my closest ally in the house and someone I have a shared past with (read: scandalous secret.) I figured this would fall under the domain of "nobody's business but ours." So we don't go shopping together? So we don't kiss in public? Who's to say what's right?

Unfortunately, when you're 22 and in a full house, everything is everybody's business. People wanted to know whether we had broken up.

And there was a reason why we couldn't just do the easy thing and say "yes."

Dustin is not very popular here.

Only having been here for a few months, I obviously don't have much first-hand understanding, but I gleaned it almost from the moment I walked in as the girls would mostly give me the cold shoulder when I tried to be cordial and sociable. I chalked that up to "Oh, he's Dakota's boyfriend and they don't want to cross a certain line of appropriateness with him" but the pointedness became undeniable. At some point, the girls of the house -- and PJ -- had enough of this guy. There are guys here too, but mostly as boyfriends, add-ons and transients. It's all the women's names (and PJ's) on the lease. The guys don't really have a say as to who lives here, and Dustin is here on a boyfriend visa. If he and Dakota aren't a couple, there's really no reason for him to be in this house.

Perhaps your next question is -- why do I have to live in the house at all? Wouldn't it be easier if I just excuse myself, let John and Mary live their lives, and find something else to do with myself until it's time to go back to the Inn?

I couldn't agree more, but unfortunately, our lives are slightly more entangled than all that. You see, for the last several months, I've been paying both Cassie's and Dakota's share of the rent out of my own pocket, out of my "war chest." Mary is trying to become more financially independent, working at a restaurant, but is pretty underpaid. I'm not asking her to repay everything she owes me, but she's having a hard enough time getting on her own two feet. John gave it a try too, but wasn't cut out for the service industry. He just gives off this vibe of being "above it" that employers don't seem to like. He worked two shifts with Cassie and washed out, and hasn't been able to get anything else since.

"Sexist," he grumbled, "If I had the same attitude as a man, they'd say I was independent, but because I'm a woman, I'm a bitch."

"Welcome," Mary teased.

Until we can get that straightened out, it doesn't make sense for me to live elsewhere. But what it all amounts to is a few weeks ago, Mary and John sat me down in my (and Dakota's) room, and told me that I was going to have to start getting more lovey-dovey with my "girlfriend."

"We need them to see that you two still care about each other," Mary said, "Holding hands, joking around... touching, laughing... kissing, occasionally," she added, with a bit of queasiness in her voice.

I looked at John, who feigned discomfort, probably for Mary's benefit.

"You can't just force that sort of thing," I protested. "We're... practically strangers..." I stammered over the lie that I had never met John before the Inn.

"That's what we're counting on," Mary said. "You know John's himself inside, but... you never met him. You only know him as Dakota. So why not..." she sighed, "Why not try to forget that isn't all she is?"

My eyes shifted between the two of them. I wasn't entirely sure what they were saying.

"Mary, no matter who this looks like, that's still your husband," I insisted.

"It's more complicated than that, Dustin," Mary said, using my false name, maybe to distance herself from the reality. "We have been at it over and over and over again, and we... we aren't getting anywhere. And we can't keep fighting over how to approach this situation."

I was aware that, behind closed doors, John and Mary were having an understandable difficulty coming to terms with the dynamic. I don't think it was quite the sexy fantasy John was hoping for. And I know it's created some friction. I also know that PJ, who shares a wall with Cassie, has had a lot to say about them disrupting their sleep with their constant muffled bickering.

"I want John to be happy," Mary said, holding her husband's little hand.

"And I want Mary to be happy," John replied in a low murmur, "And she's never going to be happy with me like this."

"So, you're what... giving up?" I balked. I had been through this myself, so I slightly took exception.

"We're hoping we can find our way back to each other," John noted -- a statement that rang falsely to me, the person he once cheated on his wife with. "In another time, when this is all over and we're ourselves... or different people."

"John and Mary love each other," Mary said, resignedly, "But Cassie and Dakota are just friends. Does that make sense?" Having had my mind and body warped multiple times by now, it did, but that didn't mean I didn't sense something else afoot here.

"It's for the best," John shrugged. I glared at him and thought I'm sure it is.

"I'll leave you two to sort some things out," Mary said, wiping her tears away and standing to leave.

Once she was gone, there was a pregnant pause in the air, until I finally asked, "What the fuck, John?"

"It's exactly what we said," he shrugged his little shoulders and flicked a lock of hair away from his face. "We're not meant for each other anymore... right now... what have you."

"You wanted this," I said, accusatorily.

"I wanted resolution," he reasoned, "I wanted a status quo we could all live with. And I didn't want to hurt Mary."

"Well, congrats, she's hurt," I groaned.

"But I didn't hurt her," John noted. "The situation did."

"The situation you organized," I noted.

"Excuse me!" he scoffed, "I didn't sign up to become Dakota and Cassie! I could have easily been anybody walking out of that Inn and the odds were good that she and I would have been people who were meant to be together."

"And the odds were good that you wouldn't," I said, seeing through his convenient plausible deniability. "Either way it's a win, right? A little bit of short-term pain, a few late nights crying into each other's arms, oh, I can't do this, I'm not myself... we're not us anymore... and you get to walk away. I've heard it before."

"And so what?" he put his hands on his hips indignantly, "Is that not legitimate? Do my feelings not matter? Don't you think if I could be sexually attracted to Mary, to Cassie, I would be? She's gorgeous. That's part of a relationship, as far as I'm concerned, and without it, she and I are exactly what these two girls are -- friends. That isn't nothing. It hurts, but it isn't nothing."

"You seem very hurt," I said sarcastically.

"Don't minimize me here," John huffed, "I want what everyone wants, to be happy. To feel love and excitement and cared-for. She's not a saint either! You don't know her, you weren't married to her!"

"Don't make this about her," I said. "You could have divorced her like a normal fucking person," I hissed, trying to keep my voice down in case anyone outside could hear me.

"And if I didn't know about the fucking Inn, I might just have," he said. "Maybe last year, Ryan should have told me to divorce my wife instead of Shanghai-ing me to Maine."

I sunk down. I certainly didn't come into this with clean hands. I made one grave error in judgment and I've paid for it ever since. But I know that at the time John would rather have killed himself than go through a divorce. And most likely, done neither.

Did that make what I did right? And if not, was I responsible for any and all decisions John made since?

John sat next to me on the bed, our thighs touching. I shifted but he still closed the gap.

"Let's focus on us for a second," he said, now fawning, seemingly remorseful that he had taken that last shot. He reached for my hand and I let him take it.

"There isn't an us, not inside this room," I insisted. "I can try to put on an act, and you can vouch for me, but it won't be real, John. I hope you know that. I'm going to sleep on the floor -- one of the advantages of a 22-year-old back."

"Okay," John said, coldly, "But the second I don't need your money, what then? You're out on your ass."

"Believe me, I'll live," I said.

"I'm not your enemy, Marc," he said, activating Dakota's big doelike eyes, "We've had fun together. We understand each other. And with you as Dustin and me as Dakota, we... we're kind of all we've got. I know you're lonely. You're not going to start a relationship with anybody else, because that would upend the real Dustin's life. But that logic won't stop you from finding the next Christine. Why not make the best of the situation? I'm willing if you are."

I looked at him, he fixed me with that glassy, pleading stare. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

His lips curled up in an inviting smile that, in other situations, I might have found very cute. "Tell me you're not a little curious."

I let out a heavy sigh. "Like I said, I'm sleeping on the floor."

"Suit yourself," he sighed.

"If... if... there's to be anything here between us, it will have to develop over time," I said. "Dakota and Dustin may be in love, but John and Marc are just two people trying to navigate an extremely messed-up situation."

He nodded slowly in agreement. "Fair terms, I think."

And that was that. The time since has proceeded exactly as we laid it out. In front of everyone else we're fun, flirty and physical -- I set the limit at three kisses on the lips per day for the benefit of others, and not around Mary if it can be helped. I've also spent a lot of time talking to her, but that's a subject for another post. 

As to what's really going on between John and I, I don't know. I'm just taking it day by day. For now,  we have some semblance of peace... but I do wonder, at what cost?

-Marc/Dustin

Isaac/Ainsley: Gen Z Boss and a Mini

She's actually a Millennial, but whatever.

I wanted to write about this sooner, but working Ainsley's job is one of the most draining experiences of my life; I've got nothing left by the time I get home. And this is a job people would kill for, especially in my situation! It's a laptop job that pays decently in a field that doesn't absolutely require years of training, and Ainsley's still young enough that I can defer to people with more experience and responsibility. All I have to do is learn how to talk the talk.

Ainsley, for her part, loves her job and made an admirable effort to coach me in between trying to keep her toddler from destroying the house. She can teach me the right buzzwords to use. She can teach me about her coworkers, matching names to faces, who to ask for help and who's not worth talking to. She can tell me what she usually wears to the office. (I haven't actually worn a miniskirt, by the way. The title's just for the meme.) She can teach me everything there is to know about how to market a hotel chain and why it requires great dexterity with arcane features of Microsoft PowerPoint. (Obviously as an accountant I'm an Excel person.) But she can't teach me how to talk like I'm someone who actually belongs there.

My first hands-on lesson with the marketing industry was that human beings can smell fear. I walked in on the first day after Heather pushed and laughed me out the door, giving me a 25-minute commute to do nothing but stew in my own desperation to somehow, in that moment, wake up back in Virginia. I triple-checked my makeup even though I'd practiced and it was easier than I thought it'd be. (Besides eyeliner, that one's really annoying.) But my makeup job didn't out me as a complete fraud; instead it was my gait. My habit of staring at the ground, reminding myself that Ainsley Thomas would absolutely not do that, looking up, seeing all the people around, and going back down. Going out of the way to be invisible, like I always do.

This place actively punishes invisibility, it backfires on me every time. Not only is it a relatively small office where everyone at least vaguely knows everyone else, marketing as an industry inherently attracts the most outgoing, hypersocial Type-A people imaginable. When I walk in and don't jump for joy after seeing "my" coworkers for the first time in months, when I describe my sabbatical as "fine" and only when pressed throw in half-assed details about the wonderful and fun-filled time I had in Maine. A perfectly photogenic guy walked in, passed out slices of pumpkin bread and told us his wife made it. He's younger than Ainsley, just a few years older than me. They're all excitable, upbeat, driven people, or at least they come across that way, because obviously you can't expect to market anything if you can't market yourself first. For nine hours a day I'm a sheep in wolves' clothing.

Really the worst part is how genuinely concerned they seem to be for me. One woman asked me if I had any new dog pics and looked like I'd grown a third arm when I told her I didn't. By the end of the first day, two of Ainsley's coworkers had already pulled me to the side and asked if something happened to me in Maine. They're certain of it now, I'm sure, thanks to my nonexistent poker face. It doesn't matter how much actual knowledge about Ainsley's job I can study if I can't bring myself to seem like I wholeheartedly enjoy using the word "craveable".

And I don't know how! I've never not been invisible, I liked it back there! Whatever attempts I make to seem more outgoing only make me feel like I come across as even weirder than if I just don't try. And I get a lot of chances to, with how I've got to be on some Zoom call with the other team in Jersey City half the time. I have to see Ainsley's face next to the others on the conference call, and even when I don't have to speak up I'm left thinking, God. I can't even smile in a way that doesn't look creepy.

I'm gonna need to get a hobby before I go completely insane. I need something I can actually talk about with these people, make me seem a little more like a human before Ainsley's manager (who has been very accommodating this far, by the way) outright tells me it's impacting my work instead of just shooting me concerned looks. I know "I'm" on thin ice already for having missed far more work than planned. Maybe I'll have to stop ditching the weekly after-work drinks a lot of the team goes on. But for now I can feel the team grow more distant every day as they adjust to the new Ainsley, and as much as I appreciate people reciprocating my untalkativeness I hate feeling like I'm ruining every part of her life I touch. And that happens to a lot of Inn guests, to some extent or another, but from what I've read a lot of people here have done a better job fitting in at their new lives' workplaces, not accounting for missing skills. Missing skills should be the hard part, I'm screwing up what's supposed to be the easy stuff.

All these people care about a person I can't even begin to understand how to be, how to embody. And that goes tenfold for her actual friends. I'd get more into that if it wouldn't derail the whole post.

Yeah. A hobby or just, anything that doesn't involve Ainsley's massive social network. I have got to find a way to make a blog post that isn't purely a vent session before the one about returning to my own body. I hope.

Toby/Dunia: A Much Longer Trip Than I Expected

So... Hi.  I'm afraid that I don't have any sort of introduction where I'm just me saying what I'm doing in Maine.  I kind of didn't even realize this place had a blog attached until after I became this girl. 

It's this sort of thing common, or is it all about the curse or whatever?  I've never really traveled much, or at least not to cities.  We used to go to some of the closer National Parks when I was a kid, but Ma had to sell the camper after the cancer took Dad, and even if there had been money we were never really sure there'd be a job to come back to if we took time off.  I didn't really think about it much, though, I guess because I never had it to miss and there weren't a whole lot of kids in my high school who were going on European vacations.

There were some folks with money around, though their kids went to private schools.  I guess Lambert was one of them.  I didn't know him before I answered the ad; he must've been a couple years ahead of me anyway.  He bought a car on eBay, and since he never liked to fly, he put something in a local Facebook group looking for someone to drive to Bangor and back with him.  Beat the hell out of my real job, especially since they were cutting hours due to the market for soybeans drying up or something.  He seemed all right and I guess he figured I could be trusted with his car on the drive back, so it was a done deal pretty quick.

We stopped at the Inn the night before driving up the coast - Lambert found it online and apparently the last two-week block of the year was an especially good deal for when you didn't necessarily know when you'd be in and out.  We got there on Monday, crashed for the night, and then started for Bangor in the morning.  We spent a couple hours after lunch inspecting and test-driving the Porsche - well, I kind of stood around for that - and then I was back in the BMW for the ride back.  We got dinner at a restaurant on a boat in Portland before stopping at the Inn for the night.

I was awoken by a high-pitched scream, bolting up in bed and looking on the other side of the room where there was a topless woman holding her breasts.  It was clearly the same room we'd been in last night - Lambert's stuff was on the end table - and I was a little fuzzier from the previous night's beers than I should have been, so I asked who she was.

"I'm Lambert Allen - who the fuck are you?"

"It's me, Toby!"  That when I noticed my voice didn't sound right in my ears and my hair was long enough for some  to be in my eyes.  "Uh, at least I think I am."  Hung over enough to go check, I stood from my bed and walked across the room to the bathroom and looked in the mirror.  "How in the heck?"

As you can tell from the subject line, there was a girl in the mirror, about my age, but I was shorter.  Not like super-short - I was six-foot-two and lost about six inches or so.  It made the t-shirt I'd been wearing really loose, although I could see a vague shape of breasts and nipples under it.  I was kind of surprised my boxers hadn't fallen down, but my butt was enough to hold it up.  I guess that may go with being Latina - my skin wasn't quite black but a pretty dark brown.  I pulled the neckline out to look down and then felt inside my boxers - I was all girl.

It woke me up and I ran back into the bedroom, where Lambert was pulling a suitcase out from under his bed and opening it.  He said "you have got to be shitting me" as he lifted the flight attendant's uniform that was on top out.

I did the same, only the top layer on mine was a letter "to the new Dunia Cortes".  It described the Inn's spell, and laid out a bit about the life I was inheriting.  Shes my age, 23, from the Miami area, Cuban-American although it was her grandparents that came from Cuba as children as opposed to someone more recent.  She had just been hired as a flight attendant and was expected to shadow veteran Alicia Polawski, but wound up following her to Maine when she wouldn't cut vacation short.  She lives with her father in "Little Havana" and has a boyfriend, but Hector is in the Army and stationed overseas.  She's become a retired truck driver in Phoenix, which feels as crazy as me being her.

Lambert's letter filled in some blanks; it turns out that Alicia Polawski used to be an college professor and a guy, but he got bored and decided to move on, saying the new Alicia could keep her life or not and he didn't care (she didn't care?).  He also seemed to have invited Dunia to join him specifically because it didn't look like there were going to be 13 people to trigger everything otherwise.  This Harmon guy sounds like a piece of work. 

If there were any people who has been through this before, I didn't meet them, aside from the hot dog vendor who said the thing that freaked me out the most, that there was nobody staying at the Inn after us until spring, so our lives and identities would be in a sort of limbo until then.  He said it's not so bad, because we'd have first dibs on our room and explaining not being around is easier than fixing a mess someone else makes of your life, but that's almost right months!  What's my Ma going to do without me, to start? 

Lambert seems to be more in a daze than I am.  He thought he might go home anyway, but apparently Alicia looks a lot like his last couple stepmothers and his dad is on the prowl again.  He also really doesn't like flying, and I almost wonder if it's bad enough for him to quit Alicia's job ahead of her next shift and try to live on his credit cards until then.  I'm not going to do that - this is apparently Dunia's dream job and she seems nice enough - although there's a pretty big handbook to study in the next week or so.

(It's a lot!  It looks simple enough on TV and in the movies, but I'm already afraid of screwing up the details or having to give someone CPR in midair!)

What he is sure of is that he's not leaving his new Porsche behind.  One of the coupons in the flyer that pointed us to Cary's hot dog truck and this blog is for a place that offers long term parking and storage, but he says there's no way he's leaving his new baby in some beach town that empties out for the winter.  He suggested we just do what we had been planning to do, me driving the BMW and him driving the Porsche, just south on Route One rather than west to North Dakota, but i said that I sure as heck wasn't going to get pulled over driving someone else's car as a Latina woman, so he reluctantly decided to park that one for the winter.  It's probably a good thing we initially packed pretty light, because it's not like the little sports car has  the trunk space to handle four people's luggage if Lambert and I had packed like Dunia and Harmon/Alicia.

It's weird as heck.  I'm sitting in the passenger seat of a really expensive car, and every time I look down rather than forward, I see how dark and slender my arms and legs are, and I've definitely got a figure even if my pink t-shirt doesn't show the boobage that Lambert's top does (we were not left a lot of clean clothes, and I really struggled to pull these shorts onto my big new butt this morning).  When we do get to Miami tomorrow, some guy is going to think I'm his daughter, and then I'm going to have to start working on airplanes starting next Wednesday despite having barely been out of North Dakota before.  I'm kind of tapping this out on my phone just so that I'm not staring at my body or Lambert (he's a little older, but pretty sexy) or talking in our new voices, something to do, and maybe find out if we're doing the right thing taking our stuff along to our new homes.  What I've seen of the entries here, folks usually just leave things there, but maybe not for months.

Maybe this will be my only post because I'll be too busy soon enough.  We'll see.

-Toby/Dunia

Arthur/Penny/Millie: Ms. Lincoln

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Isaac/Ainsley: Historical Texts

Does anyone else reread their old texts? And I don't only mean for especially emotionally charged nostalgia and/or regret about a couple moments. I mean for everything.

I do that, a lot. It's probably not healthy and it definitely fucks up how I perceive the past, but it's been a habit of mine since I was old enough to get a phone. In some ways conversations I've had over text feel more real in my memory than ones actually spoken in person. One lasts forever, the other fades away. I honestly kind of prefer having important conversations over text because of this, though I'm not so broken that talking in real life doesn't feel better in the moment. Charitably you can say this is what I do instead of keeping a journal. Sometimes I'll talk to someone and reference a conversation that happened a long time ago, and they'll go, what the hell are you talking about?

I gave that up when I surrendered my phone to the Inn. I'm now cut off from my past as well as my present. Ironically this makes me relate to my past more normally, but now I have a different past which I can reference.

So yes, I've been reading Ainsley's old texts. Call it an invasion of privacy unnecessary even by Inn standards, but I'm already doing enough to weird out The Girls without changing up Ainsley's texting style. Not really in any particular order besides scrolling up a bit in the most recent conversations, I'll just search a particular term that's come up in conversation or my own thoughts and see if I can get any insight out of it.

You searched: sugarbunny
MELISSA: hey idk
MELISSA: theyre both cute as heck!!
YOU: I was so set on sugar
YOU: Always wanted to name a dog that lol
YOU: But when I saw him at the rescue and fell in love like that he kept
YOU: Hopping around and barking
YOU: And it was the most adorable thing I've ever seen 😭😭
YOU: And bunny popped into my head it just works too perfectly haha
MELISSA: so i have an idea

Yeah, that's how.

Melissa comes up a lot in these. Ainsley was her maid of honor last year (and thank God I didn't come to the Inn a year earlier) and I've had to fend off a good amount of texts from her since I got here. I'm going to have to see her at some point, she's already wondering why I keep turning down her offers to get lunch. Actually it's kind of amazing I've managed to go this long without having to interact in person with someone who knows Ainsley.

You searched: sara
MELISSA: ssssssssshhhhshshhshshhsh
MELISSA: you can get through this ains
MELISSA: youre unstoppable
MELISSA: need me to come over?
YOU: No that won't work either!!
YOU: I can tell sara's happy that he won't be around constantly anymore
YOU: Might as well give her some more fucking peace and quiet
YOU: I'm already being a total disaster right now and she doesn't need to hear any more of it
YOU: Uuugh and she pisses me off every time I look at her lately
YOU: Even though she hasn't done anything wrong and I feel bad about it
YOU: Stupid weed smell distracting me from my crying

Apparently Ainsley and Sara aren't that close, despite having traveled cross-country together for a vacation. I started to get that impression once I saw how most of their texts are about household stuff. Eventually I dug up a mention that they went to high school together. It surprises me that out of the many girls in The Girls, Ainsley isn't rooming with any of them.

You searched: maine
YOU: Hey cmon I'm just sayin
YOU: Now or never!! Cancellation window for the tickets ends in a few hours
YOU: Come to Maine with me and have some real fun 🤪
SARA: okay. ill do it.
SARA: you have to answer something first though.
YOU: YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY I KNEW YOU COULD DO IT
SARA: be honest. did jaysen mess you up so bad that youd rather be stuck with me for two weeks than be alone?
YOU: I mean
YOU: It's obvious Sara
YOU: I know you could hear me sobbing
SARA: oh i knew the answer i just wanted to hear you say it.

Ainsley originally planned to go to the Inn with this Jaycen guy, but they had an acrimonious breakup a couple of months beforehand. I don't know all details since scrolling through endless texts of clearly overcompensating lovey-dovey talk that spiral into shouting matches is where I draw the line. Seeing "you" attached to all this is bad enough! Yet another reminder that my past is gone. I am the body I've slowly, barely become more comfortable looking at in the mirror. I'm Ainsley Thomas in every way that matters except to a very small number of people. Everything I do, is her.

Of course, by that standard I was only Isaac Strauss to a very small number of people before I went to the Inn, too. Nothing makes you reflect on your life more than having to live someone else's.

You searched: ainsley
YOU: hey can you do me a favor
YOU: i need you to let me know if anyone comes to our door while i'm out
SARA: Ok ❔❔❔
SARA: You gotta tell me why though
SARA: You expecting anyone? Ainsley's ex getting creepy?
YOU: god no
YOU: ainsley's girls are getting increasingly concerned for her well-being and i'm starting to think their talk about an intervention isn't just a joke
YOU: they might camp outside and wait until the dog forces me out and then they drag me to brunch or something where i have to explain why "i'm" being so weird
SARA: HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA XDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXDXD
SARA: 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
SARA: Lol
YOU: look can you help me out here
SARA: Tough shit kiddo!!
SARA: I know it's hard on you but you're gonna have to rip off the bandaid 🩹 if you ever wanna go to her job before you get her fired
YOU: ugh i KNEW you'd react like that
YOU: but it was worth a shot anyway
SARA: I've been chilling with Sara's friends and it's not that hard
YOU: sara's friends are too high half the time to notice anything's wrong
SARA: True XD
SARA: But the other half still counts
SARA: You gotta have some confidence, bub
SARA: I've never seen you be confident and I don't know if you know how
SARA: So prove me wrong
SARA: Being cool really isn't that hard
SARA: I was pretty cool back in the day 😎
SARA: I saw Nirvana live did I tell you that?
YOU: i am ending this conversation

Rusty/Monica: What should I call Dad's (potential) boyfriend?

I know that what I'll call this guy if things get serious won't matter for a while, but for some reason I can't stop thinking about it.  Nothing may wind up coming of this date they're on, because she's Dad and not really sure this is a good idea, but this feels a bit different than Katey & Omar, in part because she had to be talked into it. 

And also because the guy hit on me first, although that's mostly because Dad didn't want to come to Annette's little get-together.  There's not a standing thing where all the Inn People who have settled in New York get together like in Boston, but she tries to make sure there's one before the place opens for the season and one after the end, plus this one so that the folks who are coming here for school or the like know there's people who will have their back on a weird situation.  I'm always down to meet new folks like us, although Dad is really trying to focus on being Emilia rather than hanging onto her old life, and Katey and Omar had something else to do, so I went on my own, which meant I didn't really know anybody there.  There were a couple dozen of us, which seemed like a lot to be in one place, but New York City is huge, and I seldom remember how huge until something like this.  Most of them were cool, although the guy who just walked away when he found out I hadn't actually been to college can get bent.   The lady who owns a café in Brooklyn wanted to know why I never got around to selling her energy drinks, but I wound up spending most of my time hanging around with Ryan, who is 24, gay, and funny, especially when he does something dorky and jokes about it being a hangover from spending last summer as a suburban dad. 

I was saying something to him about how great it was to get to know people like this without there being any sort of pressure to pair up when someone tried to hook up.  A good-looking guy, tall, black, mid-twenties or so.  He said his name was "Jonah", or "Junah" if you wanted to get cute, on account of how he used to be a lady named "June".  He'd spent his first few years after visiting the Inn going to college in the city, thought the first girl he dated was The One, which was probably some sort of reaction to how his ex-husband had used the Inn to abandon her, and now she was coming back for grad school once that fell apart, because he really wanted to do something this time around rather than just being a housewife.

He asked about me, but as soon as I got to my age was like "Oh, you're young-young!", then apologized, though I said it wasn't a big deal.  I was in the middle of some story when I remembered I had pictures on my phone.  He had me stop at a beach one, like who's that?, and I snickered, saying it was my Dad.  He nodded and said Dad was hot, and was she seeing anyone?  Ryan jumped in and said I should totally set them up, because it would be a perfect yin-and-yang thing. 

I figured what the heck, had Jonah pose for a picture, and sent it to her, saying he'd like to meet her.  He texted that he wasn't ready to date, and for some reason I said that he might be a good place to start, since he used to be an older woman, so he'd understand when she was nervous and they wouldn't have to pretend. She didn't respond right away, so I had Jonah give me his number, and mostly hung out with Ryan for the rest of the evening. 

A couple days later, though, Dad asked if I still had his number.  Katey was spending Labor Day Weekend with Omar on Cape Cod, which was nice for her but has both of us like, holy shit, this is serious, and with a lot of guys hitting on her in the bar that night, I guess she figured she ought to take matters into her own hands rather than wait for someone to bowl her over like I am, especially since she figures matches that fit this well weren't going to come along that often. 

Katey and I kind of figured Dad would get cold feet by the time they were both free this afternoon, but it seems to be the opposite - they've apparently been texting all week, and while Dad is dressed pretty casual, it's the sort of casual where she spends an hour trying to figure out which pleated miniskirt and babydoll t-shirt look best together and trying every shade of lipstick the original Emilia left her to find one which wasn't too much. 

She apologized for all the fuss, because she still really didn't like doing all this girl stuff, and kind of hated that she was setting an example about being so worried about what some man thinks about your appearance, which is funny, because Katey and I are way ahead of her in girl stuff and haven't had problems with that.

Anyway, at some point Katey made a joke about whether Jonah is going to want us to call him "Mom", and it's really sticking with me.  Like, we appear to be about the same age, but Jonah isn't just Dad's real age, but old enough to be his mother, so our grandmother, and, I dunno, that feels like it deserves a Mister or Grandma or something, right?  Especially when it's just us and we don't have to pretend we were all born within a few years of each other.

I'm definitely overthinking this. I know.  But if Jonah winds up being around more, it's something to think about, right?

-Rusty/Monica

Arthur/Penny/Millie: Lessons

It probably sounds like a silly "Gen X vs Millennials/Zoomers/Alpha" thing, but I didn't really have a lot of scheduled time when I was a kid and have attempted to raise Millie that way, but ran into a bit of a buzzsaw on that:  There aren't many years between my real age and Ray, but they appear to include the line between "mom and dad said to be back before midnight" and "mom and dad wanted to know where we were at all times".  Plus, and as somebody who hates making generalizations as much you might expect from having been four different people, he's Korean-American, and so are his parents, and there is a lot more early focused pressure there.  It's pragmatic, in a lot of senses; there's this real stew of having left your homeland to achieve, needing to be better to overcome prejudices, and imported focus on developing the ability to work one's way up a ladder that is more rigidly defined than we imagine it to be in America.  Add on that Penelope Lincoln grew up being on three lacrosse teams and swimming competitively during the off-season, and I kind of didn't have a leg to stand on.

On top of that, to get back to what started this whole thing, Millie is Penelope Lincoln's kid, genetically.  I may not have been in a lot of clubs as a kid or teenager and never made varsity in school sports - I had hobbies and collections and such, but was kind of low-key about it - but I'm not in a position to pass that on, at least on a biological level.  She's competitive in a way I often find intimidating, quite frankly, and when she decides she wants to get good at something, she wants to spend time learning from experts.  Plus, all her friends at school and in the neighborhood are kids with busy schedules, so that's how she's going to spend time with them.

Which means I spent the one-week anniversary of being Millie at a tennis lesson.  But let's start with the week in between.  

It was late Saturday when Ray and I got home, after an incredibly awkward train ride.  We both dropped our things in the living room, maybe subconsciously not wanting to face putting them away in different rooms yet, then decided to go out to eat and see a movie rather than sit around.  It was fun, and we mostly laughed away the comments we probably weren't supposed to hear about daddy-daughter dates because it's his weekend with custody, or the ones about what kind of parent brings his tween to a horror movie.  That's what people are going to see, right?

Still, when I got home, I felt very strange picking up Millie's backpack and standing in front of her bedroom door.  I was the sort of parent that respects their daughter's privacy, right?  So I dithered a bit, putting the Penny clothes I'd worn in Maine in the hamper, seeing of there was a ballgame on TV, going into my home office and seeing of any ARCs that a publisher wanted me to blurb caught my eye.  Not that night. Ray slipped into the bathroom to shower, brush his teeth, etc., then walked out shirtless.  I bit my lip, because, well, turning into your daughter doesn't completely suppress all the memories and associations that he's still kind of hot.  He read my face quickly enough and found the top that goes with those pajama pants. 

I raided my own closet for a night shirt to wear, and grabbed at some of the supplies we'd bought at CVS and Marshall's earlier.  A change at the Inn means you buy a new toothbrush, underpants, etc.  It's been almost rent years since the last time, but it's just automatic from the second on. 

Trying to fall asleep in Millie's room was beyond strange, because, on the one hand, I know it well: Millie isn't the sort of kid who keeps a Keep Out! sign on the door or objects to her parents ever coming in, even to collect laundry or find something she left behind.  Lying on the bed looking up, I tried to think of it as just an Airbnb, but it's not a stranger's place, it's somewhere familiar, but in the absolute wrong context.  On top of that, I could practically feel my husband in the next room, and I wanted to go there, but, no, we weren't going to give each other any chance to talk ourselves into anything. 

Sunday was errand-running day, and while i don't really need to train Ray on what the family's grocery needs are or anything, we spent the day double-checking to make sure there wasn't anything that he didn't know about keeping the household going that would trip us up when a new Penny showed up.  Happily, we're a good team; there wasn't anything that he didn't think he needed to know as the husband. 

Then he went off to work for the week and I stayed going crazy. 

It's not that I wasn't busy; there was a bunch to plan for the new school year where I got away with having some convenient Covid that took my voice, a book to write and another to edit, and about a million texts from Millie's friends per day.  There's no boyfriend, thank God, but I'm still not sure what I'm going to tell them when I start school next week.  I've been holding them off by claiming to be grounded for what I pulled last week and that is fill them in on that later, but Ray and I really haven't come up with a cover story yet. 

The thing about saying you're grounded, of course, is that you're stuck inside, and the extra energy I have as Millie versus Penny is making the fiction of being grounded very hard to maintain!  Was i like this as a teenager?  I thought i would be able to concentrate on work, but that really isn't happening.  I sleep in, try to have a coffee when I get up, spit it out because while it doesn't really taste different now, the taste buds that respond to it are clearly not connected to the pleasure center of my brain (yet), grab a Monster from the fridge and hate that I'm okay with it despite it making me too jittery to focus on writing or copy edits very well.

And then, last Saturday, I went to my first tennis lesson as Millie. 

As Penny, I'm not really bad at tennis.  My drivers license says I'm in my 40s but Penelope was an athlete and I inherited all the under-the-skin infrastructure to turn carbs into muscle that's suitable for lacrosse, and it's pretty transferable - lots of running and swinging a stick to create leverage that sends a ball flying, although the elbow is more involved.  I've aged well enough that I don't get tired that quickly, and I honestly seldom lose to anyone consistently except Millie, and she's only gotten that good recently. 

And now I see why.  The coach spent the first lesson blowing her whistle at me a lot, pointing out that Billie Jean or Serena or Venus (obviously, not their real names) had left the opposite baseline wide open, or asking why I was trying to hit the ball as hard as I could when I could drop it just on the other side of the net since they were at the back.  I was apparently bad enough at that to wind up doing drills, trying to build up the muscle memory to hit that spot, which Millie already has.

I wasn't really mad or frustrated about it, but it did remind me a bit that I kind of take all the ways I've done this for other things for granted, and how frustrated I was at being a woman the first time, and now it's second nature.  But having this sort of intensive training is something else; I felt like I was thrown into the deep end when I woke up as Liz, but now I wonder what diving into the deep end would be like, with intensive training, and whether I'd be able to handle it.  As I mentioned, I was a kind of laid-back kid, and kind of picked up on being Liz and then Penny because I had to, which means I did okay but you can still see I'm my old self in a lot of ways.  Penelope probably wouldn't have become a novelist left to her own devices, but I bent her life hard in that direction to make it easier for myself, and as I found myself getting a little better at this game just after my first lesson, I kind of wondered how malleable I might be.

Still, it was uncomfortably intensive.  I've spent most of my time since this last trip to the Inn with Ray, and we're both really reluctant to touch or do anything that might possibly look or feel inappropriate, which is not a problem my coach has - she'll get right in there, standing directly behind me and pushing and pulling at my joints and butt to get me into the right stance or demonstrate how to move.  It was really unnerving, because although I've had people handle me like that at the gym on occasion - even male trainers, once in a while - knowing that she thinks I'm just a kid and doesn't expect any pushback from Millie makes it weird.  I know it's just about training, and Ray and I vetted her before we signed Millie up, but it still felt really uncomfortable.

Though not as uncomfortable as "hit the showers" did.  I went into the locker room just like after any other workout but as soon as I saw Billie Jean take her sport bra off I turned right around, grabbed Millie's gym backpack from her locker, and bolted straight for the T.  It was honestly like I'd just been a man a month ago and was suddenly seeing things I was not supposed to, and I'd be headed for jail if I didn't get out of there right away.  As soon as I was on the T, I was texting Jessica, asking how one manages to not feel like a creep 24/7 when reverted to this age, and she says that it took her three years to feel like she was okay, at which point she was going through puberty and just feeling like a regular tween, and since I wasn't going to be Millie that long, I was just going to have to live with it.

Great.

Still, once I'd broken that seal, I was able to meet up with "Serena" a couple times during the week to practice, and it was kind of fun to get out and play, even though I knew this is pretty serious for the girls, who have pro ambitions, including Millie, I'm kind of just enjoying getting into the flow state for a few seconds at a time.  Not for long - these girls are destroying me - but I'm pretty sure I'm going to greatly appreciate any moment where I feel like I know what to do and don't have to think about my body a lot from now on.

The second lesson at least went a little better, and I was able to just sort of stare fixedly ahead in the shower and call upon how I sort of taught myself not to look around like I did in my first weeks of being Liz afterward.  Not exactly something I want to be calling on again, but here we are.

-Arthur/Penny/Millie

Isaac/Ainsley: Dog Person

There's too much to write about, so I write nothing.

And it's not like I'm that short on free time! For now, anyway. I feel like Heather's been more productive than me in her free time though she's already started at Sara's office. But every little detail of somehow cramming my self into the hole left behind by Ainsley Thomas could be its own post. I can't write one of these every single day, and it just piles up uncontrollably. The same type of deferred maintenance happens when a person disappears from their life for nearly a month.

Take Ainsley's dog. That was the first thing she asked me about when I finally texted her the day after we landed, and she successfully guilted me into heading for the kennel as my first chore the next day. I left while I was still too groggy to worry about going out in public. For my courage I was rewarded with death glares from some very unhappy kennel workers, a late fee I have no idea whether Ainsley's checking account can handle, and a large golden retriever who pounced on me before I could react.

His name is SugarBunny. Seriously, what kind of person names a dog that? It's got a capital letter in the middle of the word! And it's not a bunny!! Should I start calling my pothos vines Venus flytraps?? The dog's not even white! I can't even type SugarBunny without grimacing a little bit. I hope Ainsley doesn't read the blog, she's clearly struggling a lot with leaving him behind and it'd be better if she doesn't know I just don't have it in me to dote on a pet the way she does. I'm a plant guy.

The dog is actually fairly well-trained, and he deserves having a caretaker who doesn't get on edge every time a dog walks in begging for food and/or pets. But he will make clear if I've forgotten to take him on one of his two daily walks, which isn't compatible with my plan to be a complete shut-in. So I have to put on clothes and be out in the world at his whim-- which especially sucks because dogs are magnets for attention! Every dog he comes across has to go through this elaborate butt-sniffing ritual that for sure doesn't last as long as it feels, and I'm held hostage to make small talk with the owner. They all want to know his name (just as painful to say as it is to type), how old he is (I need to remember to ask Ainsley that), whether they can pet him, his birthday, how many littermates he had, his social security number, and if they're a guy roughly my age (or not!) if they can set up a doggy play-date. Yeah, I bet you'd like one, wouldn't you. And that's still not as bad as when I meet someone who knows Ainsley and SugarBunny and they're wondering why I'm suddenly way less enthusiastic about chatting them up. I don't think she's friends with any of these people, she's just that kind of person. There's all sorts of pictures of local dogs in her phone. Look, I can fake being a marketer but there's some lines I won't cross.

Heather looks at me like I'm a psychopath when I tell her all this, naturally, but whenever I ask if she'd rather walk the dog, most of the time she'll just fire back that it's not her problem. I mean, sure, it isn't, but she doesn't have the right to complain about that. Only I do!

Of course, I could have it worse. I'd rather Ainsley have a dog than a boyfriend. And the real Ainsley and Sara have some caretaking of their own to do, as the mother and father of a toddler whose grandparents were politely furious about being stuck with her unplanned for an extra two weeks.

If there's one good thing about SugarBunny it's that he can't verbally question why his owner's acting so weird and provides an excuse to avoid anyone who can. Ainsley's been practically inseparable from some of the girls in her messages since they were her sorority sisters back in college, and I'm running out of bigger excuses. Ainsley had me end the "digital detox" before too long and now the reason I'm not showing up for brunch or Girls Night is that "I" "have" "Covid", but I can't keep this up indefinitely. Especially because Ainsley's supposed to be a bridesmaid at some point this fall, and I'm going to have to show up for stuff like dress fittings and the bachelorette party and I just, do not understand how to act like or talk to any of these people. I've been avoiding people like Ainsley and her friends since high school, not because of any way they've wronged me, just that I don't find them relatable in any way. And it terrifies me that I might ruin someone's life just because I unavoidably come across like someone who locks themself in a box full of plants. It's like the dog thing. My whole life I've felt apart from most people, like I'm defective somehow, and I... Bluh. I hate how easily this body starts crying. I don't know if it's the trauma from having my life uprooted or if Ainsley's just like this.

But I'm not gonna cry over spending all day today keeping up with Taylor/Travis engagement memes enough to look like Ainsley isn't dead. That's more comprehensible to me than Love Island, even if I can't name more than a handful of Taylor Swift songs. I'll write up some more about these people once I get a better handle on them.

That's all I have for now. Oh, and I talked to the guy in my body, but he's apparently a mid-thirties guy and he hasn't said anything too concerning yet. I'll take that as a good sign.

Isaac/Ainsley: This City Should Not Exist

Peggy Hill was right about this place. The instant we set foot outside the airport in Phoenix, Heather and I got kicked in the stomach with an unending onslaught of hundred-and-five-degree heat magnified by all the concrete and asphalt. I get why a lot of the girls my age around here wear basically nothing, especially if they're forced to go out in the afternoon, but that's not enough to get me to partake and neither was Heather making fun of me when she saw me digging out an old ASU sweater from Ainsley's closet. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Clearly, I made it to Phoenix without totally collapsing into a pit of self-pity and anxiety, or at least not a bad enough one to cave and find a non-cursed motel to shut myself in until my bank account runs dry. But before that, I had to deal with the homework the Inn gives to all its guests, which I'd put off like the rest of the homework I've done in my life.

Sitting in my Inn room very early last Wednesday morning, after being up all night freaking out about the impending flight, I had two obligations to choose from: Turn on Ainsley's phone, or write my letter. Contacting Ainsley could wait a little longer, but I'd have to leave my phone behind at the Inn for my body's future occupant and despite my trepidation with truly entering Ainsley's world I'm still too phone-addicted to go without one for too long. I needed it for my boarding pass regardless. After staring at the thing for too long, only at the backside (floral case up) to avoid having to confront my reflection for any unnecessary second, I pressed the side button, felt the vibration and slid that thing under the bed as if it were a grenade about to go off in my hand. Not now, Ainsley. It was time to distract myself from a problem by solving another one.

The actual content of the letter was the easy part. My life is not complicated (before now, anyway). That's sort of the problem-- my life might be kind of barren, but that'll only help someone slip into it. And I'm young, even if I'm not exactly a gym rat I'm still certain that twenty is much younger than the average age of an Inn guest. Is it that crazy to be paranoid about someone stealing my life? Is that what everyone around my age who goes to the Inn thinks? If anything I got off easy only gaining an extra five years-- maybe this is the luck Heather was talking about. Regardless, I hate thinking about somebody else walking around in my skin, and that's only made worse knowing that somebody got my body two days ago. Much sooner than I expected, by the way. Heather and I haven't heard anything (and yeah, I know, I have no right to criticize with how long it took me). I might ask Penny if she saw anything but I'm assuming she was understandably distracted.

All those thoughts made the solid five minutes of constant vibrating from under the bed slightly more ignorable. It took way longer than that to agonize over my two-paragraph letter, but the second I finished I grabbed the phone before I could let myself overthink it, in a fit of rage about how I'd cowardiced myself out of getting to sleep that night. My bravery rewarded me with a lock screen full of hundreds of missed texts, calls, group chats (at least one of which had a conversation going even at this hour), and some very concerning emails from some kind of kennel. Any courage I had quickly evaporated and I was like, screw it. Ainsley's left these people hanging for two weeks, they can wait a little longer.

Heather came to drag me out of the room before I could beat myself up too much. Since our blowup at the diner we've had an unspoken agreement to pretend it didn't happen, which is good enough for me. Or maybe not, since if she was pissed at me she wouldn't have spent the entire ride up to the Portland airport talking my ear off. Hell, maybe that was her revenge. It's the kind of thing she'd do.

"And around when Violet came along– that would've been when I was 31 by the way, so she's the same age as we are right now, gosh that's fun– that's when it all went to shit. Not 'cause of Violet, love the girl, wish I could see her more but she moved out to LA, she's the best. But I think it happened because Dave finally got into his head that having more kids wasn't gonna fix the marriage. And it took him three to realize that! Come on! So his heart wasn't in it anymore. And yeah, I started seeing Kenneth who was a VP at the school I was working at at the time, and I know it was cheating– I didn't know Dave had already been actually cheating on me at the time, but I knew he was emotionally cheating on me, so. You get it. Anyway it all blew up around when Jack was finishing middle school and I had to move to the next county over and it's, it's a complete mess. And I thought it would've been better once I finally got back to the dating game, but no, there was this guy at the bar, Jack, and yeah I know it's the same name as my oldest so that was weird but at that point I hardly ever saw him–"

You get the idea. I wonder if she does that to everyone or if it's only because I appear to be a woman the same age as her. By the time we boarded our first plane I knew far more than I ever wanted to about Heather Flynn and her life, even accounting for how I didn't retain more than a quarter of it. And so did our very confused and admirably silent rideshare driver.

Throughout all this I managed to go out into the world as a woman without having a visible panic attack. Mostly I just spent the whole trip staring at the ground and trying to avoid eye contact with anyone, which is a more extreme version of how I'd already been spending my vacation before any of this happened. But that's harder than it sounds in settings like air travel where you're constantly up in other people's personal space. Like the middle seat, for instance. Heather and I naturally ended up with two middle seats about ten rows away, with how late we booked the tickets. I could already notice people looking at me differently– some with lust, probably, but considering my baggy clothes and disastrous appearance not nearly as much as there could be. Instead people seemed to look kinder at me? Maybe? Like they think I'm harmless. That could just be me reading too hard into reactions I only see for a split second before turning away, but it'd explain the old man in the window seat who spent much of the second leg from Philly to Phoenix trying to tell me about his grandkids. There went the one good thing about being seated apart from Heather.

But I made it to that curb outside baggage claim where I doubled over from the heat. At some point, I had no choice but to just ignore other people, put my head down, and try to make it to my next point of relative safety with as little disruption as possible. The psychology changes from procrastinating entering the public world for as long as possible, to charging ahead at full speed just to get things over with. The sink-or-swim metaphor is a cliché because it's true.

That didn't stop me from collapsing on the couch and crying a little bit the moment Heather and I got into the apartment. I shut out everything: the last three days, the feeling of my chest against the cushions, the walls covered in tacky tapestries, Heather talking about how those girls are better decorators than she was at their age, everything. Ainsley's friends wondering when she'll come back from her "digital detox vacation" and arguing about whether Pedro Pascal is actually a good actor. The real Ainsley, who I was still failing. Figuring out how I'm going to be Ainsley, which I still hadn't really done at that point. Even the ominously empty dog crate and the fur lingering on the couch.

I've dealt with most of those things in the last week, but reliving the trip over here has me almost as drained as I was then. I'll keep you guys updated with my harrowing adventures. Hopefully before I start with Ainsley's job, but she managed to work out a pretty generous emergency leave deal so I've still got a little while. (I suspect nudging people to be lenient with employees disappearing from work for several weeks is part of the "nobody believes you" aspect of the Inn's curse-- you'd think way more of us would've lost our jobs!)