For all those who read and responded to that last post… thanks, I guess. It honestly wasn’t a plea for commiseration. It was just a pouring-out of what has been bouncing around in my head to try and sort it. And believe me, it was a very shallow pouring-out. There’s still a lot in there and it is definitely not sorted.

Of course, what’s in there is all stuff on which I should NOT be focusing. The important things keep getting crowded out by the frustrations and emotions and other nonsense that I seem to be having more and more trouble controlling. It is to sigh.

This is not to say I don’t have good days. Last week had several good days.

I’m not sure if it was Monday or Tuesday. Monday, I think. I was invited out for some fun (and food and drink) at the Public House. The first of my personal Cosima sightings.

Wednesday was fun, being around nice people, singing, laughing. Cosima took this photo at the combined Suicide Lounge Rehearsal/Ritual Seasonal Burning of Meat.

Thursday was also fun, hitting the Taste and Toast of the Tower. (Or whatever it’s called.) Wandering down the block, sweating, sampling wine, eating cheese and various other foodstuffs, sniffing tiny cigar samples that I will never smoke (anyone want a cappuccino mini-cigar? It smells REALLY good…), impromptu shopping and purchasing of a silk dress to wear on the spot, and ending up with a PERFECTLY CRAFTED mojito and camaraderie at Veni Vidi Vici. And here’s a couple Cosima sightings of that evening.

Friday found me having dinner with the podling, her dad, and his parents. I enjoyed the chance to visit, and of course, I always enjoyed his cooking, so that was lovely. After dinner I left to meet a lovely woman to see the Elemental Dance thingy at Severance. This, too, was very enjoyable, and some of those dancers gave performances that were far beyond their years. I’m so glad I went. After, we adjourned to Veni’s again, though this time they were out of mint, so no perfect drink for a sweltering, sultry night for Joy. The alternative lemon drop was nice, but I’m no fan of overtly sweet drinks. The conversation, however, was wonderful. She’s a lovely woman and a lovely friend, and I’m so glad I’ve made her acquaintance.

Saturday. Partying wit da girls. zx3gurl is getting married soon, and so her last weeks of freedom had to be commemorated with the traditional bachelorette shindig. We wore corsages that each had a tiny penis with a wee pearl peeking out of the tip. It was strangely mesmerizing to fiddle with the little plastic appendages to alternately make them show, or not show, the pearly suprise. (Ingenious craftiness by one of my favorite bartender girls, who, incidentally, was wearing THE hottest red Marilyn-style floaty hem dress I have EVER seen. She was freaking GORGEOUS!) I imbibed from a penis-shaped straw. I artfully took my sparkly clothes off for the bride-to-be AND taught her how to remove her gloves in an interesting fashion.

(Photos courtesy of Tracy Olsen Photography)

(And PLEASE don’t look at the pictures too closely. I had not been home all day, spending the majority of it trying to get my car repaired. I had 5 minutes to grab my stuff, spritz some perfume on my sweaty self and high-tail it over to the party. Less than glamorous hair and makeup. And I’m chubby. I do not like it.)
I wore a button that designated me the “TEASE” of the group. (I am not one, by the way. - unless you count the entertainment aspect of my newest dance interest, but that doesn’t count on a personal level - If I indicate interest, I mean it. If you’re unsure if I’ve indicated interest, then I clearly have not.) It was NOT an evening of refinement. It was, however, an evening of fun and frolic. Wonderful people, fabulous dinner at Rousseau, drinks and funk at Landmark (I was sorry to leave the VERY ENJOYABLE funkaliciousness, but the party was moving on), a pedi-cab ride to Starline brought us to some trancey driving beat music and dancing… and finding myself dancing with a 22 year old naval weapons tech. (WTF?! Dude, I could be your mama. Don’t stand… don’t stand… don’t stand - or dance- so close to me.) Bride-to-be made me proud, imbibing liberally, but remaining upright and vibrant throughout the night. She was game to wear the veil decorated with LED flashing penises… penii? hm. Yes, and the enormous LED flashing diamond ring. These cheez factors combined with her gorgeous red sequined top made her shiny and HOT… in the good way. Not many girls can be covered in genitalia, in public, and still carry themselves with dignity and grace. Not only did she accomplish that, but she did it with sass. We had fun, and finally staggered back to her domicile somewhere around 1:30 am. The party started at 7 pm. Not bad. Not bad at all. But I HAVE filled my quota of penis-related jokes and innuendo for the month.

Sunday. Rest. Relaxation. Laundry. A little homework. Not nearly enough house cleaning. Then an evening outing with lecram for spaghetti and meatballs, an oddly refreshing but too sweet cranberry/peach shcnapps/vodka thingy, and a chance meeting with one of the previous night’s partygoers still suffering through the aftereffects. We had a nice visit. I mostly ate and listened. It was good.

So there was my week. I honestly don’t consider myself a social butterfly. But it seems I do keep busy in fits and starts. I have weeks where I see no one and do nothing. By choice. And weeks where I’m never home and the laundry piles up and the dishes litter the sink and counter.

Which brings me to this. A while back I picked up a little book called

It’s a light-hearted and tongue-in-cheek explanation of what makes a girl a bombshell. (At least I hope it’s light-hearted and tongue-in-cheek. I HOPE no one takes such nonsense so seriously that they waste time soberly researching such a thing…) And it took me all of 30 minutes to an hour to read from cover to cover. It’s not deep literature.

I’m starting to think I may be a bombshell. Granted, I’m no Marilyn Monroe (who I have never aspired to emulate). I’m not even like one of my heroines… Ann-Margret. No… in looks, I don’t qualify. I’m a little too old and a little too round in places that roundness isn’t a good idea. But I might qualify in other areas. Such as…

In the list of things a bombshell can get away with that ordinary women can’t, I qualify on about half.

“Having no domestic prowess - She doesn’t mastermind the home; she lounges in it. She beautifies in it. She orders in.”

Hallelujah. I am justified.

“Never paying - For drinks. Dinner. Or anything.”

This I don’t do on purpose. I even try to pay. People stop me. Who am I to rob them of the opportunity to be generous and kind?

“Showing up late, but not as late as divas - She tries to be on time, she really does. But heels break, puppies slow her down and she can’t resist picking up the phone if it rings when she’s running out the door. Not stopping to talk to an elderly neighbor is unthinkable.”

I don’t have elderly neighbors, but if I did, I certainly would NOT be rude to them. It has to do with being ridiculously respectful of others (well, of those who deserve respect, that is).

“Reckless attire - A Bombshell is innocently inappropriate. She will go braless or wear stilettos and tight sweaters to office meetings. Seamed stockings and fishnets are also acceptable as are “rocks” for day, always strategically positioned.”

I’m not quite THAT bad. I never go braless. That would be tragedy, but I do wear 4 inch heels daily, tight sweaters are preferred to baggy ones, and I adore seamed stockings and fishnets. Granted, I don’t wear them ALL the time, but I can tell you that when I get a job, it will HAVE to be with people who aren’t too ridiculously conservative. With today’s fashions, on me, most v-necklines are cleavage city, and I refuse to wear high necks. They make me look fatter and older than I already am. Or… I will work at Starbucks, or somewhere similar.

“Petty crimes - Not returning engagement rings (when she calls it off) or jewelry and couture gowns borrowed for public appearances.”

I’m more along the lines of not returning borrowed DVDs or CDs or books… I would never call off an engagement, because I would never accept one unless I meant it. As for borrowed couture gowns and jewelry… I wish! I might not want to relinquish one once I had it in my soft little paws.

This book also contains quotes from famous bombshells. A couple of my favorites:

“I find that I regret nothing. There are three words I have never said, and never will. The are, “I am sorry.” - Dolores Del Rio

I generally try to avoid regret, myself. I HAVE said I’m sorry, but I do try to avoid it if I can. And it’s usually not because I truly have regret, but because I wish to assure someone else that I feel badly for having upset or disappointed them, which is NOT the same thing as real regret.

“I am not difficult. I am definite.” - Hedy Lamarr

Yeah.

Apparently I sit like a bombshell, too.

“Bombshells don’t sit exactly. They perch, curl, curve, and occasionally fling their legs up over the arm of the chair or back of the sofa. This also goes for seats on airplanes, cars and trains.”

Mostly, I lounge. But I have been known to curl and/or fling my legs over the arm of a chair. It’s a natural position for me… draped. And I find it’s genetic. The podling does this as well.

I’ll leave out most references to the chapter on bombshell underpinnings, except to say that yes, stockings win out over pantyhose/tights every time. I made the decision to eschew the little egg with the wrinkled up nylon years ago for truly practical reasons. Pantyhose are uncomfortable, sweaty in all the worst places, and make strange silhouettes. I’d rather go bare-legged, but if leg covering is required, I will generally resort to garters and stockings. For far too long, I was relegated to thick tights in cold weather, but I have now found a delightful NON pantyhose/tights alternative. THICK, HEAVY stockings. Hooray Sock-Dreams!

There’s a chapter about handbags, and I am certainly particular about mine, though I don’t quite go for the sorts of things they mention in the book. But it IS all about style.

The same with footwear. I prefer heels. I prefer heeled boots. I prefer anything that has a sense of style to it. Flat footwear has to be spectacular in some way for me to want to put it on my feet. Elsewhere in the book it reads “You will never find her commuting in running shoes with socks over nylons. She hast too much self-esteem. To a Bombshell, a girl wearing unglamorous shoes in public is saying ‘I hate myself, this part of my life doesn’t count. I resent the shoes I am supposed to wear at work and besides, they’re not comfortable and I am not interested in men.’ ”

Well.. I’m NOT interested in men these days, but it doesn’t mean I have to look the part.

Hair: “When it comes to styling, there are two main looks. Done and undone.” Well, I guess I’m mostly undone. I prefer my hair flying around and in my face, unless I’m trying to concentrate. Then it gets pulled back. For a while.

“The Bombshell finds a sudden thunderstorm thrilling. She appreciates the spontaneity of an impromptu drenching and doesn’t mind if her white polka-dot dress turns transparent and clings to every curve.” True enough. Also, the part they mention about removing the shoes and splashing around sounds like something I’d do. Though sometimes I do it with shoes on… but not if they’re GOOD shoes.

There there’s the day-to-day bombshell lifestyle.

“The bombshell abhors routine. She is ready for anything at a moment’s notice - a movie, a trip to Istanbul, a cocktail. She knows that a phone call can change her evening. Hell, it can change her life.

There is no such thing as a typical Bombshell day. She might wake up (to the 1812 Overture; see Music, page 120), slip into her peginoir and matching mules, pull the manual typewriter from under the bed and work on her memoir for an hour, or until the phone rings.

If she feels like it, she may clean the bathroom tiles with an old toothbrush before taking a shower…”

THAT certainly sounds like me. Although pulling the manual typewriter out is, these days, replaced by sitting down at the computer and blogging.

And then the chapter about ‘The Bombshelter’. (Don’t you love that chapter title? Clever, no?) It’s all about decor and the home. I don’t exactly quite qualify here, except that I never use rooms entirely how they were intended to be used, and everything is always in flux. My dining room has no dining table. My living room has full-length mirrors. My spare bedroom is my costume room. That sort of thing.

The Bombshell diet fits me, however. I don’t diet, but I diet. I eat whatever I like, then become concerned that my calorie intake (and midsection) has gotten out of hand and make an effort to cut back. It’s less of the yo-yo/rollercoaster of dieting, and more of a hormonal flux sort of thing. But I like to eat, and when offered a good meal, I eat it. This is countered by the fact that I RARELY cook, and certainly not for myself. There’s a sort of balance there, somewhere. Isn’t there?

“The Bombshell is a liberated woman. She enjoys being a sex object and feels virtually no pressure to have culinary prowess.”

I don’t know about the sex object thing… I guess, as long as no one approaches who is not invited. But the culinary prowess thing is spot-on.

One place where I do NOT qualify as a bombshell…

“The Bombshell doesn’t like things men drink. Scotch, bourbon, especially beer unless it’s indigenous. She has an innate disdain for anything new and pretentious like cosmopolitans, and things have to be pretty bad for a Bombshell to order a Bloody Mary - too blowsy, lushy and depressed. Bombshells love to have a bottle of mineral water for the table, with gas. Bombshells also drink Coke”

Hm. I love scotch, usually the more expensive the better. Haven’t tried bourbon. I like beer, a LOT, but it has to be really good beer. I’m not interested in cosmopolitans, but I’d order a Bloody Mary. I like red, I like tomato, and I like bite. Mineral water is good, but I’d rather it not be sparkling. And I do not drink Coke. Nor do I drink Pepsi.

Ok. So mostly I qualify as a bombshell in that I don’t do housework; I don’t like to cook but I can if necessary; my refrigerator contains leftovers for meals eaten out (for breakfast the next day) and a jar of pepperoncini, a tub of olive tapenade, some juices, some Irish cheddar and some romaine hearts; I like pretty shoes; I don’t wear pantyhose; I’m particularly fond of good clothes; I actually enjoy constrictive underpinnings of the corset variety (if not laced TOO tight); I lounge in my seat, rather than sitting properly, no matter the setting; for all my world-weariness, I still have an odd naivety, innocence, and habit of being genuine that even I can’t understand or define, but it’s certainly there.

Now… if I could JUST figure out how to be pretty and curvy and not have to worry about how to pay the bills like everyone’s favorite bombshells…

And I need a haircut.

These are NOT all related.

What an interesting story if they were.

But no.

On learning a new skill:

I can now light a match from a matchbook with one hand. I feel so very accomplished in my new ability. This is what comes of socializing with people who smoke like chimneys.

Popping lecram’s cherry:

He popped his platinum cherry. I made him sign for it.

Ok, bartender-Katie did, but still. I was there. I helped.

The Ingrid Bergman:

The first flower I’ve been given in a long time. She’s lovely.

Pet peeve #144:

Because I’ve used #143 many times. It makes me think of my Diana. So… #144. And I think it’s quite the “gross” error, anyway.

The peeve - When people caption photos of themselves with another individual as “Jimmy-Joe-Bob and I”. No, No, NO! It’s “Jimmy-Joe-Bob and ME”. It would ONLY be “Jimmy-Joe-Bob and I…” IF it were followed by “…were in the tandem nose-picking contest” in the description. Otherwise, this is a photo of “Jimmy-Joe-Bob and ME”.

Damn it.

What I did over the weekend:

Friday -

A trip to the park with a podling and her kite. Not enough wind for flying her rather heavy dragon kite, so after a few attempts at keeping it aloft we settled for playing in the grass and wandering.

I have a podling. It is also part monkey. It climbs trees.

It wanted to climb this one as well.

I said no. I just took a picture of the pretty flowers instead.

A good day.

That evening we accompanied lecram to see Theatre Ventoux’s production of Lear. I enjoyed it, but I think it is telling when an extremely intelligent 13 year old says “I THINK I got the gist, but I’m not exactly sure what I just saw…” then has to read the notes in the program to really flesh out the story. It is, however, worth seeing, especially if you’re familiar with Shakespeare’s King Lear. It’s a refreshing take and an intimate, spare staging.

Saturday -

Being incredibly lazy with a podling, watching episode after episode of Penn and Teller’s Bullshit. (Because the podling has become quite fond of this series. I do have a pretty cool podling.)

The evening found us at L’s. Podling was quite adept at entertaining her ‘boyfriend’ (L’s young boy-child, who is eight years younger than podling. He has publicly claimed her and by his own admission, has 3 girlfriends. As it stands now. Of differing ages. He’s a gemini.) She kept him occupied while the adults played with fire. I managed to NOT hit myself in the head with a flaming staff. Even managed a few tricks and low tosses. Yay me?

Sunday - Up at 5 a.m. In the car by 6:30 a.m. on the way to So Cal for the first in a series of weekly burlesque classes. LJ and I have decided that we are glad we decided to do this insane thing. We like the teachers, both very talented and experienced burlesque dancers. It’s fun. We learned just a tiny bit of a choreography already, and it feels… well… right. For me, at least. Yay! I learn how to take my clothes off in front of people and be alluring while doing it!

Interestingly, the studio where the classes are held is literally a block or so away from the Hollywood Walk of Fame, the Chinese Theatre, the Kodak Theatre (where they do the Oscars) and all that other mess of touristy stuff. We wandered through briefly after class looking for food. On the way home we went to Lancaster and looked at the Poppy Reserve. Golden hillsides of wild poppies. I have pictures, but I’m too tired to find my camera and download the photos. (The earlier photos came off my phone which sits right next to me as I type. Maybe I’ll feel industrious tomorrow and add the poppy pics.) Future trips will probably involve sightseeing, finding interesting places to shop and maybe taking in a bit of culture.

Monday - (Yes, I know Monday isn’t weekend, but still…)

Spent the evening in the company of friends and acquaintances. How cool is it that I can sit around with REAL writers and talk about the difference between forcing theme and ‘the point’ of a story, and having the idea then letting the theme and ‘point’ take shape as it evolves.

May have a gig writing some copy for… a business… and I’m getting pointers and advice from one of these real writerly sorts!

I’m not sure why this puts such a smile on my face. I think it has something to do with the idea of getting paid to do something that I don’t think I’ll mind all that much. (But that may just be because it’s novel to me. After doing it a few times, I’ll probably be jaded and hate it as much as all the other things I’ve learned to do just well enough to get by.)

There we are.
Past bedtime.

Edit - Adding poppy pics. Yay.

It was FREAKING windy and cold, so all the little flowers were curled up.

And then this next flower, we learned at the Poppy Reserve Visitor Center, is called a “blue dick”. (Which is much better than the name that our mothers called it by when we were growing up. It’s a VERY non-pc name, so I won’t type it here. But “blue dick”, while it could be construed as slightly off-color by some, at least makes some sense. The other name didn’t even make any sense.)

There’s a lot of shit flying about regarding words.

Somebody turned the fan up.

Should a person who volunteers for the Rogue Festival write unfavorable things about various shows in the Rogue ON the Rogue Festival web site?

There have been a lot of opinions about this. Some people say “Only if it’s nice.” Others say they should be allowed to say whatever they want. A lot of the people talking don’t know all the specifics of what brought up the issue.

I’ll offer my own perspective.

I performed in the Rogue. The show in which I performed was mentioned and compared unfavorably in a review for another show. (I’ll get to why I’m not naming names in a little while.) The show reviewed was given favorable remarks, and I have no doubt it was deserved. Why, though, is it necessary to compare a musical act that is COMPLETELY unrelated to the style of the act being reviewed? One might answer “to point out contrast”. I admit that contrast can be relevant in writing. I think it was misused in this instance. Calling another act “low-brow” just because it is not classical, operatic, and complex seems underhanded; especially given that these things weren’t said in the review for the supposedly low-brow act. In fact, this “low-brow” act was given a somewhat favorable review by the same reviewer (though the people in the act as a whole were referred to as drunks. Another erroneous blanket statement.) Nowhere in that review was it compared or contrasted with the first show.

If the point was to say, “Look… these people over here had a full house doing some other kind of music, while a really great show of operatic styling had very few in the audience. What a shame.” then maybe that is how it should have been worded. Constructing the review in such a way that insults the non-classical show AND its audience was not the best way to get the point across. From a purely informational point of view… it’s sloppy.

Then again one might think that not naming names when expressing concern that someone is doing this might be considered underhanded. Here is why I did not during discussion on another blog, do not here, and will not. I think it’s impolite. Period. For someone completely outside of the issue, they will have no idea who I’m talking about, and all they will see is the issue. They will not form an unfavorable impression of someone they may or may not know.

You see, when I post criticism… ANYWHERE… I do it politely. I am careful to not cast personal aspersions on the individual(s) who are part of the issue.

I do not call them low-brow. I do not call them drunks. (I haven’t even categorized this post as having to do with the Rogue, instead categorizing it as “pondering” on the off chance someone links through the Rogue site, ends up here and looks at the category that has to do with the Rogue. The “general” public does not need to see this.)

I stick to the issue at hand, and leave remarks that can be construed as relating to the personal habits and quality of someone OUT of it.

I do not say inappropriate things. I am not rude.

There is nothing wrong with having an opinion about something. Not all opinions are the same, and GOD FORBID that we should all become so homogenized that we all appreciate the same things. There’s no variety in that. Our world is veering far too close to that already.

However, criticism, or even just expressing dislike, distaste, or disappointment, can be done in a manner that is not insulting.

That said… when one represents an organization, one has no business undermining the success of that organization’s good relationship with those who do business with or through it.

As a friend of mine would say… that’s BAD JUJU!

As a visible representative for the festival, it is just very poor manners to express personal preference for one show over another on the festival’s website.

Now… in a personal blog? Have at it. Post recommendations to your friends, your readers… but even that should be done with some delicacy. In personal conversations with those you know well, feel free to discuss whatever you want. To strangers, festival-goers and potential audience members… give only dates/times, direct them to the website for AUDIENCE reviews, maybe mention a show or two that seems to have garnered buzz. (In case I haven’t made it clear, being a volunteer with somewhat more visibility and responsibility than simply selling tickets, you lose your status as John Q. Public. Sorry.)

This is an issue of common courtesy. I would not volunteer to bring people into my home and then make them feel uncomfortable for being there. (I would not make them feel uncomfortable WHILE they were there as well, but that’s an issue for another time.) I would not speak poorly of those in the homes of my colleagues, while speaking favorably of others. It might give these visitors a bad impression of the festival, of the people involved with it, of the people of the city in which it’s held.

It’s just… not… a good idea.

I wrote reviews on the Rogue site. I wrote many. They were all favorable. They were not all for people I considered friends. Some were for people I don’t even know. I just happened to have chosen well, or got lucky. If I had found something clearly unlikable about a show, I would have said so. So, even though my reviews were all positive, they were NOT all PR. I did, however, want other potential audience members to know about my favorable impressions.

There’s nothing wrong with unfavorable reviews. Any publicity is good publicity, and you can defend, or invite people to see for themselves. The main problem is the host insulting the guest. That’s just downright bad manners no matter where you’re from.

Now… here’s the kicker. This is all about someone who KNOWS better. This is someone who supposedly knows how to express things in writing very well.

So here’s my final opinion. This is a case of not taking the time and care to be clear, precise and concise in expressing opinion. This is a case of not thinking it through. This is a case of “letting fly” with no care for the consequences. This is downright journalistic laziness.

We’re seeing a hell of a lot of that lately.

It’s a shame.

Now I AM going to get personal, and still not name names. It’s my blog, and I can do that. I think someone has been acting out, in various ways, not thinking clearly, and making poor choices. It has been escalating. I feel deep concern for many reasons. I am not going to elaborate further.

Jittery.

Unable to sit still.

Even more fractured attention span.

Can’t control thoughts or the directions they take.

And I have NOTHING compelling enough to capture all this energy and channel it until it’s spent.

I guess I’ll spend my day spiraling out of control.

Yeah. That’s all I need.

I used to know.

Turns out that what I “knew” was based on false data.

So I wonder.

Inconvenience is a problem.

It’s my own damned fault. I probably should NOT have been on the skateboard. But I was bonding with the podling.

In the car (which she had to start and put in gear for me), on the way to the hospital, I remarked to her that the first thing I would be asked when my arm was being examined would be, “You’re nearly 40. What were you doing on a skateboard???”

We arrived at the hospital, I checked in at the emergency desk (which is really more of a double paned window that’s hard to talk through) and waited with the rest of the wretched.

Having finally been called back into triage, podling and I found ourselves in a small exam room with a very efficient, fairly personable, and not unattractive young male triage nurse. He took my vitals. He got date of birth and other pertinent information.

“So what are you in here for…”

“I’ve injured my arm. It’s possible I’ve broken something.”

“How did this happen?”

“Well, I fell backward from a skateboard and broke my fall with my palms. My right arm took the bulk of the force.”

He stopped writing and began to examine the arm, then looked me squarely in the eye and said, “You’re 38 years old. WHAT were you doing on a skateboard???”

I looked over at the podling sitting across the room and smiled smugly, to which she just rolled her eyes and shook her head.

He was kind enough to let us wait in triage for me to have my x-ray and the rest, rather than send me back out into the waiting room with the wretched to wait. It was entertaining, in a morbid, realist sort of way, to watch the little scenes play out as new patients came through. Medical professionals working in that environment almost HAVE to be jaded and have a morbid sense of humor to retain sanity. Drama after drama comes through that door… and in between they take the time to buy a dozen tamales from the guy who brought them in to work… then go right back to dealing with the dripping, ulcerated foot of a diabetic homeless man who refuses to, and maybe hasn’t the capacity to, manage his diabetes and all the problems that arise with it.

The end result is… there were no visible fractures on the x-ray. I was sent home with a sling and admonishments to not doing anything with it that hurts. No shit. The arm hurts like a mother when I move it. I can’t extend my elbow (which is where the pain is). I can sort of write, in small bursts. I can type because that doesn’t require much movement of the elbow, but it hurts quite a bit to do so and takes forever. I can’t contort my arm properly to eat, brush my hair, or do anything else useful with it.

I can deal with the pain. Ibuprofen has been my friend since Thursday. Ice packs for the swelling, and arnica gel and supplements to promote healing. (Don’t know if arnica really works, but the psychological effect is that I feel I’m doing SOMEthing to move this along.)

This is just damned inconvenient. It takes for-bloody-ever to get anything done (including typing this post), and even when I do get things done, they are NOT done to my standards.

This is ridiculous. I hate it. Helpless is NOT good for me right now. I can’t afford to sit around doing very little, or nothing. I MUST remain busy. If I don’t I’m going to lose my mind to the emotional horrors I’ve been trying to conquer. One can only watch so many movies, read so many books.

It doesn’t help that my dad just got out of the hospital after a triple heart bypass. He has mom, but she still can’t drive and can only get around with the use of a walker. I’m the only relative within reasonable driving distance to be of use to them…

Except I’m useless just now.

Thank God they have the ladies of their church to help with bringing in meals and that sort of thing.

Still hurts like a sonofabitch, though not as bad as it did at first. I have slightly more range of motion, but not really. And it looks absolutely WRONG when I hold both arms out to my sides in a T. Totally wrong. Bleh.

I’m getting TIRED of The Year of Letting Go.

No. Really.

Let’s look at this…

January… on the first I began to suspect something… well, wonderful.
January 9, I found out the truth of something I wanted more than any other thing on this earth.
By January 16th… it was no more. The only thing I have ever truly, fully regretted in my life.

That was very, VERY hard to let go. And handled incorrectly from any way I look at it.

Then a few months of ups and downs, lots of emotional confusion. Podling finished 6th grade… goodbye to my pre-adolescent… HELLO adolescent! Not sure if that goodbye is good or bad, but certainly inevitable, and she’s cool no matter what, even when she’s a bundle of emotion. But I have to let go of my baby, and learn how to work with the new young lady she’s become.

Summer came round, and I began to find my stride in a few things… I have hopes, aspirations, and plans to progress.

Old Joy is still on her way out, New Joy is emerging in fits and starts.

Ok. That’s not a bad thing to let go.

Then tragedy struck, and by the end of the summer I had lost one of the dearest people in my life. Ever. Even now, tears spring up thinking of it.

I said goodbye, with her friends and family, in the beginning of September.

Bad goodbye. BAD. VERY hard to let go.

Today has been, with certainty, another, very final letting go that has been looming since that second week in January. Maybe earlier than that, but I was just too stupid to see it. Definitely didn’t want to see it.

It’s amazing what we tell ourselves when we fall in love with someone. I had. I did. So completely that I lost myself irrevocably. I let go of myself entirely earlier this year, and that was a mistake, given that it gained me nothing, and now I still have to let go of HIM. And I still don’t want to.

Oh well. Goodbye to that. Goodbye to my heart and soul, my hopes for fulfillment. Goodbye to safety and security in the knowledge that I AM loved.

Goodbye Joy that trusted unconditionally.

Goodbye to believing that two people who love each other can make it work.

Nah. Even when they’re made for each other, and deserve each other. Doesn’t work out.

I’m not doing THAT again. Ever.

whew. I can’t even convey how much it hurts. Words don’t do justice to the sadness and betrayal. I really could rant on and on about being misled and taken for granted, used, and made a fool of.

But why not just let it go? It’s the year for it.

Ok. I will.

Seriously.

Can we have enough of the Year of Letting Go?

I don’t even want to THINK of what the next two months could possibly have in store for me before I’m free of it!

Dad has heart surgery in two weeks. I’m having that “bothersome lump” on my chest smashed on Monday…

The only letting go I want to see there are goodbye to WORRY and IRRITATING HEALTH ISSUES.

UNDERSTOOD, UNIVERSE???

I have had it! ENOUGH, already.

Stick a fork in me.

Well done.

And I am NOT the only person who’s been letting go of people and things that mean a great deal to them, all freakin’ year long.

Can next year be something a bit more upbeat, please? How about “The Year of Fabulous Surprises” or “The Year of Finding Peace”… maybe “The Year of Financial Freedom”???

Can we? Please?

I

know

how

people

feel

when

they

decide

to

kill

themselves.

Not going to do that, myself, because I just can’t cop out that way.

No.

I’m going to demand resolution and retribution from this life.

But goddamn, do I KNOW how it feels. The despair, the absolute rock bottom lack of hope for the future, the feeling that disaster is all that waits in store, fear of medical unknowns, exhaustion from pain (emotional in this case), knowing nothing, Nothing, NOTHING is going to change to make the source of the pain disappear, and knowing that seeking temporary oblivion only works until it comes back and slaps you RIGHT across the face again.

Am I REALLY that much of a masochist?

No. But I’m also not a fucking coward.

So, no final oblivion for me.

Pity. I think that would probably put MORE than one person out of my misery.

Too fucking bad.

There’s still something sitting by my jewelry box that needs to be put into your hands. (And what better place for it to sit… something that represents one of the most priceless jewels ever to adorn the planet?)

Not nagging, by any means. I’m all about the busy myself. In fact, I seem to be managing to keep life busy enough that I’m avoiding the sad. Well, most of the time. Nights are worst. Not much I can do about it, though. I’m not the only woman forced to go forth into the world alone. Grandma did it. So can I. So I do what she did; stay busy. Yeah. I know. I’m avoiding the issue. What else can I do when the issue will never, EVER go away, but there doesn’t seem to be a satisfactory resolution? Find little happinesses in little things and keep moving.

I just want to make sure this important thing remains a part of the priority “to-do” list.

In fact, I think this reminder is more for me than anyone else. Part of me is afraid of forgetting… No, that’s not quite it. I’ll never forget. Maybe I’m just not quite ready to let go and move on.

Yeah. Real surprise there. I don’t let people go easily. I’m like a little wolverine that bites, latches on, and doesn’t want to let go of my prey.

It is to sigh.

It’s true.

As they saying goes… “It’s always something.”

Last Friday… went to the fair to shoot video of Tanjora doing their fire performance, only to have it start raining (and VERY cold) by the time their show time rolled around. So, of course, the sound techs for the fair said there was no way they were plugging in and turning on their sound equipment (because nobody wants to be electrocuted or blow out expensive equipment)… Still… the show must go on.

So Tanjora danced and spun fire and all sorts of things to the sounds of people drumming on the plastic chairs on the stage, playing finger cymbals, pounding on empty fuel cans, tapping with sticks… whatever could be found.

And you know… it was pretty cool. People even came out and stood in the drizzle to watch! (Of course, any time you see someone flinging fire around, it tends to grab your attention.)

And I got it all on video. Ok, except for the parts where the battery died (twice) and I had to switch out to another.

Saturday was a day of shopping. Found a $600 chair that I need to have. Ok, I need the $600 more… for other things, but still.

I sat in the chair for no more than a couple minutes and I felt SO GOOD when I got up. One of those iJoy chairs. (And really… am I not meant to have something like that? It has my damned NAME on it!)

Sunday… got up, got beautified, put leaves in my hair, and went back to the fair to dance with Ananka. It’s always a fun and relaxed show.

Then I had a meeting to get to after the fair, but it got cancelled. So… I slept a lot.

Monday… the new quarter started at school. Every day I have a 2 1/2 hour gap between classes. NOT quite enough to go home and get anything done… but long enough to sit around at school and get completely bored. Yes. I do try to get homework done during that time.

But… everyone ELSE in my classes has the gap as well, so we’re all sitting around together being bored. This leads to mischief. Today we’re going to go BBQ and play Halo. At least that’s the plan. If the meat ever gets here…

Yeah, so Monday… after school I had my annual physical. It’s a little late. But I need to get it done before I’m no longer insured.

I survived it. Still dislike the parts I’ve always disliked, but you know… I always hated being a girl.

Now, maybe moreso. Doc found something he didn’t like in the exam, so now I have to go have my chest smashed between plates and have an ultrasound of one. I’m not averse to the ultrasound part… but if my boobs are going to be smashed, I’d really rather not have it done by cold plates. This… is the absurd part mentioned in my post title.

Yeah. A little bit of worry here, but nothing to get too excited over yet. Appointment is on the 5th.

Tuesday I ditched dance class. Actually, I slept through it. Fell asleep at about 4, woke up some time that night… went back to sleep and slept through til 6:15 or so. That’s ok. They’re all preparing for two different shows this weekend, and I’m unable to be in either of them, so I don’t think I’m needed. I definitely needed the sleep. Sleeping a LOT lately. Probably the seasonal change. I’ll need to enact some countermeasures soon, so I don’t fall into depression or something.

Last night I had that meeting I was supposed to have on Sunday. Got a gig set up for a local Indian restaurant. They want dancing on Wednesday evenings. We’ll see how this goes. I’m going to see if I can switch it to Thursdays. That would work a lot better, since the people I would have fill in when I couldn’t dance have to teach on Wed.

Zipped over to rehearse with Suicide Lounge after the meeting… and one person wasn’t there. So instead we chatted, and listened to music, decided there are some other songs out there we could add to our sets, talked about they lyrics I’m still trying to write to RP’s melody, and ate REALLY really good food. (Because lecram always cooks the good stuff.)

Now I’m enduring the day while waiting for my virtual machines to finish setting up.