She's a Brainiac, Brainiac on the Floor!

It was a normal night at Slimmons. Well, actually it wasn't so normal. I was late because the streets were tied up by the Gay & Lesbian Coalitions protesting the ban on Marriage, good for them. I was half-tempted to skip class and join them.

But other than that, it was a normal night at Slimmons. Well, actually it wasn't because I was on my feet for the whole class and I can feel my energy and strength starting to return.

But other than that, it was a normal night at Slimmons. Not.

We were following Richard's moves, dancing our hearts out. I was on my side of the room, Dana was on hers. Dana dances closer to the lobby where all the thin people cluster and the mirrors are the "fat" mirrors. They're all thin enough over there that it doesn't matter. I prefer by the loading dock where the "thin mirrors" are.

Side to side we were dancing. "Four more!" Richard yelled. "Three more! Two more!" And that's when it happened. In the flash of the moment, the "Exit" sign over the lobby exit loosened from the ceiling and fell. Right on Dana's head!

I would say that Dana was shocked, but actually the electrical part of the unit stayed in the ceiling.

I would say that Dana was brained, but actually, it was closer to having her brain removed.

Dana needs to remember never to get a-head of herself.

The exit sign had a head trip.

Dana wanted to exit a-head of everybody else.

Dana exited at the head of the class.

The sign a-doored Dana.

It's a sign from above.

Dana is a target. Dana needs to go shopping at Target.

Dana was exit-cuted.

Exit, stage Right.

Was braining Dana Richard's a-sign-ment for the evening?

Was that Dana's exit strategy?

Hey Dana... if you're here, could you show us a sign?

(Click on picture for a larger image)

My dog Cosmos has had a long and bitter feud with the sky. It started with thunder and lightening, and escalated into full fledged battle when the sky followed up by throwing ice chips at him.

I came home tonight and told him the story of Dana. He was relieved that finally, after all these years, somebody else - specifically Dana - agrees with his point of view. The sky is falling.

Thirty posts in thirty days. This is day 7.

Follow Me

Just as we feel compelled to clean up our homes before the cleaning lady comes, I had to spend a lot of time preparing for the arrival of Heaven's Best, the people scheduled to clean my carpets yesterday - and who, by the way, did an absolutely spectacular job. As a semi-artist, I like to have my materials in sight and ready at hand. Add in a long-felt compulsion to buy baskets (I just like them; I don't know why), and you have a scenario of clutter and chaos. My condo was not as bad as some studios I've seen, but there's no question that organizing and clearing up the floors took hours of work.

In addition to my floors, I was hopeful that I could convince them to run their equipment into my bedroom's walk-in closet. There was a large dog-grease stain on the floor where Sunny likes to sleep. Of course, that zone was a disaster unto itself, my philosophy being that "closets are not full until the door pops back open when you force them shut." I cleaned and organized, and surveyed the clothing I had on hand.

The gentlemen came and left. I went to vote, then walked back home feeling optimistic. Looked at my carpets again in wonder, and moved the stuff temporarily stored in my dining area back into their respective rooms. I did it thoughtfully; consolidating baskets and placing things in different locations than where they had been removed in order to increase spaciousness and organization. Also with Vennie's impending visit in mind. I don't want her to trip and fall in the middle of the night because of my *crap*.

Successful in this venture, I surveyed my closet again. It really looked good. But there was one unassailable fact. There was an awful lot of clothing in there. An AWFUL lot.

Although I've struggled with a small-to-moderate weight gain (under 10 pounds) since last year, the fact is that most of the clothing I purchased in the last two years still fits. I'm also not that interested in clothing and shopping , and my wardrobe, while it could be improved, is adequate. The current stuff was not the problem. The issue was in the past.

I had a section of my closet designated for holding business suits and skirts and even a couple of dressy dresses that I used to wear for work. Actually, I wore them over 15 years ago as my size was immense in the last five years of employment and they wouldn't get on. I hadn't gotten rid of said business clothing when I donated the rest because of my ongoing hope of having my medical conditions managed to a degree that I could return to work.

But there was an awful lot of clothing in that closet, unworn for years and years and years. I've been on disability for close to five of them.

Culling the clothing was an impulse decision, but one that really had to be made. It signified an increased acceptance that I probably will never be well enough to go back to a traditional job. That business attire, in my life, was likely obsolete. It was a hard thing to accept; a decision that - for me - could not be thought out, but must be made impromptu and on-the-spot. If I took the time to consider the act, I would never let go. So I immediately started pulling pieces of clothing out of my closet and piling them on my bed, noting the sizes of said pieces as I went along. The vast majority of them were 16's. Too big for me anyway.

My inner voice started screaming "but you might still go back to work; you could have them altered." Then my brain took over saying that "a lot of these items are high quality, classics, in phenomenal condition, and could do somebody service here and now. They're too big anyway, and even if you were ever healthy enough to go back to work, wouldn't it be nice to start a new life with a new wardrobe rather than relics from the past? Assuming the best, who says you will have the kind of job that requires this kind of clothing anyway? The fact of the matter is that business clothes are so close to casual clothes these days that what I have been holding on to is likely too dressy. Especially in Entertainment."

The bottom line is that clothes and shoes are now located in large garbage bags by the front door. I feel a tinge of regret in letting them go, but will load them into the trunk of my car later this morning and drop them off at Goodwill on the way over to Mom's house. I need to get them out of my life before I have a chance to change my mind.

Many of the foods that I consume wantonly are only eaten if they are around; if I consciously make sure my cupboards are full of healthy options, I don't binge stupidly. I'm looking at these clothes in the same light. They are not necessary for health, happiness, or day-to-day living. Yes, their presence in my closet provided some comfort (as does junk food), one of the last vestiges of the denial that my life has irrevocably changed in a way that I barely anticipated and didn't necessarily want.

But with their departure, I can cast aside that ostrich-like thought pattern and move forward. For there is one thing that I have learned over the past several years. Dealing with reality instead of the "I wants" may be incredibly hard, but the only way to grow is to understand what is possible, what is likely not going to be, and accepting the difference.

I believe in reality. I believe in living in the light. And damn, my closet looks good!

Baa Baa black sheep,
Have you any wool (clothing to discard)?
Yes sir, yes sir,
Three bags full!

---

Who's reading this blog? On Saturday, I was taken aback when Becky said in a response to my announcement that I was going for the 30 in 30:

It saddens me to think you would think no one is interested in your life or that your life is not interesting....SO wrong.

Well, I guess that somebody is interested. I installed a blog hit counter on this site a while ago and have over 11,000 hits. That's more than can be accounted for by me going in and out, and besides, in my travels, people are starting to know about me. What I am doing. What I am thinking. And when I seem surprised, they say that they read my blog!

So I thought, I wonder if there's a way to know who's reading? Other than the odd comment, that is. And wouldn't you know it, Blogspot came up with the answer. The blog follower, located in the top of the left hand column in this site, will enable you to be notified when I make a post. You can sign up in full view, or anonymously, and I will have a better idea who's visiting. Or at least how many of you are coming by.

Come on. You know you want to! And if you don't, I'll worry that nobody likes me. Kind of like Sally Field at the Oscars.

Follow me. Please!

Thirty posts in thirty days. This is day 6.

Voting Pride

Although this post will not show up until November 5th, and certainly the results of the Presidential race will be known by then, I am writing it during the afternoon of November 4th, just after returning home from voting.

I have voted in every election, large and small, since I became eligible way back when. I was influenced in this regard very early by, when still a small girl, accompanying my father to the polling place to help him vote. I remember clearly standing in line and him getting his ballot. It wasn't any nifty card the way they are now, either. It was a giant, fold-up piece of paper reminiscent of a paper map. Those of an "age" will remember maps as relics of the era of carbon paper.

We went into the voting booth together. It was, as I recall, much larger than the ones of today, although I suppose that I was so small that I could have misjudged. But given the format of the ballot back then, I suspect it actually was larger. It had a curtain to ensure privacy. We unfolded the ballot together after pulling the curtain closed, and then used the stamp in the shape of an "X" to choose our candidates and positions. In the end, I got to hand the ballot to the polling place person who put it down the slot into the ballot box.

In addition to considering voting a tribute to Dad, I also figure that it isn't often that my government consults with me as to my opinion. On election days, they are specifically asking. I realize that my part in the process is really small, but I still feel important.

California's vote isn't important just for the Presidential race. There are measures on the ballot that also need a Yea or Nay. Whether farm animals deserve more space. Whether pregnant teenagers must notify their parents before getting an abortion. How our power industry is going to develop. How our prisoners, gang members, and drug addicts will be dealt with. And probably, receiving the most national notoriety, whether gay people should have the right to marry.

My feelings are very strong on all of these issues; I will be happy to discuss them on a private level with anyone who really wants to know what I believe and is willing to ensue in a rational discussion, not an argument or diatribe. But here and now, I am going to keep my opinions as asked on the ballot to myself.

* * * * *

The day started off with me frantically clearing my bedroom and studio of extraneous *crap*. I was having my carpets cleaned, barring rain which was fore casted and did overnight but cleared out before the men arrived. We chatted about a number of things as they went about their work, but what I really wanted to know is what was going on at my polling place up on the corner of my block. They told me that the line came out the front door and down the street. Oy.

So after they were done - a little past noon - I started my walk to assert my rights as a citizen. Out my front door, I noted that my garden has gone wild again. My apparent green thumb combined with a reticence to clip anything plays well with the fact that I like my gardens running a little wild rather than well coiffed. But it's getting a bit ridiculous out there. I'm really going to have to trim the roses back a bit so that I can walk across the patio unimpeded.

Out my patio gate and up to the front entrance of my condominium complex.

Down the street by all the buildings in my complex, I walked.

To the corner where Summerville Retirement Apartments is located. The regular home of my poll.

---

They were more decked out than normal for today's election. A large flag, rather than the little tiny one, hung on their property.

You know that you live in Los Angeles when you see "Polling Place" written in so many languages. One of my favorite things about this city is the diversity of the people who live here. Unfortunately, that is also one of the weak points of the same, in that people are so culturally different, yet compressed into a small area fosters suspicion and misunderstandings.

Many small flags adorned Summerville's landscaping.

Approaching the entrance; I've never seen this notice posted before. I guess in response to the intense interest and extreme opinions that this particular election is bringing forth.

And the lobby of the building, all decked out.

Sadly, most of the old folks were not there. Apparently, I showed up at meal time, and they were in the dining room having lunch. Normally during an election, they line both sides of the hallway, sitting on chairs and walkers and the occasional wheel chair, watching the patriots come and go from the ballot room. It's almost like walking down the red carpet, they have so many opinions about all of us. And trust me, they don't hesitate to express them.

One notable time, I had my behind pinched by an old geezer who had to be in his 80's - lol!

I did not take any pictures of the voting room itself out of respect for all those who were there to express their opinions. Although the line was minimal, every booth was filled, and a sense of pride seemed to permeate the room. The election workers were very busy, and with all the names in the book already marked as having voted, it wasn't that hard to find mine at the top of the page.

After voting, I put my ballot in the box, got my "I Voted" sticker, and walked home. If I go to Starbucks wearing the sticker, I can get a free cup of coffee. Ben & Jerry's, as I understand it, is also offering free ice cream to anyone who voted. But I don't think I'll take either up on their offer. Sometimes participating is, in and of itself, enough of a reward.

Thirty posts in thirty days. This is day 5.

WeFF

It's enough to cause me to hyperventilate. Once a year, on the first Sunday of November, the Southern California Handweavers Guild (SCHG) puts on a Weaving Festival in Torrance, CA that is a favorite. With vendors that support weaving, spinning, knitting, felting, beading, and many other fiber arts, women and men travel for miles (in my case, over 35) to attend. And it's well worth it.

This booth is Nancy's Custom Handweaving. You may remember Nancy when I mentioned her at the GLASG meeting as being so kind and helping me get settled in September when it took all my strength just to make it there.

This is Morrow Fleece Works and Shari McKelvy. I don't remember how I came to know of Shari, but she owns a cottage "factory" in which she takes raw fleece (mostly wool although she will work with anything), washes and combs it, and then returns it pin drafted and wound in a beautiful nautical coil to it's owner. I sent some fleeces that I had won at various silent auctions (yes, I have bid on and won dirty sheep's wool with glee on more than one occasion) to her, and was thrilled at the results. I was even happier when she started making a trek down for WeFF several years ago. Of course, that does not alleviate the embarassment of having yet again failed to find the purple-dyed border leister fleece that I wanted to give her at the event to process. I don't know if this is the 2nd or 3rd year that she's heard that lament from me, but I suspect, based on the depth of fiber in my hall closet, that it will not be the last.


Newton's Knits. Spectacular prices on ready-to-work-with yarn.

Ya know, I can't remember who was sporting this wall of exquisite color, but it was luscious.

UPDATE: Thanks to Elena, I now know that this wall was from Chameleon Colorworks.

Kahn Fagen Beads. I had just bought from them a week ago at the beading bazar, but couldn't resist adding to my collection.

Eric waiting for the fashion show...

And Mom - who also attends this event - waiting for the same.

Women weave their own cloth, fashion it into clothing, and model it for the rest of us to admire. One of the strongest points of the fashion show is that it has everything to do with achievement, and nothing to do with age or physical attributes.


About an hour after the show, it's time to draw tickets for the raffle! The woman in purple is Kathy Gould. She is lovely, she recently moved out of state to Las Vegas, New Mexico (yes, New Mexico, not Nevada) and then got married.

Who are the winners in this crowd?
Dave Larson, a very interesting friend.
Miles, Eric's son, watching the spinning.
Elena, also spinning. I wish I had taken a detailed photo of her jacket. She spun the yarn, wove the cloth, designed the jacket, then sewed it.
Heather at her wheel.
Eric & Miles at the end of the day.
And speaking of days, Thirty posts in thirty days. This is day 4.

Natural Gas

This is the dog.
This is the dog who shares my bed.
Or should I say, this is the dog who allows me to share his bed.
And this is the dog who, single handedly, could be a source of enough natural gas to power the world well into the next decade.

This is the air filter.
This is the air filter that I bought a couple of weeks ago during the big fires out here.
Although the fires have abated, at least for now, I keep the air filter running.
For it seems that it has the power to suck dog gas into it's filter and emit clear air.

Three cheers for Hepa Filters!

Thirty posts in thirty days. This is day 3.

Halloween Mystery at Slimmons

Exercise class was fun yesterday. Despite my weakened condition (still recovering from the Cimzia), I did ok. Not great, but ok.

Saturdays are always well attended. People who don't come on other days show up then. I'm glad that the Halloween Decorations were still up so that they could enjoy them. But then there was the other thing that I first noticed on Halloween...


On the loading dock at the back of Slimmons. Shoes. Dozens of them. All in a pile.
They were there during the Halloween party. I thought about asking about them then, but didn't. They could have been some kind of joke and I would be falling right into it.
But then today when Richard showed up to class, he walked out to the dock to view them with a puzzled look on his face. Clearly, whatever was going on had nothing to do with him.
Sherry plans to ask the Chabbad that meets next door if they know anything about it. But based on the kinds of shoes that have been deposited there - cool shoes, cheap shoes, flamboyant shoes, I expect that they didn't have anything to do with it.
So what's the deal? Who left them? How? Why? Inquiring minds would like to know.

Thirty posts in thirty days. This is day 2.

A Post a Day for 30 Days

"Am I nuts?" I ask myself. "What have I done?"

Reading Mrs. G at Derfwad Manor, I learned about Nablopomo, National Blog Posting Month. In essence, I would be required to blog a post a day for every day in November. Weekend's included.

I have been somewhat faithful to this blog, even through the course of serious illness. I may have let it go at times, but I always came back. Additionally, I have learned that it doesn't matter what I write about. I have no life, I don't do anything interesting, yet people are coming, so maybe I'm not as uninteresting as I think. I don't know.

So I didn't really give it much thought when Mrs. G said that she was going to post this November and that maybe others should go along for the ride too. I immediately posted back that "I'll play!" and I signed up.

This should be interesting. This is Day 1.