Monthly Archives: June 2014

Things That Should Not Be Hard

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I prefer to always be busy, and I like that busy-ness to involve meaningful activities. EDS complicates this for me, because it seems like all of a sudden I’ve gone from being a high powered sports car to a moped. Putt-putt-putt-stall. I see chronically ill people online talking about how much their lives have slowed down and I vow, as if I were made of different stuff, that this will never be me. I will always be busy! I will always be productive! There is a voice in my head that has been with me my entire life, and it is always whispering, “You are running out of time. Running out, gonna die, wasting your precious allotment, running out of time.”

Since finding out I had EDS and also the common “sudden decline” that seems to come with it, I’ve struggled with what to do about being in pain or being tired or being anxious or being nauseated a lot more than seems necessary. I’ve tried the following:

1. DO IT ANYWAY BITCH. Do it. Shut up. Do more. Do it harder. Push, push, push. It seems like it should be crystal clear that this is a bad idea, but you know? It’s hard to see that when you want to get something done. I trade physical comfort and possibly less pain for the mental satisfaction of being able to quiet that voice for a bit because there: I did X, and then I did Y, and yeah, I tiled my swimming pool in credit cards in a mosaic of  The Birth of Venus just like Martha Stuart did in that American Express commercial.

Under that category today I painted an accent archway/window that goes between the kitchen and the living room. In case you are thinking that was some big job, here it is:

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The paprika part, that’s what I painted. I masked it, painted it twice and hung those flying fish. It was made complicated by a sink on one side and a couch on the other, so I had to lean way in from a step stool on one side and balance on the back of the couch on the other side and then stand on a tiny lip of counter top to hang the fish.

This is a stupidly simple little project, but I will be lying in bed in pain tonight, I am sure. I have some joints that are already wanting to dialogue with me about this little endeavor, but I told them I’m going to give them a martini tonight, so they can zip it.

2. DELEGATE. I am constantly asking my child to open doors for me, students to get things down or put them up for me, my husband to lift this or move that or, yes, carry that pot of boiling water to the sink, I cannot lift it myself. This preserves and protects the physical aspect, but makes me feel frustrated and ashamed. Other people have other things to do, and I hate the idea of myself pleading, “Could you help with this? And this? How about that? What about this?” It makes me weaker than I believe myself to be, and always waiting for someone to say, “No, I can’t help you.” Then what? Sure, you’re drunk at a party and you say you’d be my official door opener and lifter and carrier, but not when your life needs your attention and, dude, ALL THE TIME I need someone to help me with stuff. Some of it is not important like boiling water, it’s stuff I want to do like paint and hang up some flying fish. I do not want to depend on someone else to hang the fucking flying fish. 

3. TAKE BREAKS. Sweet Jesus on a Raft, nothing can get done with a billion breaks. Plus, I berate myself for the quality of my breaks (yes, I do, it’s weird and I’m seeing someone, plus you are weird, too). Did my break consist of playing all five of the match three games on my iPad until I ran out of lives on each of them? WELL, that’s going to look like a real accomplishment on the obituary page, innit? Can they add that I also drank a whole glass of water while playing so that it seems like maybe it was worthwhile (hydrate or die, amirite)? Because at 44, frequent breaks to drink WATER are what everyone does. I *should* be doing something meaningful, like reading a book or catching up on the last four issues of Bitch magazine, but no; I’m desperately trying to match 60 carrots in 12 turns. Or I’m surfing the gay sex ads on Craigslist. Put that on my tombstone, son. “She lived well, and enjoyed an endless fascination with the tendency of gay men to take dick pics while wearing socks.” 

4. ADMIT DEFEAT. Yes, get in the tub when you get home from work even though you don’t want to. Hell, go take a hot bath in the middle of the day if you must. It is going to be over 100 degrees every day this week, doesn’t a hot bath sound divine? DIVINE if you are interested in what it feels like to be seafood. Stop and go put your hands in the hot wax, pretend you’re at the spa. Except that in order to do that someone has to help me and the 12 year old has a crummy sense of humor and might promise to set me up with some Firefly and leave me stuck with Duck Dynasty instead. Or delay putting the plastic bag over my waxy mitt because he’s got me trapped and I’m already embarrassed and then there is shouting. Isn’t there a commandment about not teasing your crippled mother? No? That’s why I’m not religious. That right there. 

5. FIND A NEW MIRACLE THING. Oh, aloe vera juice, I look to you, with your promises and lies and horrid taste and, well, cleansing effect. How many bottles of this or that supplement or herbal thing or tincture with someone’s handwriting all crammed up to tell you about it on its label have I been through? Someone asked me today, “Are you using Arnica?” No. I am not using Arnica because I am not a hippie and it doesn’t work, because nothing rubbed on the skin is going to penetrate the joint like some magic shooting star of helpful patchouli. If essential oils fixed genetic disorders I can assure you that the world would be a very, very different place, kids. You know what essential oils do? They make some dude at the top of the pyramid scheme rich and the rest of you smell like mildew. Someone had to tell you. 

Even this, blogging, hurts my shoulder/back right where Maleficent’s wings were, my thumbs, and my neck. Ditto for computer games. I cannot play XBox because it kills my fingers and thumbs. TV sucks out my brain and I just can’t stand that feeling, all slippery and oozy and forgetful. Sometimes holding my Nook to read in the bath hurts my hands and I just am not the sort to find sitting in a tub of hot water entertaining all by itself. I can’t sit comfortably in most comfortable chairs for very long because my lower back seems like it collapses. My neck no longer likes the career it established in holding up my head. I just can’t trade “being alive and creative” for “lying in bed.”

The Shrink asked me yesterday how we would help me cope and I had NO IDEA what to say. I don’t know; all my coping things are hard on either my body or my brain. I think I just have to keep on keepin’ on and live with it, but try to avoid lying down in case I forget how to get up.

Dreaming Portent

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I dreamed that we were in a huge, many-roomed, very old house. Work was being done in places and other places were dark, still other rooms were decorated like the mid 1960s. Someone from whom I am estranged was also there, but kept cycling through as other things happened. There was an increasing sense of anxiety on my part and my mother’s about this cycle and that person.

I recall trying to wake up a few times to exit the dream itself, feeling like it went on too long.

But this person kept entering and being angry, or needy, or threatening. She wore a red dress of flannel. She got smaller, became a child instead of an adult but was still demanding, disruptive. I went to her room and gripped her shoulders, then told her she was running a fever, to settle down and stop acting this way. I touched her head to feel her fever. Then something else happened and I became angry with her, she was persisting in saying things that were not true, and then I flung her from one bed to another and felt immense tension building up then shouted, “I never believed you! Not ever! Everything you say I don’t believe and I never did!” and left the room very swiftly.

Somehow I walked outside then back inside and found my mother, and then the other person appeared with more guns in her hands than she could hold and said something like that she was done with us now, and I felt very afraid and for a second wished I hadn’t said what I did and that now I’d gone and caused this to happen to my mom. There was a moment when I was laying over my mother and closed my eyes and thought to myself, “This is it. Will it hurt?” Yet even as I was giving up I rose up from the bed and took one of the guns from her and hit her in the nose with it, the way you do in dreams where you are trying to strike someone really hard but your limbs become weak and slow. Yet, she responded to the blow and I gathered her into my arms and took her to a room that looked like the den in my father’s parents’ house and pushed her between their easy chairs and started to choke her, then stopped and said that maybe things could be okay after all.

Somehow then she screamed that she would never let it be okay or something like that and she hurt herself somehow. Then I was outside the room and the police were there and then one came out carrying a pillow and said, “Here are her arms! Just the arms!” and there were two doll arms on the pillow, then more parts came out and I woke up.

*******

It felt like that dream went on for hours and hours. It was weirdly specific in a lot of ways, the red dress is one I recognize from doll clothes my grandmother made for my mother and her sisters as children, except I think it was really red corduroy, not flannel, but it had a matching bonnet. I may even still have it.

The point where I said to the child in the red dress that I had never believed her was extremely meaningful, a severance from her on many levels and it’s interesting that then she became smaller and was carried away in a disassembled state. My desire to protect my mother, too, that my decisions made something go hard for her, was very clear. Having it flow into a room in a house where adults did great damage to children and physically leaving the doll-girl there also feels important.

It’s just a dream and all, and I have noticed that the Xanax seems to give very odd dreams.  I had talked about my choice to fully separate from my relationship with the girl in the red dress some during the day yesterday. Those things notwithstanding, my mother has often dreamed things that were portents and came true; she dreamed the death of a sibling before it happened and then it did happen; she dreamed a person she knew was killed in a car accident and then that person’s brother was killed that way.

The Shrink has told  me that life is a spiral (I see it as a sort of spiral staircase), and in the middle of each spiral we are allowed a chance to change how we respond to something in our life that we need to work on. If we do respond differently, even if it isn’t a complete change or resolution, we create enough change that we can move up to the next flight of stairs on the spiral. We may confront the same problems over and over again, but we get better and better at it. Obviously none of us has only a single issue to solve, but in the sense that I have always returned to therapy to, in part, deal with a specific issue, I can see that. Each time, I get better at protecting myself. The Shrink talks a lot about how now, with EDS and chronic pain and uncertainty, my job to protect myself and my own space is vitally important and I cannot allow anyone to make me feel guilty for that choice.

The themes of illness and truth were strong, too—one minute caring for the child in the red dress and at the next moment rejecting that role and making a declaration that could never be withdrawn. My accusation of lying was, in this context, the revelation of the truth. Waiting underneath all of that is the possible portent of someone’s self-destruction, which is real and something I am working to prepare myself for. That is a hard space to occupy, but pretending otherwise would be unhealthy for myself.

I think some of this might need to be illustrated, at some juncture. There’s a lot to unpack.

 

 

Holy Moly Batman, The Shit’s a Flyin’

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GAWD. –flings self to imaginary fainting couch–

Yesterday…

No, wait, let’s back up. This weekend. This weekend, my husband talked to his parents (mother’s birthday, father’s day). They live in the Midwest, where they have lived their entire lives. They visit two or more times a year, always for at least a week, always at times they decided without really consulting us, and always I end up feeling like a pillow is being held over my face as the Death Star’s trash compactor moves steadily to crush me.

They are not evil, but they are very, very difficult. I cannot be myself around them, my MIL talks constantly, and it’s hard. So hard that the last two out of three times that I have thrown up (not a puker) have been during a visit from them. My gut routinely goes on a panicked bender.  There are a lot of unresolved familial issues that I, the empath, get highly attuned to and distressed by even as they all blithely ignore it. I feel skinned alive, they want to know “What we’re doing today, honey?”

So the FIL mentions that he’s been looking at houses here “by yous” online. The husband does not take this overly seriously, they have threatened to move here for years and years and years and each time the qualifying event came around (BIL finally settled in good job, Grandmother dead, etc) nothing happened. I mean, they bought an RV and use it to camp at a campground five miles from their house. Adventurous they are not.

Moving forward now to yesterday, The Shrink says that I am dealing with a LOT (understatement, and this is with no reference to the inlaws because they were way beneath my radar) and that maybe I really should go to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. I agree. I go home, gird my loins, and file an online request for an appointment. Then I toodle over to the EDNF boards and find string after string of conversations about how badly many EDSers feel they were treated at Mayo Clinic. So I reverse course and go to the health food store and buy some aloe vera juice and decide to embrace the hippie approach.

Except today I’ve read a bunch of stuff about aloe not being so great so I am confused and resentful and kind of back to square one. This is a secret of EDS that I continually forget: There Is Only Square One, and You Are Always There.

It doesn’t sound like much, filling out an online form, changing your mind, buying something for $12 then wondering when the gastrointestinal flood will arrive, or if it will arrive, or if you could maybe stop thinking about it, anyway, so that you don’t cause it, but what if you’ve already caused it then it doesn’t matter. Etc.

Today my mother’s boyfriend (actually, her manfriend, dude is 70) collected the child so he could do some work for him and I had the morning alone, gloriously, alone, alone! But the MIL called. I managed to not speak to her on the phone more than once a year for several years and then we got rid of the land line and she learned my cell phone number. I could choose not to answer but that would inevitably be the time someone died and I’d feel guilty, etc, and probably end up throwing up and getting the intestinal badness. So I answered my phone.

Wherein, she cheerfully told me that they would be showing up soon! soon! and we would be, “House hunting girlfriend, so put on your realtor hat!”

I damn near flat-lined. Uh, aren’t you supposed to ask when would be a good time to visit? [I can tell you that they probably have, and although I said over and over to the husband that he needed to take charge of it he kept putting it off so guess what? They’ll just appear whenever they damn well please, now]. Is there any sort of oh, I dunno, conversation that should be had about expectations and such before you move here?

Yes, but that’s not happening. They don’t talk in this family, they just barge on through.

They like a house that is two story (who wants stairs when they are nearing 70? My inlaws)–a rarity here, and a pool. They’ve seen one online that she said cheerfully, “Doesn’t have any grass but it has a pool!” Yes. There is a tiny pool in an ocean of hot, gray rocks with nary a living thing to shade so much as your little finger. They are not sure about how “Hispanic” some of the houses look. Please move here and then say that in public while I’m with you, I beg you. We *really* need more white people here who hate the culture and the brown people. Please bring your Midwestern whirly-gigs and cut outs of boys peeing in the garden, that’s so much classier. ONLY WHITE PEOPLE PUT ALL THAT NATIVE AMERICAN/HISPANIC SHIT ON THEIR HOUSES. REAL NATIVE AMERICANS/HISPANICS DON’T NEED TO PROVE IT WITH SHITTY KOKOPELLI GATES.

There is a lot of screaming in my head, so I am self-soothing by organizing my fabric closet and listening to Lucinda Williams on Pandora. Short of moving to Fairbanks in the morning, I’m not sure what else there is to do.

 

 

The Value of Fine Work

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This is a sewing post. You’ve been warned.

I accepted a job to make a dress while I was also working on the costume design for House of Blue Leaves. Initially, it was presented as a fairly simple project; the client wanted a dress made that she could wear to an evening wedding in the Midwest. I suggested that she go with a silk Dupioni body and line it in silk charmeuse, to be made from an existing commercial pattern and then fit to her. I expected one mock-up (where the garment is built in muslin or similar fabric, or if you’re me, from old sheets because they are cheap), a few minor fitting issues then into fashion fabric, one fitting before lining, and viola! a finished dress.

Not to be. The pattern, Vogue 8959, was poorly represented and badly plotted. The proportions on the dress photographed for the cover were different than the actual pattern proportions and differed wildly from the illustrated depictions. We were going with a different view than the photo, View B because it had sleeves. Now at the very beginning my gut said, “Needs something really classic, few pieces, exceptional fit, fabric to be the main impact.” This was based on what I could see my client wanted and where her anxieties were concerning stepping out of her comfort zone and wearing a very rich, very tailored dress to a semi-formal sort of event.

The first mock up fit terribly and was completely wrong for her figure, and that is where the whole project went down the rabbit hole. Here are photos of what ended up being three mock-ups for a dress that I ended up flat-pattern drafting and draping myself:

Kathleen Mock Up Collage

Each different color is where a change had to be made. I split and move the dart out of the side seam and into the shoulder and waist to compensate for a low bust line. I re-drafted the neckline from more of a scoop to a jewel neckline. I completely re-drafted the armscye to bring it closer to the body to allow more movement. I did away with the funky waist yoke completely, raised the front waist to compensate for a short waist, and added curved darts to skim over a pot belly. In the back I drafted the center back seam to be curved to compensate for a curved back and then cut in at the waist and drafted a curved waistline and long darts to fit a flatter behind. I eliminated the panels on the skirt entirely.

If none of that made sense to you, just know this: I made this dress three or four times before we had what we wanted and we went through four fittings before I ever cut it out of the Dupioni. This dress will never fit anyone but my client and it is transformative when she puts it on–she looks like a million bucks. Here’s why:

Dupioni silk–a classic fabric, very rich, with cross-woven fibers to give it luminescence. She chose a pewter-y blue with green cross weave. Dupioni has the slubs that provide a very luxurious texture to the fabric and takes it out of the cheap shine of satin or tafetta. Here is a shot of the outer fabric once assembled:

Kathleen Dupioni Dress 1

There is a 3/4 sleeve with a facing and vent at the seam line to grant movement. The fabric is absolutely the major feature. We chose to wash and dry it in a machine on delicate to bring it down just a bit and soften the hand. Other details that matter greatly are an invisible zipper closure:

Kathleen Dupioni Dress 2

It is slightly torqued in this picture because my cheap-ass dress form does not reflect my client’s body. It’s possibly the cleanest invisible zipper I’ve ever installed.

I did a vast amount of hand sewing, including the hem, so that there is not a single stitch visible on the outside of the fabric:

Kathleen Hemming Final

Those purple things are my CMC splints, which I have to wear for hand sewing. The lining is just about as beautiful as the dress:

Kathleen Finished Lining

The drifting at the sleeves and hemline is due to the inclusion of vertical ease, meaning the lining is slightly bigger than the dress so that it moves easily and doesn’t constrain the outer shell when in motion. The lining is hand sewn to the zipper facing, to the bottom hemline, and to the sleeve facings.

This is the finished dress:

Kathleen Finished Dress

So I originally quoted a price of $175-225 for the easy, from a pattern, single-fitting package. As the project morphed into something else, I realized that I was not going to be able to charge what it should be worth, which at $40 an hour would make it a $1600 dress. It would be worth every penny, but that just wasn’t possible. What I ended up getting from the project was a much stronger sense of how to charge out my work, including charging for Stylist Services (people think that asking a professional what jewelry to wear and what shoes and what makeup isn’t a separate service, but it is) and also when to assert my authority as the expert. I got the chance to flex my flat patterning muscles and create a dress to fit a real person’s body that makes them look and feel great. In the end, I explained the number of hours (at least 40) that went into this garment and asked for $350 in payment. That’s less than $10 an hour, less than I pay my cleaning lady, but if I also then count what I learned as part of the payment, I feel like I can say it was fair.

Most happily, the dress is finished, delivered, and the project is done.

Shoe Despair

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I ordered three pair of what I guess I’d call “rich old lady” shoes. Regular old lady shoes are these. Or these. Or these.

I bought these:

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And also these:

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And then I really went for it and got these:

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The teal, 40s-style ones arrived first. They have soft beds and arch supports and flexible toes and they are stable and I (hardly) don’t wobble at all. I wore them sparingly, a few hours at a time, not in the house (where I am most of the time). Then the flesh-toned Pikalinos arrived and I wore them today. They are both lovely, I can work with them, they are not too much of a step down into Sass land. Stable. Supportive.

I have also just determined that what I am feeling today is peroneal tendonosis.

These and the boots were my treat to myself after finishing a very, very difficult commission (more on that tomorrow). The carrot on the stick that helped me avoid saying anything inappropriate or firing my client or throwing the silk dress I built out the window. I was proud of myself for finding “good” shoes. I allowed myself to spend the money (serious bank, those first two pairs were each a bit over 100 clams each) and thought, “This beats the shit out of the money I spent on useless physical therapy and useless occupational therapy and expensive [two of which have broken] silver ring splints and expensive CMC splints last summer.”

Say it with me. Peroneal Tendonosis. Notice in the link that it’s a repetitive use thing. Or, for someone with EDS, a just plain “uses it to do regular stuff” thing.

Then, there are the boots. They. Are. Gorgeous. EXPENSIVE. On sale for $237.00. “I am worth it,” I said to myself. These will last 100 years.

They are really heavy. Pull on my hips and ankles heavy.

Works of art. Lacing up the back that needs to be re-laced in silk ribbons. Made For Walking.

Peroneal Tendonosis and Heavy Boots.

I’m not happy, but I’m feeling pretty rebellious and all, “What’s a little foot pain, huh?” “What’s a little hip and ankle pain?” After all, if I quit doing everything that causes me hip, back or knee pain I might as well join the nunnery. I’ll just grimace and bear it, I cry! So what if my foot hurts! At least it hurts in awesome, defensible, smart shoes!

That’ll last.

 

On the Subject of Shoes

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I have a deep and abiding love for shoes. I often plan what I’m wearing around a pair of shoes rather than vice versa. Since being diagnosed with EDS and hitting a sudden decline (which seems very common…deterioration is not a gradual thing, rather it seems to periodically leap forward all of a sudden), I have had to stop wearing a lot of my shoes. Last summer I cleaned out my closet and evaluated all my shoes.

Note: I am a minor Imelda Marcos and no one “needs” as many shoes as I have but that’s not the discussion I’m having.

Of the maybe 45+ pairs of shoes (go read the note above again), I gave 17 pairs to Xena. The vast majority of them were not simply shoes I was tired of wearing, but wonderful, fabulous shoes that knew in my heart I could not wear without experiencing hip, knee and back pain as well as increasing the odds that I would fall down. I held back several more pairs that were like pieces of art and bargained that I could wear them on occasion. The good thing about giving them to Xena is that a) I like her and it makes her happy and b) I get to see those great shoes on someone’s feet instead of in a box in my closet and c) should I suddenly think that I need to wear one of them, I know where they are.

This past semester, I determined that not only are most heels over 1.5″ out, so are ballet-style flats. You know, the seemingly more sensible ones. Flats like that are just about as bad for me as heels, and hurt my feet and ankles significantly. I recall the physical therapist from last summer eyeing my shoes pretty critically–and that was when I thought I was wearing something reasonable. She asked if I had good sneakers, or some Earth Shoe clogs.

The answer to that is a firm NO. I do not own those things. I do own a pair of “Mom Sketchers”  but being recalcitrant in general I made a point of never wearing them to PT.

So, this summer, I’ve culled another 10-12 pairs of shoes, some of which are the most beautiful shoes I’ve ever owned, like this pair only in browns so it was higher contrast, more 1940s, Katherine Hepburn, editor looking. I’ve worn them once. I’ve also given her this pair that I don’t think I ever got to wear. I gave her a pair of Chelsea Crew shoes that I thought wouldn’t be too high but of course they are–they are siren red, 1930s-style and stunning. I have several pair of flats to follow up on that. Of the shoes I’ve kept, several are also no longer very wearable for me, but I cannot give them up and will break them out on occasion when I go somewhere that I can be dropped off at the door and then hang on to the arm of my date (who is almost always my husband, or sometimes Xena, who is very sweet to offer an arm as if we just like each other so much as opposed to making sure I don’t fall down [which is not to say we don’t like each other very much, know what I mean?]).

That leaves me with actually not that many options for actual daily shoes. I’ve picked up several pair of cheap oxford-style lady shoes but they don’t do much for summer wear. No matter what I am wearing in the world, when I get home I put on a pair of hideous Spenco flip-flops that are orthotic in nature. In winter it’s the mukluk style Earth boots. I am feeling bereft, and also like given that I’ve now dumped probably a thousand dollars or more worth of shoes, don’t I deserve replacements?

I have ordered a pair of these shoes in the vague hope that they are supportive and comfortable and not ugly.  They are recommended by http://www.walkshop.com. I have these two pair in my shopping cart at Zappos. Wolky boots that are outrageously priced on sale and a pair of Pikolinos. There is really no way that I can justify dropping over $500 on shoes unless I listen to the sulky lady who feels like she can’t let her appearance go.

Reasonable or not, I cannot let my appearance go. I can’t have people looking at me and thinking, Oh, poor thing, she’s had to give up. Getting dressed, for me, is a form of artistic expression (First World problem but guess where I live? In the First World) and I cannot abide velcro and wide footbeds and ugly shoes. Which puts me in a tough spot, since I also cannot abide shoes that hurt me to wear–no one will see my fabulous outfit if I am at home on the heating pad.

Most likely my cart will expire and the Woklys and Pikalinos will stay where they are. Maybe.

And Then I Left You Hanging

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I saw my doctor on Monday, and you can all breathe a sigh of relief (or clench your fists since you know how great my estate sale would be) that I am fine and can carry on my drinking and worrying ways indefinitely. I have a possible hemangioma on my liver, which is a little blood vessel anomaly and seems common in EDS and my mom has one too so it is not anything to worry about. Bottom line, I still have EDS and things don’t work right and they don’t know why and there’s no treatment. The end. Stop going to the doctor, weirdo.

I have taken on too much work. The biggest aspect of that will end tonight when I go to the last dress rehearsal I need to attend as Costume Designer to ascertain that it is all good. It is much harder to do my job when my only staff is a sullen 12-year-old who smells like an onion farm and swears a lot. That notwithstanding, he’s been a big help. One of the dresses I used for this show was built by a student who graduated awhile back and I don’t mind saying that if that child were standing in front of me I might poke them with a pin in the eye for their sloppy, careless construction of what should be an immensely valuable piece of stock–a silk dupioni dress in a 24W that works for 1950s or early 60s and is a gorgeous violet color. Fortunately, being that I am a big straight talker, that student graduated knowing that I believed their sewing skills were absolutely subpar and several discussions had taken place wherein I said things like, “I would not want you to tell anyone that you learned how to sew in this shop.” etc.

Takeaway on that is that it is much, much easier to do something right the first time than it is to go in and unfuck it later. Unfuck is my own copyrighted term, ya’ll, so send me a penny if you use it. Sometimes, it is the only explanation that suits.

The other half of the too much work still drags on, and the magic is not flowing at this point, three mock-ups into it. If tomorrow is the last mock-up fitting then the magic may deign to come back, but I’m tired of this project and I haven’t even gotten the fashion fabric yet. Sewing tends to follow a “Love/Hate/Love” trajectory, and I have passed out of euphoric love and settled firmly into hate. Or, at least, the subset called Loathing. It will get better, but I need it out of my life sooner than I suspect it will be. Isn’t that always the way?

On deck for the moment the last project has winged its way away from me are four more online sewing classes.

You know, so I can relax for awhile.