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Diary Rings

Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
A Gift from Hil - 2014-12-28
There was A LOT of turkey. - 2014-12-04
Can we just jump to January please? - 2014-11-14
A (don't kick the) Bucket List - 2014-10-28

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2:13 p.m. - 2014-09-26
What went around came around.

Before I get into today's festivities I want to say thanks. I shall look into changing my diet again. Like prayer- can't hurt, might help. As for my stupid leg and body chemistry- I'm doing what I should. (Thank you, health insurance!) I've had arterial and venous scans, plus an x-ray series with dye of both legs. No blockages or abnormalities found. I have had my urine, spit, and blood tested for their content and for disease. Something weird turned up in my urine and I've done two courses of nuclear-strength antibiotics, hence the chronic yeast infection.

Mostly what's going on with me is being a brat. I feel like I deserve massive rewards for cleaning up my act. To feel even shittier after giving up smoking, drinking, aspartame, a steady diet of Good-n-Plenty and Hostess fruit pies, and the sleeping habits of your average meth tweaker (up for 3 days, crash for one, repeat), to have all this sacrifice and self-restraint thrown back in my face and my only 'reward' is a body in full rebellion...oy. Pissing me right the fuck off. When I'm not stomping and wailing like a thwarted toddler I DO understand this may simply be a case of too little too late. Can't expect a beater to run like a Porsche just because I changed the oil and cleaned out the glove box. My bod and I have always had an adversarial relationship and just because I've laid down weapons and started being decent doesn't obligate my body to respond in kind. And it hasn't, that's for damnsure.


Wolf's government class was given an assignment to research and write a short paper on a social issue which might not get much coverage. I suggested he look into gender bias in medicine. With a bit of prodding and direction from me Wolf homed in on how 98% of cardiac devices were only made in one size- that being to fit the average 6'1" male. All the artificial hearts, most of the pacemakers, all non-animal heart valves, all the goodies that will keep someone alive when their hearts fail are made to fit men. He was shocked. And angry. Wolf was appalled to find out if you're a typically sized woman, a child or even a man of small stature and you need an artificial heart or even just a mechanical valve, well, you're screwed. When pressed for answers about this gender discrepancy the manufacturers of cardiac medical devices look at the floor, scuff their toes and mutter things about making heart machinery for women just isn't cost-effective. To test and get the proper specs and add another size to the manufacturing equipment might not give back a profit for a whole year! Maybe even two! A medical device company is supposed to run in the red for a few months just to save women's lives? Come on, give them a break. It's not like heart disease is the #1 killer of women in the United States. Okay, so it is, but jeeze, is that supposed to diminish the companies' obligation to the shareholders? What about them? Don't the shareholders and the executives whose bonuses depend on high profits, don't THEY count?

So Wolf wrote his paper and presented his report. He got an A. And I got a call from his government teacher, whose own mother died of heart disease, telling me I had a great kid and I should be proud. I thanked him and agreed I have a terrific kid. And proud? Always.

I did my first gig for The Avenue on Saturday. A store-based 'fashion show'. Hardly worth coming out of retirement for. But Mick got to watch me do my runway walk and that was nice. The rep from corporate wants me to do some regional stuff. Showing mother of the bride outfits at bridal expos and modeling cruise and career-wear at charity things. Sure, why not? It's not like I'm doing anything else worthwhile. I'm rather excited about the bridal expos, when not doing my twirl in god-awful mauve sequined tents with matching jackets I can ogle wedding dresses and sigh over fancy cakes and flowers. You know me and my thing with weddings.

Was it weird to model again? Oh, you know it. Called up all kinds of insecurities and iffy memories. Was it flattering to be asked? Absolutely. But honestly? I feel a little sad. It's like I haven't gotten anywhere. 47 years later and all I'm still good at is being a living clothes hanger. A product within a product. A walking display rack. Do any of you remember 'The Brady Bunch' episode when Greg is hired to be Johnny Bravo? At first Greg is all thrilled, the music producers must really like his singing and playing, they must think his songs have merit and talent to spare! Then he finds out they only hired him because he fit the suit? Like that. I feel like that. Who I am and what I can do means dick. What I am is a bland, generically pleasing backdrop that makes cheaply made and badly designed clothing seem appealing. Modeling knows nothing of my heart or all the things I've learned. Nobody is banging down my door for my recipes or my writing or the survivor's skills I've so painfully learned as a sexual assault victim or the struggle I've gone through in learning how to be an advocate for autistic kids. All these years later and the only thing I'm good at is having great posture.

I wanted to change the world and turns out all I did was change my clothes. ~LA

Of course...

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