Unsolicited Advice

Yesterday evening, when I arrived to work front of house at one of the many theaters with which I have apparently now become affiliated, I discovered that there was no one to run concessions. So I did. After prepping the lobby, doing the administrative work for check-in, answering the phone even though we weren't technically open, and not incidentally handing out a million and one answers at the reception desk. Which were technically all to the same question -- "Where is the discussion group meeting?" -- which proved popular among many, many people who apparently did not know how to read signs. One of the full-time office staff placed herself at my disposal. Even though, being full-time office staff, she would technically have been considered in charge. They handed me control of the bar inventory and an awful lot of money. I have keys and combinations and number codes for everything short of the gigantic safe we keep the cash drops in. I wandered in and out of the offic...

This year I finally figured out what the fuck was wrong with me, medically speaking. It's a mixed blessing. On the one hand, it's nice to know I'm not lying when I inform people that no, I really can't do something. It's difficult not to question that when for most of your life, the response to it was 'kwitcherbitchin and do the thing I told you to do', and then getting shouted at again when you collapse. It also solves a bunch of minor but enduring mysteries, like why no one in the family has ever looked their real age. Skin develops creases over time for the same reason paper does: Bend it in one spot often enough and it breaks some of the supporting fibers, creating a weak spot where folds happen more easily in the future. As paper is supported by cellulose, skin is supported by collagen, the same stuff that forms the bridge of your nose and the caps on the ends of your long bones. Ehlers-Danlos patients produce a form of collagen that's softer and ...

I am still boggled by other people thinking of me as athletic or physically accomplished. It is not a hat I am accustomed to wearing. I was clumsy as a kid, and I still have my moments. I feel less bad about this now that I know that it's a common symptom of hypermobility syndromes. In essence, my proprioception is made to spec, but my joints aren't; they have a lot more play, in multiple axes, than they're supposed to, and when they rattle out of tolerance my idea of where they are goes subtly wrong. The error bars build up over time to the point where I need to be able to see myself at rehearsal or I have no idea what I look like. Other people do double-takes when they ask how I got somewhere and I tell them, "I walked." My theory is that, while it might take me an hour to tromp to where I need to be, that's an hour I can count on, as opposed to taking the bus, which might be exactly on time or might be forty minutes late without any warning. It is difficu...

About a week ago, Sis caught me just as I was about to lay down for a nap. She wanted me to do the dishes. I told her I was about to go to sleep; she promptly freaked out and accused me of having left dishes in the sink, which was quite true, but also implied I was the only one who'd done so, which suggests that perhaps she thinks Jazmin eats dry cereal by the fistful straight out of the box every morning. Deciding that the fight would take longer than the dishes, I agreed to wash things. Sis promptly freaked out on me  again , backpedaling at about Mach 3, babbling about how if I couldn't then she'd do it, only she had a friend who was in dire straits and coming to stay in her room tonight, and, and, and and and. "You won," I said. "Drop it." Sis  has not yet learned that if she wants people to do things, she had to make capitulating less annoying than arguing over it. Possibly she isn't capable of learning it yet. It's possible to get t...

I'm not exactly sure when Yuki's number is going to be up, so Ratmas came slightly early this year. It's not like they keep track. Someone at a holiday party asked me if I'd come up with a mythology for Ratmas, and I haven't, really; rats are simple, and they would be content to celebrate a holiday strictly because it's the day where Mommy comes in and gives them way too much food for no reason at all. It's self-justifying. Yuki doesn't climb onto the upper cage shelf much anymore, and I can't justify buying a roll of wrapping paper to decorate for a rodent. Also, she's rather high-strung and hates change. So she got a warm box, sleeved in the remains of a cheap chenille hat that developed a hole the first time I wore it, and lined in red jersey knit; a Christmas tree made from fabric scraps that she can knock down and cuddle with if she wants to; and a layer of white gift tissue "snow" on top of her usual newspaper bedding. Das Rat...