I’m not the dainty type, Possums. You know that by now. My motto is “49 degrees latitude, 360 degrees attitude,” with “Hard to kill” hot on its heels. I have been called a cross between Dorothy Parker and Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory. All to say that you wouldn’t expect me to be the type to own a tutu, let alone two. Or more.
And I’m still waiting on yet another one to come in, been waiting for four and a half years now, but the pressure is somewhat off, given what I discovered in the closet.
You can find the most amazing things in closets, from sexual identity to Narnia. What I found was tutus. Well, and also a bag of bloody human teeth but more on that later.
Flashback to my Accident: I fell down the stairs and landed on my head, nearly bleeding out and giving myself a head injury that would have cost most people their lives, and put an end to my cybersecurity journalism covering hacktivism. Being unable to earn a living, and saddled with a very expensive course of physical therapy, I created a fundraiser, and raised more than expected, so I was able to pay The Sister back for a lot of the help she’d given me over the years, buying glasses, getting my dentistry taken care of (still have a bag of my own decayed fangs upstairs, no idea why I was keeping it in my sock drawer. Now I’m keeping it in the box where my nail polish resides, much more logical), and so on.
As part of the fundraiser, I offered to put a tutu on and pose with a shoe on my head. The problem, Possums, was that I did not own a tutu. A friend volunteered to make me one, but life got in the way as it tends to do, and that tutu is still somewhere in the ether.
It appears that at some point I lost patience (moi? unthinkable!) and ordered a tutu from somewhere else in the ether, and it appears equally that at some point it arrived. And it’s been hanging in the back of my closet for the intervening four years. Who knew?
I do remember when my friend Cathy came for a visit from Vancouver I ordered an extra-special tutu just for the dinner. I was still pretty brain-damaged so I spent much of the dinner staring idly into space, but at least between that and my tissue silk batwing top in baby pink, I looked damn good doing it.
Here is the extra-special tutu:
The other one from the back of the closet is just a plain long skirt with a few layers of tulle on top. In, yes, grey.
The third is only a virtual tutu, but if I recall (which is always a question) it was going to be turquoise or a grey-blue. I was feeling festive that day.
Anyhoodle, clearly I have a photoshoot that I owe you once I decide which shoe to use. Might use the infamous Bus Boots which I wore for seven straight days on the Greyhound, from Victoria to Ottawa. The boot on the head thing is its own kind of chic, as our Grand Vizier Vermine Supreme can attest.
In related Eventually Getting To The Point news, I needed a tutu this morning. For why, you ask? I refer you back to the title. I was in for a poking. And oh, baby, you know how bad I wanted it! A good skirt is a major advantage when you’re looking to get poked, as is a top that shows some skin. No skin, no poke.
I’ve been saving that black beaded top for maybe five years, since it fit me, which I’m disappointed to see it no longer does since I lost all the weight. I was able to zip it up and just pull it over my head like a t-shirt, which you’re not supposed to be able to do with those. But thank god, because I don’t keep a zipper-doer-upper on staff at the Ottawa branch of raincoaster HQ. When I am Governor-General, of course, I shall get one, and they will be a member in good standing of the zipper-doer-upper union or at least the IWW. One must have standards!
Where was I? Oh yes, discussing the dress code for getting the first dose of the AstraZenica jab. Long ago in University I spent a slow summer in the library writing papers (probably still unread) about etiquette, and I do believe that even Miss Manners would greenlight festive wear up to and including eveningwear and fancy dress. A friend of mine wore her RenFaire outfit. I was asked about accessories, specifically tiaras, but I can be a real old-skoool accessory snob, and I drew a hard line there. Only married women can wear tiaras, which is why so many women wear them on their wedding day, although I would also allow women who can afford to buy tiaras for themselves. Which sadly rules me out.
Now, as for shoes, I have some nice fake Balenciaga studded sandals that would have worked, but alas, woke up to this:
I did briefly consider wearing the bus boots, but went with some nice sparkly silver flats instead. Hopped the bus to the mall, walked over, got my jab right away from a pharmacist who looked about 16, as all medical professionals do once one is over 40. Was issued a bundle of pages of aftercare, discussed suggested options for the next two days (juice, fruits, electrolytes, pre-made meals, and learned apparently the second day is the toughest), and got a nice surprise. ALWAYS work around the government, when Doug Ford is in charge of the government. Here’s the shortcut that got me my jab sooner than the government suggested (which was September).
And more good news:
Another nice surprise is the realization that at that hour the store is full of the groceries that were fresh yesterday, marked down 50%. I bought 2kg of mushrooms, a rotisserie chicken, and a cut fresh pineapple, all of which were 50% off and which should be easy to deal with and healthy over the next two days. And one can of Innis and Gunn, to help me sleep today.
And took the bus back home, in typical 80-seater limousine glamour and style.
Got home, stuffed my face with rotisserie chicken on a bagel, changed into PJs, drank the beer, took my vitamins, and conked out till 3pm. Seemed like the healthy choice. Faffed around on the internet and learned some stuff:
Oh yeah, and took a couple of selfies. Definitely not a selfie person normally, but I thought it was worth it to model good jab hygiene for the masses who follow me on Twitter. And I put them in the comments section of a website that has a whole club of raincoaster-haters, to see if I could draw them out. It worked, too.
At midnight I can report a few symptoms.
Ten hours post-#AstraZeneca jab. Symptoms: mild chills, slight ache everywhere I can expect to get arthritis some day, minor soreness in jab arm. Stiffness. Relative to ABDV chemotherapy, this is about 0.25 Chemos. Nowhere near that bad. Friends and The Sister report much worse.
Twelve hours post-jab, my neck is a bit stiff, my arm is sore, my hips and toes are achy like the weather is changing or something. Temperature up one degree. Haven’t resorted to any drugs, because I’d prefer not to, but I’ll probably get some Tylenol for bedtime. But I have options.
What else do I have? Selfies.
And then I decided to call it a day and got into my PJs. I’m kind of annoyed that the pj selfie has three times as many Likes on Twitter, but oh well. Everybody likes plaid, I guess.
And I also learned a life-saving skill. Watch the video and get these moves down. Could save your life. Sound up, so you can catch all the details.