Hard to believe I'm in this spot on the calendar so quickly.  I almost feel as if I've sustained whiplash! Random thoughts today
 Do you believe in karma?
 Do you have to pay back the time you waste?
 Do you feel as if your presence on this earth has made a difference?
 Can you keep one soul from crying today?
 Can you remain selfless while your inner space cries for attention?
 Do you let your mind wander to the dark side of your being when your body has gone to rest, but your thoughts continue to flash by in technicolor?

If you know the answer to any of these questions, there is a very confused being on this side of the keyboard. Please enlighten me...

If at First You Don't Succeed...

Today I'll tackle the piles of crochet and lace Again!

 Yesterday I started pinning accents on my jacket from a beautiful piece of lace...don't even remember where I got it. I cut out individual medallions, pinning and repinning them in different places.

 I have a tendency to overdo, so my plan of attack is to work for a while and then let the design rest. That way, I have a much better perception of what I've done, and right now my perception is that I need to start  over

. I am contemplating the removal of the sleeves so that the jacket will transformed into a vest. In this climate, adding additional weight to denim...even stretch denim...can feel unnecessarily heavy.

 Other people might not think this project is even wearable, but I've always been able to "pull off" items most people wouldn't be caught dead in.

 I think that's why I ve enjoyed Pinterest so much...because I've found out there are others out there like me...not that I'm special that way. Different is the way I like to think of myself. However, I think I give myself too much credit sometimes.

 Creativity looks so easy when other people do it, but the process is a labyrinth of wrong turns, most of which I have taken in the last few days. I am determined to please myself, and I'm not there yet. Back to the pins and the stacks and the scissors.

What Would We Do Without?

I've come to the conclusion that I really don't ever have to shop again. I have been the consumate consumer at Goodwill for the last so many years, and before that, I could find my way through my favorite thrift shops with the ease one only attributes to unadulterated familiarity. These days I find myself looking at items I have purchased and ultimately worn with a fresh, altered eye.  What if I were to cut this, remove that, shorten the length, lengthen these shorts...you get the picture?

 I find myself in possession of laces and handwork that I've been collecting for over thirty years, and now I've taken a pledge to use them as jazzy accessories to my otherwise drab garments.  The amount of lace and crochet I am dealing with is almost obscene.  I'm not sure I can climb this mountain, but I like a challenge! Why should an estate auction make money from my beautiful collection when I am perfectly able to put these purchases to good use.

 I have a few designs in mind already.  My first creation seemed simple at first, but in fact, I have only gotten to first base, so to speak. It's a denim jacket that I've altered by cutting the sleeves so that they are just below elbow length. The back of the jacket has a lace inset, and I'm playing the design on the front by ear.  Sometimes I have a tendency to overdo; I don't want that to happen here.

I  cut out the back of the jacket and pinned in the crochet piece. It is a perfect fit between the yoke and the band at the bottom. The sleeves have been cut but not finished. Stay tuned for the finished product.

Hair: A STORY OF LOSS

My name is Magnoliasmyrna, and I am losing my hair. I have avoided speaking about this because if I let the words out, the statement becomes fact.  I've been avoiding FACT for a long time now.

 I suppose it all started about five years ago when I noticed large amounts of my locks collecting in the drain cover as I shampooed my hair. What a sinking feeling to see something so treasured slip away with the bath water! That year I was diagnosed as hyperthyroid, and I began Mr. Toad's Wild Ride through a recovery of sorts.

 There were three different occurrences that knocked me back to square one again. The only comparison I can make is to say the experience must be a little like having chemo, but the hair never comes back. An aching dread exists every time I pulled my long bangs back to discover that my hairline was moving back futher and futher.

 Things pretty much stood still for about four years. I was desperate to find something that would make my hair start growing again. I had no problem growing my hair longer; it just wouldn't grow from my scalp in places where a follicle desert occurred.

 Being a Leo, I had always had "cat whiskers" on the sides of my head...I liked to visually extend the width of my long face by softly displaying my hair near my ears. Well, that's coming to a screeching halt! There's no hair left there, and the lack thereof makes it nearly impossible to create a decent coiffure any longer.  I dread a hard breeze because I could lose my dignity and pathetic, remaining wisps faster than Donald Trump at an outside news conference.

  I've dreamed of just buzzing my head the way the punksters do, thus creating a top knot and pulling the remaining hair back in a ponytail. Stay tuned for that possibility.

 And now to close...I'm too opposed to a wig because it disallows the freedom I want in my life. Still, I cling to the last of my hair because I want to appear "normal" to others though I know I'm not. I'm sure I will be forced to come to grips with my ego sooner or later. After all, I'm not dying...at least, not on the outside.

There's too much crochet in this world!

If I were a chicken, I'd be overcooked by now, considering the way I've been stewing! I uncovered several large plastic tubs of collected lace, handwork, and vintage treasures a few days ago. Having gone on a tear to remove the clutter from my life, I found sadly that my cleansing whirlwind didn't work! It only forced me to look at and handle each piece of crochet and every white tucked, embroidered Victorian undergarment with a loving, but critical eye. It will be necessary to bring this collection into prominence as something worthy of keeping, not only because of its beauty,  but because it can take its proper place in this disposal society in which we live .  I have been duely inspired by blogs which repurpose common articles, and I'm waiting right now for a  NEW idea to strike me...a thought which wouldl knock the blogging community on its collective ass after it assesses my remakes as  SO clever. Right now, I'm still thinking. I have a few items in mind, and I fully intend to wear my finished garments or display other artistic creations proudly somewhere around the house...disguised now but a living testiment to the flashing needles of industrious women everywhere in our Past.

Eight is the Magic Number

As I think back to my own experiences and reaffirm my convictions by reading the  Facebook postings of my students, I am convinced that the Eight Grade is the most fertile ground in the school yard of Life. Over and over, I am told by my students, most of whom are almost "decades" old (no offense intended!) that they will "always" remember a certain special moment.  Sadly, my mind is so clogged with such images that one moment runs into the next: red blurs into white and becomes pink! But even pink can be unforgettable.

Once upon a time there was an extra-curricular activitiy at a rural Florida middle school. We teachers were "forced" by our administration to pick a subject with which to impact our students  in a favorable way in less than  fifty minutes . Two of my clueless fellow-teachers and I decided to host an adolescent beauty class. We called it Beauty Forum...pretty generous title considering most of the girls were ignorant of most cosmetic applications...but if beauty constitues a forum, we had 100%, for THEY were all beauties!

 Those little chicks hit the Girls Locker room doors with the enthusiasm of seasoned shoppers with special tickes to  a 99 cent sale at Macy's. Despite the overage of feminine pulcritude, the girls were orderly, refraining from gender squealing and wasting  precious seconds. Those fifty minutes were like pure gold to my little women as they feverishly applied donated mascara with the deft applications of makeup pros . Those little wigets had done a speedy return on the usually "slower than molasses in January" permission slips signed by their parents (I HOPED the parents had signed them.) These  same notes testified to the  parents' approval of the beginnings of a long journey down a slippery slope...one that would allow these makeup virgins to emerge more grownup than their parents could ever imagine.  And this evolution started with a pot of lip gloss and a sparkly bottle of nail polish. It ended with new hair cuts, lasting impressions, and the assurance of a magic wand forever changing an image in the mirror---and so, we toast our prowess and cunning at diguise: "Until the warpaint is no longer needed!" But does that ever happen, ladies?

Glenda Grows Up

It's not easy being a grownup, at least, not when it's supposedly the ONLY option left in my life.  I never used to be envious of other people with their busy agendas and places to be missed when they become no-shows. Nobody cares if I am there or not...well, JudeDog would miss me, and The Boog would definitely be wondering what happened to his meal ticket.  Even Louie would come to grips with my absence if he ran out of underwear and wondered how to get clean ones without buying new.

I just want to be mature and equitable about the time I'm wasting, knowing that there is no redux here.  Specifically, HOW does one make each day count without some sort of map of days? I'll just say that if I can be missed by my absence EVERY day, then I MUST be doing something right. I'm not saying THAT I AM, but it would be a nice rule of thumb to follow. I'm tired of trying to be clever; some days I simply feel like a loser, and I DON'T WANT TO TRY ANYMORE. Is that o.k.? Not to want to try...does that qualify as depression or just the ravings of a blubbering weinee? Reinforcement--that's the key! Be available to say, "You did a good job" even if you're looking in the mirror when you hear yourself say it.