Ok, so I survived the dentist yesterday. The appointment took about 10 minutes, was absolutely painless and very effective. The dentist was all “Why didn’t you come in? There was no reason to suffer that pain for so long for such a little thing?” and I was all “I was scared,” and then he was “but I’m not scary, am I? You can talk to me” and then I went “it wasn’t rational. If it was rational I would have come in.”
But it didn’t hurt, he didn’t charge me and it doesn’t hurt any more. It was just a bit of sticky-out filling that was bumping out into my bite and needed filing down so it didn’t echo impact up into my jaw. So now it’s all nice and I am much braver about the dentist. He had to remind me: “But that last time was a root canal. That’s the most painful thing you can have done. Nothing else will hurt like that.” I can’t help these things.
I was pretty brave all up. I only teared up a bit when I told him I was scared. I don’t know what my problem is – I can get up in front of a few hundred people and do a bit of strutting and telling of shit. I can get up in front of zillions of people and dance like a fool (with authentic chicken steps and all*), do the worm and so on. I can deal with aggressive bullying blokes. I can teach groups of surly teenagers about the internet. I can run massive week-long dance events. I can play music to ensure a room full of picky dancers have a good time. But I can’t handle a bit of pain.
Sigh. Something to work on, I guess.
So I go back in a year for a regular check up. I’m sure I’ll be back to my pre-surprise-root-canal bravery by then.
On other fronts, I went to yoga again today. That’s two weeks since last time. I suck, because I love yoga, it makes me feel so good (though it’s hurting at the moment), it helps me avoid injuries and muscle strain in dance and it’s fun and social with lots of nice nannas. But I went, and that’s what counts.
Then I went to Sugardough and had a nice salad roll and a cup of tea followed by a nice brownie. Then I bought an olive bread thing (like a skinny french loaf, but not as skinny as those Italian bread stick things – help me out here, Galaxy, will you?) which I love eating toasted with fetta cheese on top.
Then I went to the-fabric-store-whose-name-we-cannot-speak and bought too much fabric. I will blog images if I can ever get them off The Squeeze’s camera (I have a backlog on there). I bought:
- some black stuff to make a dress for The Squeeze’s sister’s wedding (two weeks away or something). It will have straps, a high waist (sort of empire-lined, but A-line skirt), a bodice that’s in three bits (I’ve forgotten the proper name, but it gives a more fitted look) and I’m going to make some little flower petals or some sort of shaped pieces to sew onto the front to add detail. I have a nice purple version I should also blog – I’m too fat for it these days, but it’s still one of my favourites. The shaped bits will be like petals (two pieces sewn together to give a bit of a 3D look) and are a black-on-purple paisley-esque print. Very tasteful.
- some cream background craft fabric with nice green crocodiles printed. This will be a bodice for a dress with a high waist (again – it makes my body look longer), with the sirt made out of an interesting greeny patterned craft fabric. All crocodiles would have been fun, but perhaps a bit too unflattering. I like interesting prints, so I wouldn’t have minded the crocodiles all over. Just not the cream background. It will have the green as bias binding around the top of the bodice, and maybe the straps will be the green as well. I’m thinking a crocodile pocket as well. But I haven’t decided on the pattern yet. If I love this dress, it may be the wedding outfit. But it’s my first green dress ever and I usually don’t like any colour that’s not black, purple, pink, red, maroon or some other warm colour. I look shit in blues and greens and whites and yellows and oranges (because I am ‘olive’ coloured. Which means I look yellow when I don’t have a tan, which means I look a little jaundiced. I also have dark eyes and eyebrows)
- two big pieces of white voile with black prints. One is a nice rose sort of pattern (like a line drawing – I know it has a real name but I’ve forgotten it). The other has a stronger black print and is William Morris-ish. I doubt I’ll ever make anything from them but I like looking them. And as we all know, she who dies with the most fabric wins.
Come on, summer, get over yourself. I have a new project to finish and it sucks to have to put the fan on so I can bear to work on it.
Remind me to post some pics of my latest (divine) job, will you? I am all about quilting using found or remnant fabrics, so most of my quilts are quite small, but also quite beautiful**. It’s nice to see vintage fabrics from which I made favourite dresses (which died ages ago) all matched up in one quilt.
Yesterday I saw Leonard Cohen: I’m Your Man and really enjoyed it. I’m a big fan of Cohen’s music and I really liked all the music in the film. It’s a doco, but a pretty arty farty one (not much useful knowledge in there), and it’s mostly footage of other people at a concert singing Cohen’s songs. Rufus Wainwright does a freaking amazing version of Everybody Knows which blew my brain and made the whole film worth the entry cost.
It does, however have fucking Bono and The Edge talking about Cohen and performing with him. I wanted to scream profanities at them. I fucking hate U2. I fucking hate Bono. He sucks arse. And can’t sing half as well as he thinks he can. And the Edge? Shit, I could play guitar better than him. It was so pathetic to see them playing with Cohen after people like the Wainwrights, the Handsome Family, Nick Cave and Jarvis Cocker doing these wonderful, interesting versions of Cohen’s music. And Bono is suck a wanker. I mean, Hallelujah is a wonderful song, but so freaking obvious.
But aside from thaose nasty little Irish moments, the film was neat. Go if you love Cohen, but don’t go if you don’t like him. It’d suck if you didn’t like him.
*the peck is a very Frankie Manning move. These days I am saying “what would Frankie do?” whenever I want to spice up a basic step. So I imagine I have a giant, 90-year-old-man arse, an interest in boobs and a really low centre of gravity. It really helps me get down off my toes and work it. Just like a dirty old man.
** not in a ‘man, you’re so talented! what a fabulous bit of patchwork/quilting!’ way, but in a ‘aren’t they nice fabrics?’ way.