Giant Dwarf: The Origin

So, I’d like to blame someone else for this moniker, but the truth is, it came up one day during a slow day at work, when one of the nurses put her hand up against mine and noted (as if I had never heard it before) that I have the tiniest hands she has ever seen. So I came back with the idea that my hands and feet are dwarf-sized, but I am too tall to be a dwarf, so I guess I am a “Giant Dwarf.” This was accepted heartily by the surrounding staff members and the nurse encouraged me to post it on facebook. I did. I am now the Giant Dwarf.

So the next day, she encouraged me to go by “G.D.” Now, in my business, GD is not a good thing. It means “Gravely Disabled” and it buys you at least a 3 day stay in the koo-koo’s nest. That’s not to say I’ve had moments of grave disability. Certainly, there are several nights of debauchery (mostly in my 20s of course) which could have rendered me G.D., and definitely there are times I should have been put away to keep me from some of the decisions I’ve made. But those would have put me under the criterion of “Danger to Self.”

A year ago, my friend gave me the Bad Girls’ daily calendar. It’s really not very helpful....I’m too old for it now and mostly I use it as scrap paper for telephone messages. However, one day I came across the Bad Girl “Power of Love,” in which you basically assign someone to be your power of attorney in the event you find yourself attracted to the most dangerous man or the most stupid man on earth. It’s a good idea. I’d take it one step further, though. Your friends have the power to put you on a hold. They come to your house and put you on a type of house arrest (maybe this would be better at your girlfriend’s house) for three days, with no contact with the offending object of delusional affection, until you come to your senses. If you are still not in your right mind by the end of the 72 hours, it’s time to apply for a 14 day hold, and your friend posse now has to notify your work and family.

You then follow up with occasional outpatient therapy (bitch sessions with your friends) which includes medication (namely, margaritas) and continue doing so until stabilized (kicking the dating-inappropriate-men behavior to the curb). It should be noted, however, that often people are not cured of this illness and typically require lifelong treatment. It is important for the patient (uh, girlfriend) to have a strong support system.

And that’s another reason why I started this blog. One of my strongest supporters is Miss K and she also made me do this. Well, not really. She’s been encouraging me to write for years, so here’s my shot at (non)literary fame. Personally, I think she’s just sick of picking up my pieces and buying me margaritas.

Giant Dwarf vs. Bubbles & Scott Baio

Day 3: Guess who I found in my closet?! Do you remember Rex Smith? Greg Evigan? Robby Benson? Scott Baio? How about Dirk Benedict?

Do you know how much Farrah Fawcett's famous swimsuit poster cost in 1978? It cost three bucks (and that included shipping and handling). Did you know that Willie Aames' favorite Christmas song is "Silent Night?" That Erik Estrada was hoping to find "good luck charms for his necklace" in his Christmas stocking? Do you remember when Linda Ronstadt was dating California Governor Jerry Brown?

Yeah, cool huh? I found a bunch of old Tiger Beat and Teen Beat magazines from 1978 and 1979. A few comic books, too, including a first edition of Logan's Run. I also found a journal I kept in 1992, a children's book that I not only wrote, but also illustrated and bound, back in 1978. I found a paper I wrote on the homeless problem in Arizona from 1985. And I found all of my college papers and blue books.

And as you may have already guessed, I'm not getting rid of these.

But I did manage to purge a few things today. My living room looks like a thrift shop exploded in here. The kitchen was easy. The paper monster is only as scary as I let it be. But the closets? The closets possess the mysteries of a long-extinct civilization.

I managed to 86 an old bathrobe, about two boxes of clothes, a box of shoes (is anyone out there a size 5?), finger paints, a mini-cassette recorder, a TV antenna (guess we don't need those anymore), and jewelry. Jewelry is tough to go through, since I have no idea what the value might be. However, I know full well that if I purchased the bauble myself, it has no value. So there's a bunch of Claire's jewelry ready for donation.

In the process of doing this, I found a light blue, fake fur PowerPuff Girls jewelry box. I've had it for years (I had a PowerPuff Girls obsession back in 2000) but I had no idea what was in it. Opening the lid, the first thing I see is Bubbles, popping up a la the old little girls' jewelry boxes' ballerinas. She doesn't dance, but she's on a spring, so she kind of wiggles. There's a mirror behind her, which is completely useless unless I want to see what the back of Bubbles looks like.

And what is in this classy little jewelry box? Oh, what any girl would have in there. A gold heart, a crystal from Sedona, a package of bindis, a pair of Thumb-Ease massagers, sexy dice which instruct you on what to do and where to do it, and a penis pacifier. Yes, you read that right. A penis pacifier. That's what I've been storing in there all these years.

So, sometime I'll have to tell you about my old job selling sex toys at house parties. Good times.

I'm keeping the Bubbles Box too.

Giant Dwarf vs. The Paper Monster

(First of all, a big hug and thank you to Miss K for being my first fan/subscriber, a decision which I'm sure she'll come to regret in only a few days, but a decision which boosted my ego and made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.)

So here's how it's going today:

Hello Kitty is a pussycat compared to this challenge. Day 2 of Operation Apartment Purge had no schedule. I knew it was going to be paper-purge and, last night, I slept accordingly. That would be in fits and starts, and with truly weird dreams.

Paper is my nemesis. If I piled all the paper products in my apartment (not including books), I truly believe the pile would be taller than I am. Possibly twice as tall. Going through my paper detritus is an arduous and necessary experience, and it sucks the life out of me, mostly because, as I do it, I have to wonder where I placed my mind while I collected all of these pieces of useless information.

Magazines. As of this moment, I subscribe to the following: BUST and Consumer Reports. I keep these, because I think BUST was a revolutionary 'zine when it first started (and when I picked up my first copy) back in 1993 and because Consumer Reports is also revolutionary mainly for the reasons that they are unbiased and take no advertising revenue. Also, Consumer Reports is actually a useful reference. My mom buys me a yearly subscription to Lilith, and I used to get the Harvard Women's Health Watch. Through various memberships, I get Westways Magazine and Contemporary Sexuality. Keeping up? Wait, it gets better.

I like Los Angeles Magazine, and often think of subscribing, but seeing the list above has convinced me to back off. And, several months ago, I signed up for 2 weeks of unlimited yoga at YogaWorks and then suddenly I began receiving Yoga Journal. Now, really, why? I don't practice often enough to gain any benefit from this magazine, which is clearly targeted to people who not only practice yoga often, but who also have a lot of money. Although, I have to admit that I've been tempted by the multiple ads for the Shakti Mat.....who doesn't want to sleep on a pretty, bright orange bed of nails?

Then, there are the magazines I pick up when I'm feeling particularly low blood sugar. Like, when I was shopping for a wedding gift at the Container Store (like I even need to set foot in that place) and was seduced at the check-out counter by Real Simple. Which is exactly what it is: real simple reading. Unfortunately, I fall victim to this magazine, dog-earring pages I want to come back to, convinced that I need various recipes and appliances.

(Again, those of you who know me may stop laughing now. I do cook every now and then. About once a year or so, so I need recipes for when I am inspired.)

As I went through the magazine, I seriously had to question my sanity in regards to what I had considered important enough to dog-ear: home office tips? Really? I'm currently sitting on the couch, racing against time with my computer battery and listening to heavy metal music. This is my home office. Not some ergonomically correct extra room (which I don't have) with a perfect filing system. If I had that, I seriously doubt I would be battling the Paper Monster (I know what you're thinking, Miss K, but I do believe that I would be a more organized person if I had an extra room).

So I have to go through all these magazines before throwing them in the recycling bin to make sure I'm not tossing anything IMPORTANT. This takes time and kills valuable brain cells.

Oh, it gets worse. Then I found a conference swag bag full of......professional continuing education notes, powerpoint printouts, and vendor information. From last year. More precisely, some were from almost two years ago. Clearly, the education I received at these conferences was really important to my daily professional life. While no one who knows me is likely surprised by this, I do have a rather humorous kicker to this story: not only did I find my Certificate of Completion for one of these conferences, I found my colleague's Certificate as well. We went to the conference in February of this year. Obviously, she got about as much out of it as I did.

Just for shits and giggles, here is what else I found in the conference swag bag: a printout of Hammurabi's Code of Laws (I am not kidding), an article on presidential candidate military service from the September 2004 Vanity Fair (likely stolen from work), a short play by Tony Kushner (from the March 2003 issue of The Nation), some lunatic's 54-page treatise on "The Hidden Side of Psychiatry," and an article on various medical creeds and oaths throughout history (published in 1997, but I'm fairly positive that I haven't had it since then).

Oh, and a teddy bear.

Giant Dwarf vs. Hello Kitty

I've been encouraged by a few people to write a blog, but the reason I'm starting it now is because, when I told C. I was going to take a "staycation" this week and purge stuff from my apartment, she suggested that I blog about it. So this may not be interesting to everyone else, but C. better be reading.

I originally asked for this week off to go to a destination wedding. When I realized that (A) I couldn't bring a date, and (B) I wouldn't know any of the guests, I decided to stay at home and do what I've been needing to do for, well, years.

I come from hoarding stock. Well, only one generation. My grandparents weren't packrats, per se. They had lots of stuff, but I wasn't scared to open the closets. My mother, however, has a problem. My father is continually offering to rent a giant dumpster and get rid of all the collected crap, but my mother laughs it off, clearly hiding the anguish she is experiencing at the thought of this activity.

The good news is, I'm not a terrible hoarder. But I do let things get out of control and have to find time to get them in control. To my credit, I believe some of this has to do with my height. For instance, my kitchen cabinets are so high that I can only reach the first set of shelves. Everything above that requires a step-stool and thus, as new things get added, old things just move to the back. I discovered this today as I tackled my kitchen.

Now, first I must tell you, I made a schedule for this first day of my purge. Why? Well, I may not be a certifiable hoarder, but I am definitely a textbook procrastinator. Left to my own devices, I would sleep till noon, watch movies all afternoon, maybe take a walk, then futz on the computer. Then, around 10:00 pm, I would get this enormous burst of energy, whirl through my tasks, and then leave a mess to deal with in the morning. Thus, a schedule is required.

I did allow myself to sleep in today. For those of you who know my work schedule, you are probably laughing, thinking "Jeez, how much later can she sleep?" Good question. I woke up at my normal waking hour this morning, but the best part was that I got to move slowly and I didn't have to get ready for work.

I'll blog on my battle with the health insurance company another time. It's a whole other entry. Suffice it to say, however, that it put my whole schedule off. I'll also write about my yoga class another time as well....I've just started taking Iyengar Yoga and I truly believe it is a form of torture. Anyhoo.......

The Kitchen. Holy shitballs. I have half a truckbed of stuff just from there. (And many thanks to A. for coming over and helping me, despite his easy distractibility.) Does anyone still use a breadmaker? I actually did use mine....back in 1999. And does anyone know if canned food actually goes bad? I mean, there are sell-by dates on the cans, but really? Wouldn't they still be edible? I got rid of 7 vases, multiple "Tupperware"-like containers, a wine carrier, a lamp (yes, in my kitchen), a juicer (not the fancy kind), cups, tins, a dozen or so mini-liquor bottles (which I gave to A. as compensation for helping me today), oh wow, lots of things. I was doing well until I had my first emotional crisis. It's in the "to go" pile, but I don't know if I can go through with it.

It's my Hello Kitty Sandwich Maker. I love it. I haven't used it in years, but it was well-loved when I did use it. I inaugurated it for White Trash party where I made grilled cheese sandwiches on the press (which emblazoned faces of Hello Kitty on the bread slices) and my friend J. made Spam musubi. We served Strawberry Hill and watched Glitter and Crossroads. It was perfect. And so were the grilled cheese sandwiches. How can I get rid of that kind of memory?

And therein lies the problem. So I'm going to sleep on it. I have three more days of purge. I'm sure I'll see a sign.