Dining

Moby has been enjoying his food up on his stool this week. On a whim, when he'd seen the food put down, wandered off, jumped up on his perch, looked at where we'd put it, we asked. "Do you want it up there?" We brought it to him, and he tucked in. And a few other times we've done the same. Well, it's no trouble to us, it pleases him, we accommodate. What some people would call "spoiling" him. And I wonder, how? He's a cat, he likes comforts, as do we. We sometimes eat at a table, sometimes on the sofa, why be more stringent with him? Not like a dog who begs and bothers for people food, Moby's not interested in most of what we eat. "What is that you have? That's not food, ugh, I'll never understand you."

We create the same spaces for each other. After nearly twenty years, and innumerable moves, I can't even remember what those adjustments were anymore. But if one of us likes something, and it's not a huge inconvenience to the other, it's fine, no question. D is awake at night a lot, lights wake me up at night, whereas sounds do not. So, he can play his guitar softly or turn on the TV in the wee hours, but we have a red lightbulb in the main room that doesn't wake me. (The way into the bathroom and litter boxes is through the bedroom, and Moby doesn't have opposable thumbs to open the door if it's not left ajar, you see.)

So different from my erratic father's insistence that I had it so easy, I was so "spoiled" but I would learn that the "real world" would treat me so much worse, and I had to learn. He would turn on the 100 watt light in the upstairs hall to wake me, painfully. I would not be left alone to read. So many unnecessary restrictions, because of what he just didn't like. Funny, nothing was ever quite so bad as being a child in his house, under his authority. Even my time with the ex, worse in some ways, (I could not twist my toes* with my fingers without being informed that I was "doing that again") at least it was in my power to walk away†. The Army was easier, as it had clear rules and limits, and the sergeants were utterly in control of themselves.


There is a Sacred Harp song called Love At Home that always chokes me up a little. Love at home I will never take for granted, as it took so long to be the heart of my life. I have come to believe it is only when we have some small refuge, where we can be at peace, and are beloved, and can pour out our love, that we become most human. Without that, we need to form a hard crust to carry on. To grow up that way meant having to learn later how to be open, how to trust, how to be at ease, to let go of the anger and irrelevant insistences. I still have a lot of BCBs (Burnt Crunchy Bits.)‡

It grows easier. With each day, each year together, we find a deeper ease, a gentler way to live.




*I had inturned feet as a child, with toes that piled up on each other. So I took it on myself to mould them down. Since I started when I was so small, it actually worked, and it is an lifetime habit of comfort. My toes are in a pretty normal position today, because of my persistence.

†After I took my hands away, and put on shoes and socks, of course.

‡A reference to the Fifth Elephant, Terry Pratchett.

Toothbrushes

Twenty years ago, I was stuck in a kind of hell, struggling to get out. By August, with the help of friends I didn't realize were such good friends, I escaped, ransomed my own life, and began a year of changes that would end with celebrating D's birthday and a return to a home. Little did I know then, although everyone in our guard unit had an opinion of what our fate would be in the threatening conflict. Most figured we'd be deployed stateside, some that it would all blow over, few guessed we'd be sent overseas, and they figured it would be Europe, not the Middle East. No one guessed six months in Saudi Arabia, in a footnote war. That the real conflict would begin long after, and still be running two decades later.

The weekend after Thanksgiving, we'd all be loading our duffle bags, writing wills, hoping our contingency plans would hold up, and walking into the unknowable. We got on busses alphabetically to be shipped to Colorado for a while.

On the way, the romance between D and I took a few more hesitant steps. At stops, he found me, (since our last names were not close) gave me the lyrics for The End Of The World As We Know It, written out on a little notepad. We got together at the breakfast served at the HoJos, and snagged the disposable toothbrushes, much appreciated after a long night on the bus, despite bristles that came out in one's mouth. I didn't really know what to make of him, then. So skittish myself, reading into every gesture, tone, word. Little could I tell he would be my life and joy.

We look left and right, we look backward and forward, but we live right now.

Sheepcat

Moby has never been one to sit on laps. I can count the number of times he has done so. He'll sit on the armrest of the couch closeby, or on us if we are in bed lying down, but not next to us sitting up. Until the sheepskin. D and I can sit here, and Moby will take the other half...

Hard freeze, more snow flurrying, nothing of yesterday 's snow stuck down here, although the mountains are white. Not unheard of, but not all that usual, either. In Boston, to be expected. In Detroit, I saw it snow on the first and last days of school (the kind of thing a weather-geek-kid would remember), which is to say very early June, and very late August, so an April snow there is just barely cause for comment. May snow, that will be pretty odd, here.

This is not like a Boston spring. The winds won't bite all day, the snow won't turn to ice underfoot for a week, tomorrow could be mild. The atmosphere isn't thick enough to maintain a constant temperature.

Finding myself letting the little irritations bother me this week. The drivers who can't stay in their lanes, nor come within a car length of the line at the intersection. Or the ones who brake for GREEN lights. Scares me, and notifies me of an idiot behind the wheel. Possibly exacerbated by cell phones/texting.

Also had to try to teach a float nurse our computer charting last week. She just couldn't get it, not from several of us who tried over several days. Each day was a new day for her, to the point that I wonder if she should get checked for, say, early onset Alzheimer's. We all struggled with the new charting, but within a day, or about 4-6 charts, we all pretty much had it down, bar the swearing (which continues, to be honest.) The one thing that really drives me nuts with the computer-hesitant is the insistence on using the little slider in the slider bar, instead of clicking in the long bar to page up or down. To the point that they won't even try for the larger target. And I know I used to frustrate D with my inability to use shortcuts, but I did, at least, try. I did eventually use some of them.

Thick

More snow this morning, thick and fast through the day. At least I got to catch glimpses through the windows. A cougar was spotted by one of the staff early on. Strange and thrashy weather. I can't help but think about the absolute statement heard last week that the Icelandic volcano would have no effect on US weather, and thought, well, prove it. Not that this gout of very late season snow is unprecedented, but it is damn rare. And I'm not convinced it couldn't be a result of ash in the jet stream finding it's way around.

Got very dark very suddenly at 1930, waves of snow curtained down. Snow still on the mountains, but just rain down here in the valley.

Moby having a hard day, with repeated fire alarms this afternoon. At least D was here to be of some comfort. He's pretty calm now, got to watch a few birds right before the storm hit. He's vacillating between lurking under the bed and hanging around close to us.

Dampness

He was outside on the balcony, in his corner. Until it started snow/raining on him. He's a bit damp and ruffled.

Niches

Pouring rain, lovely and cool and damping down the dust.

We went to the Hong Kong Tea House last evening, needing a good meal. The music on was piano covers of old pop music. Rather amazes me that a radio station playing such pap still exists. And for me, overexposed to these tunes because I was young and listened to the radio constantly - unaware of the toxic effects - the words I once memorized sing along in my head. Not as if I so loved pop music, I just sponged up any song and learned the words to sing along. Only rarely did I hear music that really reached inside and resonated.

My mother complained of song when "you can't understand the words." As well as paintings when "you can't tell what it is." For me, music and art are not about literal interpretation, that's what literature is for. Music is about how it feels.

The music that appealed to me barely peeked into my life, and usually in the most commercial form, ie Simon & Garfunkel. I remember the first time exposed to the biwa, Japanese tones, while my mother reacted as though it were fingernails on a chalkboard, and for me it was like my first lick of mole negro - magnetic. My tastes run to music with edges, raw and melodious together, indigenous and complex. Not much of that available on the radio of the 60s and 70s.

Although it was through radio I found more and more of the kinds of music that energize me, from They Might Be Giants (first heard on All Things Considered) to Kate McGarrigle (on the local community radio station.) D got me into The Clash and Bob Dylan. Obviously, it took a long time for me to gather the music that resounds in me. I don't claim it's great, only that it gets in my head in a good way. Unlike all the pop songs that turn into ear worms.

I'm glad of the internet that allows access to niche artists, music from all over the world, bands that the big record labels would snub.

Prayer

Put up the prayer flags over the weekend. Enough wind to be taking them to any god.


I wanted to like The Runaways, because I feel I owe Joan Jett one, and D wanted to GO TO a movie, this one in particular. I saw Joan Jett when she opened for The Police on their Synchronicity tour, in Detroit. Big arena show. She did a great job, but the crowd was a bad fit, and turned rude and nasty. I clapped, rather impressed, especially since she's really not to my taste generally, and felt very bad for her reception.

But the movie, it's a mess. It's mostly about Cherie Curry, who I don't know, or care about. The writing has no wit, no charm, it reads more like an After School Special, without the moralizing. Maybe. The direction seems to be aiming toward satirizing the rock band movies and bioflicks of the '80s, but never goes far enough to appear as satire. There's even a headline montage to music, but it conforms to norms, it doesn't even bother to mock them. For the first half hour, except for the Jett character (who is compelling, no question) I had no idea who anyone was supposed to be. The first shot is provocative in the most offensive for the sake of being offensive (which doesn't offend me, but it does tell me what the filmmaker's mindset is) way. Teenage fuckupedness, drug use, sexual experimentation and mild criminality don't shock me so much as concern me, and the focus on it in this movie just feels exploitative or perversely moralistic.

Too bad, girls in Punk, could be interesting. Joan Jett, lots of really interesting stories there. Needed a real writer, and a real director, didn't get it. Hated how much time was given to the Kim Fowley character. Can't fault the acting, but the film sucked.

Storm blowing through. Yes, gusting to 51 there. Warm, still. Lots of dust in the air. Shoving the car around on the way home.
27 Apr 7:25 pm 72 21 15 S 30G51 1.50 BLDU BKN009 OVC011
Going to change overnight.

And tomorrow?
Rain showers before noon, then rain and snow showers likely. Some thunder is also possible. Snow level 6200 feet lowering to 4400 feet in the afternoon . High near 50. Breezy, with a west northwest wind between 22 and 29 mph, with gusts as high as 43 mph. Chance of precipitation is 90%. New snow accumulation of less than a half inch possible.

Mystery

Mystery Train is one of those elusive movies, that I'd only seen in bits before yesterday. We got it from the library, and watched through. Odd and oddly engaging, as I have found Jarmusch's movies to be. I'd seen Stranger Than Paradise when it first came out at the Detroit Institute of Arts theater, an experience that baffled me and stuck to me. We'd gotten Dead Man last week, and it left much the same impression, if more violently. Mystery Train charms with more humor, largely due to the two Japanese actors who set the scene, the outskirts of Memphis as an alien world. Particularly Youki Kudoh, who I also loved in Picture Bride. And I want to find Cold Fever again, for the sake of Masatoshi Nagase.

A slow film, willing to linger on details, and simply gaze, unafraid of silence and ambiguity. Expect no explanation, since none will be given. Only a sly insight into our disjointed perceptions, that often, life is like that. One of those movies where I can smell the heavy humidity, the musty hotel, feel my feet ache with too much walking along cracked sidewalks.


Gave Moby a good brushing, that thinned out that winter undercoat of lighter fur. He luxuriated into the grooming.

Bopped

There are days when I miss Boston with all my heart. We couldn't keep living there, we knew that, but we also knew there were aspects of living there we would miss all our lives. The trains, walking all over, the beauty of the place, people who knew how to move through and with a crowd, India Quality, the bay and ferries to go upon it, the weather (I'm not kidding, I like rain and winter.) But such is life, we have to go and live where we can live.

Today, while managing a few errands and a simple nourishing lunch, I was twice, Twice, bumped by older women taking up way too much space and their large purses. One came through a door I was already going through, and she made no effort to sidle or pull in her huge bag. I may have, quite accidentally, jabbed her bulging arm as I fended off her bag and squeezed past. Then, waiting at the cashier at Ace Hardware, another woman, talking to her family, came up, turned and her leather sack purse hit me in the back. Not a tight space, plenty of room, and she continued to talk to her group, not a murmured "s'cuse." I moved away from her, and struck out my foot to keep her from backing into me, and got my elbow ready. We came home right after, tired of the local manners, and to prevent me ramming my elbow into the next woman with a bag who couldn't keep to herself.

Once, years ago, in the heavily crowded local airport (before all the security changes) two elegantly dressed women stood at the bottom of the escalator, chatting to each other, oblivious to all around, forcing everyone getting off to awkwardly inch around them to get off. As I stepped off, carrying my tightly packed, gym bag carryon, I may, possibly, have - entirely by accident - whacked one or both of them with it. I did clearly say, "oh, excuse me." Honestly.

People in this state are prone to private conversations across halls, forcing people to walk between them, or in the most inconvenient narrowing of a pathway, doorways. They are awkward walking along sidewalks, taking their half out of the middle, and give false cues as to their movements in our cavernous grocery stores, negating the apparent open space.

D once saw our governor at the time, in conversation, and blocking the exit of the grocery store. He wanted to say something rude and sharp, but decided he didn't want the potential legal attention. And he grew up here.

sigh

Tight

Vivid dreams of searching for a toilet with sufficient, any, privacy. I get these, once in a while.

D eager to be out and about, while I hunkered down and endured the wave of hormonal side effects. I complain of it every month, and shall continue to do so until it leaves me be. So there. D may return with chocolate.

The red wool blanket is sadly in need of washing, and I wonder if a simple cold water, delicate wash and lay flat would not do as well as a dry clean. It shrank decades ago, before it was mine, before I was me. Should be fine.

Moby in his tight spot on the balcony, beside the AC unit, snug and sunny. The grass is a joy to him.

Tried writing again of love and keep getting tangled, the words obscuring my meaning, my thoughts.

Suey

Once, long ago, there was a place called Chop Suey Luey's. They delivered good Chinese food, and if you asked for the Chicken curry extra hot, they believed. Amazing stuff, sinus clearing and full of happy. But the restaurant changed hands, closed, and the best egg rolls ever seemed to be gone as all must pass away. This was years ago, before we left for Boston.

Once we moved closer to downtown, we looked for places that would bring us food, for those evenings after work when I cannot bear to drive, nor even to think of leaving the apartment. And we both simply want dinner and to indulge our agoraphobia. So, we poked around for same. And found Canton Village.

As soon as we tasted the curry chicken we knew. Had to be at least some of the same people running it. The egg rolls are different, and crispy bits of heaven. So every other week, sometimes less, we get a decent, and much needed meal, from them. They've finally figured out how to get into and around this building, after a few early bumps. And I've also come to treasure their wonton soup, pot stickers, & ham fried rice. The only element missing, and it vanished during the waning CSL days, was plum sauce, little packets of paradise. I've never tasted the like.

Nothing is perfect. And that is beautiful.

Moby spotted a young bird on the balcony. Now he's in the Fortress, resting from the excitement.

Wall

The book hit the wall. A philosopher who lived with a wolf. Ok, rescue a wolf raised in captivity, give it a decent life, train it as well as possible, fine. But justify BUYIING it as a puppy, without acknowledging that one is supporting illegal breeders who sell these wild animals to whatever fucktard with $500 will buy them, then leave them chained in a yard the rest of their pitiful lives, is willful stupidity. I can forgive ignorance, I have no patience for willful idiots with education. Just because he did better with the wolf he cared for, he still gave his money to someone who won't ensure that others WON'T, so he IS part of the problem, no matter how he justifies it.

Right up there with justifiers of abortion doctor murderers. Now, if one works all their lives to make sure every child has a home, a decent upbringing, free from hunger and abuse at very least, And Succeeds - then, and ONLY then, when they can rightfully argue that there is no reason for abortion, because every child is wanted, can one make a moral argument against abortion. Anything else is self indulgent wankery. Especially for men who will never have to make this agonizing decision.

If I contribute to a problem, I have no right justifying those who fail to solve it at the end stage. I have to work toward solving the root of it, or shut the fuck up about band-aid, easy solutions that satisfy the urge to enact revenge. Put money in the hands of the users, and justify it by your own lack of malice, and the evil is still being funded. Violence is easy, dealing with the side effects of violence is not. I don't want to live with myself as a violent person, I want to be compassionate. I want peace and gentleness. So I have to make peaceful, gentle choices. Every moment. So I cannot support the death penalty, because although it certainly stops that individual murderer or killing again, what does it do to us? We become killers, and the blood is on our hands.

So I look at the death penalty not as a solution to murderers, but as a stain on the soul of my own culture. Offering them assisted suicide I am good with. But only inasmuch as it is equally accessable to the terminally ill and those in intractable pain. I want this available for me, I want the humane euthanasia option, without the interference of the godbotherers.

But then, I have nothing but ridiculing contempt for organized religion and irrational faith, especially those that want to impose their dogma on me, without a rational moral compass and consistent ethics.

Get the damn plank out of your own eye, just as I prefer to get that wood out of my own, first. Only then do we have any right to condemn each other. And by then, we should not want to.

No one can make anyone do anything. We can only control ourselves, and we'd best be on about it. Do or do not, but don't justify evil.

Can you tell I got stuck in the staff room during a particularly ignorant discussion this week? And kept my thoughts to myself, as per.

Ma'am

Dooce writes about being called Ma'am. Like her, I've found most women hate it, equate it with being called "Old woman" or even "matronly." Sad, that being a grown woman is felt to be such an insult. When the last generation fought so hard not to be called Girl. (Or honey, sweetie, dearie, chick, broad, dame, etc.) Same generation now seems to want to be Girls.

Me, I like Ma'am! I like the respect, the deference to the gathering years. Partly it is because I did the military thing, and female officers are Ma'am. Like Sir, but with a tinge of fear. I don't care for Mrs. Can't say I've ever been called Mrs.S, or Mrs. W. The title before the name has disappeared from this culture, even in written form it's very rare. And not missed, since it clearly denoted married status. I asked for Ms if there was a form requiring a title, many years ago. Can't remember the last time that was even an issue. But the Miss, Mrs. Ms. means a last name will follow. Ma'am is for short, for if the name has escaped memory. It would be useful for those of us who never could remember names well, but it causes so much unintended offense.

All in all, I'm glad to simply use my two names, or just one, either one. (In the Army, it was just my last name, and I will respond to the current last name quite well, still.) Kept my original (mostly unpronounceable) "S-Alphabet" name throughout the first "marriage." Took me seven years for me to share D's family name (W), due to being in school, military, where the change would have been an unnecessary complication. This week we had a hard time finding a patient who had to reschedule her surgery. She'd gotten married in the two week gap, and confusion ensued, because she also changed her name in the interim.

But, for me, ma'am will do.

Snuggle

The Out Moby prefers to that Cold Out that makes him shake his paws in disgust. No birds, yet, though. But grass to eat, so that's good.

Sir

D has found "I've Never Seen Star Wars." One guest had never read a Terry Pratchett book, and was given The Colour of Magic, and hated it. I really can't blame him, it's not a great example of Pratchett's work, and although interesting for references later, it's not where I'd start out someone who is on record as not liking fantasy, nor specifically comic novels. Reading a parody of a genre one is not fond of nor familiar with is just not going to work well. D has never managed to get through it at all.

We have both been reading Pratchett for a long time, and not all the books are great. Some are formulaic, others are developing ideas that bear fruit a few books on. He has become a powerful novelist, but not all of them were fabulous, even if all of them have at least a few good ideas and great lines. D went through a phase of just not liking them at all, because he'd gotten tired of the "idiot breaks into the Demon Dimensions, and Rincewind runs away" ploy. Pratchett himself seems to realize this, as he has the Patrician assure himself that this is not going to happen in The Truth, as it had in Moving Pictures and Soul Music.

A few men who read Pratchett have expressed disinterest in Granny Weatherwax, one of my favorite characters ever. Taking a step back, she has a kind of one-note quality, unless you listen closely. She's always right, except when she isn't. I would love to get a young girl reading all the Witch books, which are more about these characters and less about the plots. Which may be why the guys are less interested in them. But they also became a formula, danger threatens Lancre, witches fight it off, peace of a sort is restored. And he did a lot of them, six to date, with Granny showing up in even more. She's always there, keeping a (very) sharp eye on things. But I'm glad that likewise, the older major characters, like Mustrum Ridcully, seem to have taken on emeritus roles, stealing a scene or two from the younger leads.

I have never been fond of Rincewind, and Erik capped it for me. Short as it is, I don't think I've ever finished it, although I've tried again recently just to catch a few references in later books. Hated The Last Continent, although I could read it second time through, skimming a bit, and it wasn't as bad as I remembered. I always figured it more as a fantasy travelogue written while under the influence of a lot of beer, than as something to actually read.

The books I would recommend to a new reader would be the stand alone novels, without the recurring characters. Although I love the Watch books, Guards! Guards! Men at Arms and Feet of Clay as they lay the groundwork for probably the strongest novel, Night Watch, I would not start someone there, mostly because the first two, in particular, are still more parody than book. Like Masquerade is a parody of Phantom of the Opera, and other pop culture references of that year. His parodies just don't hold up as well. The next two Watch books - with the fascinating Commander Sir Samuel Vimes - The Fifth Elephant and Thud! like Night Watch, have a moral center, but I think need the backstory of the first three. Maybe not, but it might be a difficult place to start reading.

No, I would start a newbie off with Hogfather, Small Gods, or Going Postal and Making Money. Even Monstrous Regiment, although I didn't much enjoy it when it came out, it has since grown on me. These are written about Christmas and belief, Gods and the dangers of belief, a con man and his adventures in public service and banking, and the women in war. Not parody of another popular work.

The other paths in, are the Tiffany Aching young adult books, simpler, more adventurous, though no less witty, and with Nac Mac Feegles.


Not to overlook DEATH who stars in several books, and makes appearances in most others, including Good Omens, although not a Discworld book. Since HE will certainly not overlook me.

So, anyone who reads just one, early Terry Pratchett novel, and won't read more, is obviously missing the many possibilities. Rather like only hearing "Love Me Do" and hating the Beatles. You may not like any of the mature work, but it's unfair to judge without another try. The good stuff often takes a while to sink in.

Pollen

D suffering badly with tree pollen allergies. Another day of open windows, until it got so warm in here we put on the AC for a while. Too early, too warm already. More laundry, to lessen the dust, vacuuming, ironing the linen clothes that may soon be needed. Or it could turn cold and wet again. Read a book. Took a walk. I'm no fan of hot weather, but the light and mild air seems to have energized me. My own eyes are itchy, sneezing and coughing, but not badly, mine usually hit a week or so after D's ebb.

Brought out garbage bags, recycled ones, that have what seems to be in incidental scent, powdery and flowery, that fades by the next day. I have grown more and more intolerant of perfume smells. Like my mother, who had to be careful where she sat in church to avoid the elderly ladies all powdered and scented. I now have the same distress, and at least as badly. Not the normal human odors, nor essential oils, but any artificial chemical smell just crawls up my nose, down to my stomach and bashes about my head, obnoxious and intrusive.

Thankfully, this is normally a minimal problem at work, since anyone with direct patient care is expected not to wear strong scent, and most follow that rule. Most patients don't waste perfume on the day of their surgery, and of those few who do, I rarely have to stay close to them for more than a few minutes. Once in a great while, someone will bathe in cologne sufficiently to permeate the room, a transient botheration in the grand scheme.

In Boston, many people believed in intense olfactory adornment. Men who seemed to be from Eastern Europe and Middle East often walked in a cloud of strong perfume. Not just them, but young women in leaving their mist of fashionable eau de toilette on benches, long minutes after they'd left.

Of course, those who do immerse themselves in scent have no idea how stinky they are. They seem to think it's pretty, and if they can't smell it on themselves - which they can't because their noses have shut down - they put more on. I have heard these people also express a horror of their own normal body odor. I can take clean sweat much more easily than headache inducing, nauseating chemistry.

I think of this while I sneeze my violent sneezes from all-natural pollen.

Clean

Up early, leaving D to try and sleep after a very bad night with allergies.

Together, later this morning, we finally got the Danish Oil on the unfinished table we bought in the going-out-of business sale from the unfinished furniture store, to use as our shared desk. Turned out better than expected. Dried several hours on the sunny balcony. Brought in table, and cleaned the winter off the balcony. Many errands run, groceries, fish & chips for lunch, seed scattered to lure birdies, heavy clothes thinned and packed away, summer clothes brought out and being washed.

Tried to find shorts, picked up some in my size that were not the abomination that is capri pants. Capris should only be worn by Audrey Hepburn, a young Mary Tyler Moore, or those who look like them. Anyone else just looks short and dumpy. And it seems, again, to be the horrid fashion of the season. So, I found what looked like a nice pair of a more typical short. Went to try them on, and got them to mid thigh. I figured they were mis-sized, which I mentioned to the sales clerk, saying I usually could fit a size smaller, but this size is more comfortable, but I could not even get them on. She said "I think those are "girls". The woman behind the door of the other changing stall laughed, then apologized. I told her "It IS funny, that's quite alright." Ah, well, at least I haven't gotten THAT large quite that fast. No new shorts for me today.

Moby got in on the idea of a good clean up. Much happier after a good brushing, thinned the undercoat. But it does require a thorough bath to follow.


One of those early spring days that demands the clearing away of detritus.

Multitask

Do you ever have one of those weeks/periods where a particular word keeps jumping into your consciousness? I often do, and this week it was "multi-tasking." In conversation, reading, news, it kept appearing, and not in a scientific way, but in a "mothers have to multitask!" and "I can text and drive, other people just can't multitask!" way. Which is, to put it mildly, fuckingbullshit. No one can multitask. Our brains just don't work that way, and it's been proven over and over. But the most distractible people I know claim they are most capable. As for those online assuring us, I have even lower expectations.

Sure, I can pull out a spoon while I pour my tea, I am not really concentrating on either very well, but it doesn't matter. Today, waiting for the light to change, I noticed the opposite direction driver looking at his lap in a way that suggested he was texting. When the light changed, and I moved out into the intersection, he didn't budge, so I did a nice Michigan turn (one car taking a left ahead of oncoming traffic at the beginning of a green was expected there.) I know better than to do so in Utah, normally. As I was in front of him, he finally looked up, and shook his finger at me. But I figured, if you're texting, I'm turning. He was so enthralled, he didn't realize how long he'd been still.

The tone of debate over the cell phone/texting while driving issue is taking on much the same key as the drunk driving issue when I was very young. The laws where mostly already there on DWI, but were winked at by some cops, and still not much of a social stigma attached to having a few drinks, then taking the wheel. Drunks were still funny, without irony or conditions. But it changed, as I grew up I felt the shift from social acceptance to calling the evil what it was. My father rarely drank, but always got (even more) belligerent when he did, and always insisted on driving (when normally he preferred my mother to drive.) My sister-in-law was hit by a drunk driver the day she found out she was pregnant for the first time, while I was visiting them, age ten. She and fetus were fine, and I never drove with alcohol in my system, in no small part because of these two examples.

We are not quite at the tipping point with those who believe they are wonderful multitaskers. Soon, I hope, but not yet. And no, women are not better at it than men. No one is good at it. Anyone who thinks they are are certainly worse, and much more dangerous. It saves no time, and costs and costs.

One thing at a time. It's a virtue.

Quake

There was a nearby earthquake yesterday, which neither of us felt, but we suspect Moby did, because he jumped up into the dryer, loudly, at the correct time. Nothing impressive, no real damage. Cat is a bit tetchy today, currently in the Fortress of Solitude.

"I kinda like it in here, it's private."

(Cat quotes Jamie Hyneman.)

I have been in one, long ago, living in Detroit in a rickety third floor apartment. All the items on top of the fridge started to rattle, and I thought there was a malfunction of the fridge itself. Then I realized the whole apartment was shaking. It didn't last long, but left a distinct impression on me. Something on the Mississippi fault, I have not been able to find record of it online, from around 1982-3, can't precisely recall the year. Still, not a part of the country where one expects such earthy shenanigans.

D has never felt one, despite living in a city on a faultline all his life. There is a park right on the edge of it, now called Faultline Gardens, it used to just be Faultline Park, and has always had swings and playground equipment. A level bit on a fairly steep hill, the linked photo flattens the terrain. An apartment complex lies just below.

Warm and windy today, with loads of tree pollen.

Fur

Moby slept a lot yesterday, too. Apparently very comfortably.






I planted the last batch of wheatgrass outside in the sun. Grass will do fine even if it still gets frosty at night. Moby approves. He's a very compact, a wrestler bodied, muscly cat. Ironic that.* And he loves grass.





*ORIGIN late Middle English : from French, from Latin musculus, diminutive of mus ‘mouse’ (some muscles being thought to be mouselike in form).

Polemic

Called off yesterday, happily. Spent the day napping and reading. Then to a play in the evening. Much needed, very tired lately. (I have had to repost this several times for severe grammar and spelling issues.)

Too bad the book was The Children's Book. I suspect there is a decent novel in there, somewhere, smothered by polemic and research and a blather of names. Perhaps were I British, I'd get enough out of that to not mind. Or a designer, then all the minute descriptions of costume and pottery would flow in a ripple of recognition. Instead, I just plowed through, skipping swathes of text lacking recognizable characters names. The extensive fairy tales, as written by the central character, were interesting, until they simply stopped the progression of the plot. All too much, and a stern editor seemed much needed.

I may have missed a bit, since I had no clear idea of why one character disintegrated so badly. In such a thick book with so much detail to skimp on that explanation seemed stingy. But then, these are people who don't talk about personal feeling, only squandering burbles of words on ideals. I did want to know how they all turned out, such a cast of thousands. Most died, some were merely broken badly, others seemed to have been forgotten. WWI is a handy literary mechanism for killing off inconvenient characters.

Immersed and irritated as I was with this, seeing a preview performance of a play about Margaret Fuller was perhaps not an ideal situation. I see myself as a dyed in the wool feminist, but I wearied of the screed and shrill insistence over twenty years ago. Revolution, progress, reform, absolutely necessary, although all the abstract theorizing and pseudo-scientific posturing written at the time is tough to swallow, or comprehend. I understand the desperate stridency in the face of such dire poverty and systemic, oppressive injustice. Doesn't make it easier to listen to.

The play had it's funny and absurd moments, thankfully. And I think the bumps and hard edges will ease as the run continues. It is rather good, or will be. But we got the tickets free, it was essentially a dress rehearsal, or the first performance past. I should have looked the main character up before, so that I could know she died young. Depictions of grief always beat tears out of me, sometimes very much against my will, especially if I'm tired. Walking out of a theater in tears, when I generally didn't much like the performance, annoyed me greatly.

As we walked to the car, two young women behind us were saying how much they liked it, calling it the best play they'd ever seen, by far. When we got in the car, I asked D if I had really gotten that cynical. He agreed with me, I'm relieved to add.

Last night, early this morning, I dreamed I was holding an elderly woman as she emerged from anesthesia. She kept wriggling, so that I had to keep pulling her back up, nudging her back to center. This is not so unusual, though it's generally younger men who are most difficult to keep on the gurney. And then, the anesthesiologist turned his head away, and she rolled off onto the floor. I couldn't stop it, couldn't reach her, being on the other side of the OR table at this point, and as I called for help, as she rolled off, no one seemed to react, and there were several in the room. With difficulty, as happens in dreams, I eventually got to her, and got help getting her up off the floor and on the gurney again, and we took her for x-rays.

Today is better, and I must tidy up the place.

Gusty

Blowing
Dust
Hi 74 °F

Gusty and dusty. Wonderful. Must get out the neti pot, again. Moby very excitable.



Thinking about the people I've met, and been subject to, who claimed to be experts at judging people, who were so wrong about me. My eldest brother, career Air Force, was the first and most persuasive. Being young, I didn't trust my own assessment of myself, but only suspected his was even more wrong. But it's human to bow to such confidence, whatever underlying revolution in my heart. He saw me as a manager of people, which I have found I have absolutely no talent for. He tried to push me away from religion when he was into all the New Age ideas, and back into it when he returned to be a staunch Catholic. What he never saw of me was my innate stubbornness that would remain standing once the decorations of my youth fell away. He never saw that I knew my own mind, and resented his meddling to the point of expelling him from my life. Probably he doesn't care, except insofar as it upsets his ideal of family.

I watch people, and although I know who I will trust at my back, that doesn't mean I know who they are, or even if I will like them. Some people I would trust with my life, I would not want to talk with over lunch, given a choice. Likewise I have friends who I could spend days chatting with, that I would not loan $20 to. Give them, sure, loan with any expectation of seeing again - not a chance. The ones I would count on to show up and help us move, the ones I would tell my most vulnerable truth to, I spotted as such pretty quickly. Charm and reliability come together, but they are very discrete traits, and do not necessarily link.

I always knew I wanted D at my back, and I liked him immensely as well. Likewise Moira, who proved herself over and over in our work together, and in our lives since. I don't pretend I can read either of their minds, only that they are both strong, courageous, and whole.

Jape

We've been watching episodes of QI, which often features Jimmy Carr, who wrote a book called Only Joking: What's So Funny About Making People Laugh? or The Naked Jape, with friend Lucy Greeves, that I have just devoured. A book discussing the theories of humor, it contains a lot of jokes and actual humor, as well as sharp insight. I think I now have a working theory about how funny men can wind up with wives who don't think them funny at all, but it's not a simple answer, based on a series of proofs. About how many young men use humor as an aggressive game, and like women who will laugh at their jokes, not challenge them back with their own. After a few years of marriage, were I a woman who couldn't tell a joke married to an aggressive jokester, I'd certainly be tired.

Thankfully, D has always loved my humor, he doesn't get the threatening joke thing at all.

A sense of humor, and the ability to joke seem to be not always evolutionarily advantageous, or maybe they are. The results are still out. Makes me think about the old ideal of "finding the cure for cancer" which is a goal that assumes that all cancers are the same, and one trick will solve the problem. Reality is proving much more complicated. So it is with humor, the why of funny is conditional, time sensitive, personal and slippery as snot.

Jesus walks into a motel, drops a bag of nails on the counter and says, "Can you put me up for the night?"

Doctor says to the patient, "You have to stop masturbating."
"Why?"
"Because I'm trying to examine you."

Dog goes to send a telegram. Clerk says, "Fine, it's five words for a dollar, what's your message?"
"Bark, bark. Bark. Bark."
"You get one more word, I could add another "bark".
Dog looks puzzled and says, "But, that wouldn't make any sense."


Of course, all the way through the book, I am thinking about the Fool's Guild in the Discworld books.
"Women are just not funny."
"Interesting dichotomy, since neither are clowns."

Respite

Today turned out beautifully. Met with an old friend, had lunch at the beloved Red Iguana, and she picked up her new Apple that was in for a glitch. Brought her here, and D got her fledged. She'll fly from there, I have no doubt, always a quick learner, and a thorough one. A photographer, an artist, a kind heart, and the kind of nurse I want if I'm ever in hospital. I look forward to her creations to come.

And she was delighted at being taken through the first few steps. We were glad to have her here. Sometimes it's good to have a nurse to translate, sometimes an old IT guy who loves macs is what you need.

The air is warm, the winds strong, a day of sunshine and mildness. Ease and respite.

Lost

By trauma hospital standard, today was a good day. Which is to say, any day when everyone gets out alive, it's a good day. Other than that, I did, after some initial bumps, get to work with a familiar surgeon - as promised. In that unfamiliar place. The last time I had to go up to the Big Hospital, the OR was still under massive reconstruction, but after a few times close together, I got so that I could find my way around. This time, probably nearly a year since the last float up there, I just couldn't get my bearings at all, despite the completion of the project. Since I only had two cases, at least I didn't have to venture out quite so often.

The first patient came with known problems and one big unknown problem. After we were all prepped and draped, the anesthesiologist asked the surgeon to wait. She spotted something on the monitor, and did a rarely done test, and found a critical issue, that an elective surgery could turn into, well, death. So, we took everything down, refrained from an incision, and after a number of to and fros with various people calling for consults and ICU beds, telling PACU yes, then no, then yes staying intubated, then maybe, then yes and patient is awake and fine (considering.)

I got lost several times coming back from PACU.

One of the nurses from my Home Hospital had a huge gap in her day, so she came and got me out for a break to eat at noon, for which I was very grateful. The lounge was very crowded and talkative, not to include me. So I ate in 15 minutes and went back. My own little comfort zone, only barely got turned around on the return trip. When the official lunch relief nurse turned up at 1310, I had no interest in leaving the room again, not being hungry, nor wanting to be mislaid again.

Left about 1430, followed signs to the train, and got utterly turned about, so that I wound up exactly where I started, somehow, which is odd considering how far down I walked, and how little up. I may have gotten stuck in an eddy in the space/time continuum. Tried again with the same route taken up in the morning, which worked.

Moby a very loud and boisterous cat last night, much scratching at doors, rustling of blinds, even mrrks, running and plopping down on my legs. From about 0230 on, I got only snatches of sleep, interspersed with worried thoughts. and the alarm went off at 0530, an hour early to make the trek up. (For up it is, a vertical mass of buildings on the side of the foothill.)

Today, I was not in any state of mind to be lost. Most days, I can cope with that, sometimes I enjoy it. I was a traveling nurse, I lived three years in Boston, I can appreciate the joys of finding my way. Not this day.

Crunchy

There are days I really would like to be better at my job. When I remember being sharper, more knowledgeable, stronger, quicker. When I could scrub a liver transplant with assurance, and have opened everything I needed. I'm not as good anymore. Still safe, still fine, but not high speed. I don't scrub enough to ever get that good again. And my physical limitations means I can't be Super Nurse circulating anymore, either.

This isn't a terrible realization, just a little sad, once in a while.

I was the resource nurse today, helping out in every room, relieving nurses and techs for lunches, running around, getting little things, stepping in to be an extra set of hands, speeding up room turn-overs between cases. It's a small place, there aren't orderlies who do the cleaning and fetching, no specific sterile core tech to retrieve items, the scrub techs and nurses have to be able to do all of it, with a few aides to assist. A lot of somewhat odd cases, and patients with difficult physiology, lots of hard crunchy bits that added up to a difficult, but still good day.

A new per diem nurse, orienting so she can fill in occasionally, started feeling very unwell. As the free person, I got her to a quiet place, did other nursey things to help her cope. She was so grateful, but honestly, this is what we do, take care of sick people. Including our own. Never knew a bunch of nurses who don't rally around a fellow staff member who got hurt or became ill, not in the OR at least. And we've had practice, especially with those new to this microclimate. I've caught a couple of falling nurses, and helped many fainting techs, this is not unusual.


Have to float up to the Big Hospital tomorrow, up early to catch the train, and wonder where everything is all day. I've done it before, it's doable. Must be brave and carry on, and all will be well.

Grace

A bit of necessary set up. I married into a Mormon family. D's parents are good folks, although they do have a few peculiarities concerning their faith. I was raised to say grace before every meal, they say a blessing. Or rather, one of them extemporizes a blessing, or dad assigns the blessing to an individual when the extended family is present. The LDS church has no professional clergy, and amateur speechifying is the norm. In my limited experience, painfully so.

Almost 19 years ago, when I first began going to holiday meals with the 'rentsinlaw, I dreaded the possibility of being asked to perform this, but decided I would simply give the catholic grace. Thing is, it never happened. Sometime in the last decade or more, I assumed that was off the table, and forgot my early fallback.

Grace in my original family was a participation ritual, murmured fairly quickly in unison. I heard it, more or less, thusly "blessesolord, antheezigfs, whicheeraboutoreceev, fromeyebuntytokrice, hourlower, AMEN." Rote prayer, but I got that gratitude for food was important, and I love the practice of thankfulness.

Easter Sunday, we sit to eat with D and his parents, a brother and his wife, and D's dad turns to me and says "Will you say the blessing." (Note lack of question mark.) I said "I'd prefer not." He went very quiet, and I turned to him and gently said "I'm sorry, but I'd prefer not." He turned to D, who gave the expected, and expected-sort of blessing, in shortest possible form. I thought then about saying grace, but it was too late. Plus, he'll never ask me that again. And then, I forgot.

Twelve hours later, I woke, and thought, what did I do? And why didn't my gut clench and my adrenaline gush, as it once certainly would have? I serenely performed the right action, how did I do that? Because saying that old prayer, while socially appropriate, would imply that I still believe in that religion, to people who take that sort of thing very seriously. Keeping my views respectfully private is not the same as telling an outright lie. I don't mind that I was, eventually, asked, however strangely out of the blue, but I am dumbfounded that I so instinctively reacted in a way that expressed my integrity.

But then, I do have a reflexive NO when pressed. So much easier to delay with a no, think about it, and turn it to a yes. Much harder the other way. Caught off guard, I will back off, turn away, demand time to think. Typical mark of a writer. I think slow, but I think deep.

Or maybe, I had a moment of Grace.

Deferment

We were watching a show about campus cops. (Yeah, I know, I have an indefensible weakness for this kind of thing.) So, anyway, they are trying to serve a warrant on a young woman, they know she's in her apartment, and is just not coming to the door. I'm imagining her sitting there in utter denial, thinking if she ignores them, the problem will just go away. D added the image of her in fetal position on her bed, completely freaked out and immobilized with anxiety. And we talked about stories of postmen who have stopped delivering mail, instead stuffing their homes with it. Or a lawyer who seemed to be functioning normally, but instead of filing motions, did nothing at all with the paperwork he prepared. Le Carre tells the story in Secret Pilgrim, of a handler who removed all sorts of secret files, not passing them to the enemy, but hiding them in his office, and baffled at why they'd gotten lost.

When I entered 4th grade, it was mixed with 5th grade in a three class divided into tracks. One mostly 4th grade, one about half and half, the third mostly 5th grade with a few bright 4th graders. I did very well in the last class, mostly because my reading levels were already at high school levels. Problem was, 4th grade is when multiplication tables were learned, and I was never much ahead in arithmetic. I began to ignore my math homework, assuming it would just go away. Mid year, reality yanked me hard. Demoted to the second track, I spent every day after school with mom drilling me on times tables. And weekends. Bullied by the kids my own age who figured I deserved it for pretending to be smart. I took it all very personally, and bitterly.

Seared onto my brain, never let paperwork slip, and that problems do not go away if I don't deal with them.

I would be one of those people who turn so far in I can no longer move, when stressed that much, but for this early lesson.

View

Finally watching a documentary on Toots Shor, because his name keeps coming up for crossword puzzles, and I'd never heard of him otherwise. Of course, New Yorkers assume anything they know about their city is common knowledge world wide.

Moby watching us. First from one place.


Then another.

Claims

Up way too early.
Dark chocolate Cat claims the bed.
Grey dawn curls around.

Strawberries

I forget, sometimes, as we all do, how blessed I am. What a good friend Moby is. What a patient, loving human D is. Whatever my discomforts, I have no real health issues. We make a decent living together, and have a warm and welcoming honest marriage. Life is never what we plan, or hope for, but can nevertheless be full of joy, and with everything to be grateful for. We have our little family here, and I am humbled at my amazing fortune at being so loved.

Made Strawberry Stuff (usually Apple Stuff, which is apples, graham crackers crumbled, brown sugar, cinnamon, nuked in a dish) with strawberries, graham crackers crumbled, a bit of brown sugar, nuked in a dish. Lovely dessert. There is apparently a bumper crop of strawberries this year, bad news for growers who can't get decent prices and will plow under strawberry fields because that's cheaper than selling them for too little. Twisted system we got here. But I'm going to enjoy the strawberries anyway.

Wimps

Bunch of wimps*.

I am not going to be "feeling better" in the way you mean. I live with pain, the accumulation of injuries, and high sensitivity. I need to be able to report it here, because it's not just for you. I can track my progress, on a searchable medium. It's not the whole of my life, but it is a side of it, often what I cannot express elsewhere. I hide the pain from cow-orkers and friends, only when it interferes with plans do I reveal it as the real reason I have to stop. Can't be coy about it, but I don't want to seem a whiner. Work has been hard, the fall cranked it up a notch. Finally called the company for more electrodes, and I'm on the stim again. Doing what I gotta do.

So, if you really want to offer words that DO help, something more like, be courageous, tough it out, suck it up, don't forget to do your exercises, or best yet, leave a joke. Distraction helps, sympathy really doesn't. It's not a cold, not a temporary state, this I deal with every day, and will for the foreseeable future.

We are not taught the sorts of reactions in response to pain, grief, loss. Most of us flounder, wanting to help, but not knowing what to say. Perhaps because I went to so many funerals as a child, I thought about this deeply. The loss of a child, a parent, a spouse, is an untouchable pain. That person is barely there, and only the presence of friends and family, is of any, however faint. help. A hug, a murmured "sorry" is all that might get through. Easier if the deceased is elderly, ready to go, family more prepared. Stories about the one lost, the kind of laughter that heals and reconnects us to the living. Tears flowing together, and laughter bubbling out.

Much the same, as I have often found with patients with long term disease, is to ask about anything but what fills their current thoughts.

So, when the suffering is chronic, most of us are way past the hugs 'n sorry phase, we need the jokes, the rope to pull us on and the reminders to keep pulling.

I challenge you, then, to practice here. When I report set backs and of days that ache, be creative, not sympathetic. I need this space to be able to honestly bitch about this, so as not to dump on a few people in person here all the time. This is where I store my whines, but that is always the least important part of the writing here. Like those little mood emoticons on Livejournal.





*That's a joke.

Pellet

More snow. Not that it lasts when the ground is so warm, and the temperature barely dips below freezing at night, but snow all the same. Pellet snow, snow and rain together, suddenly dark skies that dump and run.




I found this pain scale, I am not familiar with the site it came from, (see link at Neatorama) but I printed it out, made copies at work, and it could well get official approval. I've known "11" for a moment, and that was enough. Today was about a 6, so not too bad.

Going to read and rest.