Waves

I seem unable to properly hold a grudge. Those managers, that anesthetist that I so feared and loathed at the old hospital, seem pitiable and petty in their sad little realm. Yes, they ruined my experience of that marvel of a city, three years with no need to drive, much less own a car. I mind how much I missed because of unjustly inflexible schedulers, the exhaustion of the hard way round everything. Still, I can only laugh with rueful relief. I am, ineffably, home. What does it matter?

The waves from the move settle. The sofa showed, as did car. The Fortean Times showed today, and D is dealing with finding appropriate MDs for himself. I have licenses, RN and Driver, though both took wrangling, most with D's unstinting assistance. Due to K's loan of her vehicle, we had food in the house, and I got to work on time every day this week. A date at the Hong Kong Tea House, (struggling to survive road construction) worth waiting three years for.

The apartment, as scoped out by R is quite livable. Bright, and with a possibly illegal amount of closet space, we came to appreciate it's flow for a week, empty. The dishwasher is not to be, it's one that has to be plugged in and hooked up - to where we have the water filter. We have decided to be ecologically sound, and wash by hand. Plugs are a bit scarce, so we have power squids. Not AC, but a swamp cooler, more efficient in a desert anyway. The shower head much too low for D, we found another one, and I got it on. Very proud of my bit of plumb. The beige-ness of the place has absorbed our red couch, and the rug really pulls the room together.

An old friend, and the nursing educator when I was greenly wet behind the ears in the OR asked me what I was doing, as D had gotten an MS, MA, and was now going for his PhD? I couldn't answer. Not because I had no interests, no accomplishments, but that I could not explain in a few locker-room-minutes. K and I are going to hand build pottery, since my back won't compass the wheel, my back screwed up from friends saving my life when I choked. But that's ok, since that was when I started writing a novel in a month, and I plan to take a writing class at the Library soon, to get the second one into shape. For a start.

All kinds of starts.

Moby enjoying closets, ups and unders, space to jump around, birds to chatter at in the mornings, friends to adore him.