Burial

We took a walk at the high, old, cemetery. Much busier than we anticipated, even knowing tomorrow is Memorial Day. Neither of us come from families that picnicked at family graves. My father worked at a cemetery, one of the older ones in Detroit. We watched fireworks from there, because we could get in, along with other cemetery workers, on July 4ths, to my deep discomfort. I even practiced driving there. None of our ancestors moldered there, nor did we ever visit any of the places that held family remains after the funeral.

We came to appreciate burial grounds while in Boston, since one can hardly walk around without walking through a gravesite. I've only once visited the grave of anyone known to me, for Aunt Evelyn, the last time I was in Windsor. Her son took me, and I felt a great easing of grief, after so long, since I could not be there when she died. No need to go back afterwards, but the once was unexpectedly profound.

The place here teemed with SUVs and families, many familiar names in the high rent plots, no doubt related to the various doctors and families of note. We wandered alone among the less regarded stones. The skewed and half hidden, the rote concrete. A lot more Japanese stones than we expected, some very elegant and recent. A plot for Union Iron Workers. The veteran section. And although neither of us would want so much as the most anonymous marker, it is a kind of history solidified. This ground considered sacred has withstood the encroachment of building developments and businesses, leaving for all this vista across to the mountains.

Unintended consequences. It'll get you every time.

Tongue

Entropy

Yeah, he knows I'm talking about him, ears turned toward me.



A week of disturbed sleep and inadequate nutrition, work evaluation and grumpy people. The eval went well, no less stressful for that. OK, less stressful. Still stressful to be precise. Deodorizing the carpet, got the blue wrappers from work down - which have worked as a complete deterrent against cat pissing. Rather not leave them down forever, but it may be just what we have to do. Used plain water and daubed and sponged and daubed, to get up whatever might be left, & of the smell of the deodorizer. Better, not great, but it's a process. We're going for a seriously good dinner this evening, which will go a ways to addressing the food issue.

D's mom called last night for nurse advice. They are in an insurance gap, and she's injured her knee, so I'm what they get. Brought her a few items this morning, showed her how to wrap it, and checked for any obvious signs of tendon rupture (looked up the test for same.) The first time they've ever seen me in Nurse Mode, they seemed a little impressed. D knows first hand how, well, wrapped up I get, trying to puzzle out ways of getting around, techniques that might help, with an injury. All the while reminding her that I'm not trained as a doctor. With so few options, I'm better than nothing. I'll pick some surgeons' brains for better info after the weekend.

We vacuumed behind the couch, wiped down a few corners, bit by bit we are fighting back against the encroaching entropy, enough to count.

Dark

Watch skies go dark, bright.
Clouds sculpting the atmosphere
My heart changes so.

Whotcha

So. Whotcha up to?


My happy thought for this week is that when I was called off for Tuesday, my first thought was to see if D could get the day off as well, and work Friday instead. His instantaneous reaction when I made the suggestion, was an eager, "yes!" After nineteen years, this seems a very good sign. We were watching Storm Stories, about a group stuck in a flooded cave. One couple, after the rescue, decided not to wait any longer to get married, time's a'wastin', as D's old sergeant used to say. The other couple were on a first date, and wound up happily together. Nothing like a test of who one really is under dire conditions to forge a bond based on reality. As D and I spent our first six months together far from home, dirty, hungry, sleep deprived, and still liking each other. Still do.

Spent some idle time watching comedians and B-list celebs being snarky about what guys do that makes them "undateable." Some of it was pretty basic, hygiene, attentiveness, but a lot only applied to formal dating. Not being a geek, or unusual, or wearing last decade's fads, which, in the right context, for the dame who is also eccentric or out of date, could be just right. The real, core whines (and it was, humorously, whiny) could just as easily apply to women, turned slightly. Like men who wear too much jewelry. I suspect women who overadorn would be just as unattractive to a significant number of men.

Ultimately, it just confirmed my theory that dating is a terrible way to get to know anyone as a potential life partner - doesn't say a thing, too easily manipulated. Too often failure to express social graces keeps us from seeing a kind heart and a ready resilience. A sharp dressed man may well be a manipulator.

Not that I'm suggesting going to war, or getting trapped in a cave as a way to set up young couples... well, no, that really wouldn't work. Maybe just putting them through a trial, fixing the plumbing together, for instance.

More birds today. Moby really enjoying watching them, chittering at them, stalking.

Maintenance

Getting an extra day off (low census) this week, which happens to be great. Pain levels up, not so much the back as hips and down my legs, which is another whole ball of worrisome. But ice, nsaids, stim, etc, and the extra day to let the hot spots cool, seems to be having the desired, salutary effect. Hard to lose the hours, good to have the time when most needed. Not sure what else to do, if I can't get the pain down at tolerable levels to last. Today feels hopeful, comfortable.

Went into The King's English yesterday, ordered You CAN Train Your Cat: Secrets of a Master Cat Trainer.* Lovely conversation with the staff about cats, Cakewrecks, and Pratchett, old BBC sitcoms, and that she came from Lancashire (long ago, she sounded local) and that D and I might just be a bit anglophile. I got my English tinged sense of humor by being Canadian. No idea how D came by his. Throwback, I can only assume. Picked up the paperback of Monstrous Regiment.

Got the strong deodorizer on the carpet. Better work, the smell of it is bad enough all by itself, fading slowly. We're trying to be more conscientious about making sure Moby chases every day. Easy to get lazy and complacent. We're going to change that.





*Gregory Popovich

Towel

Linen towel of ancient lineage, the last from Aunt Evelyn, who always had them. So did Granny, but she got the calendar ones that hung for a year, then saw service drying dishes.

We had a visiting surgeon yesterday, from Korea. Very pleasant, and spoke often with our surgeon du jour, apparently fluent in Medicalese, but less so in English. Dr. B. wanted to learn the Korean word for "sloppy," in reference to the original repair he was fixing. But "sloppy" was not in Dr. Visiting's English vocabulary. Scrubbed in myself, I pondered how I would explain it to him, but kept to myself my solution. Too many unknowns about how my offering instruction would be taken, to little benefit. He'll either look it up later, or not.

Hard for me, to know something, really know, and not offer that information. Rarely appreciated, often deeply resented, no matter how gently offered. Which causes me to think less of those unwilling to at least consider. I love learning from others, even if I can't use their information right then, I put it in my pocket for later, and appreciate the help. Sometimes, granted, it can be hard to take. Even if it's utterly wrong, it can be useful data. A word to look up later, right or wrong. An idea that can be useful in a different context. Part of the repertoire.

I gravitate to those smarter than myself, to pick their brains, learn their strategies, challenge my own knowledge. The perk of working with surgeons, asking them questions about what they are doing. Or eavesdropping as they teach residents. Many of them are not globally smart, having instead areas of brilliance and know-how, that doesn't much apply to other fields.

Tests were always fun for me. Let me know clearly just how bright I was, and wasn't. Usually about the 90th percentile, verbal and general, around the 60th in math and visual-spacial skills. Never could get past the most basic chess. I do the US version of crosswords, but I don't think I'd be up to the British version - never quite grasping anagrams and other more complicated wordplay and literary references. I've often been a coward about reading difficult books, occasionally surprized at finding a classic to be quite readable. I've never made it through any Dickens novel. Among bright people, I'm pretty average.

On the other hand, Cash Cab was turned on at work yesterday, and two dimwits got in, missed the first question, got the second with help, missed the third with help, missed the last one all by themselves, and were kicked out. The questions were straightforward, nothing obscure. And the two nurses (capable women, really) thought the first three were too hard, although both of them got the (last) Romeo and Juliet answer quite easily. I walked out to get my room ready, trying not even to think "Really? You didn't know any of them? Seriously?" (How many people in the US don't know about the San Andreas Fault in California?) Ok, everyone has knowledge gaps, but when it's so many, it does indicate profound lack of attention.

I'd love to see the Dunning Kruger Effect research done with much older subjects, see if that changes anything. But then, I've always found curiosity a much more attractive trait than confidence.




Happy Glorious 25th of May and Don't Panic, it's also Towel Day!

Mark

There has been more, um, marking. Ok, peeing on the carpet in the front entry. New behaviour, and distressing. We're getting some better deodorizing product, hoping that will help. One of those weird things. We aren't angry, just confused, and tired. Saw a segment on training cats, and wonder if that might help. Boredom can contribute to all kinds of strange habits. Before, he's had to move yearly. This is the first place he's lived more than two years. He's never been otherwise destructive. We'll also completely clean the litter boxes.

D found this for me. The Dunning Kruger Effect. Explains so much about why dumb people are so ... blasted impenetrable and annoying.

Telephonics

We know it's both of us, missing friends and people to have around and bullshit with. But making friends takes more than just clay and duct tape, although that's a good start, and most of what our (now distant) friends are made of. Tough and full of potential, creative and real, with a dark side and a light side, and they hold the universe together. So, we have to be content and brave and appreciate what we have and who we are and be glad we have each other every day, and Moby, too.

Because after school is over, friends are hard to come by. Especially for the shy and anti-social and tired, whose friends have children that they are conscientiously raising well. We must bide and stay open and be strong.

Such is life, at least for us agnostics, who cannot pretend belief for the sake of social acceptance. We who are ill-fitting and difficult and odd. We must be patient and observant and steadfast all the days of our lives. To do anything less is to become who we are not. Friends may come, or not, but we cannot change who we are to suit fashion or faith, nor to pander to lies.

We indulge our shyness and dislike of the telephone.

Braided

Maybe

He finally decided maybe the bed was a good idea after all.

"Well, glad I put it there, then?"

"You didn't put it here, I FOUND it here. Sheesh, taking credit for the cat's discovery."

Forlorn

Lovely cool sunny day. Perfect for the Living Traditions Festival. Thought about going last evening, but both of us in too much of a mood, aching and cranky. When the rain fell most thoroughly and the wind whipped up, we felt better in ourselves and our urge to hunker down. We'll go soon, have Indian tacos for lunch, hear some music, watch some dancing, enjoy being out.

The management responded to our request for some carpet cleaning by offering it gratis, since we renewed our lease. Moby's atypical episodes of peeing on the carpet this week, near the entry, spurred our desire to get it properly cleaned. Guess the cat-rent is being applied. Fair enough. It's a bit weird, sitting here on the sofa while the guy cleans the high traffic areas. The bed is covered with guitars, and a disgruntled cat. (Update, cat under the bed.) I'm trying to concentrate on these words. Balcony window wide open. It's going to be humid in here.

Later:
Lunch had. Gaffers tape for the guitar stand. Rain, with soft hail for a while. Dramatic skies. Going to the festival later, hoping for just a little break in the weather. Moby wandering around dubiously, wet carpet beneath is paws is not a happy experience. Giving the small fan (fabric blades, safe) dirty looks every time he slinks by it. Sitting in the kitchen, ignoring his bed, looking forlorn.

Sad

Picked up the free local rag yesterday, and read for the first time in a very long time the Free Will Astrology. I've always rather liked it, because although astrology is hokum, random wise words can sometimes strike a nerve. Bound to happen. And this column is more generally applicable than most.

When I read this,

When people are truly dehydrated, the impulse that tells them they're thirsty shuts down. That's why they may not know they're suffering from a lack of water. In a metaphorically similar way, Pisces, you have been deprived so long of a certain kind of emotional sustenance that you don't realize what you're missing. See if you can find out what it is, and then make measured (non-desperate!) plans to get a big, strong influx of it. The cosmic rhythms will be on your side in this effort!

I knew exactly what it meant in my life. (Your interpretation will be different, of course.) Not a bolt out of the blue, I know I'm short of friends, bereft of anyone here but the guys I share my home and life with. Knowing it, and feeling it are not the same. I am particular about those who I call friends. I would not slight the amazing people who fit that definition for me by taking on acquaintances and using the same word. But I could surely use a companion or two, here and now. And there is no one. The friends are far away, or wrapped up in their lives so thoroughly that we are left aside. No one I could call to get together and just talk, share a beer, or a pot of tea with. No one to read a book along side, or meet at a local festival.

You who come here to read are certainly friends, but as with my other dear friends, you are far away. No hugs, no reassuring arm around my shoulders. And, after so many years with just the two of us (and Moby), we can't seem to find a way to invite more people in. None that we want in, so far.

This is sad, but neither of us, despite a few ineffectual attempts, have found a new friend, the kind we bring home, for years. And I honestly don't think here are any cosmic rhythms that will actually help. Phase of our lives, perhaps.

Really looking forward to our trip this summer, see all the California transplanted friends.

Must remember to bring our joy with us, leave the mopes at home.

Blues

We stopped at the BBQ place for lunch, but instead of the usual blues (and variants) playing, it was the most whiny of black pop. The sort of imitators that are adding the finishing touches for the place Whitney Houston has earned for herself in hell for inspiring same. Random warbling around a three octave scale is not scat, not blues, not jazz, not even singing. And it occurred to me that it is very, very... well, white. So inoffensive that it becomes an insult to taste. Bland and flavorless and ultimately, soulless. I'm not a big fan of jazz or soul, but I respect both forms, because they start from passion. It's not about the color of the musician, but the music should have strong colors, talent, energy, edges, musicality.

So, when we ordered, I added, "And two votes for anything but this," pointing to the screen with an image of the 'singer.' He laughed, and by the time our food arrived, the music was real blues, Junior Kimbrough, followed by a video of a Johnny Cash concert.

Is this the homogenization of black culture? Or the simple greedy cynicism of the recording industry? Or just the mediocracy that becomes the uniform? A reaction to rap? Rap being perhaps the other side of this, so offensive as to be ridiculous? I don't have answers here. Luke-warm music makes me want to spit.


Some are born slick, some achieve slickness, others have slickness thrust upon them.

Fifty

Evening light fading
Puddles evaporating
Sorrow eases now.



My cousin tells me life begins at 50. She seems to be right.

Flashmob

Mukhtar is a bus driver in Copenhagen. You can tell he was worried when a trumpeter started playing on his bus.


It's his birthday.

Beach

Because the balcony bakes so much in the summer sun, I am experimenting with the golf/beach umbrella we got many years ago for an outdoor concert to keep from being burnt. Moby seems to like it. Certainly makes it a more colorful space.

75˚ today. The 90˚s are about a month away, if that.

Market

Finally this weekend, I managed to get my ass moving enough to clean. Started with cleaning a bit of carpet, due to Moby re-marking it. Enzymatic cleaner, hot water, and Feliway, and hopefully that will discourage further deposits. This is new, sort of, he's always liked throw rugs placed anywhere, but not regular carpeting. I'm sure it's a cat thing that makes perfect sense to him. Staring at the clean area spurred me on to do more, although we started with a grocery run.

We shop, when we can, at a market that is further away, and with somewhat higher prices at times, but on stuff we often can't get at the Close store. We learned to do this in Boston, eclectically shopping in different places throughout the week, since we often stopped on the way home from elsewhere, always walking, often just wanting to carry a bag, not bring the wheeled cart.

So we go to the Upper Store, in part because of a few brands, better cheeses, mostly because it's so much less frustrating, to move around in, to check out. They deal with our cloth bags without a whimper or a snarl, and seem to actually train their baggers. I mentioned the Upper Store at work, and they were aghast, "It's more expensive!" They mostly shop at Costco, and the like, getting huge amounts at discount, having houses (or living with their parents) with plenty of places to store the bulk, and more people to eat the food.

We are two people with different tastes, in a small apartment. Even if we pay twice as much (we don't) it's still a bargain because we eat what we buy. Getting twice as much would mean throwing half away, as it went bad, or we got sick of it. Which is why we don't make a point of going to Farmer's Markets (although I did at the excellent ones in Boston.) Prices seem good, fresh local vegetation, until I factor in how much of the mass will get eaten, versus thrown away, or just goes bad.

My mother often complained about the prices of food. But however low our income then, as we teetered on the edges of poverty, I would have preferred less food with better nutrition. No money for more than a couple pieces of fruit, when it was cheap. But we always had sugar and flour, coffee and tea, white bread and mayonnaise. She isn't really to blame, this was how her mother cooked, the common wisdom then was Fill 'em up with whatever will stick to their ribs.

But something is wrong when spinach is a rare treat given me by Aunt Alma. The first time I tasted spinach, I was in heaven. I ate lemons, just pulling apart sections and eating them like an orange, also from my dear aunt. I ate the rhubarb out of the back yard, the sour grapes from the arbor through the neighbors fence, the cherry tomatoes from the garden (bless mom for the garden) clover leaves. I may have been a bit malnourished. Not that I did much better when I had to feed myself. I still struggle to eat well, it all gets very complicated and fraught.

Because I wanted to brag about all the cleaning that got done, and instead ranted on about food.

Passports

Moby only has eyes for Da Bird.



You can't see it, because it's beneath him.



Sometimes a cat just needs a good hug.


This week, we go to apply for passports. To go to Canada. This bothers me much more than it should. But, what must be done must be done, and some fights are sure-losers. Too many people, too much confusion, too much information with too little meaning. Getting my shorts in a knot about it is rearranging the proverbial deck chairs on the Titanic. (How comfortable would proverbial chairs be, and how much would they go for on Antiques Roadshow?) Found we had all the necessary paperwork, so we can do the legwork on Wednesday.

D is enjoying plotting our vacation, we hash out possibilities, he looks up what is possible, prices, schedules. We know what we like to do, just need to figure out where to go and how to get there. (Wet, cool, seacoast, small towns, artsy places, by train or boat with little or no driving or flying.) The driving is the limiting factor, as D doesn't drive at all, especially not the standard shift on our current car, and I can only tolerate a few hours of driving on any given day. Neither of us likes flying, but a couple hours of that beats me trying to drive two days.

We both got a little envious that brother and SIL to be are going to Scotland and Ireland for their honeymoon. We'd like to go too. Not with them, mind, just, well, we always thought we would. I'd always wanted to see Istanbul, an idea that has tarnished as the world has become more threatening, and resources dwindle. So we console ourselves with closer corners, and we enjoy traveling together - which makes it all the better.

The tax refund from this year went into an account, saved for one of very few vacations together. There was the trip to Astoria, and the one year we visited friends in San Diego. Otherwise, a couple days in Lava Hot Springs, or an overnight away, three days or less every time. I should count the the train trip to move to Boston, however purposeful, it was also restorative. Not counting the initial, six month, sojourn to Colorado Springs and Saudi Arabia at the behest of the US Government (Never using that travel agent again.) Not much for nineteen years, but we make do.

Knowing Moby will be well cared for makes this all possible.

Reassurance

The first time we left Moby, after he'd been living with us only about 5 months, we had no idea he's miss us much. Or not eat and pine. A friend from work had come every day to make sure he had food and a clean litter box. We expected this would be sufficient, since he seemed a pretty self-sufficient cat, not over inclined to affection. He never slept on us or sat on our laps. When we chose him at the shelter, we knew he was a gentle creature, but not about to suck up to us - "Just get me outta here, wouldja? "

We were shocked that he barely ate, and only when Jacq petted him, sat with him. She'd seen it before in dogs, but even she was surprized that Moby the cat needed such reassurance, followed her around wherever she walked. After that, we knew we needed to do more for him when we were not there more than overnight. When we got back, he started sleeping on us at night, intermittently, but with determination. We assume he decided he did like us, after all, and did not want to go back to that place with the dogs and rabbits and other catlike creatures. (That couldn't possibly be cats, because he was the only one.)

So, knowing we can get a vet tech as a cat sitter is quite the load off our minds. In Boston, there were choices, and we got very good help. Here, it's been more problematic.

So, what do we tell her? That he's gentle, but don't push him too far - out of respect. Where he hides (at the bottom of the bed, underneath, in the closet, the dryer. In deep distress - under the sofa.) That he likes clean litter boxes, but will use the tub as a third option. He likes his water dish topped all the way up, so he can see the surface. Doesn't mind the toothbrush at all, seems to rather like it. Where Da Bird is hidden in the closet (so he doesn't swallow string) as well as the other mice and toys to chase. Where the food is, we will set it all out on the counter, with can opener. Show her where the vacuum is, in case. But he tends to be subdued without us. He mopes. We hallucinate him in corners of the hotel where we stay. Flows both ways.

Strange kind of bond has formed, over the last six years. A wordless friendship, close, personal. Not parent/child, despite his dependence upon us. One English fails to have a word for, but a kind of love that is between species, generous, intimate, and inexplicable. We feel so blessed to have him in our lives.

Sharing

Having this Friday off is just amazingly welcome. Woke up at 0443 (yeah, saw the digital clock, which is actually approximately 5 minutes fast, but whatever.) Charley horse in my calf, tried to pull my foot up with the other foot, and struggle to do so... guess why? Right, a cat lying on my ankles. A heavy recalcitrant cat. As I struggled against the weight of sleep, and eleven pounds of feline, I managed to break the spasm, slowly, and wound up awake at 0500 on my day off reading comics and a few blogs, finally got cold enough to decide to return to bed, not expecting to sleep. D woke me at 0930, concerned that I would be miserable sleeping until 1030, and quite right too. Gently, as usual, with a warm embrace, and an apology. Took me a while to dig myself out of the deep, exhausted sleep, but very worth the effort. Late enough.

We made it to the comic book store, and the outlet place where I have often gotten classic bits of clothing that I wear all the time. Dangerous for me to go in, because I usually find something at a ridiculously low price, that I will wear a lot for a long time. This time, BDU- type pants (see cargo pants) that fit. OMG. Resisted even asking the price of copper earrings with (probably diamond) chips, which D was able to identify as the ones that caught my eye. Made a point of asking D which comics he had on reserve, and was delighted by his description of smart, funny, subversive stories. I'm not a fan of comics, but I get the appeal, and can ask intelligent questions on the subject.

We walked in the park, it started to rain, lovely dramatic clouds, and we were both happily damp in the misty rain. Thankfully got back to the car as the wind got stronger and the rain began to really pour. Still, a solid mile walk, good for us. Then stopped at the Apple store to look at ipads. I was not much impressed, D lusted a little, we got away from the mall with no cash spent.

Long ago, we used the information from Seven Principles for Making Marriage Work by John Gottman, based on decades of real research. We've so internalized it now, it's more of a reflex. Useful stuff. My traditional wedding present, no matter what it looks like. A maintenance manual for any couple, it saved us at a rough spot. Knowing each other, with admiration, is the heart of it. Wow, revolutionary.

Moby hiding from the rainy weather. Many birds on the balcony earlier, which excited the cat predator. But the rain, no good. Must hide. Under the spread at the foot of the bed.



Taking first steps toward getting passports, so we can enter Canada next year. Which shocks me, as I never needed anything most of the years I traveled back and forth, every week, from Detroit to Windsor, my cousin an officer on the bridge, who several times waved us on with an ironic grin. But so the world changes, and we fill in the forms and do what is necessary.

Simplicity

It's really this simple. I'm in control of my own happiness. No one can make me unhappy, no one can make me mad or angry or happy. (Make it easier or more difficult, sure. Not Make.) Just as I can resist being pleased, I can resist whatever feelings form when I see the stupidity, the infuriating, and maliciousness going on around me. I can choose - how to act, what I allow myself to feel. My choice completely. I can become enraged, blame them, throw a fit, lose control. For who will control me? No one can, ultimately. Even the cops can only tie me down, put a spit bag over my head, isolate me, but I can rage and rage.

Or I can shrug, laugh, and cope, and go on being content with my own life. The latter seems much simpler. I can take every gesture of kindness from D, and pick at it, criticize and badger, demanding perfection. Or I can accept that I am loved for myself, find him endearing and generous and kind, and be grateful beyond words to have found a decent human being to live my life with. Hmmmm...

Amazes me how often people make the apparently easier decisions simply because they don't want to look inside themselves for a moment. Breast implants when simply being happy with oneself is more satisfying and less painful and risky. Starving oneself instead of accepting a few age-related pounds. Unhappy with income or health or work or friends... . Change it or don't, but be content as well.

The one reason for a good time machine, I would go back to my young self and say, smile. Not for them, not for the ones who demand a smile, or say "oh, it can't be that bad." Feel free to flip them off. But "don't be distracted, smile for yourself, because it will help you feel better inside." I would tell young me to be cheerful, not because I feel like it, but because acting cheerful will help me feel better. I would tell myself not to blame anyone, including myself, but to relax and enjoy, even the bad stuff, especially the bad stuff, because that is the only way to fight the evil. Yes, it's hard, takes effort and persistence, but it's not difficult, nothing tricky there, takes no special skills. Just the ability to realize that I am the only one with any control over myself.

Just like in grade school, when I knew perfectly well, if the teacher calls for quiet, I have to close my own mouth. If every child did the same, there would be instantaneous silence, every time. Instead, the busy bodies hushed everyone else, and added to the din of the kids who waited to be individually shushed. I knew that then. Saw how it worked in the Army, when the one still talking had to perform push-ups until the Drill got tired. Same principle. They could only make me do push-ups because I agreed to obey their orders, so ultimately - my choice.

Neither the world, nor anyone else, will ever conform to my whims, my wants, or even my needs. If they appear to, it is mere coincidence, which fools many. Manipulators and torturers get surface compliance temporarily, same as any application of punishment. It looks right, but the recoil is primed, no thoughts were changed. Damage done, but not the change of belief intended.

So, I have learned to choose well, because it's all on me.

Professional

Do not try this at home. I'm a professional paranoid.

I've always lived by the Murphy's Theory, or Law, and prepared for the worst, expected problems, braced myself. In my work, this has been a saving neurosis more often than not. It's always easier to have an array of equipment and materials ready, and not need them, than the other way around. Surgeons may mock one for excessive zeal, but the consequences of not anticipating a complication can be dire. Not only to one's own sense of worth, but to the health of the patient, in the worst cases. So, I resolved not to even try to write here until Friday. Turned out to be surplus pessimism.

This week looked rough. But I was able to leave early on Monday, took D to a late lunch Birthday, where he got what he calls the "best pizza since Canestaro's in Boston!" Called El Diablo, with spicy sauce, jalepeños, and whatall. I had the blackened catfish and chocolate stout, and we talked and acted all gooushy. As we are wont to do.

I went in today, as a schedule change, which turned out to be quite useful, as two people called in sick, and it was looking like and NFL* day. If I'm working an off day, I much prefer to feel needed. Surgeons moving along well, a few gaps due to scheduling meant a few welcome short breaks. One doc supposed to come at noon for a hardware removal, simple case, hard position, big relative set-up for the room. (Special bed, big C-arm, equipment all moved to the foot, prone positioning equipment.) Then he had to say at the Big hospital for an emergency. When that got delayed (yes, I know, wtf) he wanted to start our case, so we set up the room, not opening anything. Then changed his mind (or something) and did the emergent case, first estimating an hour (for a spine fracture) which none of us believed, which became two hours, then 2 1/2 to 3 hours, from 1300, which put him at the edge of when we start cases. C'mon people, this isn't brain surgery. As a result, I got lunch, gave a lunch, as did the scrub with me.

Another case was likely to cancel, another surgeon who is usually slow- was apparently on fire today. So, I got shooed home, and didn't really mind. We got wedding present for the BIL, some really good scissors, and ordered the usual. AND, we stopped by the vet's office, to ask if they had any information about cat sitters. Well, that was easy, a lot of the techs do this often, so we have a trained animal person to come feed, pet and generally make sure Moby doesn't mope† too much when we go in July. A load off our minds, since N is (happily) no longer unemployed and available, and needing to earn a few bucks, although Moby was comfortable with him here.

Weddings tend to cause me some anxiety, much less this time. D's brother and spouse are good people, they've been together quite a while already, and they have a lovely warmth together. I'm looking forward to her midwestern family en mass. BIL a bit apprehensive because they are serving beer, and his parents are good, non-alcohol-imbibing Mormons. Well, gotta have some sort of looming disaster in any large wedding, or what's the point? D and I are prepared, if we can't avoid it, to run interference.

So, anyone out in Wisconsin, Iowa, Illinois have female relative getting married in July in San Diego? (I have this strange little fantasy of meeting a lurking reader out there. Faint hope, just an odd thought.)

Oh, yes, and the scrub today. E walked in with me, cheerful as usual. When he came out from the locker room, he looked shocked. Turned out, there was a small mouse in his shoe. Still alive. He'd thought it was just the gel insole or his sock bunched up, instead it was a gift from his cat. He took the wee mousie outside. I guess they do scrunch down pretty small. P made a point of dangling a computer mouse at him later. Poor thing, must've been a traumatic journey.



*No Fucking Lunch.

†He pines, moves very little, and doesn't eat, when we are not here. Even just overnight. Unless he has someone come in and sit with him while he eats, and reassures him he won't ever go back to the shelter.

Expectations

Weather coming in, and I'm looking at ten hour shifts the next four days straight. Very sad.

Expect nothing. See you end of the week. Digging in.

High

Moby wanted lunch UP today. Well, we all have been known to enjoy eating high up at times.

Celebrating D's birthday this weekend, since I failed to ask for it off work. My fault, when I knew we weren't going away for the birthday, as we most often do, due to the brother's wedding this summer. So I found out this week I'd forgotten to even get the day off. Taking the 'rents to Red Iguana this evening, along with two brothers and one SIL. With a birthday that so often coincides with Mother's Day (this Sunday in this country) we've made these kinds of adjustments before.

Nineteen years ago, we were just glad to be in the US for the b-day, the first together. I have always explicitly expressed my great gratitude that he was born, and we found each other. Aside from fussing over each other, we both rather detest other forms of natal anniversary todo. Today, we made it to the comic book shop & House of Guitars, as places that will not be open on Sunday. Then brunch at home, and a movie tomorrow. Hoping to find some sort of event on Friday, my next day off. We tend not to do gifts, but time together.

Grit

Found something called Meowmania. Just a bit of flash with cat meows, link to it claims it attracts cats. Well, Moby's ears perked up, and he watched me with a face that said, "You're fucking with me. I just know it, but I have to come check this out anyway." I didn't torment him too long, bad thing to piss of the domestic god too much.

Hard, hard week. Took care of the mess sergeant from my old unit. We established our connection, and he said "Yeah, we fed you pretty well over there!" Meaning while activated to Saudi Arabia during Gulf War I. I nearly choked. He thought that food was GOOD? So, I said I remembered the grilled prawns, that we had twice, that were remarkably tasty. And the cake from the local contractors, in the shape and colors of the US flag, but with quite a few extra stripes, quite the wrong number of stars, and backwards to boot. Insult to his cooking slyly evaded. Later, took care of a maimed Iraqi vet from the current mess. Worked the whole day with a surgeon I consider a turd. He always makes everything so much more difficult than it has to be, and this week was no exception. Feeling odd and rucked up.

Today, well, I don't know why it felt like rolling in grit. Good anesthesiologist, good scrub, enough help. Cranky surgeon - but you think I'd be used to that. Unaccountably harsh day. Leftovers from yesterday, maybe. Need to sleep and ground myself.

Addendum: Effort Shock. or How The Karate Kid Ruined the World.

Snooze

Snurfle.

Life is never what we plan, even if it conforms to every want. People who want children don't have them, or wind up with offspring who they don't understand. Those who don't want kids may have them anyway. We never wanted any, and are dealing with the functional absence of friends while they raise theirs. Careers turn out to be less fulfilling, or unexpected ones become engaging, or job types just vanish (like buggy whip making.) Marriages become burdens, the joyfully married are widowed, those most wanting a spouse never find one. Life just doesn't come with guarantees, and wanting alone does not change anything. Especially wanting something that is someone else's choice, or out of one's power to effect.

What we can do is be content in ourselves, because that is wholly in our control. Bursts the bubble of regret, kneecaps nostalgia, wears away one's disappointment. To hold on to dreams as though we had a right to them, and were deprived by fate or malice, leaves only a poisoning of other joys. Best to take each day, every friend, all experiences, as great gifts to be savored, lessons of great worth.

Moby never asked to spend two months in a shelter, nor did he immediately think we were much of an improvement. Still, here we are, and all in all, it seems to have worked out pretty well.

You get what everyone gets. You get a lifetime.

Nap

Adore me, I'm cute and furry.

Compromise

Or, how I deal with the fact that my near vision is fine, but not when I have my far vision glasses on, knowing that bifocals would make me nauseous and dizzy, and I'm trying to read, but there's no place to put my glasses while I'm on the balcony and want to look out at the sky and mountains, too.

Chili

Moby took to the bed as soon as I got up, so I turned the electric bed pad on for him. He snuggled in deeper as it warmed beneath him. I get huge pleasure from watching him enjoy his comfort so thoroughly. He's in his corner on the balcony, now, basking. Not a bad reason to get up in the morning, to provide pleasure to another creature, so simply, so easily.

Late at work yesterday, but to do a case that unequivocally needed to be done. The surgeon delayed due to another case bumping back his cases at another hospital. Emergencies before urgencies. Hard to explain this to patients waiting hours, hungry and hooked to an IV, wanting to be done and home. But once in the OR, procedures take the time they take, each patient gets all the time needed, and everyone else must wait. Not that there aren't frivolous reasons for delays, on occasion. But not often, and usually it's because patients are late, or have issues, at least in the places I've worked. Rarely, it is the surgeon, the same one, you know which one I mean. Same person you work with who is always late, always with an excuse, the one the rules don't apply to.

Got a chili plant, and potted it hopefully. Need a bit more soil. Sitting outside, waiting for D to get home.

Box

When informed that we were being given "box lunches" for Nurse's Week at work, I have to admit feeling less than thrilled. I'd brought my own lunch, to start. And to me, having been in the Army, I can't say I ever had anything good that could be described as a box lunch. Oh, sometimes the dessert was decent, and the bag of chips, if present, was reliable. But the overall quality never got above edible, and often not that good. In Saudi, at the barracks, lunch was in such a box, often ostensible pizza. Thick dry crust, the texture and taste of cardboard with a presumable layer of cheese is most of what I remember. If not for the cold soda, it wouldn't have been worth the effort to walk around to the back of the building to pick it up from the truck. This, from bored folks with absolutely nothing better to do.

The lunch today was in a much nicer box, looked like from a real caterer. The cookie had white chocolate chips, the potato chips in a bag were reliable, the sandwich on the croissant with lettuce and tomato and ham looked rather good. One bite later, and my previous estimation of box lunches was utterly confirmed. Had I been really hungry, I'd either have eaten the vegetation, or choked it down, knowing it was the only food I was getting. But I'd had my egg roll, the cookie and chips, the dreadful sandwich hit the circular file.

Really appreciated the cookie.

I also had this song going through my head. Snack lunch, box lunch, same thing.

(From Monty Python.)


Finland, Finland, Finland
The country where I want to be
Pony trekking or camping
Or just watching TV
Finland, Finland, Finland
It's the country for me

You're so near to Russia
So far from Japan
Quite a long way from Cairo
Lots of miles from Vietnam

Finland, Finland, Finland
The country where I want to be
Eating breakfast or dinner
Or snack lunch in the hall
Finland, Finland, Finland
Finland has it all

You're so sadly neglected
And often ignored
A poor second to Belgium
When going abroad

Finland, Finland, Finland
The country where I quite want to be
Your mountains so lofty
Your treetops so tall
Finland, Finland, Finland
Finland has it all

Prosity

My prose is, I actually think, decent prose. I've read some vanity press books, I know what bad looks like. I've gotten better in the past six or so years since I began writing for the blogosphere. Not sure exactly when I started, because that mac site is gone. No way to accurately date the beginning. April, apparently, 2005, on Blooger. So, five years here, probably a year before, who knows. I'm not big on anniversaries. Barely give a ratssass about my own (birth or wedding) inasmuch as the particular date goes. But the experience shows, to me at least. I don't have to repost after noticing impenetrable sentences, gross grammatical or spelling errors, multiple times very often, anymore.

I write halfassed haiku when I'm not in the mood, or can't find a subject that interests me. Haiku doesn't take a lot of words, and it looks impressive, but it shouldn't. It's the rare poem that interests me, nonetheless that touches me. Maybe because I don't understand them, as I seem to 'get' abstract painting and sculpture, but not much modern music. Older music, the lyrical qualities, the harmonious whole, a cascading melody, grabs me more than the older poetical forms that told stories in rhyme and meter. Part of me feels poetry is just funny, like Seuss or limericks. Most strikes me as either humorously trite or abstrusely abstract. It is almost offensive to take words and make them conform to mathematical requirements.

No real poet would feel this way, or misunderstand so completely. I am prosaic. No poet, I. A duffer, a dabbler, a mocker, blind to the poems around me. I see you, the poets who visit. I am grateful for kind words, but to leave them for my verses is to misunderstand. As one colorblind, I cannot see what you see, but I accept that you do. I leave little red/green jokes around, as I know how to say "I don't speak Japanese" in good Japanese, and "I don't speak French" in good French. It's the only phrase of poetry I know, and you should laugh.

Cowardice

To be courageous
I get up again and try
knowing that I suck.