Whoop

High winds and hot. Reluctant to venture, we took our glad rags to D's parents to take via car, to the wedding. A suit is best not rolled into a gym bag. So, suit and pants, skirt and blouse, tie and shirt, all pressed, hanging in a garment bag and riding in their car. FIL going to be wearing a rented tux, poor guy. He's not overjoyed. Probably doesn't help that this is the last of his sons to marry, and the 8th wedding of his offspring. The shine is off, so to speak.


The parents-in-law are getting older, and less patient of the whoopdeedoo of a formal wedding, even with for their dear son. Especially since it involves their second trip west in as many months. Which means we are off the hook for the Sunday gathering (which we were going to passively ignore anyway) and definitely not required at the foto-shoot. They just don't care anymore, at least not enough to try to make us do more.

They are disappointed that all the sons won't be in the photos, but two (of five) are absent for spouses with health issues anyway. Leaving us less encumbered as a result. Hard to see them so tired and stressed, though. We are on alert to keep them cheerful, and cared for, I think. Fair enough, I'm good at being bulldog. With D and I, and his other brother and SIL, we'll protect 'em. Bridegroom Son is going to be busy and blinkered. But with their back-up, I will gladly take on the role of bad-guy protector. I got no problem with that at all. Uh uh honey. I'm on it. I'm thinking my SIL will be as well, with our gentle spouses nodding approvingly. They both married hard-headed women, and like it like that.

I defend the bride, since this is a wedding disguised as a reunion for her extended and scattered family. And she and BIL are a sweetly well-matched couple. But first, I take care of the 'rents. MIL hurt her knee last month, and I became her nurse, so she gets dibs on my protective instincts. Thems the rules.

UPS guy, that knows D from the library, at our apartment building today. D says hi, UPS guy tells me D is "A keeper!" I agree, of course. Tell D on the way out he seems to have 'kept' so far. Lovely to hear him chortle. Nearly twenty years together. Eighteen years living together as of tomorrow. Nearly seventeen years legal. MIL touched that we still have the mylar balloon she got for the extremely low-key wedding we had in their living room, and remembered the angel food cake she made for us. Well, of course I remember my wedding day, no matter how simple. I had not a moment of doubt, not the slightest qualm. I wanted to live my life with D, no doubt, no hesitation. I was sick with the flu when we signed the papers, my memory a bit blurred from fever, with all the brothers (save the oldest, long ago moved away) on the sofa, made to wear ties (not by us) and with the local (Mormon) bishop to officiate. But I have definite, if congested, memories. Yeah, I'm glad we got married, and grateful beyond all belief.

I still think ours the most perfect of weddings. The start of a great marriage. Hey, I had a dress. Blue. Results that count. I regret not a moment spent with D, he is my blessing and my great joy.

Given up on cleaning today. Will do the rest this long weekend.

Inertia

No momentum this morning, so I sat next to Moby, and we snuggled for a long time. Got a lot done yesterday, though.


Pete writes about the difficulty of having even an imaginary conversation with historical figures. Nonetheless finding any women to have a time-traveling chat with. So, I put my Babel Fish in my ear, get in my TARDIS and head out.

First, a few women, since they are more likely to talk to me.

A point of childhood fascination, the BVM, as she really was, if she really was just one woman, which is to say that the person who was the prophet who instigated Christianity was one person, with therefore one mother. Was she a demi-goddess, saint on earth, Judeo-Roman cult vestal maiden, ignorant tribal woman, a victim of religious mania? I always wanted her view of the whole matter, of her family, not the mythology, not the image after the apotheosis. Even now, indifferent to the idea of faith, having never felt the pull, I would love to know the truth of this woman's existence.

A conversation with Jane Austen, insightful wit and doomed to a short life, would have to include my assuring her she would be remembered for centuries to come.

Artemisia Gentileschi might have an interesting view of life, and thoughts on justice as well as art.

I'd like to talk to some of the women who cross-dressed and joined armies throughout history. By extension, Pope Joan, if she existed, or other women who probably infiltrated the masculine church. No doubt some more accurately described as transgendered. Mostly, just talking to ordinary women living through extraordinary times, to understand their troubles and joys.

Muck

Threatened with having to be called off yesterday, then recanted, today became a comedy of cancellations. Three right off the bat, and another two likely to be shifted to the main hospital because of the surgeon doing an implantation of a thumb. Those are always long, and always urgent, and the elective cases that we do get shoved aside. Going in with the idea that I should have been off anyway, I was not eager to hang around twiddling my thumbs. Kept busy until about ten, and offered to save the department money and go home.

But with all that work momentum, usefulness ensued. Stopped for tea and ginger, found Tetley cardamon tea (!!). Out to the hot pool to make my back feel better. Dishes and clothes washing, worked on the carpet cat pee spots (yes, still an issue, but far less.) And began my systematic cleaning of the place. Cleaned off the washer/dryer, the shelves in the corner, the floor scrubbed, and the top of the fridge cleared. Much discarding. Spices sorted. Even ran a rag beside the fridge to clear the thick lint accumulated there.

D arrived home, and I made lunch. We went out and got maps. And CDs for recorded books for D's dad.

Cleaning away the muck. Not moving this year, must clean instead. Weird thing is though. I can discern the difference. There really shouldn't be enough visible, but my eye picks up the change of light. The gleam, perhaps.

More before I sleep.

Continued

Continued dreams about clothes, but more amorphous, half forgotten. A day made good in large part by sheer attitude. Amazing how well that works, though.

Then, my dear Moira included me in the mass email to our friends out in Oceanside to plan a gathering while we are there. And we got all the replies. Cheered me immeasurably, not just that we will be welcomed, but that we are a worthy excuse for a Sunday afternoon BBQ. Can't wait. Have to wait. So happy about the whole thing. Grateful and humbled and eager. The simple joys of being surrounded by bright, funny, wonderful friends.

Buoyed up by sheer determined cheefulness. Resolved to all the hours at work, and smiling throughout. Gentle and persistent.

Dresses

Dreams about clothing, a lace wedding dress, but very soft to the touch. Another looking for a dress in a department store, and after a long search for dresses of any king, found two styles. One a dark purple lace, but of a strange slim design, the other a shiny aqua with lots of white puffy tulle on the bodice. Both hideous. I think the wedding is getting to me. Uniforms are much easier for me, since I have no sense of what is appropriate to wear, and the higher level of formality, the less I understand. So much harder, since there is no tuxedo for me. But I have something pretty, and appropriate, that will blend. (Rather like my singing voice.)

On the other hand, I really appreciate good clothes. I love how soft, solid fabric feels, especially when they are comfy and in pleasing colors, with lots of pockets. Dressy dresses rarely fill any of these criteria.

Especially

Especially cute.



Especially regal.


A distant cousin of Moby's seems to have gotten bionic legs. Oscar, the fortunate researcher-cat.

Flipping

Last week in a room running late, and we did not have a piece of equipment that should have been stocked by our anesthesia tech, call him A. He's an older guy, his English shaky, and his wife ill, once an anesthesiologist in his old country. He's knowledgable, but not actually very good at his job in terms of being attentive and making sure his docs have what they need, or answering his pager. Friendly and eager, when he's in the room during a crisis he's very helpful, but the results are spotty. Mostly, he doesn't directly affect us, although we often have to run for the supplies he's failed to provide in adequate numbers.

So, I'd been scrubbed in, and my circulator, C. realized that we didn't have O2 transport masks. She'd paged him, no answer. Told her I'd just go get one. She complained that this happened a lot, did I have the same experience, and wasn't I frustrated?

I shrugged and said, "If the light switch doesn't work, I stop flipping it."

A. was sitting in the anesthesia work room, and I walked in, got what I needed and walked out. He looked at me, returned to whatever he seemed to be reading. C. asked if he was there, I said yes. "Did you say anything to him?"

"No. I just got the mask."

"Why doesn't he do his job? Does he answer your pages?" She was angry and wanted to make him do his job. I made a switch flipping motion. I am not his supervisor, I have no say with him, my anger only hurts me. Change the lightbulb, light the candle, the darkness cares not if I curse it.

We have another anesthesia tech who is less experienced, but stays close, very detail oriented. At the staff meeting, when asked if we had anything to say, I mentioned how our new guy has been taking very good care of us, got a chorus of agreement. That felt good.

I'm learning. Creating a reality more peaceful. No excuses, no blame, focusing on my own behaviour, my own choices. Finally getting the idea of compassion for everyone, even if I'm not up to actually doing it consistently, yet. I need some for myself, as I realize I'm not as technically proficient as I once was as a scrub. I can't read the small writing on instruments, I'm slower reacting and learning, I get tired more easily. Turning a situation around helps me feel it differently.

I do, however, need a vacation very badly right now.

Stroked

Moby on the sofa this morning, so I sat beside him and stroked him very slowly from head to tail, massaging along his spine. Relaxed already, he settled deeper under my hand, a closed eyed expression of pleasure on his face. I have this effect on animals, especially since learning massage myself, all those years ago. Especially since I've been with D, and happy in my life.

Moby really seems to luxuriate in being petted, when he wants to be touched at all. But it's been a long process. When we first got him he needed some socialization. We watched him closely and never pushed him too far. While he allowed belly rubs, the back leg would come up, and we backed off, taking that as a "that's enough" gesture. Last night when I got home, I scritched his tum for quite along while, and he purred. We gradually taught him that being picked up was safe, by holding him until he squirmed, one moment more, then very gently placing him on the ground. Now, he actually wants to be held and given a hug*, about once a day. This comes in handy when he's gotten out in the hall, or we visit the vet, or when we flew here and had to remove him from the bag going through security. He's ok with our holding him, so in a moment of crisis, it's a familiar, even reassuring, motion for him.

When I was little, I loved animals, as most children do. And it hurt a great deal that they didn't like me back. Our cat Midnight was fond of me, and let me carry him on my shoulders piggy-back. Gigi, Aunt Alma's poodle, adored me, mostly because I'd throw her ball for her as much as she could ever want. But I didn't inspire trust in any other animals, so my aspirations of being a new St. Francis were dashed. I wish someone would have told me then that it wasn't me, it was that I was a child. And many animals just don't like, or trust, children. For good reason.

I've often thought that so much of my misery would have been eased if only I'd been told a few simple truths early on. From, no, your father is crazy and mean, and the stupid is annoying but not the real problem, or yes, you will find love, but it will take a long time and you have to be patient, to don't marry that jerk. I honestly think I'd have re-written my internal stories to include these, and tortured myself less with harsh judgements.

More simply, if only I could have told myself when I was very small, two animals do love you. That's a great start, pay attention to that. Maybe I did, clearly remembering, knowing it to be important, meant I would eventually understand. And we can't save anyone from the pain of learning, lest we take the lesson away. 'If only', like wishing and praying, rather than working and thinking and living through the hard bits, is worse than useless. I can't wish a crossword puzzle solved, I have to actually do it. I couldn't pray myself loved, I had to learn how to love well.

I rest my hand gently on a sleeping cat, and he curls around until his head is upside down and one foot stretches out, claws extending then retracting. I'm sure he knows he's loved, in his cat way.


*It is a hug, back feet supported one forearm, front paws over opposite shoulder. No cradling. No sitting down.

Abandoned

And, the day ran all the way to the end, full of it's own special charms. At least the last scheduled case turned out to be less involved than planned. Then we picked up the last case from another room, saving set up/turn over time. Very different, going from knee scopes to a finger fracture, requiring moving towers out and mini c-arm & arm table in. But, it was the right move, no complaints. Except that since all the other rooms were done, we were somewhat abandoned. No good deed goes unpunished. Everything went smoothly, except for the jerk of a resident, who in his haste wound up pulling the C-arm plug out of the wall, and the re-start time runs about four minutes. In sitting-there-waiting time, that feels like two hours. But all went well for the patient, and we still got out at a reasonable hour.

This is all I can write about. It's all that seems to be in my head. Maybe after a good night's sleep, I can shove it out, and find the more interesting stuff at the back.

Gnaglion is not a word. Ganglion is a kind of cyst. More misspelling on the schedule.

Harsh

Bad night, harsh day. Coming home early didn't much help. Gritty eyes and mushy brain, heavy and buzzing.

One more day this week. Part of the issue, as I'm used to having Wednesday off, and my body kept insisting that this was the day to drink tea and be home, not be running around at work. Still, only one more day, and then down and off.

Yeah, can't write either.

Perfection

Perfection is neither attainable, nor desirable. And shit happens. The cracks where change can happen, where creativity creeps in, and humility and humor. (Yes, that association was intended.)

The people whose job it is to write up the schedule in the OR need to strive for something closer to correct, though. At least two patient's names were misspelled on there today, one with the name Michael. Micheal is not correct. It just isn't. And then there was this. "Pt is sudoneeze arobic speaking." (Pt for patient is correct) Knowing the name of the patient helped me sort this one, but it still took a moment. Sudanese, Arabic speaking. Not aerobic, or not particularly so. Nor from Sudon.

And then my surgeon, who is very good and conscientious and careful, made a mistake. Not one that will cause harm, in fact it was an indicated extra procedure, but that is not why he did it, that was just error. He was upset at himself, and very apologetic to the patient. Reminded me of when D had his second elbow surgery, and the surgeon did one last range of motion, and broke his arm again. Came out to me with his tail between his legs, as though I might beat on him, to tell me he had to put another plate and screws in.

If any of us where actually perfect, where would all the stories come from?

Oh, if any of you in North America would like to do a dialect survey, it's short and here, recommended by Language Hat.

We are doing research on different accents in American English. We know that Americans and Canadians have a great deal in common in the way they speak, but there are also differences. In order to study the ways that North American accents differ, we have put together a survey of common words, and we’d like you to participate!

Equals

Still amazes me how a cat can look all the way up at one, and look one in the eye.

Moby loves being ruffled by D.



A day to get through.

Fog

Boggy, soggy mind.
Sun too heated harshly bright.
I hide and hunker.

Schemes

Lovely day of ease and lassitude. Woke late, for me, with a cat lounging on my feet. This is such a wonderful feeling. We could train Moby not to walk on us at night, I'm sure. But we both love that sensation of a cat walking upon us. Neither of us knows quite why this is so appealing, but there it is.

D up a few nights ago, and Moby got up with him, and kept him company. For every time Moby disturbs his sleep, he more than compensates by being a comforting companion in D's insomnia. Apparently, they took a long walk down the hall that night, serving both their needs. Cats may sleep a lot, but never seem to mind being awake and about at two am.

Right now, Moby is cleaning up my plate that had eggs on it. Again, mutual pleasure.

Met our cat sitter, and she's fine. A vet tech doing sitting on the side. Have to set everything out for her with information. We've done this before. Easier in Boston, where they are ultimate pros. Sad that our friend N isn't available this time. But he's gotten a good job and a social life now, and so, well, that's good really.

Still bothered by the stupid 'communication styles' thingy yesterday. Much talk about spontaneous vs planned. But we do both, all the time. (We may have different styles, but not the ones proposed by them.)

Came up at lunch with D's parents, when we discussed traveling with friends who soon after became not friends. Bad idea to travel with people who have a different idea of punctuality. When you have agreed to be on the road no later than 0930, and at eleven AM they are still to pack towels, it's all going wrong. That was the trip we wound up driving out with four, and driving back with just the two of us. They had a ride home, and I never got a penny for the car rental that they'd promised to pay half for. Instead of being angry, I used the lapse as the justification in my own mind for using the car for our own use. That, and they changed the return date once we got there, and D and I wanted to return earlier. So, we did, without stranding them


Thinking about our vacation plans next year, and about how well we travel together. Granted, that's how we met, but despite both liking to plan, we also know when to give up all preconceptions and be spontaneous. We like planning ahead, then, once away, going with the flow. We were planning to visit Vancouver, but that involved flying to Seattle, taking a train or ferry to Vancouver, and getting hotels in three different places over the course of four days, which was all too damn much scheduling. We schedule to get us there, then we want to dither and drift and rest and take time. Thankfully, we both very much agree on this. I always take off my watch on vacation, and have to have at least one day that involves NO DRIVING AT ALL. D doesn't drive, which I support and respect. And I dislike driving, so need at least one day not doing it to have an actual vacation. Plan the first and last steps, and inbetween, improvise.

So, when I talked with a cow-orker yesterday about where he grew up in Oregon, and found out about Depoe Bay, our tentative plans took a lovely U turn. Seems like the kind of little arty town where we could idle happily, with cliffs and ocean and diners. Not to mention, going to Canada requires passports, which we haven't managed to acquire as yet. Much like the Astoria trip, but different.

ANYWAY, feeling much better today than I have all week. And D happily remaking plans.

There

Moby keeping an eye on the dog with someone out in the parking.


Attended Skills Day, which is the mandatory, all day, meeting to keep us up on health and safety issues. So, there is a point, essentially. Originally, we got a very silly "invitation" to attend, with a request that we wear "colorful beach attire!" This got nixed the day before, as, apparently, cooler heads prevailed. I'd certainly never intended to wear anything colorful at all, but a few people were disappointed. Although I'm always a bit glad to have my hair down, and not tied back tight under a hat, all day long.

The first two sessions were useful, and the breakfast was rather impressive, with a lot of fruit and cheese, croissants and ham, although I'd eaten breakfast before, so it took until after the second meeting to want to eat at all. But I did stash a good half dozen of the little cheese rounds for later.

Then, the TWO HOUR seminar on communication styles. Sitting next to a woman with no sense of body space, one of those people who, on the train, would constantly bump and shift. I held my arm in, kept apologizing when she bumped me, which did no good whatsoever, of course. So I explained to the very nice woman on the other side of me, and got up, hit the restroom, and found another seat at about the one hour mark. So glad, since Mrs. Bump went on to become the Classhole, during the interactive section, took over the discussion, since she could obviously teach this better than our presenters.

The premise of the Communication Styles was pretty off as well. A lot of superlatives and absolutes were flung around about people who were Organizers or Inventors, and I had equal scores in both, with the next two styles very close behind. Extremes such as they portray, are, I think, pretty rare. And most people, at least as they get older, moderate. These are tendencies, not absolutes. I'm not engaging because it all seems out of proportion. The headache pressurizing my sinuses is increasing.

Good speaker on emergency preparedness, asked about The 3 C's. I corrected him, it was the Seven Seas. Put my head down and slapped my own hand, which made S giggle in her infectious way. The speaker laughed at me laughing, "You thought that was pretty good."

"No," I said, with a gesture of verbal vomiting, "it just came out."

I apologized to him after, but he assured me he thought it was funny. Any day I can make someone laugh is just not an irredeemably bad day.

So, unbound hair, stolen cheese, good enough food, including lunch, and a short day. All in all, could have been so much worse. Almost got enough sleep last night as well.

Then, then, an even better surprize, as I read the Carolyn Hax. This week she's published reader's advice. A while ago, one of my emails was used on one of these weeks. Today, another one, which I slowly recognized as I read it. (Second one on the page.)

Gilding the lily, it was also the inspiration for the cartoon. This just makes my day. Thanks Nick.

Hauntings

Very cranky and irritable this week. Probably itchy, too. The opposite of nostalgia, when all the flotsam bobs about, and the jetsam snarls my lines, and I remember past slights and hurts with aching clarity. I don't harbor grudges nor do I enjoy dwelling on this petty and long discarded crap, but it visits me as I drift off to sleep, or wakes me from frightening dreams, when I am vulnerable and too heavy to push away the lumpen ghosties.

Mostly to do with the people in my life that I did not chose, who had a say, who controlled and misused. It started with the trip with neighbors to the zoo. Their granddaughter Tammy, was a playmate, a year younger than me, when we were both very small, who always had to have the biggest piece, go first, and play the games she wanted. So desperate for anyone to play with, I let her have her way, because when she didn't get it, she would storm out saying she'd never talk to me again. My mother pointed out that she was always back within a half hour, and I shouldn't worry. Eventually, I learned to ignore her fits, and also not to care very much what she thought. But on the trip to the zoo, Tammy's teenaged aunt was assigned to me when we went to the public restrooms. Now, I always went into the stalls alone, for as long as I can remember. So this sulky girl staring at me while I pulled down my pants was just too much. She rolled her eyes and turned toward the door at my insistence, but refused to leave me alone. She'd been given orders, and thought me a complete little prude. Well, I couldn't go, and really needed to. I tried to get away a little later, but young aunt was sent with me again, so I just neverminded that suggestion.

The next restroom, I just hung back and went in myself, desperate by now. When I came out, they were all in a panic, that I'd been kidnapped or some such. I knew I'd catch hell from my parents. But that all seemed less awful than pissing myself out in public. I was perhaps eight or nine. I don't remember what my mother did, although I'm sure she reinforced that just disappearing was thoughtless and mean, that I'd needlessly frightened them. I always figured that they were the ones who gave me no other option, and I had to do what I had to do. Hard to think straight with a full bladder.

Lately, I feel haunted by all the old scars, pulling. They cry out for justice and retribution, and I have to gently pat them and say, now, now, that doesn't help. Let the dead bury the dead. Let go, let go, let go.

And the neighbor's last name just barely eludes me. I don't need to know it, don't really want to, but part of me keeps worrying at it anyway, at two in the morning.

Unobtrusive

We need a vacation. What we are getting is mostly a vacation, with a wedding at the start. Not our idea of a good time, especially since we have always taken our vacations in May and February, not July. But we like the couple, and are happy to show support. Somewhat randomly, I came across, and have read obsessively over the last few days, the site Etiquette Hell. Not just about weddings, although as this society's last, most traditional and formal occasion, weddings do take up a huge proportion of the stories.

The issue today was about young children being used as flower girls and ring bearers. And I remembered that I had been put in that role when I was (perhaps?) five. As the only female relative of my cousin on my father's side, perhaps it was 'expected.' A cousin from her mother's side, a little boy a year young than me, was assigned the role of ring bearer. I have no memory of being asked if I wanted the job, but I clearly remember in the car home being told I would have to have my hair cut. My mother had agreed long before to allow me to grow my hair long, and I could about put it in a little pony tail. But for some reason being in the wedding meant I had to have a "cute little pixie!" I felt betrayed and lied to, and given no options.

The only thing I recall about going down the aisle was dragging the poor little ring bearer along with me, feeling responsible for him. And later, how much my shoes, and the headband, hurt. The dress was very pink, but had a lovely fluffy shirt, that I was not allowed to twirl around in or play with. There were inflatable reindeer at the reception, and the boy was given one when he asked for one at the end. So I thought it only fair I should as well, and requested another one. Big mistake, since asking for something was a cardinal sin in my mother's eyes. The bride, my cousin, give all credit, overrode my parents' ire and said she HAD offered the toy to me, that I had not asked for it first. My parents didn't quite believe her, but could hardly say so to her face. I stuck to Cousin Bride's version, not being above lying to my parents.

This may be part of why I never had any desire for a 'fairytale' wedding. Strangely, despite my experience, I never thought about the appropriateness of children participating in weddings before.

D's brother and future SIL are lovely people, and old enough, not to indulge in the sillier excesses. Their invitation is artistic and tasteful. And they never even asked if either of us would be in the "wedding party" bless them. If they discussed the possibility among themselves, they surely came to the conclusion that we would have politely and firmly held in our hoots of laughter and said no, thank-you, no. No.

As soon as we were told the date, we booked our flight and I put in for the time off work. Found out after we'd also planned for our hotel near our friends the hour's drive away, that we were also invited to the rehearsal dinner the night before and a family reunion the day after, and that there were reserved rooms at the local hotel for wedding guests. Oh well, we will be on our vacation hanging out with our friends at that point, and I can't get that earlier day off now. BIL shrugged, no biggie, just glad we could make it for the wedding. SIL's extended family flying in from all over is the main reason for the extra events, anyway.

I'm a footnote, at best, and very happy to be so, and want to be appropriately, pleasantly, unobtrusive.

Opener

A Quality Opener for a Quality Product
Stroh's Beer.

Vaughan U.S.A. 61
"Not for Resale"
The Stroh Brewery Co.
Detroit 26, Michigan.


Recently, this church key has come to our conscious attention. I use it often, but rarely actually look at it. We have only this one, from a long gone brewery, and it's stayed with us, presumably, through our many moves in the way any of our indistinguishable forks have. I have no memory of getting it, but most surely it was from when I lived in Detroit. Possibly from my parents' house. Maybe from a thrift store when I was in college. So, it's stayed with me through innumerable moves, the divorce... one of those weird little inexplicable anomalies. Lost all my recipes, dishes, furniture, but I have my bottle opener! No, didn't happen like that. Little thing just hung on and stayed.

Well, sure. Why not?

Instinct

One of the main points in The Gift of Fear is not to ignore one's instincts. When part of you is telling yourself, "Walk out. Run away. Cancel," the best action is to listen. Rationally arguing oneself out of going ahead and getting on the elevator with the pleasant looking but subtly creepy stranger, letting the guy from work that you have to keep telling yourself 'seems nice' drive you home, stopping at the store when some inarticulate sense is urging you to just drive on, is a good way to sow regrets when badness follows. The problem with prevention is that one can never be sure it worked.

When first in college, I was befriended by a cow-orker who self described as a witch. And appointed herself my mentor. She took herself a little too seriously, but she did give me a lot of much needed emotional support, and all in all, did me a lot of good. One of the habits she fostered in me was to always listen to my quiet voice, especially walking around Detroit. Feet want to go right, go right. Get a bad feeling about a doorway? Cross the street. "You will always be right, every time will save your life." I lived several places very near this urban campus and the main Red Light district. I saw violence, I saw drug deals, pan handlers were common. I provisionally accepted her reasoning, but kept my skepticism in reserve. But then, I still believed in Guardian Angels. Did it work? Aside from being accosted by beggars, I was never mugged or otherwise threatened during my four years there, not in Boston, no real issues ever. Not that it couldn't still happen, and I keep this in my mind.

Walking together today, D wanted to go the extra block instead of his more usual route. I immediately agreed, despite his apology, and retraction, we didn't have to go further, he doesn't know why he wanted to. And it stuck me that following those little urgings are about practicing hearing that small voice that can't always explain itself. Exercising my instincts, and getting used to listening to it. Makes it so much easier to hear when needed.

Many years ago, D and Moira and I went to a corn maze. We took it in turn, at each fork, to decide which way to go, using any means we liked. Sometimes it was just a feeling, sometimes we picked up a stalk and threw it, which ever way it pointed we went, closed our eyes and pointed, all random, no intent to think it through. A lovely fall day to be pleasantly lost in with people we love. And we got through the maze before we knew it. Some parts of our minds, together perhaps, found the way, and we gently followed without interfering.

It's not magic. We perceive more than our talking minds can tell us in a critical moment. Following those nudges is, at worst, neutral. At best, we'll never know.

Toddlers

Our friend Dave* stopped by, with his young toddler. Not quite the visit we expected, but G's a bright, precocious child, and welcome. We take whatever our stressed out friends have to offer, and gladly. Hard times for everyone. I have great admiration for how well Dave takes care of his sons, one step, one genetic. He's caring and kind and attentive. His genetic son is at the top of every percentile, and therefore quite the handful, which gives Dave a perverse pride. Dangerous, but damn interesting.

And I do not like children. Honestly. Taking care of them at work scares the crap out of me. I do it with great attention and responsibility, but no joy at all. I take each individual as such, no matter their developmental stage. But as a group, I do not like children. Not their fault, nor do I blame them. But as a group, that stage of growth repels me. I am always open to making individual exceptions, but with all the effort of dealing with a stage that makes them frightening aliens. Practice makes it smoother, but no easier. In public, with the local habit of assuming that everyone loves all children, no matter how ill-behaved, ... well, I try not to be out in public. Put it that way. One at a time is hard enough for me. En mass, and loud, I run with my fingers in my ears. OK, not literally, but children screeching is painful. D is even more sensitive to this than I am, and much less tolerant of young 'uns, although even more formally polite.

There are good reasons we never had children. An early agreement that babbies were just not any part of the plan for our lives.

But we have great appreciation that our friends are ALL doing their damnedest to raise their children well. However ill fitted we are to be parents, we recognize the skill and effort put into turning these little, insane creatures into responsible adults. They are all doing better than my parents ever did, or even D's parents - I assume.

Still, children are upsetting to me. I won't get on an elevator when children are on the floor. I won't go to movies because there are too many children. I avoid them on the train, in restaurants, in waiting rooms. I remember when D smashed his elbow, and had to deal with a bouncy child in the ER while waiting to be seen. I feel no fondness, no tenderness. Only annoyance and a preference to be around those who can control themselves. That lack of predicability terrifies me.

My Aunt Evelyn loved children. Made me feel so listened to, so special, as a child. And I can't do the same. I have no feel for them, as my pediatric clinical instructor told me, with great kindness and sensitivity.

We are not all "kid people."

Strangely, because I also believe that treating children with great kindness and regard is the only way to heal our deranged culture. Giving children childhoods rich in compassion, education, and experience is the only way to create decent adults, consistently. Just, well, not me.

Not that I would ever be unkind, even impolite, to a child. Irresponsible parents, yes. The poor child, no.




*So Many Daves, no point in being coy about his name. Same Dave who is dealing with leukemia.

Kneaded

Moby beside me, kneading and purring. Cat sitter came by yesterday to meet and orient. They'll do fine together, as we miss him when we are gone. Forgot to tell her where the thermostat is, but she's a bright woman, she'll figure it out.

Lots of weird dreams, having to crash at a friend's place rather than return to my parents' home. One of those long recurring nightmares, although much faded over the decades. Friend's place has a huge bed, lofty ceilings, and I lie down on the wrong one, as I slowly realize, then find another, smaller one in a different corner. Much confusion over setting the alarm clock, trying not to make noise or disturb anyone, even though I seem to be alone. Worried about how long I can stay. That my friend is male is worrying me, that I am making him uncomfortable and intruding.

Reading several blogs about wedding nightmares. Not a good idea, but very addictive. Makes me even more glad we stayed very simple, and did a friend reception years later when we could afford it.

Spamming

Getting hit with daily Chinese spam. I always delete it as soon as possible, and I have the Blooger report spam site bookmarked so that I also immediately report it. (Finding that took quite long enough, and on the second search, I got smart enough to keep the url on hand.)

As far as I can tell, it's always a different dummy site, although they all look very similar. I expect they've found a way around the verification. Although it's possible someone is making some scraping the bottom income for filling those out by hand. Reporting them may not help at all, but I keep up the resistance to the entropy.

I can filter my email, rejecting Cyrillic and Chinese characters, it can't be that hard. Of course, I have a really excellent, locally founded and owned ISP. D knows the guy, who once ran a BBS, with a friend of his from school. Sent him a campaign contribution when he ran for state Senate (would have made a very interesting Senator.) For those of you who know my email, which is my first name and this ISP, there is a reason for that. Been with them a very long time. They do an amazing job keeping the crap down.

Blooger could filter this way. Maybe they do. Hell to try to find out from their site. But they don't care, or aren't smart enough. No wonder the spammers are winning.

Quiz

Had to take a "Communication Styles" survey at work, that will be used in some way at the Skills day coming up. Poor instructions, badly organized, at least one question with inadequate grammar, and my assessment flatlined. Two styles predominated equally, and flatly contradicted each other. The third highest only a few points behind, out of five possible styles. Useless and worse than useless. We all felt the same way.

One of the most demeaning aspects of my profession is the yearly "training." Far worse than cleaning up shit, or being treated slightingly by doctors or other medical folks on the 'team.' No, what really gets up my nose are the mandatory skills. Instructions to read followed by quizzes that must be completed. Not the mere doing of this, I have no essential complaint with tests or keeping up with current thought. The steaming contempt I feel thrown at me comes in how badly these quizzes are written. I've never seen a year's worth that didn't have multiple typos, grammatical errors, grossly incorrect answers as the correct answer, or best of all, the ones that clearly show the question writer to be lacking in a real understanding of the concept they are testing for.

The only redeeming feature is that we all cheat at them, share answers. Not being graded, we can just change the answers. The sheer futility of the exercise I can deal with.

Mock codes, inservices on new equipment, refreshers on theory or practice are not included in this litany. Gets old after so many years, but often I do learn a new detail or a better understanding.

Which gets me thinking of a Communication 101 class I took decades ago when I first attended college. The instructor in his first year teaching wrote the most confusing, contradictory questions for his tests. We were able to argue our grades, pointing out the poverty of the questions, since we pretty much all got the majority of the answers "wrong." Horrible class, and I've never met a communication major who didn't have an equally abysmal grasp of how to actually convey meaning.

While I recognize writing a clear, cogent question isn't as easy as it seems, if it is your job, that you are being paid for, it should be done properly, consistently. Hell, the people over at Mental Floss do consistently better than the "nurse educators."

Ah, well, ABCD, True/False, fill in the damn blanks. The bullshit comes but once a year, or so.

Belongs

Drama in the sky, where it belongs. So many cow-orkers bitching about the weather that isn't their '75-85˚-and-sunny' idea of perfect. I love the storms and rain, and winds, jet streams that sculpt the atmosphere in ephemeral vapor.

Reminded of Sonny Eliot, a TV weatherman on the local news when I was a kid. Full of Henny Youngman jokes, "funny" voices and jokes about Hell Michigan freezing over, in a plaid jacket. So, I looked him up. He's still going, still doing the weather, still doing the same old schtick - but with audible dentures. I'm baffled, and slightly horrified. I mean, good for him, but there is a good reason to retire - for everyone.

Hell, if I could, I'd retire now. Get a part time job shelving books at the library.

Rumbled

Moby's bird blind. Once rumbled, he decides to come inside.


I'm a rambler, I'm a gambler, I'm a long way from home.
And if you don't like me then leave me alone.
I'll eat when I'm hungry, I'll drink when I'm dry
If the whiskey don't kill me I'll live til I die.

This tune has been running around my head this morning. A strange little song that has always pleased me for the last line of koan like nonsense. It bubbled up because I usually eat before I can even register hunger, in the morning before work. This morning, I sat and read awhile, then got tea and cereal only after I felt hungry. I've certainly rambled, and I am a long way from where I started. Gambler, if only in the sense of laying myself out there, giving life a go. And I do prefer people who don't like me to avoid me, rather than try to change me. I'll never be able to drink enough whiskey to kill me, but I do like a drop now and then.

Forms to fill today, one for work to get a discount on insurance. The other a rebate for the oil change. Nothing difficult, but I've been putting off these tedious little chores. As one does.

Bath

Had to tea, then soak in hot bath before I could be human. Two very busy days, and not short neither. D and N went to dinner while I did so, and brought me back lovely food. So good to have a midweek day off, which is to say, tomorrow.

Our tub is very deep. For which I am most grateful. But the sides are correspondingly high. When I'm tired or inattentive, it sometimes gets higher and punches me in the foot. One of my toes has evidence of this phenomena.

Have two books to read. Updates later.

Party

My favorite advice columnist has taken a stance I'm not entirely in agreement with. That it's not ok to say one will attend an event, then cancel for anything other than an illness, emergency, or very specific set of one time events. The original question wanted out of a work party for 40 people to attend a friend's birthday party. I know which I'd choose.

For me, I would never attend another RSPV event, other than a wedding. And I feel I have every right to dump out on any social gathering to which I have been coerced into agreeing to attend. Work parties are always of that nature, it's infinitely easier to no-show than to tolerate the barrage of "OH, but you HAVE to go!"s for weeks preceding. Had I figured this out sooner, would have saved me my second year at Famous Boston Hospital. I'd attended the department Christmas gala the first year, and despite wearing the most dressy clothes I have ever owned, was grossly underdressed. Not to mention not getting chat with anyone I liked, and that sucky band. The next year I had no intention of going, and everyone, EVERYONE, badgered me to attend again, including women of quite different shapes offering me their spare dresses. I should never have admitted I wasn't going, since I looked like the wet blanket party pooper. Fairly, but very uncomfortably.

I figured out how much I hate work socializing, and how impolitic it is to bluntly refuse. So I will always make vaguely assenting noises, and will never go. Hosts can just suck it up.

Maybe the reason so many people skip these formal events is the same reason I do. People who really love parties, especially the big fancy do's with elegant clothing, uncertain music, excessive alcohol, and rich food, with way too little actual friendship and conversation, are a minority. And us introverts, pressured into saying yes, often can't stomach the idea of actually going. Even just a large, loud blow-out lacks what most people like me want of an evening. I have enjoyed perhaps three parties, in my life. Not great times, but I got to talk with friends, and laughter abounded, so, yeah, good. On the other hand, most of the worst moments of my life have been at parties, tearful among balloons and neighborhood children. Or a bit older, tired and stuck, later - drunk and vomiting. Why else do so many drink at large festivities, but to drown the anxiety? Largely, mostly-wastes-of-time. So, a while back when everyone was planning food and drinks to meet on a weekend, they asked if I was going. I said, "That's the plan." I stayed comfortably at home.

It does bother me a bit, because I prefer not to lie about anything. When I say I will be somewhere, I will be there, usually early. But something that is supposed to be fun and voluntary, that fails on both points, falls into the category of Trick Question.

Get-togethers with friends, spontaneous, or at least very informal, can be wonderful. I like hanging out with friends, with conversation and shared ideas. Like when we meet up in San Diego next month. Completely different experience.

Movement

Thing about massage. Often, usually, where the pain seems to be before, is not where it actually came from. Sore in all kinds of new and exciting places. More about information, digging out where the damage actually is hiding. Using ice and capsaisin rub, and moving as much as possible.

Did the tests in order to get the discount on my health insurance. Although just over the line, I am, yes, overweight. Need to get the pain down enough to exercise enough to get the weight down. Five to ten pounds will do it, and I have no desire to do more. Too many years watching my mother obsess and starve and yo-yo to ever indulge in that pathology. But I need to move more. Way too soon to start this slide. Must find a way that doesn't get the back and butt to flare up and stop all movement.

Walk or die. Not just a threat, a reality.

Brooking

To the massage school today, got one of the instructors, a therapist who's been working at this for seventeen years. He didn't look old enough, an inarticulate goth kid, awkward and odd. But I knew when he laid his hands on my back he was a skilled professional, the social part not his strong point. I'm always glad to let visual impressions flow away. In this case, they had to sit side by side and be friendly. No wasted effort, no more pain than I could handle, gently, persistently, effective. I knew myself to be safe in the hands of competence, and stayed with each stroke, following with my attention. He also had the gift of silence, which I joined in with. Probably best, given. He seemed to be coaxing out the tension and pain, and brooking no resistance. Absolutely one of the best massages I've ever been given.

Made another appointment in two weeks. Very confident this is going to help. Just walking home felt more stable, easier to move.

Peek

Polishing

One of those weird memories bobbed to the surface. One of my jobs as a child was to polish my father's shoes. Not just the Sunday shoes along with the rest of the family shoes, which would have been fine. Not like it was an onerous task in itself, and if I'd been responsible for both parents, brothers and my shiny Sunday footwear, no sweat. But I had to stick my hands in the shoes of the man I detested, the ones he wore everyday to the factory. To SHINE them. Rubbed in the hatred, ground in the resentment. Like having to iron his handkerchiefs and later shirts. And had to do it all well, or bear the consequences.

Like most kids, I certainly didn't like chores, and needed reminding and urging. But I don't think I was worse than most, and vacuumed, washed dishes, did laundry, stoked the furnace, took out garbage, pulled weeds and cut grass, although I had few mandatory daily tasks. The shoe cleaning struck at the heart of me. Both because it was an unpleasant sort of intimacy, and because it seemed so utterly pointless.

My mother claimed a kind of pride that when both boys were in school, she ironed "21 white shirts every week!" A load of work, that upon examination seems ridiculous. They had to have freshly ironed white shirts on Saturday? They couldn't have learned to iron them, or at least the older one by the time both were in school? I was ironing shirts by the time I was nine, why not my older brother, at least? The mandatory white shirt was in it's last years, save for catholic school uniforms. Again, though, my father worked in a factory. Changed clothes as soon as he got to work, put back on when his shift ended, but he needed a white, perfectly ironed shirt? Every day, plus Saturday? Really? And shiny shoes? And perfectly ironed snot rags?

My childhood anger was well fed. Taught me hard lessons in what is important, what I want my life to be about, and what I don't want it to be defined by. Ironing every few weeks, out of love and respect, is a very different experience. We don't have shoes that need kiwi.

The anger starves, these days.