Kindergarten

Moira, or more accurately her little girl Plum, has me thinking about my first day of school. My mother walked me. Not far, two longish blocks, amid a gush of children. One of those ancient grade school buildings, with squeaky brown floors and institutional green painted halls of great immensity. All painted grey, then. A long flight of grand steps just inside the front entrance, tiny back door to the playground of fenced gravel. My granny had attended it for a summer, when it was an open-air day-school when she had been my age, around 1895, before the present building.

In class, on wooden floors, with a circle painted on it for us to sit around, we were asked our names, one by one. I stood up and spelled mine out. It's a long, bastard-French last name, and I remember the look on the teacher's face - astonished, although I can't remember what her face looked like. I felt a mixture of pride, and shame at my quite unintentional showing off. Only today did I realize what I was doing, modeling my parents who when asked for their last name usually simply spelled it. I did what I thought was expected, with all my might. My parents told me to stand when I answered a question, and that I had to write the number 2 with a proper loop, spelling my last name just seemed to me to be part of what was required.

I knew I was prepared otherwise, because I could read my older brothers' first and second grade readers.

The smallest girl in class felt ill while we later sat in the circle, so I had her lay her head in my lap.

I walked by myself the second day, and from then on.


走开。 我每次将报告您。

Started in Catholic school in 3rd grade, due to my own parish church school's gradual closure, and attended another only when it closed completely.

Thermals

D did this one. I love it.

Fiddler on the Roof, the movie, came out, I was nine. And utterly enthralled. I wore my hair in a kerchief like the girls in the film. I latched on to anything with a whiff of Jewishness. Not hard at the time, there were TV specials on the Holocaust, The Chosen, and I latched onto this catastrophic story with all my heart. I considered converting, well, what else would a dissatisfied Catholic girl do? It was romantic and tragic, appealing to every bit of drama in my soul.

It took me many years and a lot of reading to come to the realization that Judaism has a dark side, especially for the women. That insularity isn't healthy, and bigotry flows in all directions. That there are reasons for stereotypes, even if they never justify persecution. But I was young, and categories were a reasonable way to try to understand the world, and for me, the Jews were noble and suffering heroes - which also fits nicely with the Catholic worship of martyrs.

I struggled with black (African-American) modes of expression and values when I first lived around them in college, and did not completely resolve my prejudices. Not then. I never indulged in dislike for anyone based on their ethnicity, but I did find some cultures difficult to appreciate. Usually group survival traits that clashed. An ethic to work hard, do it for oneself and educate oneself, tends not to work if you are an enslaved people in a hot climate - where playing dumb, not getting too attached and taking it slow will make the unbearable barely survivable. That ethic will always outlive the necessity, as it becomes taught and normalized. Individuals will always vary from this norm, and deserve to be seen as such. But we are all of us both ourselves, and a face of our tribe. Even when we completely reject it, we mirror where we came from.

I still find Muslim values and mores hard to accept, especially for the women veiled and denied autonomy. There is safety, of a sort, and the ease of a lack of responsibility in being a woman under authority of a spouse. Not the kind of life I would ever chose, but as a person with no dogma or parents, no structure to tell me what to do, no one to blame, I sometimes feel the weight of my own life on my soul.

I take people much more as they are, these days. I recognize when they come from a distinct culture, a visibly different genetic set or original language, but it matters so much less. It's merely a description, one element among many, that makes them neither more admirable nor awful than any other single aspect. We are all doing the best we can with what we have, with what we've been given. Including an innate curiosity or rebelliousness, or need for peace and comfort, for freedom, or for close family ties. And we all sort these preferences differently.

We all share the same soul, as we are responsible for our particular gleam of it in our own lifetime.

走开。 我每次将报告您。

Odori

Today I did resource, getting rooms started, fetching supplies, taking care of whatever needed taking care, giving breaks, then lunches for the scrubs. I gathered empty genesis containers to keep the rooms clear. Picked up recycle, made beds, retrieved positioning equipment, turned over rooms - all the usual jobs. In the midst of this, I felt the flow, and realized that for the first time in a very long time, I was dancing. Several items in my arms, drop this here, that there, pick up the next, drape the gel pad over my shoulder, snag several pillows with a spare finger, and waltz away.

The last time I had this at all was working the total joints with one surgeon and his scrub at the last hospital. Before that, it was at that same hospital from years before with the two laparoscopic surgeons. Today, it was more global. I felt no pain in this dance, only a quiet happiness, and I couldn't have stopped smiling even if I'd wanted to.

Full week. Very tired now.

Spacecat

For Pacian, and his Spacecat.

Syndrome

I did this Sunday, broiling chicken. Iced it immediately, clean and dry since, and it's not really that bad. It has made scrubbing the last two days more fun than usual. Full days, in no small part because of the new residents, and next week, new fellows, who are watched closely, and not fast. Started late yesterday because of an issue in pharmacy that meant our anesthesiologists had no drugs until fifteen minutes after we were scheduled to start first cases. Then the cry went up. "WE HAVE DRUGS!" echoed across the OR, repeated through the hallways.

Ran late with a last case that is a suspected Münchausen syndrome. Everyone who has dealt with this person for the last five years knows the wounds and infections and excessive surgeries for one so young are certainly self inflicted. The organisms cultured out are indicative, not absolute. But it's hard to prove when the family is in denial, and not getting the patient in for a psychiatric evaluation. When they clear out the wound, even I can see it's not a normal wound infection, and some of the tissue is sent for examination for foreign bodies, or fecal contamination. It's a strange, rare condition. The surgeon's frustration is that he knows, but without family or psychiatric support, he's helpless. So he's making jokes about using this bit of tissue to "Let the pathologist play CSI!"

I'm prepared for a long, hard August. Full shifts, no days off, and a long way to Labor Day. I suppose that means full paychecks as well, and I need not mind. Storms this week have brought the heat down to more tolerable levels. To the irritation of Moby who hates thunder, and is not too keen on rain come to that. He's taken to the floor near the bottom of the bed.

Out

Lapses

Time lapse while we were gone. Brief proof that the sitter came. He was much more mobile than usual. All D's handiwork.

Music by D, Some Kind of Rhumba.

Inexplicable

Some have Utah themes, the seagulls and the crickets, the Mormons and their pushcarts. Some of it is simply inexplicable. The high concept floats often don't come off comprehensible. Not sure how the idea of a family tree became heads on stakes, for instance.

As always, click for full size, and details, which really don't help much, but are intriguing.









For last year, and a bit more explanation, and more photos.

Watching

The Days of '47, Pioneer Day Parade has always had a handmade quality, even when the float is markedly corporate sponsored. People still come out and cheer it on.

Reuben

D's parents took our dress clothes with them in their car, since they were driving to the wedding, and we were flying and packing light and tight. We'd gotten a garment sleeve to make this easier. We left them in that bag for the return trip. As I hung them up, I knew it would get forgotten, and considered leaving it across one of the beds. But I decided this might be a bit insulting, and trusted that they would look. Not only was my instinct right, but D's mum left her dress as well. Not sure if it was put in the bag as well, or hung up beside and forgotten. But D's groom/brother retrieved the items and sent them on. We drove out to their place this morning to get them.

My one, very slight, regret, is that I did not hold onto the blouse I wore, for the rest of the trip. It's very cool and comfortable, and a touch dressier than my solid T-shirts. Now that the event is over, I think it will get a lot of use. I feel rather elegant in it. Well, for me.

D making himself a sandwich of roast beef, turkey, provolone, sauerkraut on a roll, solemnly informs me that it is not a Reuben. I reply, "But it is Rubenesque." He assents. He is quite the purest on what is, and what is not, a Reuben. To wit: Corned beef, sauerkraut, rye bread, thousand island dressing (Russian dressing or mustard acceptable variants.) It can be a good sandwich, but without these elements, it should not be called a Reuben. I'm just glad I've got him eating the Claussen sauerkraut, which doesn't stink awful to me, like every other brand he's ever gotten. Personally, I can't touch the stuff. Nor rye bread, and I'm not a big fan of corned beef either.

I have been known to make him a real Reuben, including toasting the bread.

Angle

I once loved to walk around the house peering into a mirror aimed at the ceiling, where I imagined myself walking.

When the sun streamed into the kitchen, and reflected off the water in the sink, my mother called the reflection on the walls and ceiling, fairies dancing. Turning doing dishes into something slightly magical. Sometimes, anyway.

Sometimes the difference between work and play, between irritation and amusement, is a simple act of turning something around and looking at it from a different angle.

Typical

For those that like this sort of thing, they will find that this will be the sort of thing they like. Personally, not enough cloud or rain or gale force winds, and no trace of blizzard at all. All too typically pretty, or overbuilt, or grandly sweeping. Doesn't move me at all, only makes me want to erase all the man-made structures and see it how it was a few centuries ago.

Looking off toward Mexico.


To downtown San Diego.


The Scripps Pier and Coast Hwy with adjacent beaches.



Or so we were told, and have no reason to doubt.

Maybe we were just tired of California by this point. We could so NOT live there. Oregon, maybe. The boring-weathered, freeway-thick southern state? Not a chance in hell. Friends notwithstanding.

Scorchio

Hot winds gusting up from the south.


The cayenne chilis are doing well. Not sure when to pick them.


Moby sinks into the bed. He goes outside in the early morning, but decides IN is better once the sun hots up the concrete.



This most modern place has the best air conditioning we've ever had, including humidity control. In an ideal world, this would be a bad thing, to keep myself the same temperature all year long, never acclimating. But I work in a cold, controlled environment, and I've always suffered through the summer heat, not sleeping well at night. Not sure I ever did well with hot humid nights as a child, either, despite fans. Evaporation only ever does so much. I crave the cool of autumn, or the ice of winter, true Northerner that I am.

Another scorchio day.

No Nimbo Cumulos.

Meeting

Mistakes all over the place. But I think a manager who sends work emails to an employee who's work does not require looking at one's email at the best of times, and is furthermore, on vacation, on an important meeting, is vastly mistaken. When she follows that up with a message on said employee's home voice mail, but does not get a reply. And furthermore does not say a word about the mandatory, important meeting, when she speaks to that employee on Monday, and asks about the vacation, but doesn't add "Did you get my message?" or "Don't forget the meeting tomorrow."

And when the supervisor leaves a note on the assignment board saying "In at 0900" next to my name, on what appears to be a very light day, implying that I not come in until 0900, but to come in and cover breaks and lunches, but never says a word to the employee.

So, I figure, instead of being called off, I'm covering lunches. I sleep in. I get a call at 0710, supervisor demanding to know "Why aren't you HERE!?" I reasonably ask, where? She left me an "extensive message on your voice mail on Thursday!!!" There was no such message, D checked - again. I feel a bit sorry for whomever got her long instructions. Well, at her insistence, I take a quick shower, dress, skip tea and breakfast, and meet with the very important people. Now, I have no issue with the meeting, it really was important. But I got no kind of apology from the manager who a year and a half ago so lectured me on "tone." Who woke me up with her angry assumptions. Nor from the supervisor who left her note on the board, without mentioning this meeting to me at any point during our many conversations all Monday. A kind of acceptance that mistakes were made, possibly by her.


I brought no anger with me this morning, a shrug, get on with it. But this evening I allow myself the indignation, the contempt.

Wrong footed all day, didn't bring lunch because I thought it would be unnecessary. Looked like I would have to be there all day, but at a certain point I got unexpected relief. My body cast a final vote to run while I could, so I did. By the next day I have to be there, I'll have let it go again.

I'll have adequate blood-tea levels to deal.

走开。 我每次将报告您。

Guests

We could have, we were invited to, stay at the home of friends on this last trip. But we are neither of us comfortable with this. We once had to stay with his parents, and once with mine, episodes that cause both of us to shudder in suppressed horror. We've been invited to stay at the home of a friend's mom in Portland, and we both recoiled. We treasure our privacy and our own space, and feel profoundly intrusive on others when we ignore this urge. Rare exceptions have been made since.

Each of us individually have stayed a night or two with out of town friends, but it's almost always very uncomfortable and mostly sleepless. During a week long period of homelessness, we started one night in a friend's basement, and wound up re-packing the car, leaving an apologetic note, and driving through the night until we found a hotel during conference weekend. Unable to sleep, hungry and restless, we had to escape.

On the other hand, I'd stay with our cousins in Massachusetts anytime, and put them up anywhere, even to giving them our bed and sleeping on the floor myself. I won't speak for D, but I suspect he'd feel the same. I did just fine at Moira and C's three years ago, although I know I was a burden.

And although we have made guests comfortable when we've had the room, I didn't handle well a surprize extra visitor who wound up in our living room, to my extreme irritation since I had to get up and dressed and eat at 0600 that morning in front of a younger brother I'd never met before. We hosted D's brother, a friend, and Moira and C in our largest apartment in Boston, all of which worked out very nicely. So, it can work. We just have to have the space, and I have to get myself in the right place in my head. I like the idea of guests, just very little practice with the extra room to do it right.

The friend who wanted us in San Diego? Well, maybe now that I have met his spouse, which I hadn't before. Maybe next time, if we can't afford a hotel that time. Maybe.

Motel

Irrelevant photo of a boat.


The other not-at-all new revelation reinforced on this trip is that expensive hotels suck. We didn't know this most of our lives, but found out when D was being sent out to San Francisco for his job during the dotcom years. Beautiful rooms, elegant lobbies, no free amenities, only very expensive soda and candy bars, lotion and crackers - charged individually. D's brother put his parents up in this old resort hotel, with elegant beds, and $10 a day wifi, no fridge or microwave. At the Ramada where we stayed (via Travexorbitz) we had a fridge, microwave, free wifi (that worked perfectly) nice shampoo, conditioner, lotion, and a washer dryer down the hall.

I grew up with my father taking two week vacations that involved long car trips, getting up before dawn to get in the miles, stopping at every tourist trap along the way, and staying at the cheaper motels that still had AAA ratings, with occasional concessions to my brother and I to find one with a pool. They never had shampoo or coffee makers, not even the cheapest of plastic danish that constitutes what in this country gets called a Continental Breakfast. We ate tiny boxes of cereal, Corn Pops or Froot Loops, from the box, with milk bought at the truck stops, for breakfast. Mom made her tea with an immersion heater in the morning, and chewed on ice from the motel ice maker in the evening. (Never saw her chew ice in any other context.) We emptied the cooler of the melted ice, and bought more the next morning to keep the coke and milk and fried chicken brought from home cool.

The very one.


Can't say I enjoyed car trips as a small ride hostage to a rageful father. But I loved the swimming pools, and I'm glad I still have the cooler. And that we don't stay at ultra cheap motels, nor expense account posh ones. We'll stick with the comforts of the middle, preferably at a discount.

Sorting

Moby always remembers where the warm, uneven spot is.

When we met up with D's parents at their hotel in preparation for their son's wedding, D's dad commented on my packing. Made a point of explaining his own utter inability to be organized. We were in someone else's temporary lodgings, I had to keep our stuff contained just not to lose something essential. Since we pack so lightly, everything is essential, or I wouldn't have brought it. I made myself a cup of tea, my own immersion heater, mug and tea bag.

But getting everything organized is not a natural skill for me, I have to work very hard at it. Over fifteen years as an RN, especially in the OR, has honed these skills to a fine edge. I still struggle with verbal instructions if I can't write them down. So I double check and check again. For all his distractibility, D picks up where I leave off. Even he has learned to make lists and use them. And we know we will forget something, like the photo downloading device for the trip. Ahem.

On a car trip to the Grand Canyon with my parents when I was nine, I lost a lovely pair of real leather sandals. Left under the edge of the bed in the motel, noticed a few hundred miles away. No way to go back, no thought of writing to them to see if they were found. Much missed ever after.

I always broke toys, lost treasures, ruined clothes. I still have several favorite t-shirts with horrible little bleach spots that mean I don't wear them out. I can't keep a telephone number in my head long enough to call, I have to have it in front of me while I dial. Names regularly leak out of my brain, even people I've known for years, like the spouses of my brothers-in-law. I have no recollection of the full names of almost all of my friends from college or army, although I remember their faces and stories quite clearly. I remember how it felt to carry the cat around on my shoulders with it's front paws on my head, the yellow and brown pattern of the linoleum, from when I was perhaps five years old.

Why do some experiences, some details, stick, and others slide away, evaporate completely? How can I pack a bag with complete precision, but not be able to recall the number on the license plate on the car we've had over three years without checking? I'm sure I could still shelve a truck full of books, correctly, in about an hour, but not how to add a sig file to my email without D prompting me. Again.

Actually, it's less of a mystery than I imply. I remember what I understand, when I really get why. If there is no why, as in phone numbers or most people's names, I have no slot in my brain for it. When I do get why, or at least when the question is pertinent, a puzzle I'm still mulling, I can't seem to forget. Likewise the methods and groupings of tasks that all serve an end, then all the bits are all steps in the proof, and I know why I do the chores in that order.

Whence

Moby has amazed us repeatedly at his tolerance for young children. He doesn't run away at their approach, tolerating them, even unto being touched, until it gets more than he's up for, then he gets out of reach, and only after does he find it necessary to simply leave the area. We don't know when he got used to the idea of children, but it seems connected to his acceptance of anyone we allow inside. "Oh, friends of yours, then they are mine as well, conditionally."

He has approached maintenance guys, who have played with him. The delivery man for the Chinese food, who has become familiar, has "spsppst"'d at him, so last night, I picked Moby up to meet and greet. Although not in a mood to be held, he happily let himself be petted for a moment, the delivery guy, in a bliss of feline adoration, got to say hellooo. He has a "yellow" cat at home. Some people just have a soft spot for our furry overlords.

Our sitter mentioned that he got more affectionate over the four days we were gone. He is not the most overtly demonstrative cat, but he's perfect for us. As we are perfect for each other. Not actual perfection, but the relative sort. And he likes our friends.

When we had our reception, seven years after the wedding, our friends joined us. And during the evening, the staff approached both D and I to make a point of telling us how lovely our friends were, repeatedly. Owner and waiters both. We knew this, but it's always good to have one's experiences confirmed.

From whence doth this come? We mirror each other, and strive to deserve such people in our lives. Not sure we do, but we are grateful, nevertheless.

Voice

This is why I like to have a few days after a trip, to rest. To settle into my own patterns for a while. Hear my own voice.

Sadly, D has had to work these three days, with a summer cold, poor dear. He will get the weekend, and an additional day next week for the holiday. I will have a short week next week as well.

Heat today. Dry and searing, high desert heat. Not as bad as some years, still no 100˚s. We've had summers of months of 100˚ (37-38C) days one after another after another. Up to 97˚ is hot enough for me. Oh, yeah. Going to pick D up from work with the car, I suspect he will need it this afternoon.

Construction going on across the street. Commercial building, but no signs to indicate what will be going in. Dreamed I saw the place finished and thought, "OH! That makes sense, that's what it is!" But I don't know what I thought I saw. The mystery remains.

Moby getting used to having people around all the damn time again.



There will be the movie from the Mobycam sometime this weekend, time lapse from his vacation.


Update: Just hit 100˚ at the nearest weather station. Ugh.

Final Count: 102˚, 39C.

Signage

In San Diego the birds get seats, even if they can't reach the tabletop.


The meat may be from a named animal, but which one is a matter of chance.


And all the cats smile beguilingly.

Companionship

On the Sunday, we rested. Moira and C and their little Plum found an apartment full of light, and have filled it with their even brighter intelligence, and two foodie cats. C experiments with bamboo flutes, and a frankencello. We rested there, completely at home, no agenda, no plan. Rather like the last time they visited us, and Moira napped on the sofa while Plum napped in our bedroom. Rare to find a friend one can so completely relax around, to find two couples who are friends who can do this is perhaps unique, and certainly a blessing unutterable.

No, that's not Moby. But a larger cat still, no doubt of Maine Coon descent, Umeko/Bear. Both he and Kibo/Mau had been dangerously obese, until Moira gave them a home, right after her two previous cats had died within weeks of each other. They've slimmed considerably, happily showering Moira with affection and devotion.

Ok, make that three couples in blissful, mutual solitude.

Postcards

We did make it to the beach one afternoon. We are not much into sunny California seaside life. D got burnt, and there were too many people for me. Too much the "ideal" of the picture postcards. And I am bored and irritated with what is commonly perceived as "perfect" in anything. Too crowded, too many cheap* summer rentals. Pretty, but not the intense beauty of a winter lashed coast. Got my feet wet, though.








Rucked up, hair a mess, but feet in a kind of bliss. Unknown child.





*But very expensive.

Refugees

The Cat found refuge from the many children cousins first on my lap to be petted, then with Mike to sleep. We talked for hours, someone got D a guitar, and I had a pick in my pocket (as I often do, just in such a case.) There was consternation among this group about mutual turning 40 within the past year. I understood, I really did. But I've seen 50 ahead, and I trust that my cousin Elizabeth is right that life begins at 50. To me, they all look to have come into their own, with varying levels of assurance and comfort. But the men all seem more distinguished, the women all more deeply beautiful in my eyes. I said none of this, they will find out for themselves, in their own way, in their own time. I'm just blessed beyond belief to know them all, and to have known them all for so long.

Ocean

What do you do when two people normally wake up very early, and with the time change get up an hour sooner than that? Well, we took the mile and a half walk to the pier, and enjoyed the shore for it's early morning beauty, surrounded by Southeast Asian and Mexican fishers pulling small silver fish from the waves. Then wait for the cafe at the end to open at 0700 to devour a much needed breakfast. The walk back, all uphill, took more out of us, but we would have time to lounge around C and Moira.

I love the subtle monochrome of the air and water, pleasing to my tired eyes and newly growing soul. Made me think of Agnes Martin who I'd learned of from Sr. Wendy's Story of Painting. The sky was like I imagined those paintings. Overflowing with nothing to see, save everything. My little digital does not show what my eye saw. Pete could photograph this sky, I have to remember it.

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Depending on the mood I'm in. Apparently. Who do you write like?

Ops

Home and slept with a cat on my ankles. All is well. Moira taught me the PT exercises that overlap both our issues, and I'm sure that's kept me merely stiff and sore, but not flared up and in misery.

Written during the flight yesterday:

The last day, and from last night it has seemed one too many. We miss Moby, our own bed, our own space. We have persevered and got another bit of time to hang out with Mt.

Last evening, another gathering of the same core friends, and the comfort is still solidly there. Excellent food at a Greek place, including flaming cheese. Which lead me to substitute Cheese on Fire* for Wheels on Fire (The Ab Fab version), which I sang. So gratifying to be around people who get my jokes, and I theirs. Mt's usually (relatively) taciturn wife got in the funniest comment of the weekend at dinner. We were talking about how Amelia Earhart's remains have apparently been found. But just the one skeleton. What happened to her navigator? Says Ch, perfectly timed, "She ate him."

After, with Moira driving, flying down the freeway in the dark, belly full of contentment, heart at ease.


So, shall I start at the beginning yes I will. Not quite, since I have a few shots on the way to the airport, but they didn't show anything much.

The photographer getting it together. Would you believe they're all adopted? No, of course not. Strong genetic connection there.


Bride and Groom



With both sets of parents. Really. Father of Bride's shoulder is there. That's all I'm going to show, for the sake of privacy.





*"This cheese shall explode!"