Incursions

Yes, I grew up Catholic, baptized, confirmed, ten years of my schooling, devoutly mothered. Left as soon as I was free to do so, but kept that largely to myself. No desire to replace that religion in my life. So, as the pedophile scandal unfolded, I was not particularly surprized, although I never saw anything like it myself. Nor do I have any sympathy for the believers (the kids victimized, get it all) nor for the institution. Give one group too much power, give up too much of your intellect to blind faith, add a pile of money over a couple of thousand years, and this is the kind of misery that will result. Better to give the scoundrel only a limited space to move, and keep for ourselves plenty of skepticism of authority.

That the Pope's advisor is now arrested on the very problem he was charged with solving does not surprize me either. In our guard unit, the guy put in charge of sexual harassment was the one who cornered females to force a kiss on them. Didn't work with me, but only because I was older, faster, and had already dealt with that sort of behaviour. When I worked at the Detroit library, as a 19-20 year old, I was cornered by an older guard in an elevator, and he kissed me. I did not like him, did not take it as grandfatherly at all, but it was, however disturbing, ultimately harmless. An important lesson, since no old pervert ever caught me again. But if he'd been more aggressive, more violent, more violating, I would have had no defense, no recourse - only boatload of guilt after.

Not that there weren't other incursions on my person, but they abated as I got older, and I got better at preventing them by picking up on early signs. Which is why it is so evil when predators use children, who don't even understand what is being taken from them. That a religious institution is so cavalier about how they deal with this is institutional evil. Just as we all knew that assigning that Officer to take charge of Sexual Harassment meant putting the proverbial fox in charge of the chicken coop, everyone who worked with that priest knew. Of course they knew. What they were thinking is the mystery.

Whatever my spiritual leanings and aspirations, I will never belong to a regimented belief system. That way lies destruction of one's soul. No truth lives there. Only hypocrisy and dogma.

Dogs know better.

Milk

My young adulthood featured becoming vegetarian. Nothing simple about it, as I had been exposed to nothing but canned vegetables, and hated them. But I never liked meat, although it was a mandatory part of most meals. As was the absolutely mandatory glass of (detested) milk. I had to eat the meat and whatever else I put on my plate, with baked dessert as the reward. I had a lot of gut irritation, and no one could figure out why. A lot of white bread, fried food, cheap meat, sugary baked desserts.

Aunt Alma was so surprized when she made me spinach, and I could not get enough, thought it the best flavor in the world. My body craved it, so it tasted amazing. Summertime, I ate the rhubarb from the back yard, snitching it as it sprouted. I ate sweet clover from the lawn, cherry tomatoes from my mother's garden, and unripe grapes from Mrs. Rizzardi's arbor, through the fence. Any fruit, although my mother would only buy a small amount, because of the expense. Which is part of why I loved visiting Aunt Alma, she would buy me enough peaches and plums to gorge myself.

So, when I cooked for my own meals, on so little income, I subsisted on quick breads, ramen noodles, free candy bars from my job at the theater, fried eggs, and out of a strange habit, milk. Which I still hated, but considered nutritious. I never really felt well, despite lots of dance classes, walking everywhere. Broccoli was my first foray into greenery, along with lettuce. It was a long, slow process. I don't remember when I started steaming frozen vegetables, but that did seem to help quite a lot. That may have been years later, after the army chow halls, when being vegetarian was just not possible. When I ate whatever was put on my tray, and swallowed it without much ado. Some of which may have been - technically - vegetables.

Going to restaurants is what most changed my diet. Eating well cooked and seasoned vegetation opened my eyes to possibilities. Lamb and green beans at the International, a Greek place in Detroit. Having only tried canned green beans, to taste them cooked lovingly was a revelation. Today, I'll go for about anything green and leafy. I never drink milk. I occasionally have a dream about having to drink the stuff again, and it's gagging.


These days, I try to eat more vegetation than not, but I've left it as an exclusive ideal. I like the green stuff. I rarely eat dessert. I have wheatgerm every morning in my hot cereal, meat not every day - more as a side than a main, good eggs from a friend with chickens, never white bread, always some vegetables, a bit more balance. My gut has been pretty stable for a while. Although it has it's moments. Cheese in small amounts, no damn milk. Mostly, no one shouting as I eat, and no one forcing me to ingest what I don't want.

I really enjoy spinach, treated kindly.

Have I mentioned how much I hate milk*?






*The first word I learned to spell was "Bar." My earliest friend boasted spelling the word "Milk." My parents were impressed. I knew it was a better word, if only for having more letters, and being less seedy, but I hated milk too much to bother to learn how to spell it.

Custard

Went to the Hong Kong Tea House for dim sum, an entirely reasonable treat.* I love the shrimp paste in bell pepper. And chicken steamed bun. D ordered a custard steamed bun that was quite special, Pot stickers, and fried rice. Po Lei tea in a brown pot, tiny cups. We nibbled and talked and enjoyed each other's company. A place I have never seen without obviously asian patrons at the next table. They'd had a flooding problem, and had to close for over two weeks, so we made a point of going back as soon as they re-opened.

They know us, and we know them, by sight, and we care about their endeavor.

The first year they opened, they provided a dessert soup with every dinner. This was a new thing, but interesting. D loved the tapioca one, and I the red bean, but I suspect most people were more confused than pleased. A hot, sweet soup for dessert is not a familiar tradition, here. Such good food, generous but not excessive, tasty. A bit of patience is necessary with the non-English-as-first-language staff. Once, a waitress brought what was obviously fish to a non-fish-eating D, and tried to explain him what he'd ordered by showing him her pad. He had to apologetically explain that he would not order fish, and could not read her letters either. The staff has become more fluent, the soups have (sadly) disappeared, but the food is still wonderful. Their spicy bean curd is so soft, like custard, in a sauce to clear the sinuses. The tea is a comfort and joy to me.

We talked about the delicate balance between a restaurant staying solvent, being stingy, and making a patron feel they are being treated generously. We miss India Quality in Boston. D went to pick up food once, and they gave him tea while he waited. A simple thing, a few pennies cost, but it was a kindness he appreciated, an attitude that made us feel cared for, and at that moment we became dedicated customers. Yes, the food was always amazing, but try eating even very good food, if you feel upset. So restaurants need to master that imponderable of 'welcomeness."

Where do you feel welcome? Where does the food taste better because of that?





*Unlike the tapas place we got dragged to, which seemed to be a great place to get overcharged for not enough food. This place has dim sum for a reasonable price, and enough to fill one up nicely.

Variable

Sadly, I've been watching a fair amount of crap tv, as is my wont when I am tired and it's hot. What Not To Wear has been common, the US version, which is not as kind as the Trinny & Suzannah series. Although they have gotten better. I can only defend this as my admitted voyeurism, and my defensible interest in costume as a social medium and history. Offered 5K to get a new set of clothes would be nice, I know I have decent taste when I have enough to spend. Why I miss Boston and Filene's Basement so much. Last year's clothes - for cheap, which works when one choses classic. I don't bother here because no one else dresses well anyway, and my social life is past. I throw on clothes in the morning, change into scrubs, change back, get home, get into pjs.

I could give up my clothes to exchange them for better ones, sure. But I would not get un-sensible shoes. No high heels, not even a little bit. Not about to finish ruining my born-bad feet. I've kept them in decent shape by always giving them good, solid, flat, wide toed, supportive shoes. This is our truce, and I will keep my part of it. They have never formed corns or bunions, and after some serious arch support, they have been cooperative.

No more cutting of my hair, either. Takes too long to grow back enough to pull back enough to keep it under my cap at work. Too short, and it creeps out over my ears, making me look like a mad bird. I've had it very short, I've had it permed and dyed, and I'm not doing any of that again. I like it long, it pleases me, and that is that.

Had a moment of epiphany looking at the mirror, and thinking about the WNTW focus on making their vict... guests feel "pretty" and "feminine." I'm just not interested in that. I want to look good, a bit elegant, but not really girly. Thoughts trundled on that gender is not just one thing. There is the body, and the sense of one's gender, orientation, and social gender. I'm definitely a woman physically, and have never wanted to be male physically, heterosexual with only a whiff of curiosity to my own sex - never enough to act on, but with a social gender androgyny. Maybe it was partly to do with only having brothers. But I have always been right in the middle on what girls vs boys are supposed to like and dislike. Hate pastels, especially pinks, but I did ballet. Liked climbing trees, but not rough play. I like theatrical make-up, but can't be bothered day to day.

And I think most people would rate themselves differently on those different aspects of their gender identity. From full feminine to full masculine, or right in the middle on each one, The research really doesn't know what normal is, has not been thorough about teasing out the individual variables, so to condemn any manifestation is idiotic.

Genetic variation, what every species needs.

Ambient

Nicely overcast, avoiding the searing heat. Down to the ambient heat, which is at least not as intrusive.

Moldy dust everywhere, including throat and eyes. Disturbing sleep. I used to think it was just the temperature, but on our third summer with good, humidity controlled, central air, I'm not so sure. Both of us have had very disrupted sleep over the past month or so. We don't keep it down at 60˚F and heavy blankets at night, certainly. Put it at 76˚F, with a cotton throw - which is perfectly comfortable without the fan coming on too often, we should be fine. So, I wonder if there is another, or several other factors. Light until late evening. And I still have to get up in the dark. (Oh, our modern industrial world.) The cat still sheds a lot of the winter undercoat, despite not being out in the heat for more than an hour a day. We've confused our inbred rhythms, but not eliminated them.

Got in the majority of my hours this week. Could have gotten more, but by Friday afternoon, I was not up to a bit of tedious paperwork. I'd have just messed up the vacation schedule - which no one wants. No better way to piss people off than to screw up their vacations. A short week with a holiday, but it felt just as long as one with overtime.


Summer is not for sleeping.


Just came across this Rorschmap, a mirror image of your city. This one is SLC. I think them rather appealing.

Wipe

When the litter dust gets all over his face, he does not know why we giggle so much.




He's not fond me me wiping it off, either.

Repairs

Many years ago, we kept getting a recording of A Few Small Repairs by Shawn Colvin out from the library again and again, until we just gave in and bought it.


(Not sure what the video has to do with anything, feel free to ignore it and just listen.)

Over the last month, I've heard Gillian Welch interviewed at least twice, and I knew it was going to be the same sort of thing. A bit twangy for my usual taste, but with such a compelling intensity and engaging, cascading melodies. I'm hooked, I admit it.

Gillian Welch - The Way It Goes

Smoke

Third and final installment for this year. You may want to skip down to the next entries to get it in order. Not that it really matters.

Let's start with a little good old fashioned nightmare fuel.


Other than sheer hideosity, I have no idea.

Bees and... aliens?


A credible moose, with an actual water feature behind him.


A very nice dragon. I'm sure they got special permission for him to smoke.



I knew there'd be ironing!

Or was it irony?

Fishes

Hard for humans to do fish costumes. It never comes out well, and usually, just altogether weird.


I didn't like Finding Nemo, either. Partly because I find anthropomorphized fish completely unconvincing. Partly because of all the whining. Actually, there wasn't anything about it I did like, and walked out of it. This costume is for an extravaganza put on down south, with a little mermaid theme.

The various Polynesian bands always rocked. And shimmied.


Salt Lake has it's share of Scots, who often form into bagpipe bands. This makes me happy.


Ok, so Draper has bluffs that are popular with hang gliders. I don't know why eggs, other than that so many hang glider riders break so easily.

I will never forget one who came in to my OR, with two feet to reattach.

Adorable little penguins. On a float espousing proselytizing to every continent, "Until the work is done."

Aw, look at the widdle penguins!

Queens

Today is the 24th of July, Days of '47, Pioneer Day, a state holiday. I work for a state institution, so I get it off. But really, most people do. This is when Utah culture, good, bad, kitschy and unique in it's raw folk artness, expresses itself as a parade. Oh, what a parade. Previous parades also tagged as kitsch. Had the old camera then, huge difference.

We watched from the Library again, in cool comfort. Although with the clouds, it would not have been so bad. Also had D's parents with us, so we had to reign in our less than positive (snide) remarks about The Church.* There was plenty else to mock.

We have a theme! I wondered how far a parade would get about ironing, but who was I to judge?



Horses this year. Sadly (although I've never been to it myself) the Horse parade, traditionally the week previous, was cancelled, due to equine herpes in the spring. The outbreak is under control now, although I'm sure they were taking precautions.


The Mormon Battalion, not quite up to fighting strength these days, no doubt for the best.


These young men in black and white, and name-tags were all over. I think they should be made to walk the route, in formation, maybe a little Drill & Ceremony.



After all, these beauty queens hoofed it. In high heels. They are my heroes today.


A float went by later, set up to showcase such young women in formal dress, but no one was on it. Quite the saddest thing.

*This is Utah. Salt Lake City. THAT church.

More above.

Translation

Having read Dale and Crow, I ponder translation. D saw Captain America, which he enjoyed, as a comic book geek, for being neither too slavish, nor too alienated from the original material. I remember Charlotte's Web, animated, when I was small, and being aware even then of the difficulty of taking a literary form and turning it into a movie.

I saw Winnie the Pooh before reading it, and started off preferring the Disney version. But when I got older, I began to appreciate the subtly and grace of the Shepard illustrations, and the charm of the writing. Especially after the Tao of Pooh by Benjamin Hoff. D had never been read any of it, so when we listened to the Richard Briers version, we both fell in love, me - all over again. So, the process worked backwards. I found the facile animation pleasing when I was small, I found the words and full story satisfying as an adult.

Moving from one medium to another is never a straightforward word by word analysis. Always, there must be a complete rethinking of the story, and how it will read in a different form. Moving from painting to sculpture means an added dimension. Just as taking a novel and turning it into a movie is not a straightforward proposition. The televised version of Going Postal lost sight of this completely, giving up the story, and the characters, for the sake of the "look" of the thing. Disaster. The series of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. and Smiley's People, manage to both streamline and translate the story rather well, even as they trimmed everything that works in a novel, but flounders in a movie. The new version looks to have lost the plot.

The danger is always in being too slavish to the source, versus just getting a motif, and going off on a far tangent that alienates those who love the source, and confusing to those unfamiliar. Some stories are best as novels, some as film, some art works best in oils and two dimensions, some as sculpture. Whatever works best, but even if the theme is pervasive, it must change with each incarnation.

So, we must re-tell our stories, re-write our poems, re-paint our images, as each generation has a different context. Context is everything. Rare are the artists who happen to hit upon something so spare, so flexible, that it can be eternal. Like Shakespeare, or the cave artists at Lascaux. Poets are copied, and seem derivative. Citizen Kane is so copied it appears clichéd,
Picasso so reproduced he is passé. Leonardo become a kind of shorthand joke for genius. How many lost poets, who spoke so clearly to their own times, that everyone built on them to the extent that they are mocked and surpassed?

We live and die by our stories, so they must be kept current, comprehensible. No one understands about sheep and shepherds in our modern life, and we need a new, perhaps urban, savior. Or better yet, how to save ourselves.

Tectonic

Tectonic movement,
Sliding land, mudflow, earthquake.
One human lifetime.


Want to do another tao te ching, but it sticks.

Amy Winehouse joins the 27 Club. Sad, as all waste of humanity is, but not at all surprizing.

Harry Potter bores me. Read enough Pterry, and J.K. seems trite. I read the first two, or read the first one, skimmed the second, read first and last chapter of the third, and last pages of the forth. Mostly because I worked with people who read the series, and raved. I still don't quite get why, although if I'd read it as a ten year old to start, I'd have loved it, I'm sure. I loved The Hobbit, then the LOTR, re-reading it several times, until I was about 20. I read the whole Narnia series - which I would now be repulsed by. Some stories need to come at a certain point in life. And, even for those who found HP in adulthood, I have to assume they read along with their children, and maybe never got into fantasy as kids themselves. Anything to get anyone reading is not a bad thing.

But, at some point, I realized I'd read a bellyfull of fantasy, and had enough. Not quite like when I was between grade 8 and high school, and was finally allowed to read from the adult side of the library. I decided to read through the romance shelves, in order. This was 1976, so nothing terribly racy, but suggestive, and very, very dysfunctional. And by the end of the summer, I was inoculated against ever reading romance novels again. I made an exception for the odd historical romance, or Eleanor Hibbert (in her many guises.) But, I vowed to never read another story that didn't stand on it's own again, trilogies in particular. HP is both, a sitcom that resets every book, and a multi-volume story, but it's all rather... tame? Inconsequential? A bit too much like one-thing-after-another picaresque adventure tale, signifying nothing. That everyone gets older, doesn't change how bland it all is. Night Watch stands alone, and packs more punch in one novel.


I have no objection to Harry Potter. But I hope it's young readers find other books to read. And don't just succumb to Star Trek fandom, with all the limitations thereof.

Lamp

Washed the sheepskin, took two days to dry properly. Moby approves.



I know it's not an ammonite, and I'm sure I used to know the name of this tubular, early creature, but I can't remember what it is.
Orthoceras, apparently.

This was pretty enough, but I had to handle it to realize what it was.


So, got some lamp oil, and are rather pleased.


The game is Cranium, and there is some modeling clay included. Second hand, that was a bit dry, and slightly mucky. So I picked up some PlayDoh. Which I will have fun with anyway. Mom used to make modeling clay for me occasionally, occasionally allowing me some food coloring. Which I liked, and much appreciated. On the one occasion when I was given some commercial Play Doh, I was not allowed to mix the colors "because you can't unmix them." Now, it's the first thing I do, and I feel a twinge of resentment that I was not allowed this joy as a child, for a sensible reason.


I don't know where the snowguy idea came from, looks a bit like SNL's Mr. Bill though. He was immediately swished into a candy cane, then put back in the tub.

Sailing

We decided last night to go out this morning, some light yard sailing, maybe go into an Open House. So little to do for free, in the cool of the day, in this town. So D did a little research yesterday, and we had a list. At the first one, we got to meet a very large, orange cat, who came up to me and mewed to be petted. Woman whose cat it was warned us he'd been aggressive, to the point of biting her, probably because of the stress of the move. I added that he seemed to be walking stiffly, so there may be a pain issue as well. Cat came up to me and rubbed against my legs later. We also got a very pretty, very low centered, pottery oil lamp. And a small, well polished fossil specimen.

At the second, D found an old school friend. She has been dealing with long term health problems, and we wished her well. Not that wishing anyone well works, but it's nice to hear. And we picked up a game. I'd also been thinking about getting new prayer flags, and I found some there.

After actually buying stuff (which was never the intention) we made one final stop, which we could not resist because of this ad.

I WOULD LIKE TO TAKE THIS OPPORTUNITY AND INVITE EACH OF YOU TO A LAWN AND GARAGE SALE YOU WILL NOT FORGET. FOR THE NEXT TWO DAYS, WE WILL BE SELLING EXOTIC AND UNIQUE, FURNISHING, GIFTWARE AND THINGS FROM ALL OVER THE GLOBE. BRASSWARE, COPPERWARE, PORCELAIN, WOONDEN CARVINGS, ARTWORK, GIFTS AND MUCH MORE. FOR MORE INFORMATION:... OR COME VISIT US AT (...) YOU WILL BE LITERALLY BLOWN AWAY AT THE BEAUTIFUL AND UNIQUE THINGS FOR SALE. SEE YOU THERE.

D imagined him shouting all of this in all caps. Mostly, it was a local import store disguised as a yard sale, full price for everything, but it was all pretty. Nothing tempting. Guy was not a native English speaker, which might go a ways to explain the ad. Although not Literally blown away, thankfully, we did get to meet a very nice little Jack Russell terrier.

Reminded me of this goggie


Photos to be added later. Have to pet the cat right now.

Castors

Five things. Because it's that kind of day.


1. Is Adelaide a half hour off time zone like Newfoundland?

2. Castors are amazing.



3. The tortoise's name is Gamera.

4. D could tell the difference after the new tires as well. As a passenger. He does not drive. Wisely.

5. Got some white tea, which is also mountain tea, but translated on the package (from Chinese) as Alpine Tea. Whatever, it's very good tea.

This.

Squishy

Frozen blackberries, strawberries, half banana, lime yogurt, a dash of tangerine/orange juice. With a slice of bread, this was dinner last evening.

Called off for today. Didn't need it, didn't want it, but this is life right now. Getting buggerall done, here.

Reading about the Americanisms that BBC readers don't like. Avoided the actual "article", but over at Separated By A Common Language Lynnequist has a thorough and reasoned (and researched) response.

Since there are so many readers here who speak other varieties of English, I'd be curious about both your take on this, and your own observations about the differences. I happen to love how everyone in different places express themselves differently, and I'm glad to make different expressions part of my vocabulary. But then, I love words, and playing with them.

My mother would be horrified that I prefer the word bucket to pail. But then I get to exclaim "Bucket!" at work, without actually swearing. That wouldn't help her feel better.

Sir

A day of busyness. Went to replace tires early, two hours door out to door in. With our credit card cash back, which came in the form of eight $25 cards, the repair place throwing in the alignment because the offer we were quoted a month ago had changed, and a small but meaningful rebate, it came out to well under half of the initial price. As soon as I drove the car, I could tell. Which gave me retroactive alarm at the state of the old tires.

Counter guy dealt with the eight cards, although the first time through, he'd missed a step and they weren't reading properly, and I had to do it again. He was apologetic, but so was I, and appreciative. For $200. I'll give out a lot of patience. The alignment gratis I only found out about as I started to pay, I'd not asked for it before. We got a deal.

There is a change in me, and I think about it mostly in this kind of exchange. I put energy into being calm and pleasant with those who have to deal with the public, to counter the entitled and unreasonable. I try to be easy, unfussy, grateful. So, when I have to hand the poor guy eight gift cards, have no idea what my tire size is, and I'm lucky to remember the year on my car, I try to compensate. Best when I actually have time, as this morning, but even when there is a hurry, behaving as if there is sufficient time lets them think, and in the end makes the process go faster. Things take as long as they take.

I stopped for groceries, and the two open lanes were long. But another line opened, the cashier called to the older (than me) woman with a cart-full in front of me. But she called out, "Miss, Miss!" Older woman didn't even look, so I said, "Ma'am, there's an open lane." THAT she heard. I followed behind her, wondering if I would answer to Miss, and decided I would just look around me for whatever miss they were calling for. I'm definitely a ma'am. Mostly because in the military, officers are sir and ma'am, never miss. When I got my degree, although far away from army days, that was when I would have become a ma'am in that organization - as an officer. Since then, I love being called ma'am. Means I'm in charge, being listened to, my orders followed. Reality is a bit different, but I do like being heard.

Miss is never listened to.

Not that most titles are used anyway, anymore. Nor do I care. A generic, polite "hey you" in public, however, is sometimes needed. Sir and Ma'am'll do.

Sky

The sky last night.

It poured down right before I left work at 4. Came home to a freaked out cat, because there were a handful (if you are a thunder god) of lightening strikes within a few blocks of our place. D looked a little bothered as well. Cooled it down by a good 20˚F, temporarily. We've just not been that hot, compared to the heat we sometimes get this time of year. Instead, the middle of the continent is getting broiled. I feel especially bad for the northerners, who often don't have air conditioning (why should they, when they'd only need it a month out of the year?) Like when the south got weeks of cold and snow, and them with no adequate coats or insulation.

It's all a matter of what one is prepared for. The freak weather gets us all, then.

Scrunch

Moby found this corner, of sorts, and scrunched himself in there. Never seen him do that before, but I guess he likes exploring his options.


Dale reminds me, as he so often does, of an aspect of my work and training that I use, but don't think to mention usually. Added to this week's patients. Not the easy, generally healthy group, more like a gaggle of odd ducks. It's not hard to spot them. Even in a hospital gown, they look disheveled, with unwashed and/or uncombed hair, long left untrimmed, or badly cut. Or when their hands or feet need to be washed, and that's where the surgery is being done. Odd, to have to take a scrub brush to a dirty foot, when the individual knew they were having an operation on that bit. I've had to do that twice this week, one hand, one foot. Got to get it clean to get it closer to sterile.

This does not include those who have a fracture that has been splinted for a while, who cannot be blamed for not wanting to get the splint wet, or jostle a painful break. Or kids, who resist being clean, nor their parent who chooses not to insist when the little monkey is injured. Likewise those who have dirty jobs, mechanics and ranchers mostly, here. Their hands are tattooed with engine oil and soil, a permanent feature. I've had those guys apologize, and I reassure them - I know it's not dirt as such.

No, the nutty ones are different. There is a smell about them, sometimes literally. They don't think to keep themselves covered as much as reasonably possible, as most others do. The one today sat, with her gown bunched up around her thighs, crosslegged on the gurney in Pre-op, blanket tossed aside. When even the most overheated would normally keep the blanket over their lap at least. They talk too much, make too little eye contact, make off-color and off-subject jokes, move erratically. They may have an odd request, without a reasonable story. A grown woman with a teddy bear, who promised her daughter to keep it with her to look after her, is unusual, but normal. A grown woman with a teddy bear who doesn't explain, and with no known mental delays - evidence of oddity. They ask many, many more questions than anyone else - even medical folks (who tend to ask a lot.) And they are often irrelevant questions, uncommon ones, more to delay than an actual bid for information. Or, they ask nothing at all, don't answer, grunt or get angry.

And I in no way include patients with known problems, brain injuries or developmental anomalies. No, the Odd Ducks are more likely to have drug issues, though. Heavy smokers, meth teeth, extensive messy tattoos, equally odd SOs, and it's never just one thing, but an array. They take longer to get ready, emerge from anesthesia unpredictably, and often have brightly colored, but grungy underwear.

They are sometimes funny, often likable, good for stories - later, with those who were there. We don't judge, but we do diagnose. It's kind of a hobby, a side effect. Like every job dealing with people, we remember the weird ones.

Pigeon

We meandered over to The People's Market over on the west side, and the Peace Gardens. It's mostly crafts, including more than one booth full of crochet. Not talking hip crocheted Daleks or Hello Kitties, just granny doilies and such in pastels. The Gardens have a similar aesthetic, worn, obvious, cliché, a bit sad.

This is in the section for England. No comment.


Finland, Finland, Finland.... Finland has it all....


The Korean Garden. Next to Vietnam across from Wales.



Next came Canada. Just a hummock. With a flag.


These are all much clearer full size, click away.

Later:

Came out of the grocery store, that has a covered parking area, much used as pigeon nesting. One pigeon caught my attention as I walked out the door, because it had one end of a twig a third again as long as he was. He kept tight hold in his beak, and walked around in circles. Then turned the other way, the stick impeding him as he turned the other way. Then back around. I stood and watched him in his dilemma, as he walked this way and that, never letting go the end of the stick. Finally, startled by a passerby (finally, there were several) he dropped the stick, and grabbed it again closer to the middle. He flew up, and the twig dropped to the ground. Pigeons are not as smart as corvids.

Canvas

Last night D was up, as he often is, and heard Moby scratching at something. He couldn't quite tell what, until later, when he found this canvas box pulled down. Now, we know, if it's empty, Moby considers it his duty to bring it to the floor. This time despite being full, he still managed it. He does this when we put his round bed up on the chair, and often expands to tipping waste paper baskets. It's a job he takes very seriously.

This morning, he decided that the lower box would be a very nice place for a nap.



"It's a cat thing, you wouldn't understand."

Mistake

Made a mistake last night. Tired, with a nagging sinus headache, I took a half diphenhydramine* and a decongestant that normally keeps me awake if I take it alone. This made me much more sleepy than usual, but given I'd worked twelve hard hours, I didn't pay much attention. When I could barely wake up at nine, D- knowing I would not want to sleep longer - woke me. Sometime amid the involved dreams, involving the army and inspecting a huge geological feature, I remembered that I had double dosed myself. I'd taken a 24hour, non-drowsy antihistamine, as soon as I'd gotten home.

Want to know what happens when you take a long acting and short acting antihistamine? Somnolence. I've been dopey all day long. And how does this happen to someone who should know better, with the license to prove it? Same as anyone else. Inattention, distraction, pure mistake.

My sinuses did feel much better.





*No, I did not have to look it up or spell-check that word.

Content

Nope, can't put down coherent words. This is the 4th attempt over the last few days.

Instead, you get this notification of intent without content.

Blogfail.

Bed

Took a long, hot, bath this evening.


We often do a crossword before bed.


Sometimes we read.


Read today that the NY law allowing gay marriage goes into effect 24 July. This is Pioneer Day in Utah, the Big Holiday (far outdoing the 4th of July.) I could not help but smile. A small irony, but a good one.

Garden

My tiny garden.

Mint flowers.


Grass for the cat to eat. Eggshells to keep the moisture in, as this area bakes in the sun.


A sunflower (I think) from the birdseed.

Sweet

Sweet warmth, mild breezes
Saunter softly, easily.
Summer's kindly face.

Feeling like utter crap myself, but that's a temporary and hormonally induced distressed, and I'll be fine in a day or so. D made pizza with pre-made small crusts and a lot of potent salsa, which helps quite a lot. He found How TV Ruined Your Life, which is amusing us immensely.

He's very good at finding good shit.

Massage

Moby loves this. He'll stare at me, I'll chase him, he'll flop down, winning the game, and therefore gets a massage. He purrs hard, either the whole time, or for several minutes after. If I do this slower, or more gently, he will feint a bite. Not ever really chomp down, but he is clearly irritated. This level of vigorousness causes him to rub the top of his head on the floor and half close his eyes.





I wish a giant pair of hands would come down and give me a massage like this.

Altogether

When people come in to have surgery, they are not at their best. They are stripped down, vulnerable, hungry, usually a bit worried, often sleep deprived. In unflattering gowns designed for easy access for medical intervention. And we strive to both safeguard their health and safety, and then their dignity and humanity. A necessary prioritization, but nonetheless distressing.

A young student visited, at the invitation of a surgeon, to observe. Not uncommon. I helped her find her way around, get scrubs, and she disappeared into a bathroom stall to change. I had to stop myself saying something, but I left her to her privacy. We nurses all just strip at our lockers, to do otherwise would be untenable, and silly.

I remember when I first had to change into a swimsuit at the public pool, how heartstoppingly naked I felt, no matter how quickly I managed to re-dress. How appalled at the bodies of women and other girls around me, so different, so raw. My own skin so exposed. But I loved to swim so much, I came to accept, to ignore. Good training, between the army and the OR, I've had to undress and dress in public almost more often than not.

And I remember when I was small, and my dear Aunt Alma marveled at my excessive modesty when changing. She set the seed, that maybe my mother's horror about nudity may, possibly, be a bit overdone.

I am, I think naturally modest. I haven't any exhibitionist tendencies. But neither does it bother me to disrobe when it's appropriate. At the Field House at the university, in the women's locker room, was a shower room, sauna and hot tub. I would go in between two early morning classes during an hour gap, to warm up and have time to relax. No one ever bothered to wear more than a towel, and it was very comfortable.

Save once, when a group of, I'm guessing related, women trooped through, all wearing bathing suits and talking the whole time. Another woman and I who had been politely, and quietly, sharing the space, caught each other's eye, bewildered. The group did quiet down a bit, but their state of dress felt intrusive, as though blaming the two of us conforming to the usual norm of being immodest. Both of us left fairly quickly, uncomfortable.

Once in a while I read a whine about how nurses used to look so professional in those crisp white dresses and caps. And I am always exasperated. I work for my living, I get all kinds of ... stains on my work clothes. I'm on the floor, crawling around, I've ripped them on equipment.

The very thought of doing this in a dress is beyond my comprehension. To be in my own, white, clothing would be insane. However clean looking, they would not be. Scrubs are cleanable, nearly disposable. Maybe the romantics want to think of us delicately wiping a brow with a cool cloth, rather than debriding a crusted wound, cleaning up fecal matter, suctioning out mucous. I put on laundered, often wrinkled, thin cotton blend scrubs of venerable vintage, every morning of work. I take them off after every shift, and they get disinfected and recycled. Every day.

I wear an ill-fitting, functional uniform, rather like my patients. We're all in this together.

Once

So much loneliness.

Reach out a thousand times, more.

Just for that one time.

(Took photos, none turned out.)

Life

I wrote a meandering whine about not having friends, but had to make so many qualifications and exceptions. I live with the dearest friend imaginable, and a cat who loves us (in his cat way) and all of you who read here.

No, right now we don't have a circle of friends, no one to socialize with, no way to find others. The old gang scattered, some to California, some into their own lives, making children their centers.

The gap left by the lost friend still aches, when I wanted to share a story with her, an image, a video she would love. And I realize how little I ever asked of her, so that when I did, it apparently seemed an imposition, a burden too heavy to be borne. My fault for overloading, hers for not being clear sooner. But she really was irreplaceable, will remain so.

So, cherish my dear little family, and be open to life. Yes, I will remember.

Life is just a chair of bowlies.

Residue

Evidence of the weekend fire. Apparently started by a campfire not adequately smothered from the day before. All out, now. This is taken from the parking lot at work, a University shuttle is visible in the lower right.

And yes, still snow in the mountains. One of the resorts was still open for skiing on the 4th.

Took the camera to work, as I am trying to take a photo every day. Here are the operating microscopes, part of a C-Arm x-ray machine, and all the (not lead) radiation aprons.

An operating table, partly dismantled. Used with a shoulder positioner earlier, and rolled into the hall for later assembly. The yellow is a gel pad. The strips are velcro to keep the foot pad in place.