Portrait

The one way I know I was not middle class growing up was the utter lack of studio photo portraits. I had school photos, which my parents bought and gave to family, mostly wallet size ones for the aunts & uncles, and a 3X5 for each grandmother. Most of which I detested and would have preferred burned. My mother took some lovely Brownie snapshots of us as kids, in B&W. And every birthday and Christmas and vacation had photos, developed at the local drugstore and stored thereafter in old shoeboxes. I loved looking through them, with the negatives kept in the envelopes - although never used past the initial prints. Photos outside of vacations, holidays and birthdays were vanishingly rare. A few to commemorate snowmen, or new clothes, or rites of passage - communion and confirmation, the sparse weddings.

And I treasure those recordings of my early life. The spontaneous, if predictable, moments, illustrating my growth over time. No one else involved, no artificially strained smiles for a stranger in front of a bland background, instead - the reality visible on film. I've always had very clear visual memories from ridiculously early in my life, and I know that the series of photos have reinforced that. Not created the memories, but kept them alive.

I can only think that if I'd had to have professional portrait photos every year, I'd have rebelled much earlier in my life. I go stiff and awkward in front of a photographer. Only since I've had photobooth on this laptop, and have learned out to take self portraits, have I liked my own image. Digital images, allowing for feedback and mistakes, willingness to try anything, all I needed.

Thinking about family a lot, recently. My father is 88 years old. My mother 86. I wish I had a passable relationship with them, but it's really not possible. And I do feel awful about this, but not as bad as when I was in contact with them. I love living without a hole in my integrity, not having to deal with the lies and picking. But I am grateful for having been given adequate food and clothing and an excellent education, I really am. They came from a different generation, hard-core working class of the last century. I know I was the unplanned, surprize child, late and not entirely welcome. An added expense, rather than an additional resource. No anger, really not. Just the intense need for separation.

Likewise for my much older brothers, for whom I was at most, a toy, no matter that I idolized them. None of us were real people to each other. So, when they moved out, I disappeared for them. Now, in different parts of the world, we really are nothing to each other. A genetic similarity really doesn't mean anything. They are not my saviors, they are just guys with their own lives, and they have no clue about what I am, nor do they care, nor should they. And I have had to let go of my idea of them as "brothers." I have had better luck with my cousins. (Found out from cousins that no one really thought much of my father and oldest brother, and I thought them well liked, in contrast to my experience of them. Wow. )

So, here I am, happy with my aging phisog - one that echoes my aunts and mother, and completely alienated from my roots. I don't think I had worse than any misused child, better than many, but I had the personal will to say Basta! and make it stick? No money to go after, I'm sure that helps. Excessive ability to rationalize, and just decided that the logical thing was to walk away with the story of Lot's wife to remind me never to look back. "Let the dead bury the dead." Luke 9/60 bothered me immensely when I was ten, but there it is guiding me to this day. Not pretty, but appropriate triage. Probably doesn't speak well of my compassion, either. Once I decide and promise, that is it for me.

And that may have something to do with my mother's extreme irritation with anyone holding grudges, and great insistence on getting people together who held same. I felt that it was better to just leave all parties alone.

Maybe I just never felt any bond with either of them, so when the dependence was gone, there was nothing left but a non-existant nostalgia for the 'good old days.' A lack of attachment may be at the heart of my indifference, rather than level of abuse, since that was fairly moderate, all told.

This is a theme I expect will be a source of worry all my life, in varying amounts at different times, decreasing gradually over the decades.

Springing

Spring light.

Cleaned

Iced and cleaned up, looking better.

I AM smiling...

Flattery

This is not a flattering shot, but it is, indubitably, me. As I am. The years have piled on recently. Over the past few since the back injury, and letting my hair be what it is. From a woman who didn't look forty,(or so) to one who looks her age, and a bit, in so short a time, this is hard. But it's true, so it is. I went from fine, to thinking I'd breathed my last, to being unutterably grateful to be still alive, to having a life more painful, further along, than before. Mixed blessings, fate, inevitability, all in one waxy gob. Here I am. This is it. Apex of ability and keenness passed, and so it goes.

But, I love and am loved. By a thoroughly decent human being, who is incapable of malice. A man of eternal integrity who has never passed a contemptuous thought about me. Not that bad, all in all. Pretty good, actually. Fucking amazing, really.

Let my roots go down further, catch more of the subtleties, may compassion bloom. How deep can I go.

Grunt

There are bad days, and there are hard days. The two forces are not dependent on each other. Today was a very hard day, but in no way bad. No one crabby or angry, no long delays between cases, no huge failures or intractable messes - the bits that make for bad. Just a lot of work, having to make major changes in bed configurations, a lot of supplies needing opening, a lot of floor fluid to mop, for every single turnover in every single room. And being the resource/lunch person, I got to do them all. No one happier than me when the last case came down at precisely 1600, and I could come home.

This place is not like a trauma hospital OR, when a good day is when everyone gets out alive, and we've all had bad days. In an orthopedic hospital, there is a somewhat higher bar for a good day. This one got over, but with a grunt.

Details

My brother once referred to me as "chinless" and an actor in my theater make-up class once told me I had no lips. Well, fuck 'em, I'm not too bad for 48 and change. D gave me lovely, iconic earrings to go with my lovely, iconic necklace, today. Put out more prayer flags (as effective as any other prayers, I'm sure. Which is to say, great for filling in the gaps of what can't be done by effort.) Made it to the local, historic, mall (used to be trolley terminus) for their re-opening. Which is to say, support for the few stores that have managed to hang on through all the construction and financial doldrums. Pretty sad, all in all, but we will watch for the fireworks (!) this evening.


Hot winds blowing across the desert, which should be followed by rain and coolness.

Made D laugh by saying I would "ensmallify" the chicken in preparation for cooking. My purpose in life, to make him laugh. And make Moby feel safe and loved.

Bifocal

Cheap bifocals. My experiment, delivered this afternoon. I think I'm right that wearing these walking about will cause nausea and or headaches. But I think worn only to scrub, I will be just fine, and I know I will be able to read the little numbers on screws and plates and drill bits, even in the modular hand set with the 1.8 mm bits. My distance prescription was interfering with my close vision, and I need to wear eye protection. They aren't pretty, but they aren't bad either, I certainly won't mind wearing them while scrubbed in. I look forward to being able to see both up and down, near and far.


They look like this.

(Click for actual size. I hope.)

Now, I just have to be able to keep hold of these tiny things. Seeing them properly won't hurt, I figure.

Entropy

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



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

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

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

Braided

Compromise

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

Chili

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

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

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

Jape

We've been watching episodes of QI, which often features Jimmy Carr, who wrote a book called Only Joking: What's So Funny About Making People Laugh? or The Naked Jape, with friend Lucy Greeves, that I have just devoured. A book discussing the theories of humor, it contains a lot of jokes and actual humor, as well as sharp insight. I think I now have a working theory about how funny men can wind up with wives who don't think them funny at all, but it's not a simple answer, based on a series of proofs. About how many young men use humor as an aggressive game, and like women who will laugh at their jokes, not challenge them back with their own. After a few years of marriage, were I a woman who couldn't tell a joke married to an aggressive jokester, I'd certainly be tired.

Thankfully, D has always loved my humor, he doesn't get the threatening joke thing at all.

A sense of humor, and the ability to joke seem to be not always evolutionarily advantageous, or maybe they are. The results are still out. Makes me think about the old ideal of "finding the cure for cancer" which is a goal that assumes that all cancers are the same, and one trick will solve the problem. Reality is proving much more complicated. So it is with humor, the why of funny is conditional, time sensitive, personal and slippery as snot.

Jesus walks into a motel, drops a bag of nails on the counter and says, "Can you put me up for the night?"

Doctor says to the patient, "You have to stop masturbating."
"Why?"
"Because I'm trying to examine you."

Dog goes to send a telegram. Clerk says, "Fine, it's five words for a dollar, what's your message?"
"Bark, bark. Bark. Bark."
"You get one more word, I could add another "bark".
Dog looks puzzled and says, "But, that wouldn't make any sense."


Of course, all the way through the book, I am thinking about the Fool's Guild in the Discworld books.
"Women are just not funny."
"Interesting dichotomy, since neither are clowns."

Psychic

Jeans that fit. I've given up on walking my way back into the next size down comfortably anytime soon. Don't be put off by the crossed arms. That's a polite posture in the OR, when scrubbed in, it allows others to move around you with more space.

We are not psychic. As a species, we just aren't. And yet we keep assuming we can know what is in another's mind without asking. We attribute to others what we would be feeling in that situation. Judgement, rudeness, lying, friendliness, and perhaps rarely the most accurate, disinterest. This has benefits, allows us to be compassionate. May keep us safe around hostile people. But it's not really accurate for anything less than those very general situations.

My mother consistently told me she couldn't read my mind, that I had to actually tell her what was wrong. (So, very good instructions.) I was one of those quiet kids by nature, and around my father, learned early to keep my thoughts to myself. I knew whatever I said to him would be giving him ammunition to throw back at me. And at other times, my mother would tell me she knew me better than I knew myself, knew what I was thinking. Knowing I could lie to her about nibbling on the chocolate chips she kept for baking, and get away with it, gave me a mental space of my own. Gave the lie to her contradictory assertions.

She also assured me "Of course he loves you, he's your father." I knew he didn't treat me lovingly. I didn't care if he bragged about how smart I was to the men in the neighborhood he talked with, assuming that was true. Even that smacked of taking credit for my achievements - when he actually interfered with my studying and was contemptuous of intelligence. How my mother could claim to know what he felt, especially when it contradicted my own reading, and her own statement that she couldn't read minds, confused me.

I don't know, I cannot know, what is in anyone else's thoughts. Unless they tell me, and that seems consistent with how they behave. So D and I tell each other what we feel, what we are thinking, and have so many years together to trust each other at our words. We watch Moby's body language, and guess at his intentions to the best of our ability. We know these are just educated guesses. We hope he feels loved, by treating him kindly, as the cat he is.

I have observed since childhood that the people who most assert that they are not lying, that others are liars, are the most likely to be twisting the truth all out of shape. Angry people figure everyone is out to get them. I am starting to learn that behaving in a cheerful way allows the people around me to relax enough to be at their best, take me as a friend. This has been my work of the past week, and the response, both from my cow-orkers, and within myself, has astonished me. I'd already come a long way toward this, but the sense of mastery eluded me.

Telling a girl to "Gimme a smile!" is intrusive and insulting, resulting in my own defensive snarls of "what have I got to smile about..." If only one person had told me, "When you smile, you feel better. You smile for your own joy, it just happens to leak out on others." Not to go around grinning all the time. My face when I am thinking is not a happy-looking one, but that's a matter of others trying to read my mind. Which fails, of course. But my having a ready smile, to throw up as a shield or an opening to others, helps me prepare for social interaction, upsets their presumptions about me.

The whole of life is just full of new lessons, ain't it?

Hairy

Finally got Good Hair to watch. I am in equal parts appalled and amazed and amused (thanks to Chris Rock) and horrified. (Highly recommended, by the way.) I've had enough friends who've dealt with the issues of "black" hair to get the jokes. Racism is alive and well, and none more oppressive than the oppressed themselves. (Keeping their own in line to avoid censure.) The selling of "european" hair, which is actually Asian, specifically Indian, hair for weaves, plus toxic relaxer chemicals and the expectations of beauty and the high price of fashion. Honestly, I have always thought that natural black hair is lovely, and relaxed black hair looks like Barbie fake nylon hair. My thin, stringy hair would be considered "good" and I'm frankly shocked. On the other hand, I'm so glad I have decided to eschew all salons and "beauty" treatments for the rest of my life. This movie unsettled me as thoroughly as Bury Me Standing. About Roma (Gypsy) belief and culture, the superstition and self destructive values, odd and alien.

I've commented about Hair before, long ago. And I am still frustrated at how important the issue seems. Even considering that it is a symptom of genetic health, it's so overblown, so exaggerated and emotional.

So, I set in concrete my promise to myself. I will not get my hair cut, though I may trim it myself. I will wear no make-up, apply no dye, nor will I in any way support the industries that tell women that they are inadequate unless they do so. Easy enough looking at 50, I suppose. But I will be myself, and let anyone think what they may.

Advantages

Would you give this woman beer?

I've found the killer ap. The big advantage of letting my hair go grey.

Went through the self-check-out at the grocery store. Usually, if I have beer, I avoid this because the one cashier for the 4 to 8 stations has to be alerted to any anomalies like checking ID, which can be a considerable wait if they are dealing with glitches elsewhere. But I gave it a shot today, my hair all aflutter. All I got was a cursory glance, and the cashier hit the button to ok the age check.

I do like the automated check out. I don't have to summon the energy to exchange any kind of pleasantry with an overworked checker. I don't have to stop a bagger putting heavy cans on top of the eggs. I don't get the dirty looks reserved for the annoyance of bringing my own, floppy, bags. Especially with D and I together, we are fast and efficient, and I know how to mute the apprehensive recorded instructions that prompt far too quickly, and in far too contemptuous a tone.

Some days, I'm just not up to human interaction in the midst of a large grocery store. And it's terrible karma to be less than polite to anyone in a public service job. Snarling at a computer is completely neutral.

So, life is good. And not ever being twenty again is the best of all.

Wrought

The last few years have wrought changes, in our lives, in myself. I'm still figuring out what, exactly, is different, and in what ways. Easiest to focus on the lack of dye. But I see a change in my eyes. Maybe because the pain, while still present, is not constant, not oppressive in the same way. Sometimes it feels as though I've made no headway at all, but when I look back, I realize how bad it had been, and is not now. Even on bad weeks, like the last few. I hurt when I move wrong, when I'm very tired. Not every moment. I'm stiff, but I can sit, I can crouch with difficulty, where once I could not at all. It's hard to remember how much better this is.

Oh

Oh, two! Or O2, which we finally have some of. The snow trickle started early this morning, and did bupkus for several hours, the particulates thickened again, to my dismay. But just a little breeze followed, which was enough to scatter the worst of the aerosolized muddy pollution, so that by afternoon, breathing became a recommended activity again.



We got out to Red Iguana for lunch. I'd been getting in a mood, and hot suizas always helps in that regard. When we got home, the maintenance guy came in and drilled holes for the shelves, which we put up with only a moderate amount of swearing and extra holes drilled in the shelves themselves, and only one trip back to Ace Hardware to exchange a misaligned bracket. Much rearrangement and vacuuming and back pain later, and we are settled and sitting next to each other. The table still needs to be finished, and the counter still needs to be cleaned, stuff needs to be donated to the library, but all in all, it is better.


Finished reading The Authoritarians, by Bob Altemeyer. Eye opening and disturbing, he describes research on people who seem to make no sense at all to me. The first chapter is dense, the rest much easier to read.

Boots

Here it is Saturday, and so little writing done. Cold here, but I feel no need to really complain. Yes, the cold clocked in at 0˚F, and topped out at 0˚C (not quite but I'm not about to quibble.) Yes, the air quality is far below required federal standards. But we have good insulation, adequate heating, a heated bed pad, parkas, toasty sweaters. If there'd been (blessed, cleansing!) snow, there are sufficient plows and salt, and usually clear roads within a few hours. We get this sort of weather, so are prepared for it.

No so Britain, and why would they? When snow is occasional, there is no point in that kind of infrastructure investment. Rather like Seattle last year, who took weeks to dig out from a snowstorm that would have been inconvenient for us here for a day or two. I especially feel for the thin blooded folks of our deep south, who live in houses built airy to stay cool, no coats, no boots, and no stores that stock anything much of such items. Camping suppliers must be about cleaned out of anything with wool or down or fleece by now. Pathetic heaters, if any.

Cold I love, I never much minded it even in Boston, where at least two weeks of every winter we spent there, the temperature never got about 0˚F, with wind chills off the ocean beating the tears out of one's eyes. I rose to it, fought and survived, and felt proud of myself, created anew every time. I wore silk long johns, and two pairs of heavy sweatpants, parka, shearling gloves, wool scarf, parka, good boots, and walked fast. I could sense the cold, but not crumble in it, it made me feel so alive. In a way that heat never does.

But I also remember New Jersey in December, in Basic, in army field jackets, socks in the webbing of my helmet, or only that cotton cap on my head, leather shell gloves. Always shivering, huddling for warmth, never ever warm. Exhausted and demoralized by constant cold. That is how I imagine you who are being hit with this drastic change from what you expect.

And if I hear one more person dismissing climate change because it's been called global warming, and it's cold, I'm going to start shouting. Extreme weather is more proof that the climate has changed, will change. I prefer GCFU. Global Climatological Fuck Up.

Everything is broken. Stay warm, prepare for anything.

Blue

Once there was this nun, principal of my grade school, an imposing woman with more of a sense of morality and grammar than any feeling for children. I had few moments with her, not being a child to get into trouble enough to be sent to the principal. Those times are seared into my memory.

Granny had been ill, and for some reason I no longer recall, I told her about this. Or tried to. "My granny... she was sic... "

"No, not your 'grandmother she' just your grandmother."

"My granny was sick." Thing is, I knew about the rule, I'd just paused for thought, I wouldn't have written a sentence like that. Even then I knew she really didn't care to know anymore, so I said as little as possible. Knowing that what people said was likely more important than how they said it. Bad grammar really irritates me, but dismissing the message, interrupting it, to correct perfectly comprehensible verbal grammar, is hurtful.

The earlier, and more important time, perhaps why I spoke to her about Granny, looking for a better opinion of myself from her, involved my little potholder woven purse. Thrown in the pile with all the other little girl bags as we ran around the parkinglot/playground, a few dollars, maybe just a few quarters, were stolen from mine. So, I told Principal Nun, who sternly accused me of leading the thief into sin by leaving money out as a temptation. That I shared responsibility for the loss with the thief. I felt the guilt, even as I was surely misunderstood.

I never forgot the lesson. Crime is not a right/wronged issue. I can be just as guilty - as a victim, as the perpetrator. (Not in a legal sense, but in terms of my own life and choices - which is all I have any control over.) The stain on my own soul made worse by leading another into error. A hard lesson in responsibility.

So, since I wear a parka these days, (leaving my small bag at home) stuffing it's many pockets with wallet and keys and a bit of cash, I also stuff this coat into my small locker rather than leave it out on a hook. Because it is wrong to tempt anyone, and I have no cause to mind if I don't secure my valuables when they disappear.


One other lesson, not from the Stern Nun, but somehow out of my own head. When the teacher called for quiet, I sat still and closed my mouth, while other children ordered other children to hush. And I thought, if we all just shut it, there would be instant silence. Better than adding to the clamor, trying to make each other do something while not doing it ourselves. Damned hard lesson. Does work in the military, proof of concept experienced. Even a thousand people sitting at once can be a kind of hushed whoosh, when responding to a practiced order*, instead of a disjointed clatter. Forty women marching in boots can sound like two or three people walking quietly.

Drove in nasty snow this morning, but got to go in late and just cover lunches. Just a few hours, everyone happy, and the roads fine when I left. Snowing madly right now, so I will start early in the morning, expecting the worst. Hard week so far, came home, ate, crashed. Last night friends visited, D and Nathan walked the few blocks in the snow to get Greek food. Tomorrow will be long as well.

Blue moon, with a partial eclipse tomorrow. Probably obscured by clouds, here.



*Take... ... seat."

Worried

Awake way too early, convoluted and anxious dreams fading but leaving a stain. Cold, cold, cold going to bed last night, could not get warm, up several times to add blankets and socks, even after D piled a few more covers on. Woke much later, overheated and weighed down with blankets and a velcro cat. Disturbed sleep giving way to irritated wakefulness. Gave up and got up, tea and cereal, D joining me in a similar state of mind.

We are both worriers. We chew at puzzles, care how our friends are doing, strive to understand and solve and repair and prevent problems. As such, we call each other if we are going to be late, knowing the other will be concerned. We are imaginative, and the worst always comes to mind. We try not to succumb to it, but stuff happens, and we want to respond helpfully if it does.

Other people are often not reassuring to us. Most of our friends, and D's family, are, as we most affectionately put it, flaky. They are often late, don't call, cancel plans with no notice - and no awareness that they have inconvenienced anyone. It's never malicious, not intended to be offensive. They just aren't worriers, so they don't empathize. This is probably good for us, all in all. Keeps us from sinking too deep into anxiety, letting some of it go, aware that we have a bit too dark of a view on the world. They are all kind, caring, funny folks, who if asked would help us without question. But we are both glad we live with someone more attentive and chronically early. Pessimists at heart. We who savor good fortune as a rare treat.

Thinking about my Aunt Evelyn, near the end. An ache over the years since. I urged my mother to call as soon as she knew, to let me know, "even if it's two in the morning, call me," let me share her loss with you, don't leave me out of her death, since I cannot be there. Mom called two days after Aunt Evelyn died. If she'd said she was just too upset to call me earlier, I would have understood that. Instead she says "I didn't want you bothered, I knew you were busy." Yeah, I was busy, worrying that my dear Aunt was suffering so long, as well as working long hours on liver transplants. (Aunt Evelyn died of a liver tumor.*) My mother's actions felt so condescending, after I'd expressly stated my desire to be included, as though that would save me from grief, as though her own grief for her sister had nothing to do with it.

As though I'd never washed the dead. As though I couldn't picture all too well what she was enduring.

So we tumble against each other, smoothing the rough spots, and breaking away chunks to leave scars. Both together. The hardest rocks sometimes crack apart, the most delicate flowers bloom among the rocks every spring.



*A cholangiocarcinoma, that metastasized to her liver. At least I had the right surgeons around to explain the disease, since the third hand information I was getting was so garbled.