Greige

Move for friends went well, lots of people, including brothers with vans and mother and sister with cleaners. Dylan did a fair amount of carrying, I mostly packed and assisted. Brought a Panettone cake (and a knife), which was appreciated and shared. Drove our tardis car(bigger on the inside than the outside.) And assisted organizing, gently, with permission only. Finally, we took their recycling to put in our bins, save them a trip to a center. They looked like I remember feeling whenever we moved. Tired of decisions and overwhelmed. I hope they go and get food. I wish I could have given them my Moving Guidelines. After doing it 23 times, I have some good tricks. And that karma presenting bill thing. Pay up in full, and on the top

The previous residents of the new apartment not only failed to leave TP, but also a bowl of dissolved turd, which I flushed before N could see, she did not need to see. Nice place, but very beige. As per Rental Law. Gods, I hate beige. And greige. I'm not being smug, only grateful, that we have a lovely house of our own, instead of greige apartments of decreasing quality and increasing rent, that would eventually disallow cats. We must have cats. There are no apparent neutral colors here, well, a few grey walls, but I've got plans to get rid of them soon, too. Planning to paint over the dull kitchen blue in February.

We got tacos, nice salsa, at a little place in Rose Park. The western side is very diverse, which we would have been happy in as well, if the busses ran better, or it was easier for me to cross downtown to get to work. Our neighborhood is as well. Dylan tells me Salt Lake County is now minority white and minority LDS, so I sigh relief. I grew up a minority, and I think everyone should be. Humility is all about being able to listen and learn. I strive to always be teachable.

Thinking about my father's mother's funeral. I was 20 or so, and not on good terms with him in any way. But I sat beside him in the pew, a church in La Salle with the kitschiest art I'd ever seen. Held his hand as he grieved his 98 year old mother. I didn't really know her, she was always old, didn't really speak English, and never said my name right - calling me Junie. But I was the Dutiful Daughter, and faced our mortality beside my father, with grace and dignity. I would dance, with bitter anger, on his grave, seven years ago. But I'm proud I did the right thing, then, in that gaping maw of grief. Whatever he was, however much was wrong, I did the job in front of me. And I can live with that young woman who did the right thing.


It was good to feel that we were useful, actually, practically, useful.

Condo

Got up at the usual time, to head out to West Valley for the last time. To help 'rent-in-laws pack. I'd offered my overdeveloped organizational/moving skills when they first told us they were selling the house after 40 years to move into a condo. They called in the chip for this morning, which I was glad to cover. We were out there just after 7AM, which is not that early for any of us. Easiest drive cross-town yet. Still awful.

I packed, about 20 boxes, maybe more. They are not the most organized people, and are so far into the move that any ability to decide has been demolished. Familiar with the feeling. I demurred about anything they offered that we take, until they asked us to take it to the Get Rid Of pile. Then we accepted a small drawer unit, a small crock pot unit (probably will give to someone at work) and this mug.





Not far in, I sort of wanted to unpack everything and start all over again, so I could organize it all from square one. Instead, I scrounged what bedding and towels I could, used more bubble wrap than I've ever done before, and tried to manage some safety for their delicate stuff. Glad we brought a load of boxes with us. Had to get back for my dentist appointment (just a cleaning) at 1100, they had an appointment as well, related to the move.

I pack really, really, really well. Comes of having moved 23 times, not counting changing barracks. A box is just a tetris game for me. Too bad it doesn't just teleport to the destination as soon as it's full. Oh, wow, wouldn't that be amazing. All packed... poof. All packed... poof!



Cat in the sun.



Tomatoes, they aren't split, so I'm hoping they taste alright.



Yard sale finds, turning the resin sheep into a lamp. Added some color to the dragon, since it was all silverish.




Eleanor on the sidewalk.




Long ago, in another life, I packed to move from Detroit out to SLC, going by train. Some delicate stuff, not mine. When heavy breakables shattered against each other from three days on the train, I was berated for the breakage. A couple of teapots and some blown glass shotglasses. They were worth more than me, to him. That I liked them as well made no difference. I was tasked to pack, then berated for failing to anticipate circumstances I'd never experienced nor imagined. A lesson I've held in my heart. All moves require sacrifices. No THING is more important than anyone's feelings. If you care that much, do it yourself and accept the consequences. Hand it to anyone else, and you throw the dice as surely.

That I got once got angry with Dylan over a moving mishap is a source of permanent shame to me.

Moving sucks.

Loads

Three loads, met neighbor - very pleasant, internet on (thanks D) making those kinds of mistakes very tired people make when they need to stop. Considered not going the last trip, but probably forgot to lock the door, did forget to lock the door, turn off lights, turn off heat. Place not even broom clean, which dear L prepared us for. Stuff left in drawers, hard to be so bothered, so many drawers, more than we've ever had before. This place so tiny when we came back, after eating out at a cheap taco place - neither of us would have eaten if we'd had to cook.


Watching Morse, then to bed. Gearing up for morning.

Velcro

Much real progress, head start on the cleaning, extreme packing. Well, no, not quite that, say - hefty packing. Down to camping mode, although I will dismantle the bed frame tomorrow morning. No need to sleep two nights on the floor when one will do. Although our futon is perfectly acceptable that way. Acceptable, anyway.

Dealing with my exhaustion and stressed irritability, snapping (not badly) at D. Resolving not to do that again. We've ordered Chinese as amelioration. D's idea, and he has good ideas.

When we moved from our traveler nurse provided housing to our first rented apartment in Boston, we had movers shift the stuff. I had to work that day, and D was there for them. When I got home, I ran the roomba and cleaned, he showed up with meatball sandwiches from Uptown Cafe (best ever.) We ate and were cheerful. Then I opened the front closet door. It was full of boxes. I rather lost my shit, blaming D for not checking, pissed off and not containing it at all well. Even told him not to apologize to me but to Moby for the delay and stressing him out. Downright mean.

Movers long gone, with other appointments. We wound up making several trips with a van taxi - the driver was very helpful. Finally took Moby by the train, me still seething It was all a thorough mess, and my behavior so unkind. Unfair as well, D had not packed that closet, and there was no malice - the only justification for anger (although still not a helpful response.) To this day, still a regret for me. A pain to remember, like" that fire is hot, don't touch." I wasn't that bad today, but I dipped my toe in those waters, and knew immediately, recoiled from myself.

Moby has been a velcro cat the last few days, while I've packed. Quite underfoot. I do tell him he always have a home with us, but he relies on proof, as do I. He is going to love having room to run around, a larger territory, but the change as it happens - not so much. He will be walked over in the bag. Sometime on Saturday.

Limbo

Floating in between.
Adrift in a salty sea
One shore here, one there.

House

Looked at an open house this afternoon, and ran into an agent we met, and very much liked, before. We'd walked into an open house, maybe a year ago, knowing that a house was a long, long time into our future, and liked her then. It was way too much house, and we were very upfront about not really being in the market at that point. Now. Well, now we are thinking that a year, year and a half from now, we might just as well own our own place. So we are getting our ducks hatched, with an eye to getting them in a row. Getting all the finances in order, meeting agents at open houses, training our eyes, educating ourselves. It's going to be quite a process.

Then we came home, ate lunch, I drank some beer, and with great trepidation, called my mother. Strange, how I did not recognize her voice. I aggressively changed the subject as she got weepy, telling me this was "the greatest day of her life." What? That the daughter who had to work herself up for a month to talk to her finally called? And even then, it took some Dutch Courage? But I went on Full Entertainment Mode, and jollied her along. All positive and amusing, the complete show. I could not stand her gratitude. I fulfilled my sense of duty. It's not love, but a functional kindness. She asked if I was still with D. Which rather shocked me. And when I told D, rather offended him. I assured him that, after all, she doesn't know him.

I'd begun to feel like I was worse than my brothers who couldn't bother to tell me, for me not to call her. She has sold the house (for less, in actual dollar amount than they bought it for in 1952 - this is Detroit) and her DIL is finding her an apartment near the oldest son in Texas. She will have family around her, and Texans who are notorious for being friendly. I gave her my phone number, since my brothers are not bright enough to find us in the online white pages. I have no compulsion to answer the phone if I don't want to. I can call as I feel necessary.

She assured me that at the end he (her husband, my ass of a father) did not suffer. And I know this is not probably true. Oh, he suffered, but mostly from his self inflicted anger and bile. Nothing to do with me, but I am content. I would not have inflicted harm upon him, and obviously wishing is less than useless, but it bothers me not at all that he had a difficult and lingering death. Brother and mother say that he went peacefully, the details tell a different story, one I have told to family myself. I recognize the platitudes, the code. In the end, we all walk that last corner alone, fast or slow, painful or peaceful, and I will accept whatever kind of death is mine. He would not have done so, of that much I am certain. He would have resented and whined throughout, worst of all, lied to himself and everyone around. I have seen the deaths of liars and dramatists, the chronic complainers and haters, I know he had that kind of death. He made it himself, then had to lie in it.

I always wished she would have a few years of quiet, without him. Despite the fact that he was her choice, and she stayed with him. But part of me would have appreciated her going first, and me being able to tell him exactly what I really thought of him. So, one sin my soul will not be stained with. She will have her son, her DIL, sometimes her granddaughters and great granddaughters to visit, no more snow, a far place.



So I sit, strangely unemotional, and a bit intrigued. What just happened? And why? I must wait and watch. But at least I feel I have done the Right Thing. For good or ill.

Cranial

The best part about a delayed spring, is how utterly welcome it is.


See the bald spots on the backs of his legs?


"Don't show them that. Sheesh."



~munch ~ munch~


The massage school next door has specials every month. For the last three months, I've taken advantage of these offers, since typical, swedish style, seems to irritate my pain more than help. It's a close run thing, really. So, I'm exploring the different modes as the massage students work their way through the curriculum. Hot stone did help, the foot and hand massage was relaxing, but otherwise neutral, the cranio-sacral also seems to have actually done good. It was strange, like acupuncture. At the time, as though it wasn't doing much, but then I'd get a wave of pain or sensation, and ease. Extremely relaxing, and - pudding* as proof, my back feels better than it has all month.

It was the sitting six hours for the literacy class that triggered it. I just don't sit that long in a day at work. I'm standing at the desk charting, or waiting to be asked for an item, or I'm running about. Even when I scrub in on hand surgeries, and I sit on a stool, most of those cases last far less than an hour, and the long ones rarely go more than two. A carpal tunnel release or a trigger finger release can run ten minutes, total, plus MAFAT†.

Moby is not like this. When we need him to come in, he usually does, as long as we ask politely. Like when we moved here, and he'd been hiding far under the sofa as we loaded the car. It was time to leave the old place, and bring the cat with us, I got down and said "Come on, Moby, it's time to go." And he crawled right out to me, as if in answer, "Yeah, yeah don't leave without me." It's much the same when he's out on the balcony and we need to leave.
"Come on in, Moby, we have to go."
"Oh, sure, you betcha."

There have been a couple of times when we've needed to be more emphatic, and pick him up, much to his annoyance. He huffs at us, and wanders off to find a no-doubt-better place. But that's just to remind us that he may be a cooperative soul, but he is still a Cat.


Rouchswalwe, check out the Moving Rant tag, you may find echoes of your own recent move.


*Butterscotch flavor.
†Mandatory Anesthesia Fuck Around Time.

Rant

2004


2005



2006


2007


2008

We found this place nearly a year ago, moved in May. And for the first time in five years, we are not packing up to move in spring.

We're not quite sure what to do with ourselves.

Trade-offs

I have lived so many places. Creaking old house with mice in the walls, 100 watt light bulbs overhead, toilet that stank of sewer after a rain. Typical post WWI tract house, with much patched plumbing and decades of paint. This is what I grew up in, my first bedroom a large bathroom converted into a small bedroom, with sloping walls and access to outside that birds occasionally found their way in through. High, small window. Heater grate leading down to a coal furnace that belched hot, dusty air all winter. Choo-choo train wallpaper changed to purple flowers in stripes. Creaking linoleum floors. Steep stairs bisecting the house.

I lived in older apartments in college, with more dubious wiring and constant late night party ruckus. I dreamed of shooting through the floor to silence the thumpa-thumpa and drugged cackling shouts, violent fantasies, pressing against my desperate, pillow muffled ears. I slept on foam on the floor that folded into a sort of chair in the morning. I had roaches scramble over my sleeping face.

My four months in a solid, concrete duplex in the North Woods sported a little field mouse, who came in every night to inspect me. And very touchy circuit breakers. Furnished, with a naugahyde sofa, horse-head medallion in the back rest.

Every place had it's problems, annoyances, dangers. A few had their delights, like the view from the agency-supplied 20th floor apartment in Boston. The birds and trees outside the last place we lived on 9th East (a series of three). The awful place with TWO bathrooms, that became the drop-in spot for friends. The place a block from a park with stream, and geese.

Here, oh, my. I watch the trains, and listen to them. Smooth trams that roll past with a low, mellow rumble. Wide expanse of sky. Windows, that when both open, bring the world inside, a whole wall of light. My mother would be horrified at the endless hallway, but this is a neutral, a block of walking out of the weather. I hear the neighbor's printer in the morning, but little else. I prefer the solidity, the modernity, the high ceiling that makes it all feel more spacious. Not another basement, not another high-rise, not another creaking, cobbled together mouldy make-do. Cleanable, workable, we made lunch together in the kitchen without irritation.

Moby has been up on the washing machine. We've only seen him jump down from there, but it seems a reasonable extrapolation.

Scribble

My first day off in the New Place, not moving nor working. For all the remaining clutter to be culled, it's pleasant, hopeful. We obtained a decent Scrabble game, which D has decided he does like, after all. I'd gotten him hooked on the daily crossword from the Washington Post, which we did while he therapied his hand. A tedious process that he diligently performed, and if I sat with him, giving clues, he could be nearly cheerful for the contrast baths. Funny, getting through college, and a Master's program, and persistent crosswording, will do to one's vocabulary and word-play. He's always been an intellectual omnivore, as have I, but not so much for words. He didn't beat me this time, but not by much.

When we got our car last year, apparently I put the license plate tags back to front. We got a citation for missing back plate tags. Doh. A nice $20 fine. I couldn't get the online payment to work, so I wrote to the available email, with this explanation (no request to excuse, mind.) I got a note back saying it could take five days to show, and let the unnamed person, return address simply "Parking", know, and s/he would reduce the fine. Well, it showed up shortly after, and it was only $5. I mean, I deserved a citation, and $20 was a lot for an innocent mistake. But down to a trivial $5? Parking, I am very grateful, whoever you are. We got the ticket while donating three boxes of books to the Library.

We got on the train (!) to go to Brewvies for lunch, and a movie. I will not, ever, I repeat, never, I repeat - louder for those in the back NEVER, recommend Harold and Kumar Escape From Guantanamo Bay. It's not good. The humor is low, low, low, and repetitious and a bit flat. A lot flat. But I rather enjoyed it, eating my jalapeño burger with chocolate stout. It's bad, no question. But they were bad with enough energy and heart, that I didn't mind. it's chauvinistic and plays with stereotypes in hamfisted abandon, crude and disgusting, lacking the rapid timing that kept the first one light and punchy. I should hate it. I really should. Instead, it's staying with me, like a call for justice and change inside a revolting, meagre joke. Do not go to see it. Please. The first one, perhaps, depending, with many conditions. This one will have to be my own guilty secret.

Now, I have to go study for ACLS.

Inclination

Moby menaces D during the Unpack.

The cars in our view of the parking lot are farther, and far less visible to the living eye than they appear to the camera. The green screening around the balcony sets up an interference pattern. Not that we have a panorama, - not paying nearly enough rent for that. But we can look out to the south, and watch the clouds roll in. A first/ground floor, but up from the drive by a good storey, as we are on an incline. Which made moving in SO much easier. Smaller, but better laid out. Very livable.

Shedding

Moby feels closer to Ceiling Cat.


You'd have thought, after all these moves, we were pretty pared down. I certainly thought so. I was so wrong. And I feel terribly guilty that all our friends helped us move so much crap that will now be ... relocated.

Books to Sam Wellers - see what we can get for them. The rest as Library donations. Well, D was building a scholar's library. We move on. Any clothes with bleach on them will go. Well, we kept anything warm in Boston because any layer was a good layer when the temp dropped below zero Fahrenheit, and then the wind came off the ocean to drop it just a bit more. Not to mention the necessity of having enough clothes to allow for laundromat trips not more than once a week or so. Having washer in our place means we can do just fine with no more than a week's worth of clothes. The situation has changed.

The last year we lived in a place with many drawbacks. I'm beginning to think the closet space was excessive and bad for this poor-girl's psyche. I am loathe to throw away useful stuff with more wear in it. Moving to a smaller place with smaller closets forces me to kick in to Discard mode.

We don't need as many dishes, either. Local charities with thrift stores will have a small windfall this week.

We moult.

Very uncomfortable, but with the promise of relief.

Anyone want a collection of Fortean Times?

Territory

We Are Here. Every cell in my body aches and drags, but we are here. Not all of our crap is, but we'll need the help of friends and a truck for that.

We'd gotten the first load, stopping to do the final, official fuss, get our keys, do the walk-through. Set up the litter box, make sure Moby had an Under. Went back for the next load, filled the car as it started raining in Earnest (a small town in rural Utah.) All the movement and rain mean Moby was crouched under the sofa when the time came to leave. I got on the floor and peered in on him.

"C'mon Moby, time to go."

And he came to me, as if to say, "Oh, ok, don't leave me behind, I'm coming."

D got in the back seat beside my stool, surrounded by bags and boxes, got his seatbelt on, and I handed Moby to him. As we drove, Moby was quiet, tried to settle, nosed toward my shifting elbow a few times, then found the floor behind D's feet, and curled. Unlike any other time in the car, where he mews piteously "I don't like this, I don't like this, I don't like this, I don't like this..." the entire journey. Only when we were a block away did he start in on "Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?" and "Ok, that was fun, can we stop now?" He didn't like the hallway, and wriggled out of D's arms, then slunk uncertainly. We got him into the apartment (flat), and he hid in the closet for the next eight hours.

Ever since, it's been tail up, chasing, doing the Big Job of marking all his new territory, getting it all properly furred. The new windows are acceptable, and the large bathtub is a favored spot. Food is forthcoming, water, a bed to be Under, and it's just another Move, happens every year at this time.



D's parents generously brought their vehicles, which meant we got the bedframe here, so we have not had to sleep with just the aerobed on the floor. All the guitars are here, so we are home.

Lessons

Staring at the fifth move in four years, we have learned some lessons.

Don't worry about packing a room all in one set of boxes. Mix it up, so if one box disappears, gets wet, crushed or badly shaken, not all of the teacups will be lost. Amid the books, put in a set of bells, and the small toy Gromit.

Use bedding, towels and clothes to wrap breakables, use bowls and other hard hollow structures to cushion them. Think of form and material, instead of normal use, when packing.

Don't be afraid to repack to make items fit more securely. Shaking can cause as much damage as insufficient packing.

Several breakable teapots packed loosely in a large box will find each other, and smash each other to pieces. (This was a previous move, from long, long ago.)

Small boxes, really, especially when packing books.

A tape gun. Oh, gods in heaven, a tape gun. Always. Will get lost every other time I put it down, but it's still oh so worth it.

Ruthlessly get rid of all excess stuff.

Pens into a zip locked plastic bag.

Don't move in three hours or less. Take at least a week to shift stuff from one place to another. Unavoidable if moving across country, or with movers. Gah.

Don't let D pack any boxes. At all. Ever. No matter how much you love him.

Think about what small, necessary comfort will be most needed upon arrival. For me, a mug, tea, and a way to boil water. For D, a glass to drink very cold milk from.

Spring for extra toothbrushes.

Plan

On The First Day:

The first load shall be:

The stool, what Moby shall consider sufficient Under.
The aerobed and pad, with bedding.
Tea kettle, dishes, flatware, pots and pans, other kitchen essentials.
Towels, soap, shower curtain, litter box, first aid kit, other bathroom supplies.
Packed suitcases with everything needed for the first week.
Whatever small items can fill in, and a guitar or two.


The second load shall be:
Moby.
Other guitars.
Coatrack and lamps, clocks and small tables.
Folding table and chairs.
Reloadable boxes, to be unpacked and brought back.

The third load may be:
The red sofa that can be folded, or drawers, or bed components, or desk parts.
Rugs (2).
Folding shelves (2).
Whatever else will pack in.

The fourth load may be:
Whatever else we can pack in.

The fifth load may not be.
If it exists, can be described as above.

I may well at this point enjoy the new bath. At some point, there must be lunch. If anyone shows up, we will get more done.

On the Second Day:

D will get the connectivity and some shopping done. After my twelve hour shift, we will do another load that evening, with cleaning and organizing for ease on the Big Heavy Move Day.

On the Third Day, I may not manage another load, as I work 1100-1900, but it is possible. Book boxes as tolerated.

On the Fourth Day - which is the Big Heavy Move Day:

Friends arrive with truck. With luck, there will only be the couch, shelves, mattress and frame, bookshelves (3), dresser, and too many book boxes.

Then, we go to Hong Kong Tea House for thanking dinner, and to celebrate D's birthday. Funny way to have a birthday, but I shall make sure he knows how much loved he is, and how glad I am he was born.

Gonna be quite a week. Nine days until The First Day.

Crap

Tired and dispirited, but strangely hopeful. Two and a half weeks to moving day, and much packing done, plans formulating. But work has announced that there will be 150 jobs eliminated by september, hospital wide. They say, and based on past performance I tend to believe, they will do whatever they can to reassign as many people as possible, and allow attrition to make up the rest. I honestly do not think my job, nor most of our slowly increasing surgery section, will be much affected. But, this is hard, bitter change, with more uncertainty than I prefer.

The large road, and the only way out of our parking, is down to one lane each way, a trench down the middle, and lots of heavy equipment and guys in orange. The two less than adequate bus routes that D relied on have been eliminated during this construction, leaving him stranded. With his laptop, and only computer, on the fritz today. He's reached the calm beyond the panic. He says he has lost hope, not in a 'There's a bus along in five minutes I have to stand in front of' way, (because, there won't BE a bus...) but simply being swamped by suck.

We have reassured ourselves with a bit of classic Engrish. "What kind of world is this? It's kind of crap!"

Every move has had a phrase, from "I mean a juice knife!" to "Help is coming, one day late." Most of them lost to recall, but battle cries that rallied us at the moment, acknowledging the misery, calling forth the courage and humor.

It is to tire.

Business

I'm sure I was in kindergarten, walking home. I stood waiting at the corner, as two older girls talked. I told them what I thought. There was a pause, a glare from them, and the bigger one said. "No one. Was Talking. To you."

Hot anger and shame hit me, silenced me. And shocked me out of my baby-egotism. Resentfully, I still felt I had done nothing wrong. That short, sharp shock nevertheless impressed on me that my view of the matter didn't matter.

I thought about the guy from the barber shop, a decade ago, who approached me when he recognized me in the grocery store the next day, and demanded to know why I had my hair shaved like a boy. Apparently, he never had a second grader look down her nose at him and tell him to mind his own business.

Today, I know how to withhold my opinion in public. As I can ignore an intrusive question. I still think about it. I hear stupid and wrong statements in the lounge, and I want to correct them, but I don't. I come here, often writing in response. Anyone here comes voluntarily, can read or not read, leave or stay.

I feel a little posh about getting a place with so many amenities, even if it is small. Then I think of the woman at work who complains about decorating her new-built 3000 sq ft house, and the difficulty of getting to the country club, in a loud and constant chatter during her lunch. I tend to avoid her, lest I say something snide. My opinion of her is none of her business.

D spoke with our ISP to-be today, a local company we have had email from for fifteen years, the owner used to post on a BBS run by D's friend before there was an internet. The tech asked D if he was from Boston, because of the way he said apartment. No, he'd only been there three years, but so often imitated the accent, it stuck to him. (Ah PAHT m'nt). So much better to have local support, not Crapcast's helpline that gets us to Indian call centers, where I can't understand every third word. We are going cable tv free for a while, maybe to read more, write more, walk more certainly.

Moby knows, it's that time of year when we change where we live. This is all he had known living with us.

Bathtub

Moving five times within four years is a painful fact of our lives. Being called "so cute!" by the manager showing us the place is gratifying.

We will be closer in, a part of the city with sidewalks and public transportation, a hard but doable walk to work, an easy stroll to the main library, grocery store nearby. Parking. Moby welcomed. And a lot of little luxuries providing immense comfort to me. A deep, lovely bath tub. A on-site gym. Dishwasher. Better yet, washer and dryer inside the apartment. Not to mention no ice-covered outside stairs, and all the plugs will be properly grounded, unlike this place. Sun coming in from the south.

The building feels solid. We've walked enough crappy apartment buildings, we know not-solid. Not a great view, but we will look south down the valley, and be able to watch the storms approach.

A bone of comfort. Gnaw.

Thunk

The threads of the story are starting to unravel. I know where to put the ducks, and how the ring is found, and when the dark story is told. The snarl is still pretty tight, but there are a few loops, now.

D got the large splint off, spent hours at the doctor's office, got to the physical therapist's, and made his way home, all on the bus. He's hurting, but now he can wash, put on his coat, scratch. It's been quite a month, with a long painful stretch to go.

We know we will have to move this summer. This place is too far, with poor bus service (re-routing that happened a few months after we got here.) The wiring is screwy. The stairs always iced because of ice in the eaves. Barely adequate heating.

We await a good dump of snow tonight, over already iced roads. Off shift tomorrow, I plan to hunker down. My words thunk.

Waves

I seem unable to properly hold a grudge. Those managers, that anesthetist that I so feared and loathed at the old hospital, seem pitiable and petty in their sad little realm. Yes, they ruined my experience of that marvel of a city, three years with no need to drive, much less own a car. I mind how much I missed because of unjustly inflexible schedulers, the exhaustion of the hard way round everything. Still, I can only laugh with rueful relief. I am, ineffably, home. What does it matter?

The waves from the move settle. The sofa showed, as did car. The Fortean Times showed today, and D is dealing with finding appropriate MDs for himself. I have licenses, RN and Driver, though both took wrangling, most with D's unstinting assistance. Due to K's loan of her vehicle, we had food in the house, and I got to work on time every day this week. A date at the Hong Kong Tea House, (struggling to survive road construction) worth waiting three years for.

The apartment, as scoped out by R is quite livable. Bright, and with a possibly illegal amount of closet space, we came to appreciate it's flow for a week, empty. The dishwasher is not to be, it's one that has to be plugged in and hooked up - to where we have the water filter. We have decided to be ecologically sound, and wash by hand. Plugs are a bit scarce, so we have power squids. Not AC, but a swamp cooler, more efficient in a desert anyway. The shower head much too low for D, we found another one, and I got it on. Very proud of my bit of plumb. The beige-ness of the place has absorbed our red couch, and the rug really pulls the room together.

An old friend, and the nursing educator when I was greenly wet behind the ears in the OR asked me what I was doing, as D had gotten an MS, MA, and was now going for his PhD? I couldn't answer. Not because I had no interests, no accomplishments, but that I could not explain in a few locker-room-minutes. K and I are going to hand build pottery, since my back won't compass the wheel, my back screwed up from friends saving my life when I choked. But that's ok, since that was when I started writing a novel in a month, and I plan to take a writing class at the Library soon, to get the second one into shape. For a start.

All kinds of starts.

Moby enjoying closets, ups and unders, space to jump around, birds to chatter at in the mornings, friends to adore him.