Lumps

Moby has just camped out in the dryer the last couple of days. I put an towel in there for his comfort. It didn't even rain today, and there he sat, all snug. Well, if he's happy, who are we to deny him? No harm done, his apartment too. It's UP. It's IN. And it's got a lovely dip shape with assorted lumpiness. Cat joy.

I do realize that my guesses as to what Moby is feeling are just that, guesses. Tail up, happy. Slinking, bothered. Purring and sniffing my nose - contented with me. People often think they know what their critter is thinking. But those who think dogs feel guilt are probably wrong. They just don't like getting caught or admonished. I suspect the people who make the second guess, that the dog just wishes he could steal more treats, and is unhappy that you are stopping him, are probably happier with their dog. And the ones who figure it's the dog's internal guilt are misunderstanding animal motivation, perhaps expecting more of the dog than the dog even understands. No doubt overlapping those people who project their own emotions onto others, instead of reserving judgement and assessing behaviour. Tricky business, mind reading.

None of us really knows anyone else's heart. So we have to go on daily proof, and the honest words of those we love. I could stop believing in D's love, and he would still be there. I know.

"Reality is that which, when you stop believing in it, doesn't go away."
- Philip K. Dick

Reuben

So glad I stayed home today, because it meant I could chat with Moira. We discussed the illogic of bad habits that we know aren't helping, among other subjects. I made her laugh, and she returned the favor. Sometimes I miss her so much more than usual.

I did not meet with my counselor today. I think I have the understanding to go on from here, to stay attentive and in the moment, and always kind and compassionate. Or at least practice getting better at it. To be both genuine and relaxed, to know what is my job and what is not. And I have not managed to connect with the prof at the university about the MS program, which is what she wanted to hear about. Summer in academia.

I did not go to the shelter either. I'm sure I will miss the cats, of course, but there are other ways to help. I spend my work life dealing with touchy surgeons, I'm paid to do this. Voluntarily getting ignored and snapped at, not quite what I need.

I did sleep in, Moby beside me to have his belly scritched. He's been in and out from under the bed and in the closet, then out and about. Rain again, and I just love it. Vacuumed and tidied up, which makes me feel better being done. Laundry, dishes, and mostly time alone today. Even got up and did my cycle time for my knee, unfortunately at exactly the same time D got home, which worried him a bit. He got home a little early, and I waited til the last moment to do this chore - still should have had at least another ten minutes, but such is life.

Poured on us while we ventured out for lunch at the Soup Kitchen (a soup and sandwich shop) and cat's food and litter, maple butter for me. All the cars in the garage were thick with dust, our plans to make a run to a car wash were abandoned after lunchtime deluge. Cashed a $13 rebate check from months ago. We never go to the bank anymore, with online transactions, and cash usually from the grocery store debits. And a quick grocery stop, too. Finally some decent peppers. Milk for D. No rye bread, and he's been yearning for a Reuben. The deli closed early, or he'd have gotten one there. He is a Puritan when it comes to Reubens.

The Orthodox Ruben According to D.
Rye bread, corned beef, sauerkraut, thousand island dressing (russian also acceptable). Toasting is also optional. One of the best he's had was in a deli at Eastern Market in Detroit, the one time I took him there. He remembers that experience fondly. Sat down fast, told to order fast, and brilliant food brought.

Late

(Draft from Wednesday that I thought I'd posted but hadn't.)


Lots of lovely sleep, and the world looks less prickly. Rain moistening the world, cooling the air, soothing the mood. Moby curled on the bed. Last evening, with friends over, he had to come out of the closet, but stayed in the kitchen anxiously as the weather had him so unsettled. I picked him up, and stood near the dryer, which had a few towels inside. He reached out to get in, and nestled there for the rest of the evening. He can get up there himself, but he's a timid jumper, especially when he's already worried.

An ad showed an OR scene, a situation that would not happen. Not without the circulator stopping it immediately. "What are you doing? Get those bloody gloves off my phone! And you're contaminated!" But those of us who would notice and care are a tiny, tiny minority. But it's like Engrish, makes me think there was a lot of skimping on preparatory research. There was a similar moment in Scrubs, which I tend not to ding on their medical gaffes, since that isn't what the show was about. They were about the human interactions, and put aside facts to get to the joke. Fair enough, and clearly the writers' priority. But the one in the OR could easily have been both factual and funny, and it sticks in my mind.

For example, those scrubbed in, in sterile gown and gloves, don't answer the phone, or scratch their noses. There is always at least one other person, not in sterile garb, to take care of such things. Yes, to include glasses adjustment and facial itch abatement. And if they do touch unsterile things, like faces or phones, they are breaking scrub, spreading blood contamination, and will need to get new sterile gown and gloves and scrub back in. And the circulating nurse has to clean the surfaces touched, and chew out the individual who couldn't just wait a second, or take off their bloody gloves... oh, wait, already said that. There was only one surgeon who would routinely do this, and he is now barred from working at most of the hospitals in town.

This is why I never watched ER, won't watch House, and we can't go to movies about hospitals, or with history themes. The latter for D's sake. Neither of us can stand the other one shouting at the screen.

Irritations

So, I finally pulled myself together to do another Aloud feature. Going to go out on the balcony as the storm whips up. And our next door neighbors are out on their balcony, or their Living Room as they seem to use it. At least they've taken in the hookah, and aren't having loud animated conversations all night anymore, after several complaints. Yes, I understand there are too many young men living in a small apartment, and they are from a different culture, but their smoke and noise intruded. This from an apartment dweller for nearly thirty years, I am not bothered by normal noise. There are the usual city bothers, trucks, the train, traffic, footsteps and plumbing. But insistent, almost hectoring sounding tones, will wake me out of a dead sleep, echoing into our bedroom through the glass, reflected off the external concrete of the building and the driveway and parking lot.

So, I gave up on trying to record anything, by the time I got in - in a snarl.

After so many days of threatening weather, Moby tried very hard to be nonchalant today, wanting affection and attention. Then not going to hide until the third or fourth roll of thunder, until eventually caution took over. The skies are very dark, and the storm is elbowing it's way up the valley, rumbling as it comes. No rain, yet.

So glad to have my day off tomorrow. I will run errands and clean the place. Not going to the cats. Having second thoughts about the whole process. I don't think I do enough good to justify the bother of dealing with the politics. At least not tomorrow.

Marriage

We have several single male friends. One would like a wife and children, the other would like a harem - his word. Both have had far fewer girlfriends than would be expected of smart, funny, and reasonably attractive men in their thirties, who have proven themselves capable of love and friendships. They theorize WHY. A certain social inhibition is certainly part of it, too focused on their educations during those prime years, health issues, limited opportunities - again at key times.

I remember asking myself those questions all through high school and well into college, what is wrong with me? Why can't I get a guy to notice me? Two very short term relationships, one of which was more than a little toxic, just seemed to confirm my inadequacy. But did not tell me what, exactly, caused the problem. In retrospect, the very man who latched on until we got married, held the answer. Manipulators like people without confidence.

The first time I became popular was in army training. I'd learned to walk with confidence, I was strong and cocky and didn't give a ratsass about anyone else's opinion of me. The usual cues of make-up, fashion, hair, were irrelevant, along with having the odds in my favor. With each pass at me, every bit of attention, my self assurance grew.

When D and I first started spending time together, he made no secret of his interest in me. And I loved that courage, not to mention good taste (ha). That appreciation was stronger than any shyness, which meant he thought I was important enough to risk his ego. Also attractive.

And this speaks to one of the WHYs, why do women stay with jerks. Well, nice guys stay with crazy women too. And I think it's the same mechanism. There is nothing as potent as someone pouring out their charm on you, full attention, the kind of intensity often held by the self assured jerks, the neurotically needy, the manipulative addicts, even if only for the first few weeks. But if you don't know that before it happens to you, it's easy to mistake for a nice person falling in love with you.

Just read the book Sway which discusses our irrational behaviour. One of the chapters is on first impressions. And how we really hate giving up our first impressions, rationalizing away anything that doesn't fit. So abused spouses keep insisting that they "aren't really like that." And the jerks show that intense side of themselves just often enough to keep up the shiny belief.

I so want both of these friends to find joy and love in their lives, mostly of themselves as they are. I wouldn't wish marriage generally on anyone. Too risky, too much the wrong sort of goal. I've seen too many nightmares posing as marriages. The best ones can only end in death and bereavement. When that seems worth it, well, that's the right decision.

As I get older, and further from my own primary family, I see more good marriages. My cousins E & E, our friends Moira and C, two of D's brothers and their spouses, Dave and K, Ty and A, M and C. The list grows, which is like watching the light grow as the flame passes from candle to candle. But it doesn't need marriage, loves grows in clumps, inclusive and infectious as laughter.

(None of those are from our wedding. There are no photos of that event.)

Ginger

The Derby Girls are getting better, and the double header on Saturday involved two very physical games, flying skaters, no kidding around defense, and much lower scores overall. I do relish a tough won game, and these were, especially the Sisters of No Mercy vs the Death Dealers. The Leave it to Cleavers rather tromped on the somewhat patched together team of Bomber Babes, who have lost skaters to injury. Imagine. Even then, it was never a gimme.

Walked to the library, mostly to give our friend W a Stewart's Ginger Beer, which he relished. He volunteers there on Sunday morning. It's strong stuff, not for the fainthearted, and not available here. We send for a case every once in a while, since nothing is better for an upset tum, or a sore throat. W is a friend worth sharing this treasure with.

More rain all morning, cleared now but still cool air wafting in.

Moon

I see the moon, does the moon see me?


Cool, breezy, lovely evening.

Must

Ten minutes. Thursday I got on the cycle for ten minutes, and Friday, my back hurt less. Damn. That means I have to get to the gym every day, and I have the motivation to do so. Went Friday evening as well. It's not what I call pleasant. I prefer the treadmill, generally. Like preferring the wheel over the rack, but. After thinking this flare up had subsided as much as it intended, nothing more to be done, I find I can make it better. Good, in a big way.

Moby on a tear all morning. Had the balcony door open, which was fine. Then he ran out, and crouched - aiming toward the railing. A very familiar stance and expression. Thankfully he is a timid and thoughtful jumper, and before he could work out the details of the trajectory, I shooed him back in, to his irritation. "NO! Wait! I was gonna... damn." I've also stopped feeling bad about the laser pointer. It always seemed a bit mean, a cheat, because he could never catch it, and oh, how he tries. But the last couple of times, before I turn it on, he looks up at the thing in my hand, expectantly, then down where the red bug will appear, then back up at me, and the pointer. OK, so he knows it's a game, and he likes it, and he can always go bite the stuffed mouse later.

Have to clean today. Must, must, must.


More dreams about my father, this time in the garage, dingy concrete and dim light, close space, and roller skates. He's rarely doing anything, sometimes shouting, but a leaden presence.

Chart

Rained today, though I was only somewhat aware of the weather. Ran around being generally useful, so that's alright then. By the time I head home, the sky is a weird white haze, not apparently dust, too dry for fog, but obscuring the mountains.


I had been scheduled to attend a computer charting training, four hours worth tomorrow morning. They cancelled it on Tuesday. Any guesses on why?


If you thought something along the lines of, it's not ready to be used, it's full of bugs and glitches, that is correct. Apparently one of our nurses went to the first training, and it took her a full hour to complete a chart. This is concentrated effort, not finishing it while running the OR, bringing the patient in, positioning, assisting anesthesia during induction, prepping, assisting draping or hooking up all the cords and tubing, opening additional supplies, answering pages, or any of the other multitude of activities that constitutes circulating, that normally interrupts getting the charting done. In this setting, often for cases that may last a total of fifteen minutes, average being more like an hour. So, one could consider that an hour of attentive charting would cause some delays in care. Or we could finish up an eight hour day of four to six cases, and spend another eight to twelve just charting.

My usual charting, all lumped together, probably runs about five minutes, more for cases where hardware is implanted, think plate and screws for fractures or total joint components. Less for very simple hand cases.

Which all means, I don't have to spend four hours in fruitless frustration on an idiot computer tomorrow, before the Derby Girl double header.

Really in the mood for a long night's sleep, and waking up very slowly.

Skies

The skies finally opened up last evening, on our way to see R's new house. To be in a good position, in his life and financially, to buy a house these days, is quite fortunate, and he is justifiably happy about the whole endeavor. So, we piled into his car, and went to see. And on the way, the rain hit. Huge drops, heavy downpour making it difficult to see, then a minute or so of hail. Impressive storm for this part of the world. Moby hid in the back of the closet the whole time, only coming out when we got back, long after the weather had blown over, with some gentle coaxing. But he can't resist hanging out when friends are over.

He did spend some time in the dryer, though. He seems to find it comforting this week.

Pile

This is Soaring, a cat who would make a great Service Cat. Affectionate, loves to cuddle and be handled, gentle, purrs a lot. With me and another volunteer, H.





Found out that the politics at the lower levels of non-profits are apparently much like those in Academia. So nasty because the stakes are so low. I stepped right into a big pile of it, all unaware, and got snidely slammed almost not in my hearing. "(Something, something) ... volunteer's job! (huarumph!)" And got the volunteer coordinator sent to bawl me out for... well it doesn't really signify, actually.

I'm trying very hard to just remember why I do this, and will do it in future much more quietly. Compassionately, for the people who are paid crap for a job that is awful if you don't just love the animals. It's a hard life wherever you go, especially if you bring it with you. My newly learned, or relearned lesson, I can hardly go throwing around anger and blame. Letting it run through my fingers. Wipe off my shoe and know where never to step again.

Uniformity

Really thought I'd written about uniforms before, but if so I can't find a single essay on it here.

I am most comfortable in a uniform, starting with the navy blue of Catholic school. Other kids complained, but I adored having a set way of dressing for the day, no question, and not up to my mother. I didn't have to chose from what little clothing I had that I generally did not like - cheap and ill fitting, pastel and polyester knit. It was that era. My mother made some of my clothes, which were mostly pretty good, a dark blue wool school jumper (pinafore), a yellow a-line dress, a maxi in flowered blue cotton - the last not allowed except at home. At least at school, I looked like everyone else, in terms of clothing. One less subject to be harassed about.

High school uniform color was brown, not attractive, but again, predictable and not my fault. Good enough.

Theater meant no actual uniforms, but dance clothes and second hand ragged filled a similar function. The army BDU was a joy, down to buttons and the way the boots were laced, we dressed the same. Funny how personality is clearer when the clues of fashion and taste in clothing is erased. More uniforms in nursing school, then scrubs in the OR provided by the hospital.

Clothing does matter to me, mostly because I've always had to go cheap, and always felt inadequate, not to mention uncomfortable. Or guilty, if I wore something more expensive, from the few times that I have had the income to use on something better. Uniforms comfort me, since they absolve me of responsibility for how I look.

And it's not trivial. Battles have been fought over clothing choices. It took legal dress reform to release women from pounds of petticoats and constricting corsets. It's never just warmth and protection from the elements, it always expresses how we interact with the world, however utilitarian. Whether we choose to fit in or stand out, expose ourselves or hide, or try to balance, colors or blands, t-shirts with messages, jeans or skirts or utilikilts. And that's not even getting into hair, which is another ball of fuzzy wax.

Clothing

I had that same old dream again, where I am living in my parents house, and I spend most of it trying to find another place to live. The emphasis of these, the details, change. The same theme comes up once in a while, always anxiety ridden. This time I was sleeping in the same room as my father, who started shouting at me. I walked away, trying to find the bathroom in the house I grew up in, all dreamchanged. And figured out I'd be able to afford a room to rent somewhere. Only as I started to wake up did I remember I live alone with D, and we have a home, if not a house.

We signed a new lease over the weekend, and a friend signed on his house this week.

Came in from work, and a rather voluptuous woman walked out the door in a tank top with string straps, uncomfortably short shorts. Right behind her, two slight women with headscarves, and long sleeve dresses over jeans. And all left me feeling rather unsettled. Jiggling too much flesh in too little clothing is offputting to me, as is the overhiding of self. Men viewing of women as sexual objects is not changed a bit by what that woman wears, because it is all in their heads. Men who are respectful are so because they see women as their equals, reinforced by a culture of equality.

This is not to say I blame the women who wear the scarf. In that culture, even transplanted here, it is expected of them, often tacitly, sometimes explicitly. But it does feel intrusive to me, as though they express contempt for my lack of modesty. Like wearing an obvious religious symbol too prominently to ignore. Which is all in my head, of course, just like the erotic thoughts of men looking at women.

I don't really express much in my clothing, other than being comfortable and not caring much. But the assertion of Muslim women that they are dressing to associate themselves with their culture feels disingenuous. I don't wear a corset and petticoats to harken back to my cultural history, although that would be fun for dress-up. (And I do know a fair number of women who own, and occasionally wear, corsets.) But not as everyday dress. I suspect the head scarf wearers are being pressured, either by actual family members, or their own imagined critics. Both, perhaps.

What we imagine others may think of us can be ridiculously powerful.


And, yes, a man in too little, or too tight clothing, or in full on religious garb, feels much the same way to me. Too insistent, too obvious, forcing me to choose... something.

I saw a soldier in BDUs in the car behind me on my way to work. And I could feel exactly how that uniform used to feel on me. I could feel the starched sleeves, and the bulk of the cargo pockets, the weight of the fabric, the edge of the collar against my neck. Clothes press in on me.

Comfort

Slept really well last night, cat between my knees until about 3AM, when both he and D got up. D came back to bed, but then Moby walked on him, purring like distant crickets, insisting on his company for a late night snack. Both back and asleep, more comfortably beside me, when I got up about 0830. They made up their last hour while I read my morning comics and watched a show about people re decorating old homes. My neck does feel better, the pillow helped.

If we had a house, with all our current stuff, I'm sure a newer owner would want everything different. Assume we had no taste, no style. I love all our random colors, and I think it works for us, but I would not defend it as a "style." More a matter of getting what we like, and all together - it expresses our journey. We got a lot of items because we could afford them, and they've earned a place here by being useful for so long.

Assemble yourself cheap-o faux wood desks excepted. No matter, most of them have broken along the way anyway.

Moby still loves the stool I picked up for $5 when the hospital got new staff room furniture a decade ago. One day I'll refinish the wood and properly upholster it. Have to learn how first.

Also, the dishwasher freaked out on us, and the maintenance guy gave us some good info on the probable reasons why, involving using the detergent as instructed, which is actually too much. So I did some research, and am going to try some non-commercial solutions. Will let you know, if and when, I actually try it.

Moby is sitting on the stool, washing his face, right next to D. Relegated there after trying to sit on the computer D is using to write some music this morning. They seem to have come to an understanding.

Pillow

I have this idea about a post, I write it in my head and can't wait to get it down. But then, when I have the keyboard in front of me, I can't remember it. Can't even remember the subject, and I wonder if it was just a dream idea, not a subject contemplated in waking life. I think, maybe that brain scan is a very good idea indeed, and not just for the dizziness.

Cleaned around the bed today, and decided to wash the pillow cover. Unzip it, and find the foam is seriously disintegrating, perhaps explaining my recent sore neck. All the sheets and fabrics into the wash, everything clean, lighter spreads to replace heavy winter.

When D gets home, we go out for a new pillow for me. Not a trivial item, but the support of the really dense foam makes a huge difference. I choke on the price, but he does not. I've had the last one for over a decade, he says, not so much when considered per annum.

The weather again threatens, but holds back on fulfilling it's promise to actually storm. Sadly. Just upsets Moby, who slinks around, hides, slinks, repeat.

Cloud

There is a promising amount of dark cloudage and cool wind this afternoon, pushing out the hot fug of earlier. Moby is hiding under the bed, his happy place when horrible things happen. Like when his people start cooking, or the smoke alarm goes off (or both) or when there is thunder, or some other cat-perceptible-only reason. We check on him, and leave him to feel safe. Just as we did when he first came to live with us. Took him a full week to decide we were ok, only coming out when we were gone, to eat and use the litter box. Or at night to chase around, we could hear his tags jingle. We endeavored to earn his trust, then and over the years.

Weird day at work. One patient had a marked reaction to one of the anesthetic drugs, that if mild after the surgery had started, wouldn't have mattered. But such a complete histamine response after a few drops meant the anesthesiologist said "No." Patient was very disappointed to be sent home without the surgery, but such severe allergies are not to be messed with. Another patient never showed up. Another injury turned out to be much more extensive than any of the exams suggested, and took hours longer. One of THOSE days. But, everyone gets out alive, so that's alright then.

Just during the writing of this, the sky has cleared, showing a lot of blue, and not a drop to show for it. Feh.

Pixies

Enjoyed today, with a nurse I enjoy. Well, he makes me laugh. But why is it that weeks with a Monday holiday off always seem longer than ever? I can't wait for more time not at work. Being woken up by a leaping cat on my pelvis at 3AM, and realizing a migraine was brewing never helps. Although it meant I got drugs on the job very early, and effectively.

Got home, and D could not find his keys. We knew they were in the apartment, since he got in with them, but no amount of searching turned them up. Retracing steps, examining edges, looking for places they could have dropped, and nothing. So, I tried the last resort. I asked aloud.

"Ok, that was fun, now we need to find the keys."

Then we distracted ourselves for an hour. And D found his keys, half dropped, half caught off a corner of his desk, where we'd both looked repeatedly. I thanked out loud, and insisted D do the same. He did, after momentary reluctance.

There is some non-causal relationship going on, and I don't pretend to have any subject in mind when I ask, then thank. But I know that this method does work. Call it a local phenomenon.

Long ago, I got a pack of tarot cards. I don't think they are of any divinatory use, but I do think they help me think about problems differently. Like randomly opening a book to stimulate imagination. The ex found my interest in them deeply disturbing, questioning my sanity and intelligence because of it. D takes it all at face value, and in the context of how I use them. When we were in Colorado Springs waiting to get sent to Gulf War I, we came across a book of I Ching, and tried to use the method to reassure ourselves. Along with the cards. We didn't take it seriously, but it helped us get through the worry.

It's a good idea to listen to the universe around us, ask politely, and send out thanks. Can't hurt.

Doctor

Going to see the doctor today, oh joy. It's been a year since I've seen one as a patient, so I suppose it's time. Mostly going for the dizziness, even though I'm fine now. It's going to be a tiresome interview with a PA, mostly. Much irrelevancy. And being pushed into getting screening tests I have no intention of having. I know my risks, I know I can refuse. I know the real risks are in smoking, drinking more than moderately, driving without a seat belt, obesity, lack of exercise. The first four I ain't got. Still struggling with the last one, mostly because of re-injuring my back last month.

This persistent malaise is frustrating. There are those with far worse, all I have is a mild case of annoyance.

Update:
Amazingly, he was both thorough and pleasant, and able to reproduce my symptoms. Almost certainly a benign, if aggravating condition. Going to get my head examined (via MRI) in July, when the insurance turns over and I will have put aside (flex) funds to cover the expense. Blood taken to rule out metabolic or infective disease. An RX for symptom coverage, and reassurance that my Epley maneuver is the right thing to do.

Intentions

So many intentions today, and nothing done at all. Perhaps for the best, a day off spent in utter idleness, my body healing. We got out for a quick lunch, planning more, but came back instead. It's been a while since I've had a legitimate Monday off. Squandered and savored, left unfilled.

D brought home library dvds of Danger Man, so we've been indulging. Dinner turned out well, despite us being the cooks. Everything is laid out for morning.

Labyrinth

May 2005 MIT campus, an art installation. The ends of the lucite poles glowed, and low, oceanic noises burbled from below, the wood gave, the rain fell. I walked around it, over and over, enchanted.

Inspired by Lucy's journey through the Chartes labyrinth.

Characters

It's not often I want to expand on a single question from a meme, but this time, well. I felt I needed to explain. Some are from early childhood, some are much more recent, all left their mark.

Name fictitious characters who made a lasting impression on you.

Pooh

At first, Winnie the Pooh was the D****y movie, and a little picture book of the same franchise, but it was the first book I memorized. Only later did I read the actual Milne book, and at first, it didn't much impress. But I kept going back. And then Benjamin Hoff drew the lines between eastern philosophy and Pooh, and I read them again. And fell in love with Pooh all over. And introduced him to D. D then found a recording of the books, and we listened to them together.

Pooh just is.


Black Beauty

A horse, and a real and enduring character. Aware as I was with the abuse he suffered, what I learned became more a matter of life lessons. That virtue had nothing to do with how we would be treated, what would be inflicted upon us. Love and happiness are not guaranteed, but grace comes sometimes unbidden.

Encyclopedia Brown

Ok, Uncle Walt knew a lot about just about everything, and I adored him. He would go on about aerodynamics or architectural stresses or ships, as though I could follow him. That implied respect gave me at least intellectual courage. So when I found the Encyclopedia Brown books, it was like meeting Uncle Walt when he was a little boy. I wanted to be just like him. I wanted to know stuff. E. Brown is probably the one fictional character who most inspired me to read anything I could get my eyes on.

Ford Prefect

The Douglas Adams canon entire is part of my worldview. The individual characters somewhat less so. ArthurDent felt too lost. The women were barely sketched. But Ford skimps on the research, tries to save one human of dubious value because he's a friend, and in a backward way stays strangely loyal. He's the kind of difficult friend I rather like.

Pippi Longstocking

One of those early impressions of what a girl could be that did not fit the old patterns. The details are lost now, but the idea of her has stayed with me. That eccentric can be acceptable.

Jim Prideaux

From Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, that tortured body and soul with a soft spot for the young and artistic. One of those characters that I want to reach out and help and stories about him outside the novel form in my mind. I respond to the murderous rage rooted in a fierce desire for justice, and the sense of personal responsibility that is so often lacking in the world of le Carré.

Granny Weatherwax

Pratchett characters all stay with me, so choosing just one is the hard part. Granny is the one I most want to sit and chat with over a cup of tea, even knowing full well she may just stare at me. Yes, I really do have an affection for people I have to earn my way with.

Death

So, of course, I couldn't just choose one Pratchett character. Long ago I felt a need to personify death, come to terms with my own death, feel it walking beside me in a comfortable way. When Death appeared, over-serious and getting it all wrong, but never unkind or capricious, I knew I'd found my imaginary friend.

Conveniences

We got out in the cool of the evening, having given up hopes of a good thunderstorm. Walked a mile around several blocks. They make city blocks big in this part of the world. Stopped to nose around a pretty, if very new-agey, book store with snooty cafe/restaurant attached. The restrooms became of interest to me when we walked in, and I hurried to them. I knew them to be well maintained, as you would expect.

Two women chatted near the sinks when I slunk into the stall. I thought about warning them, but there was no lull in their private conversation, so I figured they'd get the hint eventually. At the first disgusting gassy noise, they did. "Let's go get a table... " Yes, I thought, you probably want to do that rather quickly.

It's times like this I am glad I endured the utter lack of actual privacy that is the military. So I can shrink down my perception of the universe to my own skin, and no further. Comes of having to produce witnessed drug samples, and living so close to others - under discipline. No space for squeamishness or fastidiousness. The body finally decides that, yes, it can function, despite being observed and cramped, style be damned.

At the end of bivouac in Basic, my gut got in a knot. Because the latrines on bivouac were three holers, no partitions at all, and we could not go in alone. So while the rest of the company partied in a cinderblock building in an allowed mocking of the Drill Sergeants, with the dark around me, I found the most beautiful port-a-potty. In the dark, it was clean, private, and with the wind howling, out of earshot as well. My gut and I reached an understanding that night. I wouldn't ask it to perform in public after a week of cold, bad food, little sleep, and dehydration. And given a moment alone, it would move quickly and do what needed to be done.

I've since been much more tolerant of those convenient conveniences.

Maple

It's a meme, not a Zombie Chicken award, sadly. I'm supposed to tag others, but the blog rule on this site supersedes. If it speaks to you, answer it. Haven't done a meme in a long time, mostly because so many of the questions are much of a muchness. I'd never been asked about my favorite tree before, though. Thanks English Rider.


What are your current obsessions?
I don't obsess. Really, I don't. Even the cats, I want to get them all good homes, but that's impossible, so I just do my bit. I should get obsessed about the Shelter Cat ABC book, would make it much easier.


Which item from your wardrobe do you wear most often?
I have a wardrobe? Shorts and t-shirts for the foreseeable misery of summer.

What's for Dinner?
Leftover orange chicken from chinese delivered last night. Could use a good meal, but haven't the energy to cook.

Last thing you bought?
Stretchy knit sleep shorts.

What are you listening to?
The clock ticking, the train rolling past, blood whooshing through my ears.

If you were a God/Goddess who would you be?
Oh, I'd be a Small God. Maybe a god of tea.

Favorite holiday spots?
Anyplace away, but not very far,and very quiet. We loved Astoria, OR, and would go again anytime.

Reading right now?
A book on heraldry, so we can make up a pseudo-crest for ourselves.

Who or what makes you laugh until you are weak?
Mike and Matt, witty and raw, dear friends who live too far away. D can get me laughing like that, too. Moby when he's chasing fiercely.

Who's your Hero/Heroine?
I'm not big on the very idea. The best ones never let anyone see that they are doing anything grand, and don't see it that way themselves. They just do their best and keep on.

First Spring Thing?
Spring's already gone here, well into the HEAT. But I did clear out the closets, put away the winter stuff, bring out the shorts and cotton socks. Planted tomatoes on the balcony. Two plants. Romas. But that was three weeks ago.

What's the funniest thing you ever saw in your life?
I think everything is funny. How about recently? Hearing a sound, then realizing Moby is in his Fortress of Solitude because I can see just his ears perked up above the side of the catbed.

Oh, I love the Maru videos.

Favourite Film?
I have over 6K movies rated on Netflix, and you want ONE? I am reminded of Amelie, a sweet and magical little gem of a film.

Care to share some wisdom?
The reward for living a good life - is living a good life.
Gravity is a harsh mistress.
If you can make a list of all your pet peeves, you're not really enjoying yourself.

If you were a tree, which one would you be, and why?
I have a long fondness for maples of all sorts. Colorful in the fall, those entertaining helicopter seeds, maple sugar candy is such a weakness of mine, good shade, and reminds me of the Canadian flag.

Name fictitious characters who made a lasting impression on you.
Pooh
Black Beauty
Encyclopedia Brown
Ford Prefect
Pippi Longstocking
Jim Prideaux
Granny Weatherwax
Death


Four words to describe yourself.
Cynical
Thoughtful
Interested
Tired

Puff

A closer view of the bobtail, see next posting.


Puff Daddy may not be the best of names, but it does sorta fit this one. He just looks tough. Pretty quiet for a siamese mix, too.



Kittens will snuggle anywhere.

Polydactyly

Kittens love to climb.


Some cats have extra toes...

Or polydactyly.


Other cats have bobtails, like this Japanese bobtail mix, once called Spitty (ugh), now Kenji.


And some cats have polydactyly and bobtails.

Mesa

Phil made me think of the above. Enjoy.



We don't have a table. There is a folding card table for the occasional game, but it leans up against the counter most of the time. There are a couple of wooden tray tables, that occasionally come out. Largely, we eat in front of the TV on the sofa, or at the counter, which doubles as my desk. Sometimes we do the crossword online together. This is not new behaviour.

We do talk together. But we both eat way too fast, bad habits of lifetimes reinforced in the army, where the KP push truism is "If you can taste it, you're eating too slow!" When it comes to chow halls, this is correct. I technically know how to cook, D has a few meals he makes, neither of us are particularly good, we just use a lot of spices.

When I lived with my parents, peace came to dinner when, after my brothers moved out, we began to eat in front of the television. George Perot Presents. As this link says,

George Perot was an enormous man sitting in a wingback chair who seemed completely incapable of simple locomotion, much less somehow leaving Wayne County. Nonetheless, every week he would describe amazing* intercontinental adventures. His show was live, and towards the end he was at least once spotted sleeping while a guest was talking.

Dull beyond belief, (I object to the term "*amazing" having anything to do with the travelogues presented) with video of buildings and mountains, often without people, it distracted my father from finding something to get mad about. A huge blessing, and aid to digestion, compared to the usual shouting and tears. I had to stay until everyone was finished, then wash the dishes, then finish my homework.

Sitting at a proper table with utensils and chairs and everything is the function of restaurants, with someone else doing the cooking, and washing up.

I am aware that many people would consider all this A Bad Thing, including my own little internal voice that also warns me to iron that shirt and sit like a lady. Well, we don't have room for a table. And despite trying for most of the last two decades, we've made little progress on slowing down eating.

We snuggle better on the couch. Very comforting.

Taiko

Some sights are only available at a local outdoor festival. We went back today, got some Vietnamese snacks this time, and heard the Taiko drummers. Not a Utilikilt, but there were some of those around as well.


They made their own drums, and have gotten pretty good over the years. When D and I were first together, Conduit, the SF fest, used to be the same weekend. I would spend the day watching dance and music, and D and the guys would meet up with me for good food. They were a new group then, the sound still overwhelmed.


Got in this one last shot, when the batteries ran out. My hat protects me, it's about 80˚F out there.

Verdant

One of those perfect spring days, the breeze cool, the sun warm, everything vibrantly green and lush. The crowd at the local festival at the City County Building in mellow mood.


Next to the Library, which has a fine collection of quotations all over it. This is outside the front entrance, the slope down to the windows of the acquisition areas. This is where D works. I have always thought the architects got the contract the moment they proposed that all staff areas would have natural light. The old library building didn't have windows in the second level at all. One of the staff meeting rooms was an internal, cinder block cell with the worst kind of florescent lighting. The new City Library is infused with light everywhere.



I've seen more and more bikes like this around. This one is the most cobbled together. I suppose the ability to see over traffic has some evolutionary advantage.

Taco

We are the walking injured this week. D thought Moby had gotten out, since he couldn't find him, and had left the balcony door open, so went looking for him outside and around. Then made less than ideally considered jump down from a retaining wall. One hand scraped, the other wrist a bit sprained. My own usual sore spots are flared up. So it took both of us to make breakfast this morning, him to bend and me to grab. So that worked out pretty well.




D found Moby. When he got home, there he was, flopped on the floor waiting to be petted, saying "Dude, where were you?" He has a place where he vanishes, and we don't know where it is.

(I had a dream last night about Moby, who was black and white and much fluffier, running out the balcony, up on the rail, then jumped, after hanging in the air for a moment, Road Runner/Coyote-like. My attempts to find him were successful, but bringing him back to the apartment was difficult - involving a reception, no stairs going up, and a large zip-lock baggie.)




We've taken to asking Moby, "Would Sir like his chicken?" or "Would Sir like his belly scratched now?" I washed his blanket, dropped it on the floor momentarily. Which was all it took for him to find it, quite gratefully I must add.



SO, it was with some trepidation we walked to the Living Traditions festival, for the sake of a Navajo Taco* and the hope of a bit of music, dance, or bagpipes. And one of the few places, after having moved here from Detroit, where I wasn't among an extreme minority of dark haired people. This seems less obviously so these days, especially since my hair has gone rather white, mostly. D wore a bandage on his wrist, I had on the electo-stim and knee brace - not visible under the skirt. Both of us felt better for getting out.

We did get the planned lunch, a bit of bagpiping, over-sunned, and had a very good walk.





*Which benefits the Navajo Walk in Center.

Murmurs

I hadn't thought about the divorce in a long, long time. On the legal day itself, I existed in a strange calm. A dear friend accompanied me, witnessed for me, bless her. I hope it didn't bring up bad memories of the dissolution of her own first marriage, if so, she didn't let it show.

I remember sitting in the Judge's office, although not the sitting down. He asked me why I wanted the divorce.

"He's been drinking heavily."

A vague sound from the Judge.

"He's stolen money from me."

Another murmur.

"He's been hitting me."

The scratching of his pen on the document. I'm sure there was more, but I have no recollection. The next memory is of being outside in the sunshine with my friend, numb and shocked and not sure what I'd just done with the past seven years of my life, or what I would do the next day.

I know I sobbed in grief and loss and a kind of stunned pain, like after the amputation of a large tumor. All off balance and raw, I acutely felt the failure from beginning to end. I distrusted every impulse, every sensation, my trust in everything lay shattered around me.

D did not come that day, nor did I want him to. He could not be any part of that. I'm not sure when I saw him next. Our approaches stayed tentative for a while, despite having forged our relationship for six months away from this Real Life. I doubted we would survive the return to Normality.

Never so glad to have been so wrong. We keep amazing ourselves, realizing we have known one another over twenty years, remembering the connections, the changes, the joys. D has my complete trust, he earned it millimeter by millimeter, every one, every time, often repeatedly, over the years. Over those first difficult days back.

Long ago, before I knew his name, he'd put a sign up in the CQ's office. I'd walked in and asked who'd done it, and Collin pointed to D. I was hooked, though I had no idea how deeply. The sign read,

Do Not Read This Sign.





.

Baffle

The feed alerting me to new posts has not been working this week. I thought Blogistan was being uncharacteristically quiet. I checked this morning, reloading and restarting stuff. I'll be by byenbye.

Found the Wanda Sykes Press Corps dinner speech. Not quite Stephen Colbert, but she has less to push against. And the Bushies would never have even thought to invite her, sadly. I think she could have matched the Colbert speech, then.

A few weeks ago I got very dizzy at work, came home early because the room kept spinning. It happened again last night, and did not abate this morning, got worse. So I am home trying to stay very still indeed. Will try to get in to see a doctor, although what he might do is a mystery to me. Dizzy is one of those weird symptoms, disturbing, disorienting. I know I had vestibulitis several years ago, but that came with intense nausea. These last two - it's only very mildly nauseating. No, not a hangover either. Migraine meds helped, although I don't have a headache.

Got an appointment for two weeks from now. Pretty good, about the time the next one will hit.

Baffling.

No photos from yesterday with the cats. Had a group home come in, and that's always a bit chaotic. So when they'd gone, I just held cats quietly.

One couple asked about the odd looking man in the cat colony, lying on the floor. We explained to them that he was our volunteer, had a neurological disorder, and just let the cats come lie on him, since he can't really walk with them or carry them. They were completely reassured. He does, I have to admit, look a bit rough, like a street person come in for a place to sleep. But he's very kind, and the animals love him. Because all they see is, well at least with the cats, a warm spot to settle.

Slipknot

Three more of the cats from last week, that I held back.


Dear little Slipknot.



Jasmine and Holly.

Smoot

Another roller derby last night, but not another until 6 June. Footage recorded, not looked at yet. Later.


Visited Shorpy this morning, where a photo of a Utahn named Smoot appeared. So I had to check if the Harvard Bridge Smoot is related, and found out that he'd gotten a plaque for his measurements this past October.

But the two families of Smoot are not closely related in this generation, as far as I can tell. In the same way that I am not related to any of you that come to read, but we wouldn't have to go back too many generations, and we certainly are.

D wanted no fuss today, but I'm taking the opportunity to tell him how glad I am that he was born. All day.

Harms

Twice this week I have, no wait, three times, thrice, I have cut my hand at work and bled profusely, and had to finish the task at, ha, hand while getting my blood all over. Once with a (clean) injection needle, large bore since it was for putting meds into a fluid bag. No contamination occurred, nothing wasted but the needle, but I had to do some quick wrapping to staunch the flow, and not deposit drops all over the whole OR. Then an ordinary scrape on the toilet stall latch, which opened up again right before I had to move my patient over. Well, those blankets had to be changed out anyway, replaced with warm ones. Then I worked sterile processing yesterday - a good break. Wrapping an item, and I kept seeing what I thought was red ink, where was the red ink coming from? Well, me, and it wasn't ink. I have no idea what I gouged my finger with that time.

And last night I got a call from Moira, who wanted a nurse opinion on a burned wrist, hers. I hope it's looking better this morning.

So, what I'm saying is, be careful, ok?

Dreamed a lot this morning. At the end of one, I leaned over the bed to kiss my grandmother on the cheek. She may not have noticed, and in the light of wakefulness, she looked like neither of my grandmothers, especially not the one she was supposed to have been. But with all the others in my dream crowding around, unwilling to touch her, it seemed both right, and easy enough.

Hot

Moby got a clean bill of health from the vet yesterday. More subdued than usual after such a trip, but didn't seem as upset at the time. Maybe because he's older, and hasn't been out since the move here last year. Slept pretty much all day, as far as we know.


When my alarm chimed this morning, I asked myself if I'd forgotten myself and turned it on, since it was Sunday, right? It took a bit more wakefulness to talk myself around to the correct day, that yesterday was Wednesday. Slightly off step all day, nothing severe, but my knee and back are snarling at me. D got us chinese food delivered, good and spicy and sinus clearing, both of us too tired to cook, and in need of a good meal.

Yes, we do have a bottle of Cholula sauce next to the stove, why do you ask?

Knee is being iced, anti-inflammatories have been taken.


Tomorrow is going to be odd.

Splotches

Susie is just so unique, and I fell in love. Splotches all over, such character. Could not stay still for a moment.


Tonto is HUGE, badly in need of brushing, loved to be held, which wasn't easy.


They called her Oldie, the idiots. We dubbed her Wilma, and she would have sat quietly in my arms, or on my lap, for days, dignified and still.


Another one with a silly name, Biggie, climbed onto my shoulders, prompting me to get the nail clippers. He took that pretty well, they were curled right over, so much needed.


So when this man took a shine to him, since the cat obviously decided this was his guy and wasn't taking no for an answer, all went well, and without blood. I just asked that they rename the little guy - something like Tenzing Norgay or Edmund Hillary, speaking to the evident preference for high places.


Spent a lot of time with the cats today. One of the staff mentioned to L and me that they'd had to euthanize a number of cats lately, and we stopped her. We'd rather just believe they got adopted, even knowing better. It's kitten season, which is cute, but it's also the symptom of why we have more cats than we can accommodate. I know Ace, the one I got the mats out of a few weeks ago, ill, older, right before the influx of animals from the hoarder house, was no doubt one of them. And I find myself with the usual twinge of grief, as with any of my patients who died. The ones in hospice care, or the ones already brain dead whose organs we were recycling, or the occasional trauma or septic patient who didn't make it out of the OR. I've cried for every one, a few tears, then let go. Just life, which has to end after all.

And I thought about Wit. I never saw it all, and I found out about a scene later that I would have hated, so I always assume the main character dies right after this scene. She's dying, not verbal anymore, and an old colleague comes in - out of the blue, no one knows she is there. She happens to be carrying a picture book for a grandchild, she takes it out, and reads it aloud to her, and quietly leaves. No one but a dying and silent woman knows what she's done, the grace she has given, she will certainly never know how much her presence meant.

For all it's flaws, I forgave it much for that moment, one I will treasure all my life.

I feel I give those animals that moment of peace, whatever may come after. We share a space of love, when time is not relevant, not important. It's all any of us can do.

Chili

None of the crap streaming through my mind is anything I want to write about. People around me who are both food and fat obsessed, my own aches, the vivid but only passingly remembered dreams, closet sorting plans. Like boxes for moving, necessary, but dull and filling up all the available space. We will not move this year, or next, but the analogy does come to mind, after so many annual moves.

This is political, but it's also social. Go Here.


Taking Moby to the vet for a check-up this afternoon. He won't like the going, but he never seems to mind actually seeing the vet, nor the trip home, so much. Not expecting any problems. (Ok, he doesn't much care for having his temp taken. "Hey, what are you doing back there? Hey!")

D is taking some of his chili to work for a post Cinco de Mayo potluck. I'll drive him, in part because the only dish we have that will transport it is not sealable. The chili in question turned out hotter than he'd planned, although not hotter than he'd prefer for himself. This could either get him off the hook for further potlucks, or make him the go-to guy for always bringing the chili. Could go either way. I just don't want to have to purchase a container for the purpose. Nowhere to store it here.

Not that I'm complaining about living in a small space. A larger apartment would just gather more clutter. The occasional frustration of "Wherethehell am I going to put this?" is far outweighed by not having to opine "We have way too much stuff."

So, I have not added to my video/audio project this week. Yet. Maybe this evening when I need a break from the closets.

That is all.

Sorta

Well, at least I've figured out WHY I can't seem to add to the fiction. I've figured out how I find the plot, and I've temporarily lost it. I know Rope is going off to the shore, for one last surf, and to batten down the coastal weather station for the winter. Those are her reasons, but why am I telling you about it? What is the meaning to the story? I've immobilized Stone, so what is my point in doing so, as far as the narrative goes? Lens is up all night, sleeps all day, what does he need to do so he can add substantially to the plot? How does Hinge's affinity for animals impact the tale? (Pun intended.)

Until I can puzzle this out, the story will have to loiter around, waiting on me for directions. They are all staring at me right now, expectantly. At least now, I know what I have to do.

Bugger.

Been generally wordless the last few weeks. We battled our way through a crossword puzzle this evening, having to look up titles on wiki and flipping to the back of the book for answers. All in all rather frustrating. So we dragged each other up to the gym, and did a bit. Which sort of helped, I suppose.

Don't know why I'm so irritated, it was a good day, really.

Jammer

Another kick-ass roller derby bout last night. Our Team, the Salt City Shakers All Stars, were by far the stronger team, with the Other Team All Stars mostly less experienced, or less tested, skaters. One of the Shakers is a ringer, a jammer who outclasses the league, which is both a joy to watch, but feels unfair. Like a pro player on a school team.

The Other Team also lacked the mass to block. One small skater gave it all she had, and wound up on her own butt, the Shaker barely noticed the attempted shove, and kept going. Comical, but a little sad. They lost by about, oh 180 points. One of the Other Team got the breath knocked out of her, badly enough to stop the game and the EMT, there for the purpose, checked her out. EMT took a long time getting to her, and I was watching the ref who was on the spot immediately, trying to read his reactions to see if I I should run out to help. But she moved, and communicated with the ref, and I held onto my seat with difficulty. Just as I decided maybe I should go anyway, even if presumptuous, the EMT ran out with his bag.

I like that the announcers got the crowd to quiet, all the other skaters and refs got on their knee(pad)s, until she was able to get up. Skated off under her own power. I suspect she got herself in the chest or chin with her knee, or maybe another's skate got her in the throat, but she was stunned and had the breath knocked out of her.

Finally, I got to the edge of the tape, at the end, for the team hand slap. I felt part of a very warm, and physical event, good feelings all around, all shared. Better than applause for expressing gratitude, I think. The injured woman made it as well, at the end, and I managed something more like a real handshake for her, still very pale and clammy, and apologetic, but game. I felt reassured to be able to touch her.

I'm reminded of my own touch with breathlessness, and returning to the remains of the party. Everyone needed to hug me, gladly. Reassuring on both sides.

We took video, but have not done anything with it yet. Going next week, hoping for a bit more, then D will try to put it together into a movie project. Didn't even take the still camera, the light in that space is awful. ND has volunteered to be a scorer, so he's getting to know the teams personally. For some reason, he likes being around women in fishnets and short skirts who could deck him. He'll be very good at keeping the records straight for them, too. He's a good guy, I hope at least one of them takes a shine to him.

Books

Moby beside his favorite Mouse.

Just read Precious Bane by Mary Webb. Having been enchanted by the BBC/PBS filmed version of the book two decades ago, I snatched it up when I saw it in the library, on a staff recommended shelf. I don't think I'd realized, when I saw the series, that a book lay behind it. (That year was a very low point in my life.)

It's a romance, no doubt there, but one lacking in pretension or sugary sentiment. No castles or riches, and our love's hero is literate more than brawny, and Prue Sarn is both strong from plowing, and "Hare-shotten" instead of some ideal Snow White. It's set in a different time, but the smart people have common sense, and people act like people without any need for modern psychobabble. Perhaps 1924 was the last time this could happen.

I would not recommend this one universally, it's odd, quiet, very internal, harsh and uncompromising as any I've ever read. But it held me tight until I got to the end, and the pressure of this story will stay with me, I know. As does The Seven Ages by Eva Figes - a book that no one I know has ever read, not liking it enough to finish if they started it.

D has been reading Ken Hollings Welcome To Mars, which he had to order from British publishers, because it's never been printed here. Came with a CD of the radio series from Project Thrust, a podcast of some sort. I read the review of it in the Fortean Times, and knew it was right up D's proverbial alley, which it is. Fantasies of science in the American century, LSD, UFOs, the suburbs, government conspiracy, atomic bombs, Walt Disney and Sci Fi movies.

Yes, I have begun again my love of books.