Cut (Photo)

I've tried not to make a big deal of it. But I hate my last haircut. It's been nearly a month. She took a lot of the dye out of my hair, replaced with a lighter dark, easier to remove, which is good. And then cut. I asked for blunt, simple, no messy "shaping." She felt she "Had" to do a bit, and the top layer is shorter, and uneven. I am resigned, and try not to think about it, or look at it. I tie it back and wait for growth, committed to having my real, grey, hair visible next year. That top fringe waves contrary to the stuff below. Under a hat all day, it's far less tidy after. She said she was too much of a perfectionist, without the texturing, it wouldn't look right. Well.

Oh, well.

I let the right turn signalling driver behind me have plenty of space to turn, and he grinned and nodded acknowledgement at me. Ah.

I stopped a surgeon starting on the wrong eye today.

Moby obviously gaining a good amount of weight.

All is well.

Chair (Photo)

Planted (Photo)

Outside the offices of Deathwish. Click for detail.

Deathwish (Photo)

Piano Movers.

Boston.

Still (Photos)

Still going, barely napping.

Recovered (Photo)

Moby anew. He apparently feels much, much better this morning. What's more, better than he has felt for a while. Effusive bounding for food, playing, chasing, jumping, washing, patrols resumed with verve, curiously checking out all corners and closets, finally trying out the sofa.

We hadn't noticed how dampened he had grown, or put it down to the disturbance of the move and the new climate. It's like he feels 2 again! Brief petting until he get's too excited to sit still a moment longer. Up on the desk, up on the perch, up on the couch. Slept on my feet most of the night, walked up D to his nose, see if he was getting up to feed the Cat.

And HUNGRY all the time. Licks up every molecule. Will set out the dry food for snacking once cleared by the Vet. Two shaved spots on legs that occasionally require attention, but not much. Tolerating antibiotic with a mere shake of his head, "Yuck. Ok, done? Fine. Now pet me. Or move that mouse. Nevermind, gotta check out the space under the other dude's desk." And off he goes. Adventures await, but not for long.

Dude (Photos)

The storms keep coming. Moby has approved the new rug, then hid in his safe place in the closet. He is a bit drugged, since I would much rather give him pain meds and be wrong than not give him his pain meds and be wrong.

Discard (Photo)

Found on Boston Common, Gay Pride Day, 2004.

Bandage

Moby is lurking in the closet. He's eaten a little. Hates the bandage on his paw, no doubt the local anesthetic makes it feel weird and disturbing. Perking up ever so slightly. I still have to give him antibiotic tonight, which I'm finding ridiculously difficult. But it will happen.

Poor friend.

Gonna be a long three days until the dressing comes off his paw. If he gets it off sooner, I have to re-bandage it.

Knowing this really was all necessary makes it bearable. My training is not making it any easier. Almost the opposite, because I feel so responsible, while wanting someone else to do this, not to be the one causing more distress. This should be easy, for me. I can help D with medicalish stuff, but I can talk to him, and he understands and agrees. Moby doesn't and can't.

Still.

Two teeth rotting in his head had to come out. That paw may be amenable to treatment once they have a better idea what it is. We want him to live with us a long long time.

The care and feeding of a household god.

Stew

When I get the chance to talk with family of my patients, I order them to take care of themselves, go eat, try to rest. If it seems right, I add that I know how hard it is to be on that side. I waited twice for D, four long eternities the first time, only 3 the next. Most of them won't, or can't, but I nudge them anyway.

This morning, Moby was sleeping on my ankle, to instantly bounce to life at my movement. Food! he knows. Food! he enthuses. He must be petted and held, then Food! he insists.

But this morning is different from all other mornings. This morning, I will drop D and Moby at the Vets, then on to work by 0700. He jumps up to sit on the table beside me as I eat my cereal, drink my tea, purring at me with intent.

You wouldn't forget the Cat, now? I Always get food by now! I really appreciate that food, you know.

We love you Moby,

Yes, yes, but can't you say it in food?

Then the BAG. I couldn't get him in first try, as usual. Second, he knew I was serious, but so was he. I'm bigger, and nurseruthless. I zip the bag.

Dropped the guys off, and made it to work on time. D struggled with busses to the gym then home. I was on the blessed (that Other Hospital Never Had) Out Early list. Meaning, they let excess people go, if possible, in the order on the list. This is the Eve of a Big Local Holiday, with a small surgery schedule. By the rules of the List, I could go at 3pm, or get bumped down the list a bit, and take my chances on not getting out until 7.

I ran.

But, as expected, Moby was not ready. The tooth extraction was more extensive than anticipated, he was brewing an abscess, already infected. I considered waiting two to three hours. Then I thought how much better to have D hold him for the trip home. I came home.

And waited.

Stewed.

I know he will be fine, he's in good hands, all will be well.

But my eyes remember what can go wrong, and just how badly.

I nibble, unable to eat properly. I pace.

I feel guilty for not getting definitive treatment earlier. Though I myself had a tooth abscess, and the symptoms were vague for a long time. We had checked him out, and took the advice given.

It's pouring now, hard huge spatters. Not cooler, just more humid, but welcome. Moby hates rain, and thunder. He won't much notice today.

There, it's about time to go fetch him.

Push

Old, drifted friends visited last night. I kept thinking of the LeCarre line, that as we grow older, we tend to settle to people. Strong proof to me that I have (believe it or don't) mellowed over the last three years. I can see all the former annoyances and angers, but they seem like gentle swells rather than crashing waves. I can see my own sins, grey and prickly, acceptingly. I see their peculiarities with similar fading, pastels that once glared neon. Good people, good to know.

Only one habit still rankles, not for my own sake. I love D entire, see him as a whole soul, no part amiss, nothing to be changed, no lump out of place, all expressive of an utter personal perfection at this moment in time. He does not drink. He does not drive. His brain is on the mild end of the autism-ADD spectrum, giving him in compensation a phenomenal memory and focus, with insight. This is a person who should not drive, lest he risk his and other's lives. Alcohol has never appealed, and recent experiments - for cardiac benefits - have been abandoned as inconclusive to irrelevant. He certainly hated the disassociation of morphine and other narcotics while healing his shattered elbow, though necessary for physical therapy and a version of sleep. Alcohol for him is like taking glasses away from the myopic, not the reason most people drink. (I drink to take an hour's vacation from my overactive vigilance reaction.) And yet, the push, the pressure, that he should learn how to drive, remains.

His parents do much the same, want him to become a professor, to drive, to return to their church, or whatever other solution to his life they find that week. (They would be horrified that he's tasted gin, but really, it did nothing noticeable. Those Welsh genes in action.) As though his life needs solving, with the implied criticism.

I despair. He is a loving, kind, gentle, intelligent, skilled, funny and decent human being, that I am honored to know, nonetheless get to live my life with. Why do they want him to be otherwise? What do they think they can improve? I knew within a few week of really knowing him that pushing him was like pushing a cat. It doesn't work, and it annoys the cat. He listens to me, because he trusts my judgement, an influence I take with great gravitas. I know he knows himself best, and I trust his assessment of himself. When others will not accept that he really does know, assuming their advice trumps his, I cannot help but think less of them. His life is his life, our life together. We think we're doing pretty well.

This is the aspect of this part of the country, this culture, that once drove us East. To a city that didn't give a damn about us, such a relief, respite. HERE insists we take it all personally, and we politely decline. We are older now, wiser, stronger. We brought back our fortification, our big stick. Don't mess with us. Don't mess with D. Well greased, letting the intrusive helpfulness slip aside.

Shove not, lest ye be shoved.

Contented (Photos)

An idea stolen from Mella.

My brother gave me this chest for Christmas when I was eight, a place for treasures ever since. I treated it rather badly, unintentionally. Messy child, I cared poorly for my possessions. Now it holds everything we want to make sure not to lose, from beach rocks, the stamps to mark my pottery, marbles and small toys. The calculator I bought for Trig in high school, still works perfectly - bought with the contents of my change jar. D's old guitar tuners, our military insignia, oh and some jewelry.

Quilt (Photo)

Questions? (Meme)

Gulnaz has tagged me with a confusing meme, no questions, only answers. Generally, I assume the opposite. Still, here it is. If you can come up with other answers to unasked questions, or questions for these answers, feel free.



1. Judge me, ignore me, contradict me, even join me. I love to share interests, but I also love to be challenged. I can respect any taste that is self aware. I love good movies, but also bad ones, if they are bad enough with enough energy and conviction. Let me know where you stand, and let me hold my position, I respect sureness, even if it is certain confusion.

2. Beauty is strong, and stark plainness draws me in, but it's all in my own eye. There is no external standard, it's all relative. I've little patience for merely pretty, lukewarm, obedient pleasure.

3. Nothing like writing and writing, then a phrase turns just right, and says more than I'd intended.

4. I've had to learn loyalty from loyal friends. Very few people intentionally betray, they simply can only see themselves. We fail each other all the time, while still having to rub along. Have to get up and do a little better, be a bit more aware, open ourselves up to understanding, live up to the kindnesses that we are given. Anger is self indulgent, a selfish reaction to frustration, a toxic self feeding action.

5. Dancing is life, done well or clumsily, alone or in pairs or circles, with hands or feet or simple sway.

6. I worry. I try not to let it turn into an overwhelming, self defeating habit. I'm over responsible, and have worked hard to honor those around me enough to trust them to chose for themselves. I've grown calmer and less intrusive when I only worry about my own failings, and grow more forgiving of even those.

7. I have given up coke/pepsi etc. Only this year, after many attempts, and I'm very proud of this. Bad for the bones. Expensive and useless habit. I have plenty of tea, chocolate and beer, which at least have some benefit. Cola doesn't even taste good unless overindulged.

8. I like protocols and handrails, in work, in my physical world. Can't stand regimented beliefs, or restricted spirituality, and have bushwhacked my own path for my soul.

Expressive (Photo)

I love this Photo from the BBC, not for the hokey big/little theme, but for the kind expression on Bao Xishun's face.

Easy

I carpooled yesterday with my least likely, yet most faithful blog lurker. She belongs to the dominant religion in this region. She's outdoorsy and craft-loving, takes girl scouts out for pirate theme picnics, scrapbooks. Yet, she enjoys my writing, which supports none of these interests. I admire her, and her integrity, her verve, her caring about her work, her patients, friends and animals.

We planned a trip out to see Moira in the Fall, since the new car deserves a roadtrip. I coerced her into stopping by to finally meet Moby, who greeted her as a new friend - not unusual, but always gratifying. Moby is almost always politely friendly, assuming anyone who enters his home is a good person, who will no doubt adore him. He is generally right. With the exception of the people brought through by realtors to see our last apartment - who did not greet him, which seemed to confuse him. Friend/lurker, of course, adored.

I don't know why some people come here and read. I know why I write. I have found that the best way to irritate others into inchoate dismissal of my existence is to point out a better, easier, simpler way to accomplish a task. With rationale. The best way to get up my nose is to insist on a more difficult, obstructive, work intensive process, while being unable to defend or explain why. I love learning better methods, either for safety or effectiveness, all I need is a reason. Writing here, is my outlet, my flow, of thoughts and opinions that would elicit urges to slap me in person.

For instance, I have heard scoffs against those who load utensils handle up in a dishwasher, but never why. I have also heard of a freak accident, where a knife loaded point up, and a trip, resulted in a knife in the heart. That is extreme, more down to earth is that silverware loaded tine and bowl and cutting ends up have to be grasped by the part that goes in mouths, to be removed. I only put my hands on handles getting them to their drawer - otherenduppers do not. Not critical, if their hands are clean. But if I handed you a spoon to eat with, fingering the bit you would be licking, wouldn't you think that somewhat distasteful?

And toilet seats up? This isn't, or shouldn't be a gender thing. Ever drop something in the water? That's what the lid is for. That, and keeping dogs drinking out of it. But, when I visit a male friend, and the lid and seat are up when I walk in the bathroom, it will be back up when I leave. Those guys never have much in that room to drop in, none that I know have dogs, so I go with courtesy.

Friend/lurker gave me the most appreciated compliment last evening, saying that we did not look like we'd just moved in. D immediately concurred, showered me with enthusiastic credit. Moving four times in three years, with a lifetime move total I can no longer count, I've learned. I did put a lot of work into settling, creating home with all due speed, for the sake of both D and Moby. I am amused when I get advice about moving from people who have lived in the same place for 30 years. And who still have boxed clutter from that move. I still listen, just in case. The long way round can illuminate, if done consciously, attentively.

Over the last two weeks, I've been painting a wooden stool, very slowly. Inefficiently. Enjoying the slow, difficult way, the mindlessness of the job. I'm in no hurry. Both the freeway and the rocky road have their purposes.

This morning, I was dressed for work, and the bright spots in my visual field, that I hoped were from going too fast from dark to looking at the light in the bathroom, persisted, worsened. Until I could not read the screen. I took drugs, and called work. Driving while having migraine aura is not ideal. D put on the radio, which had a show about Brahms offering car repair advice as I drifted in and out of deep sleep on the couch. No other nasty symptoms, just med side effects. I say this in defense, writing under the influence.

Combing (Photo Meme)

As promised, my entry on the Spontaneous Visual Meme going round. Photographic credit to D, combing credit to me. I'm tagging all of you who have a difficult subject to photograph. AGAIN. Obviously, assistance is fair. Thanks to

Moira
Herhimnbryn
Jean.

And a new edition to the theme,Tall Girl

Photobooth (Photos)

Dog (Photos)

"What the Hell is that?"

(Because I know you've missed photos of Moby.)

Him (Photo)

This was perhaps a year or two post shattered elbow. Coming out of a difficult phase.

Hi!

Iso (Photo)

And rather a lot later, on another continent, in the Army.

Yellow (Photo)

I was ten. In a lovely yellow jumper (pinafore) that mom made. With my hair long.

School photo.

Ladybug (Photo)

When I see this, I think of Hoarded Ordinaries. I'm still fond of ladybugs.

Ironing (Photo)

On the back:

Dave (The brother in the photo.~z.)

"Done with my shirt yet?"

The iron actually warmed up, and I was required to iron towels. Not my favorite toy. D says every gift he gives me, he feels is to make up for the fact that I got a toy iron and ironing board. I rarely iron anything, though I do a good job when necessary.

Boy (Photo)

We have a Spontaneous Visual Meme going round. I'm tagging all of you who have a difficult subject to photograph. Thanks to
Moira
Herhimnbryn
Jean. (I'll do one next week, already have a theme going there.)

Boy was not my dog, but a neighbor's dog. He seemed much bigger, then. Love all the critters. Cat just fits better in our life as lived. My mother put me in bonnets, because I was bald, and everyone thought I was a boy.

Detroit was one of those border cities, many Canadian families have alternated generations across the river. My parents are both naturalized US citizens, my father's father was born in the states. I spent much of my time over in Windsor, Ontario, and often wished I lived there rather than in a big, dirty, industrial city. My sense of humor, my accent (which I can't hear), and my deeply felt sarcasm are true Canadian.

Drumstick (Photo)

Happy Canada Day.


Welcome to 1962, December. This comes of sorting through a shoebox of photos. This is me, on my first Christmas, when I first walked bytheby, fueling up - apparently. My oldest brother is the one with red eyes beside me. Pictured is also the traditional monotone of traditional Canadian Cuisine. Irish-Catholic-Canadian, I should specify. Note the Infant of Prague, and BVM adorning the china cabinet.

More to follow.