Do

It started sometime in the Army, valuing not a person's charm or common interests as much as knowing who to trust at my back. Seeing who would likely crumble, who would stand, who would preen, who would get on with the job at hand. Not always easy, not always right. The self convinced liars are the hardest, the line between what they are and what they believe they are, pretend to be, convince others they are, is often invisible. They fool no one as much as themselves, but they do a damn fine job of it anyway. They can't tell the bullshit from the real, the overestimation of their talents kneecapping their assurance, blurs the real for observers as well.

And the quiet ones who are bothered by little upsets, but give furious fight when cornered, or if the ones they are responsible for are threatened. I can spot those, mostly because I am one. Step on me a long time, but don't push me too far. I see those kindred iron bars.

My brother who was in the Air Force claimed near supernatural ability to discern this trait. He liked the ex, though. And never saw how strong or stubborn I was. I thought him full of shit then, still sure of it. He's the kind of person I didn't trust to have a drink around. I'd probably trust him in a dire emergency to be useful, over there, say, with the extraction unit. Away from the medical triage group. Not completely inept, but not who I want working hand in glove with me. Maybe he could see it, in some people, the strong ones, maybe not so much.

I have worked with many nurses and surgeons and techs of all flavors who are very good at doing the job in front of them, innovative people who find a way to do the impossible, or steady folks who stay calm and do exactly what they are told, or the fast and the paranoid, who get all possible disasters prepared for, just in case. Rarely do the panicky or obstructive stay in the trauma arena, drifting off with their organizational skills to plastics or eye surgery, slow specialties with little chance of codes, transfusions, or sudden death. Well, good for them, it ain't for everyone. And ER nurses wind up in Same Day Surgeries, after they've sucked enough adrenaline. But, well, they still got it. Deep down and tired, but always waiting for the fight.

Our friends are pretty much all people I'd have at my back in an emergency. Some have better skills in one area or another, but they all have that essential quality. It's an ability to put oneself aside to staunch the blood, dive into the water, hold the rope biting into their hands, drop anything to be at the ER at 3AM, order the truck, move the furniture, offer the room, force one to eat dinner, pick one up at the airport or face a friend in grief or joy equally.

I like strong people. But mostly I like honest folk, who know what they will do when the fit hits the shan. That, ultimately, is what makes someone good. Because one who knows what they can do, and will do it, beats an asshole with a god complex any day. That candid assessment of one's strengths and weakness is what makes one reliable. Not going to pretend, not going to venture where the panic will even start. That clear view of the truth, and a willingness to strive within one's ability, is what makes anyone in a crisis valuable.

Know who you are, know what you can do, do that.

Pause

Or rather, paws.

Dreme

Poor Lucy dreamed about me, and did a meme. Long time no meme here, so it was time. Maybe good time, since the readership has shifted since the last one. So, feel free to skip if you've read enough damn memes about yours truly.

I shall refer to it as the Dream Meme, or Dreme.

Hair colour - Very grey, silvery, with still visible black streaks and faint tinges of former brown.

Mother - Muted by her life and letting others choose for her, and an unquestioning faith that makes that make some kind of sense.

Father - A petty, stupid man of no education or sensitivity, raised by many older brothers - which makes the former make some kind of sense.

Favourite thing - At the moment, the new leather skirt.

Dream last night - I was fumbling and screwing up repeatedly at something. felt very dumb and inept.

Dream goal - Playing the ukulele.

Room you're in - Living room, main room, the one with the blue sofa and all the books and guitars and sliding door to the balcony.

Hobby - Just this writing/blogging thingamabob. And not playing the ukulele. PT seems to be filling the 'hobby' slot these days.

Fear - Pain. Chronic, worsening pain. Unmedicated migraines. Loss of friends, griefs.

Where you want to be in 6 years - Not having moved. AT ALL. Maybe in seven years, but not before.

Where you were last night - Oh, with D and NJ and Vicki at the Rio Grande Cafe for dinner. Home.

What you're not - A mother. Outdoorsy. Shallow. Insincere. Religious. Wealthy. Conservative. Athletic. Stylish. Traditional.

Wish list item - A job for D. Preferably one he can enjoy. A blimp would be nice.

Where you grew up - Inner city Detroit, very residential, marginally poor, old neighborhood.

Last thing you did - Ate dinner, D cooked the meat, I made the peppers.

What you're wearing - Lounge pants, t-shirt and TENS unit. Socks, too.

What you're not wearing - A hat, shoes, glasses, sweater. Way too warm for this time of year.

TV - Watched the first season of Mad Men on DVD right before dinner. Very cool, deeply disturbing.

Pets - Moby, but you know that. He's sitting on the balcony, watching.

Computer - Macbook, still works a charm.

Mood - Contented. Spend the afternoon with D, Blimpies for lunch sammich, groceries gotten, packed his bag, just time together.

Missing someone? - Moira, always. And the good folks I worked with up until 4 months ago. My Massachusetts cousins. Aunt Evelyn, after all these years since she's been gone.

Car - Honda Fit, or Jazz in Britain. Great wee vehicle. And not a penny owing.

Favourite shop - A new age bookstore/gift shop up the street, rarely buy anything, but it has a soothing vibe.

Summer - Can end any time now, thankyouverymuch.

Love someone? - D first and always. Moby, of course. Moira. Friends so much. And every patient for the time I stand in as their loved one.

Favourite colour - Always attracted to purple, all my life. But I seem to find the muted, dulled and more complex shades more interesting now. Greens with purples subtly woven in. Suddenly drawn to olive greens and dark sages.

Last time you laughed - A few moments ago, watching Mythbusters with D.

Last time you cried - Tuesday, in so much pain and exhaustion.

Hours

So tired. Sleepy. The time change comes a week too late, presuming it has to come at all. Which it doesn't. Industries that want a different summer/winter schedule could just do it without making everyone suffer. But no. A hard ten hours Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, with too little food in the house. Dragged myself home Tuesday and napped for an hour, got up to eat eggs, back in bed by 2015 (8:15PM), slept through until the alarm at 0544. Could have slept longer.

What saved me was Vicki calling me to take me up on my offer of dinner, or her offer of dinner, not quite clear on that. Begged to be let off on time last night, thanks to E - successfully. Beat her home by a couple of minutes. ND had stopped by earlier, walked with D to get a few groceries, and toothpaste in a tiny tube for the plane. We all schlepped over to Rio Grande Cafe, where the waitstaff have known ND since he was a boy and his dad worked in the historical society in the same building - an elegant old train station. We talked and laughed and ate the first good meal I've had all week.

Vicki is not like any other friend of mine. But we've served each other well through trauma, wading through blood - she is who I want at my back in trouble. She is bubbly and has horse-sense, tells dirty limericks and lives on a ranch. She is utterly herself at all times. I love her dearly, and miss working with her with all my heart.

I covered from 0700-1130 for another nurse who wanted to hear a concert last night, and not have to be so sleep deprived. And I am off tomorrow morning to take D to the airport to fly to San Diego for the wedding, then get Nurse A out so she can take her kids out for Halloween. This took a bit of wrangling, but will work out for all in the end.

As soon as I take a nap. Or three.

Scary

Dark terrified me, long ago. I imagined grasping, clutching shadows full of malice, death head skulls leering, heart stopping, breath crushing, soul sucking evil. All vague and peering, the ambiguity loomed large, accompanied by weird, horror movie music and unidentifiable house noises.

Halloween brought it all into the light, where it became fake scary, and fun. It wasn't witches or Jack-o-lanterns, or even ghosts, that haunted me. My brothers and parents assuring me that ghosts couldn't hurt me never addressed my inchoate unease. I'd never considered they would hurt me exactly, but that they were watching me, or that I might actually see them. I had nothing to fear but fear itself, no comfort there since that was the problem. At Halloween, I felt most safe, even in the dark. Perhaps because I didn't feel alone there for once. Or maybe even then my tendency to be calm when everyone else is frightened kicked in.

I walked straight into my fearful darkness when I was about 20, banishing it. Oh, I could still get myself easily spooked living alone and hearing building creaks, for long after, but that was transient and ephemeral. Can't remember the last time. Having a cat in the place helps.

Because if I hear a strange sound in the night, it's no doubt Moby prowling. Guarding us from those eeries. Most apartments, they lurk in the halls. In this one, they hide in the water heater closet. He scratched to scare them away last night at about 2. One day, he'd been Mrrk-ing at the door, and I opened it a bit. Moby stared at it in fascinated horror, as though I'd cracked open a gate to hell. But he crouched guard bravely, until I closed it again.

I will be alone here on Halloween, D gone to the wedding in San Diego. But I have a black cat on patrol. Alert to any disturbance.

Quantum

Inside my head, working on the novel, still, after all this time. Trying to actually plot story and character arcs. I think if I can go through it over a few more times, a kind of quantum jump of internalized knowledge will break through, like muscle memory in a dance.

Moby enjoying chasing rope, these days, and the low sun that beams in for him. He leans on his leaning post. At night, my ankles do well.

Sometimes, when I make enough photos, an unexpected moment is recorded. Like a dozen of Moby, in one he stretches out his claws, his tail curls, then he goes back to napping.

Molecule

Mine is the only mind I can change. My slant the only one I can lay claim to, my problem the only one I can solve. Everything outside I can only adapt my attitude toward.

And yet, I so want to scream at people - which of course never works. I want to make the racists and unthinking knee-jerkers be smart and thoughtful. But of course, happy in their little reality, they are immobile to reason.

Not to mention that I don't really believe in the virtues of politics or politicians of any stripe. None are really on the side of the angels, assuming there are any angels to be on the side of. Oh, I want the more liberal side to have a chance, seems better than the small minded reactionaries with evangelically irrational thinking. I know just how much of both sides is simply the manipulations of the media. I have no idealism for elections.

I have to stick with what I can touch with my own hands. Love the people near me. Take care of my patients as I would those I love. Write to the score of folks who come here to read. Have opted for the early voting, so my bit is done, as much as I have power. One molecule, one grain.

Hug D, play with Moby, do my exercises.

Liberal

It's always lovely to hear a liberal voice over the din of the current media frenetic fearmongering. This day, it is the dear Dooce, who saw David Sedaris' appearance at a local venue. He spoke on the voters who are "undecided" thusly.

I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?
To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”
To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.

- David Sedaris


She also posts a video of him, reading one of his essays on Letterman. Made me spit my tea.


I look to a day when the word Liberal is no longer a dirty word, but takes back the dignity of being open minded, fair, intelligent. I want "smart" to be a national attribute again, not a smear on one's "patriotism," as though intentional ignorance and petty provincialism were virtues rather than glaring character defects.

Public

Listening to the NPR on the way home, a series of letters between Gregor Samsa, aka Kafka as a Roach, and Doctor to the bugs - Seuss. There exists an unofficial podcast, since the CBC hasn't seen fit to provide this wonderful bit of mash-up. (Don't want to link directly, in case someone decides to make them take it down. It's a simple search, though.)

Grateful as I am to KCPW for broadcasting news and stories, there is a mixed blessing to only having a radio in the car. I hear stories part way in, or miss endings - all the time. We tend to listen to D's extensive music files at home, our own radio station. Often, or alone, silence is fine. The podcasts have been wonderful, for those other times. When in Boston, with no decent radio reception, we listened online to this local Utah station, and kept up our membership.

It's all the stuff of science fiction, how a technology changes everything by changing a few pervasive habits across a population. Telegraphy changed the world, and our sense of time and weather. Radio connected the world, and probably started a few wars in the process. And the internet is in the process of transforming us again. Into what? is always the question, perhaps putting stars upon ours, or thars.

We were talking last night about the end of the cycle of public outcry over streetwalkers, with the concomitant drug trade and general seediness of areas they frequent. Because Craigslist, cell phones and other web based methods have shifted the risk/benefit ratio from sidewalks to a more private space. And because it's no longer so in-your-face, there are no doubt fewer loud complaints. Just as XXX movie theaters have largely disappeared in the flood of home video availability.

There are forces trying to stop it all, vainly attempting to thwart the oceanic change. Blocking-software that errs on the 'safe' side, and censors out anything near the line. The Seuss estate is trying to stop all the parodies, meaning Dylan Hears A Who is no longer available, as other legal forms of creative expression are being intimidated away, by the threat of litigation, under the banner of copywrite protection. Public Domain is shrinking away from the public. It's all too complicated for any silly government to deal with, but that ain't stopping 'em from tryin'.

Kafka would understand. I suspect Theodore would as well.

Convincing

I could so easily have just run off home early

but then I would have missed some creative surgery.

A finger broken, then externally fixed with wires custom bent

To not just hold, but pull the living bone

into a healable configuration. Looked a bit like a paperclip.

So, I worked my full shift, a sense of completion.

A surgeon with severe back spasms considers canceling his cases.

He moaned in the lunchroom, brace on, and I pointed

out my TENS, extolling it's virtues, and recommending Physical Therapy.

He appears later, with the unit, smiling. All surgeries accomplished.


(The rep, who is in PT for a shoulder injury, is the one who just took him by the arm and walked him up there to be seen. But I figure I softened him up. We compared notes on how to use the device several times through the day.)

Bias

Amazing how short ten hours can feel, with sufficient help and laughter. Then how long that last hour drags with difficulty, trouble and complaint. I get home and try not to crab about the dishes in the sink, having to clean then make at least myself some dinner. But looking for work and losing heart is a harder day than I had, really. He's doing all he can, wheels spinning, and one can only swear so long. We are being fair with each other, it's the biased world playing favorites.

Efficiency

Fall comes late and only in yellow to Miller's Park, but a good walk along paths with friendly dogs and their walkers and children (very well behaved for this place.) Sun speckles through to the dark water deep in the gully, highlighting a twinned apple - far out of reach for human or dog.

Moby uses his triangular scratching structure as a lounger, as I tighten my abdominal muscles and raise my arms, then legs, and take a few photos from floor level. Efficiency on a Sunday afternoon.

Lethargy

I want all the experiences that are not available to me. A walk through a maple wood, with all the reds and oranges of Michigan autumn. Walk down to the North End and catch a ferry across the bay to the Navy Yard and walk back over to Boston. I want to go folk dancing at Wayne State, they once had a large and vital club that met every week and danced all evening. I want to show up at Dave's, where all the guys and friends would just appear most weekend nights, maybe watch MST3K and laugh and talk.

But all life, all experiences, have a span of time in which to exist.

I have Moby nestled near my feet, leaning on my ankles. Allowing me my lethargic mood without comment.

Repeat

I checked, I've used Poop before.

Oh, and Tom Chapin, of Make A Wish, is still doing good for kids, as in this satire on No Child Left Behind over at Millard Fillmore's Bathtub.

Poop

Too pooped to write, but in response to the running commentary on Self Portraits,

here.

Let

Jean wonders if it's all neurological, this persistent pain of existence (if I read her properly.) The early damage of abuse, neglect or manipulation has to shape our forming brains as much as poor nutrition or environmental toxins. The ground state of pessimism, the touchstone of sadness, the ache from the basement. She inspired an answer in me that I want to lay here as well.

Oh, I'm sure much of our distress is based in neurology - stunted or twisted early in life, the curve swirls through our span of years. Giving us a different perspective, an eccentric orbit. Adjusting this to the world around us is painful and interesting together.

I find this comforting, that it's not all my fault, nor under my full control, all I can do is swing with it. Perfection is not achievable, so at some point after doing all I can, I let go.

But, yes, a stop lets it all pile up, like waves suddenly hitting a beach. Like all the blankets bunched around my neck while my feet turn blue.

Also but, it's very funny - seen from this extreme angle. Raucous and heartfelt laughter, unrestrained by care of loss, a gush of fresh caught joy let free. I wouldn't trap it here, it's not mine to keep, but it never really is for anyone.

Dullness

It's been more painful this week, which strangely does feel like progress - so no sympathy.

Two days scrubbed in, which I love, but does strain the back more than circulating. Close up of two nasty hand fractures, fixed up to heal nicely. My idea of fun.

D coming with me while I get spasmed and stretched tomorrow, which is a great comfort.

Have not been up to writing this week, sleepy and distracted after getting home. Today I slunk off home early, so we got to the grocery store. Uncharacteristically, we did a very good shopping - including vegetation.

Ah, well, apparently I still can't much write yet. Maybe tomorrow.

Heavy

Big, dark clouds, all heavy with rain, and snow. I am much relieved at the imminence of real weather.

Boo

Unused swabs from prep kits at work, somewhat altered for the season.

Day

Cooler already today, with a storm out of the north scheduled. Got NMES and Traction at therapy, D came with, and talked to me about the differences between Fortean Times and the UFO Coms and the Penn & Teller sceptic shows. Kept me able to tolerate 70 lbs of traction. It's all intensely challenging, but I'm pretty tough minded when I have to be.

Then we went and replaced the winter shoes that I'd worn to bits by last spring, and got lunch at a Chinese/Vietnamese restaurant that had been closed for remodeling all summer. Feeling a bit icky still, but the worst is well over.

Letting Moby wander in and out, which seems to please him. He's gone in to lay on the rug in the sun, and I sit out here letting the air move over me. Must get my TENS unit on, putting it off for a few more minutes. It's wonderful, but also irritating and sometimes frustrating to get on properly. And at the moment, I'm basking.

Utterly charmed by Michelle Obama on the Jon Stewart show last night. Intelligent, genuine, funny, much easier to watch than the CGI-creepy Palin. But I know that hope is a mocker, so that's all I'm saying.

Distracted

My turn for a very rough night. Lots of strange dreams. Woke feeling lousy but good enough, I thought. Then the internal movement began, until I feared losing my breakfast as well. Migraine reared, and meds followed, interspersed with calls to work to let them know I would be lurking at home today, in the dark, socially unacceptable.

Moby on me much of last night, an uncomfortable comfort, welcome. This morning when I still figured I could make it, he circled me until I held him, and he nosed at my face. I don't know what this gesture means in Cat, but I find it soothing and touching, a kind blessing. After D got up to soothe me as well, Moby had a good chase - distracting me from my inner misery.

And I thought about the word 'distraction', and one does at moments like this. In surgery, distraction involves pulling a joint to allow access for repairs, sometimes with a traction device. In knee arthroscopy, it's mostly just the pressure of fluid pumped through, with the surgeon manipulating the lower leg - often in rather awkward looking poses to get the right angle. Precise, but not really gentle. In general surgery, holding back soft tissue is called retraction. When they strap me and pull me in PT, it's simply traction. Which drives me into a state of distraction.

Plateau

Still doing the work, TENS unit still helping, hit a plateau apparently. Trying not to worry at the time this is taking, knowing it was going to be a long road doesn't stop my wanting to be at the end of it. Irritated at my own failings, like the days I just can't make myself hit the floor and do the therapy. It's not that time consuming, it's just the idea of it. I have been mostly off any kind of pain medication (non-narcotic and over the counter, but not without side effects even so) for nearly two weeks now.

Up to the Main OR tomorrow, but with a scrub I work with at Home OR, and a surgeon I've worked with both places, doing a reverse shoulder, which is a very interesting procedure that I did many of at Boston OR. I get credit for being called off for low census, but don't lose hours or pay. A bit of a change.

My body rhythms are getting that erratic quality common in women getting a view of fifty on the horizon. But because I started this process young, (10 1/2 yrs.), I am more likely to end it late. Bugger.

D up huge swathes of last night, but so was Moby. Moby just napped all day. D is sitting in a fog, poor dear.

Corporal

Three points, SPCAs started long before child protective legislation. People are still arguing heatedly over corporal punishment of children as a necessary tool to good parenting, sure that the alternative is the spoiled children of permissive parenting. And the prevailing certainty of the effectiveness of current animal training, which is firm clear and all based on positive reinforcement, never hitting.

It amazes me that shows like The Dog Whisperer and It's Me or the Dog show over and over that discipline that respects an animal's needs, neither resorting to violence nor letting the animal do anything, works both to curb bad and dangerous behaviour, and the furry one is happier and healthier. Animal behaviorists have known this for over forty years, it's how places like Sea World managed dolphin shows. It's how police canine units are possible, or sheep dogs can be called off from afar. It's not rocket science, it's communication and it's hard work.

As we understand abusive relationships, finally, we know that the abused internalize their treatment, especially when it comes from those we are dependent upon, more so if the abused is a vulnerable child with no other exposure to any other kind of normal. If your parent tells you how much they love you, then hit you, or don't provide you any rules, that is what seems to be love. To think otherwise is dangerous madness, and the unthoughtful carry that into the next generation. This is a huge part of why I never did want children, I knew better than to subject any child to my suppressed rage. A simple spanking or hand slap may not seem like abuse, but when any pain comes with an "I love you", it's fucked up. It shows lack of effort or imagination, an unwillingness to understand or allow a child dignity.

But to have tried to legally force parents to not abuse their children, when the common wisdom was that that was how they expressed love, (still is for many people) was an unthinkable intrusion. Far easier to rescue animals. So the Humane Societies got to the horses first.

For although animals also carry our emotional burdens, it's never been as heavy as for children. We can prove what happens to beaten and neglected dogs, see their whole life in the span of a few years. And no dog will ever say, "he beat me, but I turned out just fine." No, an abused dog may rebound to kind and effective treatment faster after being victimized, but the damage is always visible. A child slapped or left to raise themselves will defend their lazy, mean, silly parents to the point of saying that they were raised just right, they deserved to be hit, oh, no, it was never abuse. They cover it up, explain it away, and pass it on to their own children.

My parents might be excused for not knowing this. In 1962 it was not common wisdom, although it was always common sense. My brother and his wife cannot, but then, they never bothered to train their many aggressive dogs either. Training is a lot of work, takes commitment and consistency, for a dog or a child. The easy way never is.

And just so I rile anyone else who probably shouldn't be here anyway, the New Yorker has a thorough expression of my political thoughts, much more eloquently and intelligently put than I ever could.

This may come down, or I may just close comments to avoid any trolls.

Schmutz

Cooler, raining, window open, cat hiding.

Dreaming work dreams. Scrubbed in, trying to find out from the surgeon what plate he wanted, resident already getting gowned and gloved before me, so that she was just standing around waiting for me to set up the table. I roll my eyes and get ready, only to find schmutz in a clamp, so the whole sterile field is compromised, and I have to get my circulator's attention and break down everything, get new supplies and autoclave the special plate chosen, and try to get the resident's attention, because she isn't sterile anymore either and needs to break scrub. By this point the room is full of people chatting, no patient, and I can't get anyone's attention or assistance, but I notice my blue Xmission mug, figure that just has to be clean, not sterile, so I salvage that and the dream drifts off.

I have to get up, I'm hungry, stiff and sore. It's still pretty dark when I open the blinds slightly. But until D gets up, I don't realize it's raining lightly. He opens the blinds wide and the window to let in the cool Pacific fog come all the way from the coast to finally end our sere summer.




*On a sterile field, any evidence of contamination is cause to discard everything and start again. Tissue from a previous patient still in or on an instrument is proof that it was not properly cleaned, and if it ain't clean, it ain't sterile. Referred to as bioburden, not common, but it does happen. In the dream, it was pretty obviously gross oversight. A resident who gowns and gloves before the scrub is akin to a guest at a formal dinner sitting down at the table and getting their napkin under their chin before the servants have finished setting the table. Breaking scrub is removing gown and gloves - intentionally removing oneself from the sterile field. Although in a trauma it does get that crowded in the OR, there is still strict observance of sterile field - enforced by scrub, circulator, surgeon even, but first line is the scrub. In the dream, there was never a patient, and the atmosphere was more of a gathering before a meeting, or a work party.

Zigzags

We did, in fact, have some exquisite treats at Les Madeleines, rich but not too sweet. I love the way we can sit together quietly, the silence a comfort amid all the bustle and noise.

Last night we got with a couple of friends and ordered the usual at the Rio Grande Cafe. Dave was a little late, and we all thought we knew what he wanted, but waited for him to arrive - and order what we'd figured.

All lives are strained at the moment, the money tight, the health shaky, jobs an irritation in their presence or absence, pregnancy and difficult classes, a wedding in California, the national and global anxiety pressing into every available crack. D at first sighed that he would miss another friend's wedding, so I told him - you go. We can afford for one of us to attend, with a little help on that end. Fair's fair, I got to go to the last one. He said no, too much, didn't want to go alone. But checked the price of a ticket, so I knew the idea appealed.

"Go, I'll miss you, but you really do want to go. Call C and Moira, see what they say." It took a bit longer, a few more chews, and he calls C, who checks with Moira, and they encourage him as well. So, for a few days, Moby and I will miss D, but he'll be in a surround of friends, which he needs very badly indeed.

Sometimes, one simply must zigzag off randomly, shake up the M&Ms, drop the bag of frozen peas, unrut oneself.

Mug

The Mug nuevo.


Got it at the Farmer's Market last month, it holds a lot of good tea.

Cookies

Muscle stimulation and traction today, I keep pushing my tolerances as far as I can. D skipped volunteering at the library to accompany me. Talked about Vaughan Williams (an article about him in this month's Fortean Times) and Holst and 2001, and kept me distracted and soothed. Massage last night also intense, good, but I am feeling as bruised as I expected - at my explicit request, she did no more than I could handle. Icing at the moment, stim and exercises later. Grilled cheese for lunch, but I'm craving something... else, more potent, more challenging.

We've decided to pick up some Ralph Vaughan Williams at the library (there are about 500 catalogue listings), and stop by the pastisery in the same block for something small and expensive and exquisite. I finally got my honorarium for the back study I did. I'd apparently screwed up the address, then someone else screwed up the apartment number that I had gotten right, and it got sent back to the U, who managed to get the right address with the wrong apartment number still attached, but our postal carrier got it in the right slot, so all is well. I'd forgotten how much it was, and I hadn't expected $75, so quite a windfall. Plenty for a pistachio tart, chocolate tiramisu, or eclair and some almond cookies.

Zero

Work provided a grilled lunch today, hot-dogs and burgers in the back parking lot. I was able to go, and my physical therapist, who after all works upstairs at the same facility, was right behind me. Very happy to report a quantum leap improvement, (she asked) and show her how I had my stim in my pouch, which keeps it in place as well as protected from, well, fluids in my job. I'll see her tomorrow for more stretching and whatever else she has in store. It's good to know what 0/10 pain actually means, if not all the time, at least it's a new baseline. I've been much more cheerful and energetic -for me. Even after a few 12 hour days at work. Keeping my head above water.

Listening to more Shawn Colvin lately, and Lucy reminded me of one called Diamond in the Rough - which I then had to look up on utubes.

AND, actually practicing the Uke this week, up to three passable cords, so D says I can now play eight bar blues. It's a start.