Blue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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



*Take... ... seat."

Iguana

Got a postcard of the Red Iguana with our gift certificate from D's parents. It's actually pretty nice for a restaurant card. But I keep thinking of the postcards of The Alamo, that make it look like it's in the middle of a Texas desert. And it is crowded into a narrow street with buildings right up against both sides. The Red Iguana is in a rough part of town, with its parking lot separating it from a Wonder Bread depot, the other side is an old, cheap motel with a truly Roadside America worthy sculpture garden in concrete. It's right down the road from the plasma center, where the poor can sell their bodily fluid for cash. Across the six lanes of traffic, a shabby Frontier Pies hunkers.

The whole neighborhood, such as it is, will soon change into a construction zone as the train tracks are laid out to the airport. Possibly it will improve. Possibly it will simply be a sterile, national-chain-warehouse-store ridden, stretch of nothing much. But the Red Iguana has opened a second restaurant, not far from the current location, but out of harms way. Obviously well thought out, well executed, not a copy but keeping much of the same tone, and all of the same food. With room to develop the catering they've not been able to at the old kitchens. A wonder to behold, people being very smart, planning ahead, making good, long term decisions.

I know much of this because I was unabashedly eavesdropping as the "husband of the owner" (as he described himself) chatted with friends sitting at the counter of the RI2 next to us.

One feature of the new venue, the Union Pacific tracks run right in front, and I got to watch trains as we ate the best empanadas anywhere.

Ship

Moby took interest in the tree this morning, with the sun streaming in. We picked up a wee bitty ship (sheep) yesterday in the dollar bin, and it found a place on the tree. Moby may well be thinking it's a present for him, although it's larger than most of the toys he likes to bat about, still, you never can tell with cats. He's just never been a destructive cat, aside from a few claw pulls in carpets, a few ribbons eaten, a few small wastepaper baskets turned over, the odd mess in the bathroom with litter, never anything actually damaged. A good roommate, and a comforting friend. Of course, he was about two years old when we found him, and never knew him as a kitten. Those two months in the shelter maybe subdued his personality.

I felt him nosing my face last night. Didn't really wake me up, just enough for me to be aware and think "aw. cute." Purring. When that got him no response, he walked on D, who got up to get him food. He's been ravenous this week. Seems to cycle, one week not eating much, the next - everything in sight. Maybe it's the sunshine.

Ornaments

My history is in my ornaments. The penguin we got for each other one year. The lantern was still a working light when my mother was small. Some came though the elderly neighbors I enjoyed visiting when I was little, after they stopped putting up their trees. They've survived so many moves and upheavals, so fragile it's a wonder they've endured.

My in-laws do genealogy. Part of their religion, partly that they are descendants of a family that has lived and intermittently prospered on this continent. My married last name is all over monuments and graves in Boston, for instance, including an early governor. Part of history, so sort of interesting. More particular information than that, and I honestly don't give a ratsass. Especially following the male line, and going so far back, the name passed on, but did the genes? And even if they did, what's the difference? None to me, certainly. I'm not even going to try to check my genetic family, since I don't even consider myself part of that family now. Mutual disownment leaves one a bit cynical about the value of genes as a source of affection or relevance. I would love to do my DNA/mitochondria mapping, but as a sense of my place in the flow of history, not a connection to any individual.

Long ago I worked at the Burton Historical Collection for history and genealogy, and learned to disdain genealogists. I retrieved and shelved materials. As a group, pretty obnoxious and cranky bunch, with occasional decent exceptions. I often wanted to shout at them "THEY ARE ALL DEAD!" If I didn't look up my ancestors then, with that resource available to me, and grandmothers still alive, I'm not about to start now. I don't even know one grandfather's name. My mother's father was an orphan from Ireland, probably with an acquired name, long estranged from Granny, and was "found in a flophouse" days after he died of drink. I don't much feel like there is anything more to know, really. If I don't like the living ones, why would I give a shit about the dead ones?

And D is right there with me. Looking into history through one particular family is a tool, a method, but not personally important. He wants to find a really juicy embarrassing ancestor to add, if his dad pushes too hard. One of his old professors did a lot of research on prostitutes, so could be a good resource, if necessary.

Careful what you wish for, when you demand others in your family share your interests.

Recycled

It's a Yule Tide, Arthur!

With tree, beer in new glass, and Hogfather, with friends (eventually) on their way. Did get a pair of drinking glasses, recycled glass, but mostly just feel good on the lips, interesting, not heavybottomed, my gift from D. My choice, and I am happy with them.

Enough

We didn't get everything done. But some, enough, and glad to be home. Had a decent Mexican lunch, good hot salsa on.

Driving across town tomorrow to visit D's folks in the morning, got appropriate token gifts. We'd prefer to get nothing, but they do insist, so we have given up the battle.

Walked around a store where I like what they have, would theoretically like to have so much of it, but when it comes to actually imagine using it, bringing it home, finding a place to keep it, I balk. I wouldn't, actually, wear it, keep it, need it. Already have something that works as well or better. What do you give someone who really doesn't need anything, isn't acquisitive, has no space? A nice hug, good conversation, quiet company.

Someone has this figured out.

Pause

Got through the week. Staffing shortages and heavy caseload made it more difficult than it needed to be. Yesterday was a voluntary day, I should have been extra, but wound up covering a sick call. Still, I have a job, and I know enough to be grateful for that blessing these days. Closed tomorrow, and off until Monday, so a real little holiday. One surgeon and his fellow whizzed through twelve surgeries in two rooms yesterday in nine hours. Yes, they did a good job. Not all the good surgeons I've known have been fast, but all the fast ones have been good. They just don't dither and waste time, they go in with a plan and are very efficient. And yesterday's doc was motivated to keep it rolling, since everyone wanted to get away. Smallish procedures, mostly, as well. Carpal tunnel and trigger finger releases usually take about ten to twenty minutes, plus MAFAT*.

So.

Came home irritable and cranky, bad mood spilling out all over. Used all my not-naturally-occurring cheerfulness at work. Then drove through a flurry of snow and icy roads surrounded by SUV drivers who don't understand physics. Growled at D, took offense at unintended comments, felt the wear on my body. We rushed out to have dinner with a friend, hit every light. On the way back I got badly chilled, shivering into my stressed back. Took me all evening to tease out a milligram of ease.

Woke altogether too early this morning, earlier than I have to when I have to be at work. Yet, I feel better. We plan to go out and find each other small frivolous gifts, just because we can. And a few tokens for his family since we are going there tomorrow morning. And do a charity thing (not letting our right hand know what our left hand is doing.†) And just generally enjoy the hell out of being together for four days in a row.

Have to read a bit of Hogfather.

Not precisely christmas spirit, but a pause to gather.



*MAFAT - Mandatory Anesthesia Fuck Around Time.

†But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth.

Shrubbery

"Oh, I would never interfere with your stuff."


"On the other hand, it is a tree..."


"What? I'm a cat, it's a tree!"



Later, he gets a couple of ornaments off the bottom branches, but no damage done. Just in time for the Solstice.

Redundant

What the hell, another one of Moby on the red blanket.

Ogden

The trip to Ogden is not beautiful, especially not on a smoggy, murky day. But we love being on a train together, so that's alright then.

D wanted to get on the train. I did too, but kept forgetting we were going to do that in the rush of the last few days. Woke sore and with my hands swollen and aching, not eager to leave home. But I gathered my wits, and we got on the train, took the commuter rail up to Ogden. Sat watching the warehouse stores, trailer parks, bland housing development's backsides, industrial scenery pass, doing a crossword and chatting. Ate lunch at a cafe there, and came back. Did us good just to get out, without me having to drive at all. The journey back was full of stupid parents and ill watched children off to the "big city" to shop on the Friday before Christmas. But we enjoyed being together then as well.

I love that I can make D laugh. And of course, that he can make me laugh, even when I don't want to, especially when I don't want to, which is a treasure beyond compare.

I missed getting a photo of the two figures kneeling by a car in the driveway/back of a building along the track, a male and female in robes. Refugees from a nativity scene, looking like they were about to get in a cab. The scene registered, and I immediately checked with D to see if he's seen it as well. Not people, Mary and Joseph mock-ups, out in the weather between two cars. Surreal moment.

Got out the Tiger Balm and rubbed my hands intensely, put on gloves to avoid rubbing it in my eyes inadvertently. Then the laptop touch pad wouldn't work, so I got out my Wacom pad, and the stylus was still attached - to my great joy. I do like using it, but with the touchpad, it's an extra thing to get in the way. Coming in handy now, as my hands get warm and eventually feel better under the gloves. Good to have redundancies.

Reek

Two hellacious days, now home for two peaceful ones.

Dealt with a lot of plastic and sterile wrappings, which leave my hands raw and broken and dry. The delight in opening a package is long dead in me, burnt out through the years of opening sterile supplies. When asked about attending the party, I said "that's the plan" but the plan is that I would say that, and never even bother to get the address. I get enough of these people at work, and try not to talk with them much. But they care about parties, so I agree and smile and will stay home, give vague excuses Monday, if asked. Not like they really want me there, either. Just don't want to be seen to be excluding anyone.

We aren't doing christmas this year. No one stopping by, no point. We stopped doing cards and presents years ago. We have a tree and my old ornaments, and put them up when we feel like it. Maybe christmas eve, maybe on the solstice, maybe not at all.

Air here is very bad, hazy mountains skulk in the distance. Not really cold, not warm, not anything. Someone smoking in the hallway, non-smoking building. The stench of burned beans later, either that or reek from the lake, hard to tell for sure. Without wind, probably not the lake. Just neighbors with poor cooking skills.

Bump

Not needed to cover lunches at work today, so I had the day to myself. Woke slowly, took a hot, deep bath, vacuumed the hell out of the place, cleaned the kitchen. Moby not happy about the ruckus, but likes how I bumped the blanket on his stool. He seems to express affection and gratitude with an interested sniff, a warm nudge.

Feeling better about life, now that I've had time to myself and accomplished the chores. Off to take D to lunch.

Arb

Bad night's sleep. The room too warm, the blanket too heavy, the cat too hot curled on my knee, my thoughts bitter, sticky dregs. Over and over again, remembering my mother's issue about my underwear. I didn't need the top bit, because I was, and am, way to small to need any. She measured me, bought me a couple of conical, concentric circle ones, and an over-lacy, beribboned, rosetted one. I put them on in great embarrassment, then in painful discomfort. I couldn't breathe, the were so tight, and my mother wouldn't believe me because she" knew how to measure properly." In 1975, to wear these 1950's garments was not the only choice. There was begrudging relenting, and softer, less structured items were exchanged for. Still didn't have enough mass to keep them in place, and a raised hand in school meant my newly forming tissue was painfully bisected by the bottom seam.

It felt oppressive at the time, my mother's authority, her power over me, since there wasn't any real logic to it. All right and proper, however irrelevant. I knew better than to express outright defiance. I needed to be in the school I was in. I had no income, no other resources, no transportation outside of them. She was my only real parent, whatever her faults. When, at 19, I had a job and scholarship and got my own apartment, she accused me of moving out to be "with a boy." Oh, and if I lived "that kind of life, you are not a part of this family." I still needed a mother, at that age, having so little emotional center myself. So, I closed off anything of myself she might not approve of, disowned half of myself from her. For the last eight years, there has been no contact at all, by my hand. The anger has dwindled into the odd gouts of irritation. Invading my sleep.

Really, a decent camisole would have been plenty for decency, and I felt far more exposed with my chest wrapped, far more aware of the rest of my skin. As soon as I moved out, I cut up the remaining scraps, and never bought more. Good undershirts/camisoles for under scrub shirts, the odd sports-arbs (I'm avoiding the word, to avoid lost googlers. It's happened before...) so that I don't flash anyone at work. I'm fine with the idea of covered. I don't need "foundation." If she could have managed a "well, that battle of the bras was a bad idea, wasn't it?" Once it was clear I wasn't "going to need to wear them later." But we never talked about those kinds of things. And so many things got put there, there is nothing more to talk about.

Delete

I've deleted the fecesbook account, and will never go back there. I'd noticed such an increase in ad email, most with "unsubscribe" functions that it seems unfair to label them spam, ever since opening it. I don't think I'll miss anything about it at all. I posted a note saying I was deleting it, and that was it. Complete waste of time and effort. Well, I ascertained that old school friends were fine, and that other old friends wanted nothing to do with me at all. So, good to know. But I don't need to keep hitting myself over the head with that particular stick. Anyone else I know has my email, or comes here to read, or I talk with them in person.


Two of the "popular" people who have complained so of me at work, have been calling in sick over the past few weeks. While we've been so busy. Using it up until they quit, apparently. Two employees who were believed and liked, who I always distrusted and who irritated me badly. But that's largely about the supervisor, and just a few complainers. The whiners are a constant, the problem is when the management buys into their view of the world.

I have to remind myself that I have a job in nursing that is days, no nights, weekends, holidays, or call. And most importantly of all, I have a job. Not many out there. And that most of the folks I work with are decent, and come to work to work. Count blessings, hope for better, focus on what is important.

Needed

I'd been asked what six things I couldn't do without. (One of those forum lists, nevermind.) A very difficult question for someone who knows how little she needs. Of course, I took it literally, "things" not being people. Stuff, in short. And what I've considered to be a Good Day.

When I was going to basic, October, November and into December, in New Jersey, I had very clear criteria for a Good Day, and what I needed. Warm, fed, out of the wind. Having a plastic, covered cup to keep water in (as advised) was very helpful. To have a bit of water in my locker at night, so that in the dry heated air I didn't have to walk down the hall to the water cooler. And, although I learned to down Motrin (800 mg) with just two swallows from the spout, it was easier with a gulp from a cup. KP was a long, hard day, but then they all were. Still, starting at 0330, it was longer than most. The compensation was that I was warm all day, ate well, and pretty much when I wanted to, and got to the toilet whenever I felt the need. Those three conditions made for a version of easy, compared to most other days out in the cold wind, often hungry, and holding it in until allowed.

I lived out of my locker, very little of it my own. Clothes not adequate to the weather. Although I did have boots that fit, thanks to my Drill telling us to make sure they fit when they were issued. So, I took the sizing of the boots with all the seriousness I did if I were buying them. And I have had to be careful of my shoes since before I remember being fitted for shoes. I know I was irritating the woman at the boot station, but my Drill allowed it, and I stayed politely insistent. They weren't warm, and the green wool socks itched, but neither did they pinch or rub.

Hidden in my locker from the last private, a copy of a Tarzan novel. I longed to read, but I never could choke that one down.

When I left the ex, I left with a suitcase and my Army issue, knowing I escaped with my life in hand. That I would be able to salvage one carload later was not in my mind at the time. I could live with a few clothes, and the items that weren't mine to keep. Funny, the stuff I missed later were some of the photos, recipes, and a record that wasn't mine, (but only I listened to it) that I could never find again. A Carmina Burana on period instruments, played as it probably was during the Crusades, from a French group. Not the Orf version. Very raucous and genuine.

When D and I spent a christmas unable to get to a meal, the necessity of a meal on holidays became very important.

When I worked in a trauma hospital OR, a Good Day was when everyone got out alive. A death in surgery is unexpected, and bitterly unwelcome. A patient with a traumatic injury requiring immediate transport up to the OR is not a good bet. OR nurses are usually not trained in hospice, and get very irrational about death in their department. The cardiac team got a few a year. The transplant team lost one every time we had a procurement, but that got rationalized as happening, technically, before they got to us. Still, the moment when the heart is taken, and the anesthesiologist turns off his machine and leaves, is jolting. I always wanted to ask them to just stay there to make us feel better. There isn't anything else for them to do, but it always felt wrong. Two of mine were lost to septic shock, also not unexpected. I cried a little for each one, and those were bad days.

These days, a Good Day means enough time with D, little pain, and some periods without pain at all, getting lunch relief, a few moments of quiet.

So, this is the list I came to.


Good solid shoes.
Clean, working toilet and some privacy.
A good meal and time to eat it.
A hot shower.
Something to read.
Hot tea.

Wooly

Not easy to photograph a black cat on dark green in winter light. Not well, anyway. Moby loves the wool, any wool. He doesn't suck on it, as some cats do. He just snuggles in on it, and looks peaceful and contented. Much easier when he's on the red wool blanket from my childhood.

Both D and I kept our green wool army blankets. No one asked for them back after we got home. Good wool, even if they do have US printed on them. When C and Moira visited us in Boston, I knew, despite it not being winter, that the two tall Californians would be cold at night. That's when the two single blankets became one huge cover, stitched together with purple embroidery thread, very heavy and warm.

We like our blankets to go sufficiently over the sides so that the chill doesn't come rushing in when the other person turns over. Over the years, I'd looked for a full size wool blanket for us. Never could afford one worth having. The doubled army blankets became our good winter cover. I get queen size top sheets, and happened to get that larger bedspread (so, so long ago), and the edges go over and around far enough. The black bedspread was a huge indulgence, to fit the new futon in my new tiny apartment, right after my escape from the ex. Just before my sojourn to Saudi Arabia at the bequest of the Army. Which is when I was issued the green blanket.

Futon and frame are gone, but that spread still looks good, if you don't untuck some of the frayed ends. Reminds me of Aunt Evelyn's white chanille patterned bedspread, smooth and tidy on their bed. My version is more casual, more workable for someone whose idea of neat is far less time consuming than my house proud aunt. Hers came off, neatly folded and into the chest at night. Ours stays on all the time. The bed often doesn't get made, unless there are visitors coming. I try, but it just doesn't seem that important. We turn the electric bedpad on for Moby, he settles in for the day.

Tiko

How a good marriage feels. Laughter especially.

Long, hard week, with another to follow.

Down

One wouldn't think surgery would have a christmas rush... but I don't want to even consider the politics and financial disincentives, barely staying awake as it is. Two longer than usual days, with what one charge calls NFL day. No Fucking Lunch. I had 15 minutes Monday, and 30 yesterday, for a ten then twelve hour day. We're scheduled with enough staff, but when two call in sick, and other ancillary staff are on parental leave, and everyone's trying to get their patients in before their insurance runs out, not much to do but the work at hand. And be grateful for the hours and having a job. So, I'm going in for a couple of hours to make sure people get at least a full lunch today.

Oh, and the new computer charting started Monday. 'Nuf said.

It got down to 1˚F last night. Lower wind chill numbers. When D left for work this morning - walking, he told me it was "Six of a possible 19." Thankfully, he has coat and accoutrements to survive Boston winters, so he'll be more or less warm. After all, there we got at least two weeks every winter where the high wasn't above 0˚F, and the wind off the ocean would beat the tears out of our eyes. We walked through it every day, trains, busses, no car at all. The odd day of bitter cold here really doesn't compare.

I want to write about Moira and C and their little girl Plum who drove in from Sunny San Diego, spent Sunday recuperating from the drive here, napping and noshing. Plum got to see, and step in snow for the first time, delightedly. After they stopped to get her boots, an item not to be found in southern CA. Maybe I will tomorrow.

Origins

Purest Green explains how she named her blog and url, at the invitation of another blog (follow links/crumbs on her page.)

One day I switched from the dotmac site, which was good for photos (at the time) but awkward for the idea of a blog, not to mention restrictive, and I needed D to help me with every post, to blooger. At the urging of Moira. At that point my essays were often titled with colors, a jumping off point for stream of consciousness stories and memories. Rambling associations, that would find their way back around to the beginning. Single word titles. Not an intentional form, it just sorta worked out that way at the beginning. So when I set up this blog, that was in my mind, along with the Police song, One World (Not Three.) Just the earworm of the week, but it fit with what I'd done so far. Rather surprized me that I got my first tries on title and url and name. The nom de bloog of Zhoen being an exoticism on my own given name, one I'd used for a bellydance festival for the program. Among the sheherezahdzahiras, my plain J-onesyllable stood out like a pugnacious sore thumb. So, I twisted and respelled and frenchified (fair enough, I'm largely French Canadian, among my mutt heritage.)

The structure helps me, gives me starting points and maps, from which I can jump off wherever I like, and come back to when I'm done. One word at a time, I have learned to write, and express. This is my outlet, the pretty thing in my life.

So, no big story. One Word. Onewordiseough. Simplicity sort of thing.

Awake

Why I try to be kind to all the stressed surgical residents that I work with. It's not always easy.

With music by They Might Be Giants.

Only wish I'd seen the show. I know one of the residents, although she may have only been on the NPR version of this. It's an old show.

But I've recently fallen back in love with the song, which evokes sleep deprivation better than any other creative output I've ever come across. I imagine musicians on tour know the experience intimately, as well.




Am I awake? What time is it?
When I get through this day
Can someone tell me how
And how much longer now
Am I awake?

The coffee's cold, did I forget to drink it yet?
Did I forget?
My clothes are wet I don't remember drinking it
When I get through this part
Will the next one be the same?
Will I be wondering If I'm awake?

These are not the clothes I had on when I went to bed
And something else besides my hair is growing from my head
And when I close my eyes it looks the same as when I open them again
Am I awake? What time is it? Is it that time again?
Wasn't it already then? So does it have to be
The time it was again?
When I get through the day
Can't someone tell me how
And how much longer now
Am I awake?

Notice

Ok, now, I love you, so I go through with it, and leave a comment. But if you are on Blooger, and you have your comments on the same page, it takes alt least three times to make a comment go through. I write, I ask it to post comment, it reloads and says it can't process my comment. I post it again, it reloads and has the comment verification. As long as I get that right (and don't just hit "enter" - no, I have to click in the little "post" button) it works. If I get a letter wrong, and it reloads a forth time, then I usually just give up. Probably a lot of people who might leave a kind or observant note never bother past the first try.

So, it's blooger's fault, but when the comments are at the bottom of the page, not in a new window, not in a pop up box, it just doesn't work properly. So, if you have one of those, and you have seen comments from me before, you won't hear from me again. I'm just tired of it, not you.

I'll still come and read and think good thoughts of you, but I'm just worn out with the hoops I must jump through. I'm sorry, I really am. You'll see me in your stats.

Last straw just got me.

Punctuation

I care about the main punctuation marks. But I've never really learned how to use the colon nor the semi-colon. I like dashes and commas and periods, very useful scratches. I've never been a fan of the exclamation point, though. I am one of those people who get very irritated with misplaced apostrophes. Your is possessive, you're is a contraction, and the two are simply not interchangeable. To misuse them is to expose a willful ignorance. Likewise misapplied quotation marks, although I'm hardly the most irritated.

Granted, these conventions change over time. But at this moment, to use the wrong ones exposes linguistic stupidity. And I see willful ignorance as one of the main human sins, next to malice, and thinking of other people as things, not people with their own soul's choices. Not the usual set, certainly. More the sources of them. Bigotry and other irrational justifications for disregard, are based in a well nurtured, self important turning away from thought and curiosity. Malice is any kind of joy in another's suffering, distancing oneself from other's struggles. So too is when we see others as in our way, opposing us, as though we have a right of way, and they don't.

So, we need to keep learning, and asking, never assuming we are right, or have a right. I have no right to my next breath. But no one else has any right to take it from me.

Numerical

I have issues with numerals. The idea of numbers, algebra, geometry, proofs, I can see, and with study, I get. Numerals squirm under my eyes and in my brain, refusing to add up properly, refusing to take anything away. Never any good at any kind of rote memorization, I slipped back a half grade when I was about nine, because I hadn't memorized the times tables. I got them in my head, but they remain elusive - when I'm tired, when they include 3s 5s and 8s. Those are the bad numbers, the ones that twist into each other, giving me the finger.

Still, I count. I count when a job is taking too long and annoying me, so that I have some sense of control and to keep myself patient. Measuring to keep aware. It's not near the level of a compulsion, but I can see it from here. Counting how long it takes the elevator, how long to fill the kettle with water, but the resultant number is quickly forgotten.

The combination for my locker at work sometimes foxes me, and old combinations flow through my fingers, from the two lockers I had at MGH, or at the earlier hospital, occasionally my high school locker combination. I couldn't remember any of them intentionally, but they extrude unbidden when most inconvenient.

Which is why I am in surgery, as opposed to other areas of nursing where dosages are so critical. Where every calculation has to be checked by another nurse for each medication given. Where lab values and vital signs are all in numbers. Yes, I got to know the normals, could see the patterns, and I did well enough for clinicals. But I always worried. In the OR, critical numbers just never come up. Marcaine, 10ccs. I can handle that just fine. Even PACU, Recovery Room, the dosages are very straightforward, for pain and nausea almost exclusively, and are often a range based on immediate effectiveness.

So, I keep letters close, but my numbers closer...

Alphabetical

I have organized my thoughts and lists alphabetically as long as I can remember. I find myself wanting to memorize lists as exercise, and going through the letters is a standard method. I used to doodle the alphabet, using different ways of writing the letters, bubbled letters, long narrow lines illegible until the pad is angled up, cursives and angles and blocks, shadowed and scribbled, and later in the army phonetic alphabet. Very useful when I began to work at the library. Mis-shelving I called "creative alphabetization" with great derision. It's a random ordering, ultimately, but one that is grooved into my brain. I even taught myself to recite it backwards, and know it in finger spelling, when I was small.

I've been pondering generosity lately. Because I'm not. Oh, with my time, my heart, yes. But with food, or something made, products of effort, no. I remember having to bring cupcakes to school, using as little frosting as possible, because I wanted it myself. Didn't mind about the cupcakes, but hated the idea of giving all that wonderful frosting to children who bullied and taunted me. I don't mind sharing food at my home, but I don't want to bring food for cow-orkers who actually enjoy cooking, when I don't. As a result, I eat little when I visit family, not at all at pot-lucks when I don't bring food. Seems only fair. I like free stuff, but not when I feel I should reciprocate. So, I dislike gift giving occasions, because I have almost never gotten anything I would want, and I don't like giving random gifts that will not be the right things.

Trades need to be more or less even, and if I don't trust others to please me, or me to please them, then I'd rather skip it.

On the other side, I'd like to be generous, not count so much. I think I'd be a happier person. But I also think that although I can live better, my basic character, my core mood, is what I have to work with. And I will never be optimistic and chipper consistently. This grim cynicism is such a large part of my natural resource, that to be otherwise is to try to build a grass shack when all I have are bricks. I have choices, I can learn to cope better, I can be more happy, but I will still be dark and sarcastic and sad me. I can oscillate around that core, but I must be myself.

Zippers

Z is for Zipper. Or just a zip for those of you across the pond the other way.

This is for closure, a very satisfying sound and feel in a well made zipper. A simple marvel of engineering and design, although it has taken a while for the materials and manufacture, and sewing, to be consistently reliable. It's been a few years since I've had a zipper come apart, grind it's teeth, and stick half open, half closed, caught in fabric or misaligned. Once, that was more normal than not, and I never did well with zippers as a child, seeming to have insufficient hands for the task of zipping up. I don't think I've gotten that much better at it, so I must assume that state of the art zippers are much improved.

Watching old episodes of Rockford Files, the difficulty of cars starting reminded me just how unreliable cars once were. There was a 50/50 chance of it starting first time, stalling at a light, and the constant risk of needing a jump or a tow. But we've had our car for over three years, and have had no such issue. None. When I think about it, it seems unreal. My worst problem has been that a couple of times a year, the radio goes dark, including the clock, only to resume normal service the next morning. I wonder if I simply caught it in the middle of a backup.

Funny, how it's so often the details. We don't notice the gradual improvements, or degradations, until we look back with clear eyes.

Yams

Y is for Yam.

An ugly root vegetable that turns the most lovely orange when cooked. One of those traditional Thanksgiving foods. Not that I have deep traditions on this holiday. My mother said it was not a Canadian holiday, so she never cooked that day. Often we never got dressed until noon, watching the parades on the tv (black and white) from Macy's and Hudson's, eating toast or leftovers or peanut butter and jam sandwiches. A lazy day, and as I remember, without drama or rage.

It became a meaningful day for me the year we were sent to Saudi. The Saturday before we got the call, and the Sunday after we got on the busses to Ft. Carson. And the Thursday I spent with friends at their Thanksgiving, D with his family. We've counted the Friday as the beginning of our life together. Handy, since when friends come back to town to visit family, it's pretty easy to get them around the day after. We had our (seven years delayed) wedding reception on Thanksgiving Friday, just for friends, which was a smashing success that spawned at least one marriage.

Two traditional foods I make on the day, cranberry sauce from berries, and yams. Cranberry sauce because I picked up a bag of the berries, read the directions for the sauce, which was so brain-dead easy, I figured I could do it - and get credit for being posh. Yams because my mother made candied yams, canned yams with sliced pineapple, brown sugar cinnamon, a walnut in the center of each pineapple slice, baked in a round pyrex pan. I've adjusted. Real yams, microwaved to done, mashed with pineapple juice, cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, brown sugar, into an iron skillet, covered with pineapple slices or chunks, rebaked. No measurements, just what looks right.

All we care about these days is making sure we have food on any holiday.

Skipping

Skipping today. Here's a photo of Moby.

Xerography

X is for xerography. Couldn't manage an x-ray, thought XL a bit of a cheat, no xylophone around. Xerox becoming outdated.

X is a rather sad letter, a negation in English, an ex-whatever. As an initial, it holds so little space in the dictionary. A leftover from Greek, now homeless. Used to cross out, or admit illiteracy, or shorten longer words, a redundant letter now that K and S have reconciled. Or said like Z when it makes it to the front of a word, afraid of losing it's place.

Cross your fingers and wait for Xmas.

Watches

W is for Watch.

I've worn a watch since I was about 12, always liked knowing what time it was. Rather like having a map, keeping myself oriented to time and space, at least approximately. If I had no say in where I was or how long, at least I could strive to collect data and try to comprehend.

I did think digital watches were a pretty neat idea. Had a very cheap one, easy to read at a glance, in Basic a necessity and requirement. Durable thing on a plastic band that lasted me years, until I left it in the sun one day. Still worked, but reading the half burned out LED numbers was a bit of a puzzle. D and I had identical ones, bought at the PX at the same time, on the way to Gulf War I, which could be made to beep on the hour. So we synchronized watches, and while away from each other on our duties, the hour chime would remind us that the other would be chiming too and we'd think of each other. Together, we'd beep the hour, and giggle.

Aunt Evelyn, being a very independent soul, kept her watch wound (before the era of battery run watches) after she shattered her elbow, by using her teeth. Worked pretty well for a while, until the watch stopped, and she had to have a jeweler take it all apart and clean it to get it working again. Uncle Ernie had given it to her a lifetime before.

Never got how a cell phone could replace a clock on my wrist. Don't need a pocket for a watch, just turn my hand and I can always check the time. Besides, I no longer carry a phone, not for years. (Never really used it enough.) But a good, sturdy watch, with a date, ah, a constant companion. I stick to analogue these days. I've been through a few, I'm hard on 'em.

D tried to discuss something with me this morning, and couldn't figure out why I kept laughing and getting distracted. Well, when both of them are looking at me so intently, the sense of being watched got to me.

Violet

V is for violet.

One of my scarves, from when I bellydanced. Just a great excuse to indulge in lovely fabrics and bangles, appealing to the seven year old in myself. Always including the variations on purple, indigo, violet, grape. Dark jewel tones that pull in the light and reflect back a tinged dark, shimmering and shadowy. This makes me want to put on my coin belt and every scarf, crank up 3Mustafas3 or Gogol Bordello, to roll and swivel and swing to. I don't want to lose this inherent rhythm, the one that moves to violet.

Umbrellas

U is for Umbrella.

I've long had a soft spot for plaid umbrellas. I had an old one that I found in the Unitarian Church annual rummage sale, a necessary item in Detroit, where the rain is cold and heavy. It eventually wore out, but I kept it for it's intrinsic beauty long past it's function. This is one of several we accumulated living in Boston, where they are sometimes less that helpful, when the rain is horizontal, or the rainfogmist comes up from the ground. Still, much used. Here in high desert, I rarely get to walk under a steady rain with an umbrella.

Umbrellas hold an otherworldly feel for me, as though I could carry around my own reality surrounded by the patter or roar of rain.

U nearly got to me, and I regretted using the Ukulele already. I thought of uniform, but how to picture that? Uvula would have been disgusting, and this camera might not have been able to show mine. Umbilicus? No, I've shown that before, and I don't want to show any more body parts. While musing in the shower, the obvious came to me, and I shouted out "Umbrella!" Which confused D.

Teapots

T is for Teapot.

My lovely cobalt blue version developed a serious handle crack, and is now a water dish for Moby. I could only get white in the 2cup pot with strainer type that I've used every day for years and years. Well, white is a good color as well. I turned my nose up at yellow and brown, although I've had brown teapots. One had a lovely side handle, a sort of grey brown matte finish, but it was a bit small.

I consider a teapot to be an essential, like a kettle. Although I've done without when only teabags and immersion heaters are available. But to have a home and kitchen, and not be able to make loose tea, a sad - and in my case temporary - state of affairs. Still, I have friends who have neither. That's when I bring my own bags and find out where they keep their smallest saucepan, possibly my own mug as well.

Seem to be coming down with the sniffles, so I'm more interested in drinking hot tea than writing about the pot.

Snaps

S is for Snap.
There really is something satisfying in a snap. I had a cloth book full of fasteners, zipper and laces, buttons and snaps, that I enjoyed to shreds. The only point to hard dolls for me, was to take the clothes off and on and off. I learned how to sew on buttons and snaps probably before any other needle tasks. Snaps used to always come loose, shoddily sewn on at best, so a very necessary bit of knowledge. They make a nicely firm sound to confirm their effectiveness, as well as a subtle notice of giving way. Unlike velcro, which silently closes, but announces it's failure loudly. Buttons give way without notice, and wander off never to be found. Laces untie themselves and try to trip one up. No, snaps have a certain prim polite propriety.

This particular snap is on the pocket of my lovely wool jacket, found at an outlet store at the proverbial "steal*" price. Got me warmly through a February trip to the Oregon coast. Can't really credit the snap, but it's a good one all the same.






*No, I didn't shoplift. It was $15.

Rings

R is for Ring.

Both ting and chime, as well as circle around the finger. Eternity in a bit of silver.

Very early on, D and I discussed marriage. Well, we both knew, even then. And one of the first issues D brought up was not being able, or really willing, to buy a ring. I was confused, this is a problem? Never had any interest in the standard ceremonies, never even liked diamonds, knew from experience that function does not follow form. A good wedding in no way makes a good marriage, and I suspect there may be an inverse effect. And diamonds are a scam, they are not rare, should not be expensive, and all involve exploitation. Carbon, coal with attitude.

D found a pretty silver ring at the PX in Ft Carson, and I wore that for years. Lost, sadly. We took a trip to Green River right before the legal wedding, and he found a kokopelli ring, and I found a set of silver rolling rings, for the ceremony - knowing D would never wear them any other time. He liked fidgeting with them, though. I lost that wedding ring, in the OR. Got scrubbed in quickly, put it in my scrub pocket, got nauseated and had to scrub out, went home, then realized the ring was gone. Never found it. A couple of years ago, we found a near match at a Lava Hot Springs souvenir shop, and I've worn that ever since. Mostly, this is just because I rather like wearing a ring, and D plays with it when he holds my hand. All these rings together never cost more than $50.

All of these were, for me, just decoration, a sort of durable toy, a gift too, of course. The idea of it being intrinsically expensive would just worry me. To lose the equivalent of a month's pay, just lose it off my finger, would be a nightmare. Anything I can't wear every day would be even more of a waste, since I so rarely do anything dressy.

Rings do not a marriage make, nor diamonds eternity.

Queens

Q is for Queen.

Pretty good hand, depending on the game. Not so good in 500 or Euchre, but great for Rummy. Card games were the focus of my family's sociability. I can't actually remember first learning to play, although it was a process to teach me how to hold my cards properly and get good enough to be expected to play. I liked a fast game of Euchre, and got to be a pretty good 500 player. Some evenings, especially when it was just Granny and my parents, and I was the mandatory fourth, I would intentionally throw the game in sheer irritation and obstinacy. Which brought on later retaliation from both. But with a lot of aunts and uncles and cousins around, and not having to play, I enjoyed the games and relished my competence - as well as being treated as an equal.

When my oldest brother married a suburban girl, my parents and brother attended a barbeque at the in-laws house. Lots of people, and a game of cards. So, I wanted to play. What I didn't know was that it was a betting game - like rummy, but with real money. So when I was given the 50¢ ante, I figured at the end of the game, it would be returned, just like the rubber counters and pennies we used at home. When the quarters were lost, and would not be given back, I felt cheated, a victim of theft. Probably a very cheap way to poison my mind against gambling, at the age of seven, a lesson not to be forgotten. I also deeply resented that I was so easily given that money for such a stupid reason, but couldn't just have been given it for my own use, as I saw fit. All seemed terribly wrong.

Solitaire, several versions that I know, kept me calm and occupied through much of my time in the Army. Soothing and meditative. I love the feel of the cards. One of the packs sent To Any Soldier was from a casino, with a neat hole in the middle. Great pack of cards, like it was made of cotton, a pleasure just to shuffle. I can sometimes tell when I'm very stressed, because I will play solitaire almost compulsively.

Seems a shame that my group of friends doesn't play card games like that. Sometimes I miss the almost ceremonial sense of the game, the structure around the randomness, the speed of a fast game with good players spooling out the odds for the fun of it.

Picks

P is for Pick.

Guitar picks in this case. All belonging to D, who loves to go into guitar shops and ogle fittings, identify pick-ups, and fondle necks. Always has. Downtown Colorado Springs had a couple of guitar stores in 1990, when we were obliged to be at adjacent Fort Carson. And I would be introduced to the finer aspects of the electric luthier's art, part of a series over 19 years. As an act of loving attention, I carried a pick with me in my wallet, so that he could play if we found ourselves in the company of an irresistible instrument.

I've likened living with D to having a Christmas tree around, good to look at, smells nice, very pleasant, but you keep finding shed picks/needles all over, all year long. Rarely have I taken out a load of laundry and not found a pick or two. This is not a complaint, merely an observation.

Getting ahead of myself here, but that's alright. So good to need a sweater and wool coat to walk to the library today.

Extra

Sunday extra.

Escape from the Alphabet!

Oranges

O is for Orange.

One of my attachments to the Little House books had to do with the Christmas stocking, simple candy, maybe a toy. Those little items in my stocking were my favorites - in no small part because that was the stuff from Santa which required no weighty, mandatory gratitude. And in the toe, always, at least, even in the thinnest years, an orange. And I most loved that sweet/sour bit of fruit.

Nineteen years ago, D and I spent our first Christmas together in the barracks at Ft. Carson. The regular army, not too pleased to have National Guard folks there, even if we were on our way to the gulf, didn't tell us when the mess halls would be open for the holiday, until after they were done. So the two score or so of us who had not gone home for the holiday, having taken our leave the weekends before, were left hungry. The cabs didn't run on base, no pizza or Chinese delivery that day. Only the care packages sent by family, and the liquor brought out by the Irish chaplain. All the food was heavily sugared. I was not drinking at all, and wouldn't without real food anyway, D never drank, and we were both miserably hungry and sick of sweets. Sometime in the afternoon, oranges appeared like a Christmas miracle, and we each snagged several, and scurried away to feast together.

Our only requirement for holidays is that we have enough solid food that day. This week I got a bag of Clementines, sweet and easy to peel. One of our anesthesiologists at the Former Hospital would fill one wall of the lounge with cases of them, each year, this time of year. And the staff gobbled them joyously, gratefully. His generosity, especially in contrast with all the candy, seemed to me always so nurturing.


Off subject, I want to lead you off to a librarian blogger that deserves more readers - Shushie. I think of her as the punk librarian, because she once stated that libraries are punk, and for reasons I cannot articulate, I utterly agree with her.

Nickels

N is for Nickel.

Even Big Ones, and I have seen the Big Nickel in Sudbury, one of those family day car trips to large tourist traps. Despite motion sickness, I loved those outings, a chance to run around and see new stuff, as well as the particularly pleasant sleep - lying down on the back seat, or leaning against an older brother, as the night rolled me back home.

Often, being a border town, Canadian change leaked through. Nickels and pennies were not a problem, easily passed off. But quarters, even dimes, would incur rejection, at least when the Canadian dollar was down from the American one. And they never worked in any coin-op machines.

Never liked nickels, clunky and ugly metal slugs. They have a smell, too. They've done some commemorative ones lately, like for the unique state quarters, but it doesn't help.

Still 5¢ is 5¢.

Music

M is for Music.

They Might Be Giants once had a T-shirt that said Music Self Played is Happiness Self Made. I can sing, in time, in tune - a good enough choir voice, it mixes well. I dance pretty well, as long as I don't have to obey choreography. But I have never gotten more than a simple melody out of an instrument. Violin, flute, penny whistle, organ keyboard, ukulele, all tried, none accomplished. D is the musician in this home. I love hearing him play. So does Moby.

They Might Be Giants are always worth the effort, although I tend to forget until the moment they start playing. They came to town last Friday, at a club with a dance floor and balcony around. Earnest folk singing duo for an opening band, sadly dull. But TMBG, after all these years being the tallest midgets... excuse me - the biggest independent band, still tear it up with gusto. I like to think they make a good living. Their music is still fresh and raw and full of humor and energy. To the point that I still have to listen to the new stuff for a while to decide I like it, and after a little longer, it's another favorite.

Just listening to their recordings, it's a bit hard to tell that They are a great dance band, rock 'n roll, joyously odd. Memorizing the lyrics appeals strongly to those of us who always go to hear them, making their shows a bit of a sing-a-long. The two Johns have such an easy camaraderie after these couple of decades touring and recording together. Great melodies, still experimental, musically interesting, not just loud. But loud too. With a confetti cannon.

They are geeks who've found a way to keep themselves in gear. High quality sound system, lighting, video screens, especially for a venue that is just a club. They sing about elements and obscure painters and presidents, Mesopotamians, - and the lyrics matter. They put on a puppet show. Avatars of They sock puppets, to a camera, projected large. Educated silliness.

They played all the songs off Flood, their only BIG album, from 25 years ago, each with a fresh approach. Frequently announcing "Escape from Flood!" and playing another song they liked. Real advantage to having just a handful of "hits" and an enormous repertoire. Or a complete inability to Stop Writing Songs. (One tour, they wrote Venue Songs, one per stop.)

Their audience has both aged with them, and picked up stragglers from every year along the way. They do children's shows, since they do excellent kid's albums that do not nauseate adults. Apparently, Utah is They Might Be Giants country, no doubt in part because there is little offensive in their shows, allowing a way in for many. The shows here have always been more intense than the one we saw in Boston. But we stay involved because of the quality, our appreciation brings them back. D and I will always find the time to see They when they come to town.

And they keep current. When they found out that the old song about the sun that they've covered is not up to date with scientific thought, they wrote an addendum. The Sun (Is a Mass of Incandescent Gas), followed by The Sun is a Miasma of Incandescent Plasma. These are cool, smart guys.

They shot off the confetti cannon a second time, making it all the way up to the balcony where we watched. I saved some, they assured us it was biodegradable, if poisonous. (A worry, since some got in their coffee cups.) Threw it in the air for Moby. He seemed to like it. Probably not, actually, poisonous.

Libraries

L is for Library.

Which has more words than I can muster this evening.

Added on Friday:

My story goes that I have been going to libraries from before I was born. My mother loved to read, and libraries were her refuge as much as mine. She read sea stories, Great Lake's shipwrecks, polar explorers, preferring factual stories over fiction, and classic fiction over pure fantasy. She never made a point of directing what I read. Although I knew if I brought anything home of a lascivious nature there would be trouble, so I read those books at the library. She read the books I brought home quite often. Which was good, but carried the implication of censure. So I knew any book that gave me a hot burn in my stomach, I needed to memorize the Dewey number, and read it on subsequent visits.

Shelved for many intermittent years at local libraries, while going to school, making ends meet. Campbell Branch, Burton Hysterical Collection, Salt Lake City Main Library, gathering bookdust and papercuts along the way. Reading anything that caught my eye. Nursing school wore away my ability to read with such pleasure, but it's slowly growing back.

We have a library of our own now. It's largely come with us, over the last five years of too many moves, dropping leaves along the way, mostly intact.

Keys

K is for keys.

One of those symbolic words, archetypical. Especially for an item in one's pocket. The secret, the magic word, the trick, authority, keys to the kingdom, holder of the keys. And the item in this modern word most readily mislaid.

"Where are my keys?"

I've been trying to remember when I first had keys, since someone was always home. My mother had been a latchkey kid, and tried to keep that from me. Sadly, because I'd have loved more time alone, more independence and autonomy. I do remember the key ring, with a leather tab with Woodstock, a broken egg, and the motto "You crack me up." Not exactly the height of wit, but maybe it helps with the dating. Not younger than eight, probably more like 12, maybe later than that. The image wore off quickly, leaving me with a leather fidget that fit my hand perfectly. I was terrible with unlocking doors, always struggled with making them work. May have had to do with old doors and old locks therein.

I loved having a lot of keys when I was young. Keys to apartment, work, car, mailbox, made me feel responsible, adult. Later, I only wanted to thin down the keys I had to carry. I've had various keyrings over the years. The knotwork bob I currently carry came to me on Breed's (Bunker) HIll on Bunker Hill Day in Cambridge. We'd gone to see the USS Constitution, only as we started seeing way too many uniforms did we find out about the holiday. Stayed for the parade.

Three keys. Seems plenty.

Jam

J is for Jam.

And jelly and lime curd and marmalade and maple butter and hazelnut spread (aka Nutella.) Ok, yes, gotten away from any kind of alliteration, but the principle is that they are all versions of jam. Sweet spread for bread or toast or just a spoon, in a pinch. Grape jam on peanut butter, my perfect childhood sandwich. Especially on Aunt Alma's homemade bread- although then it would be her homemade raspberry or strawberry from the patch in her garden. Could have lived on that, and occasionally did.

Cleaned out the barely-dipped-into jars gone old in the fridge, save for this one. We just don't eat like that anymore. I read the ingredients on a jar of Nutella, and decided not to buy it. The one source of edible comfort in Saudi during GWI, with Pringles. Still get a jar of maple butter, it lasts me a very long time, should at that price. Still.

This lime curd is just lovely on toast.