Faces

Not-exactly-friends
electric netting
messages half remembered.



(This is about high school classmates contacting me via fecesbook, which has been, at times, a strange experience.)

Roma

We did make it to the Arts Festival, D went to listen to a band, I wandered the artist booths, but both of us were too scattered to plan a fallback, and wound up spending the better part of an hour just finding each other as our chosen ditherments took much less time than expected. The crush overwhelmed, and we wound up worn and then went out, got D some dinner.

I'm finding I really don't want anything. There were a few pretty pieces, but nothing to take home and admire everyday, no place to put it if I did. Mostly, both of us wanted to start shoving and yelling at people on cell phones being oblivious, the profusion of strollers taking up scant space, beer cups in hands - causing more problems, and knots of teenaged girls screeching "Ohmygod!" in my ear. This last happened three times, with different girls. At least we didn't have to pay to get in. I will not return today, when the heat will bake it all into a misery cake. Enough.

I brought the camera, but never felt any desire to bring it out. For visual appeal, I'll take the average Bostonian over the most artsy-trying-hard Saltlaker.

But I am thinking of an art project for myself, a long term and meaningful assemblage still to be determined. A sacred space, an altar, a nicho retablo. My only rule is I can't buy any of the items, except for maybe glue or hardware. A slow accumulation. My own personal creativity means more to me than the vision of professional artists these days. I'm most connected to my own journey right now.

On the way home last night, noticed a large branch, torn from the tree during the storm yesterday. I considered it as decoration for the balcony, rejected that idea, then realized it did have a place - in part. So I began breaking it up, while D watched trying to figure out what I had planned, and gradually did. I love how he just trusts me to be doing something smart, and waits to find out what.

I now have a stake for the tomatoes. There may be a lot from those two plants before the summer is over.

Claim

Question:

How long does it take a cat to lay claim to a new chair?





Answer:

As long as it takes to put a comfy blanket on it, finally.






Yes, I had been sitting there with a cup of tea. Got up, came back, had to sit elsewhere.

Flood

I just found this on youtube, and was mesmerized.

Valor

And I finally manage something that qualifies for Skywatch Friday! As always, click for full size.



Ok, so most people would look at a cloud like this, see the lightening, and think, "maybe it's not the best night to go to the Arts Festival to see Brazilian fire dancers."


But it looked much better to the south, where the storms have been coming from this past month. And we were not the only ones.


But as we got to the Library Square block, the rain began pattering down, and we thought better of the original plan.



By the time we got to our own block, the wind and rain were hard and blinding. Soaked through, but nearly there, we figured we'd chosen discretion over valor. It's a drenching downpour, and I'm sure the rest of the evening's events have been cancelled. We'll go tomorrow instead. Since D got free tickets from work, one of the perks of working for The Library.

Still, it's good to get caught in a storm once in a while, as long as Warm and Dry aren't too far away.


And a little while later, the most spectacular rainbow I've ever seen, although the camera got baffled. Very intense, a double, full arc. Lasted the better part of an hour in varying levels of intensity. Several neighbors out gazing, shared amazement.

Pop

Rejoicing over any death is crass. But neither will I pretend to be sad that a strange pop singer, whose music I have disliked all my life, is dead. Or a pop actress. Or a talk show sidekick. Come to that, I expect all I will feel when I finally hear of my father's death is a sense of relief. For the last, I have a vague plan in mind of a forgiveness ritual. Their gods may judge them, I will not. Neither will I mourn, not for them.


For every death I have witnessed, I have shed a tear, uncalledfor, unintended, but it arises from somewhere deep. Every organ procurement, every trauma that came in, not to come out, every hospice patient from long ago. If I was there, Death levied a tear or so from me, willingly paid. For people I did not know, save as Witness, Washer, Hand Holder.

My personal griefs are of the same flavor, but more than a taste, meals upon meals, diet for a year of tears and emptiness. Not more real, just more personal, full of daily loss.

And I really can't stand the Loved One's music, much played today at work. But I held my tongue, not knowing how others mourn, or what he meant to them.

Sitting

Work review today. Issues resolved. It was in my hands the whole time. Even though I was not the whole cause, I was the whole solution. The universe changed, because I looked at it differently.

Chair

A new consignment/thrift store opened just down the street a couple of weeks ago. I wandered over today, and found it to be clean, well chosen, and most remarkably, properly priced. Reasonable without being either ridiculously cheap (indicating imminent business failure) nor inflated. Fair, in short. And two small, but friendly little poodles that welcomed me with doggy enthusiasm. I rather like poodles, if they are raised like dogs. Nice breed, well treated. They tend to be, "Dude, whatever, just pet me then throw the damn ball." These were like that. Nice chat with the owner. Rainbow sticker up, we talked about the Art Crawl and the Arts Festival, living on the East Coast, small apartments, and of course, poodles.

Saw what looked like a very comfortable chair on the way in, and after a look around the shop, went back out to sit on the one on the sidewalk. Comfortable, solid, went back in to ask the price, reasonable. So, well, I have a new chair. I think it's very stylish, nice to sit in, which is the point of a chair. Much needed, in here. Eventually, I may refinish it, re-glue all the joints, but it's good as is right now.

x-ray

Long day yesterday, again. Starting with a 30 bag shoulder arthroscopy. (Three liter bags of Lactated Ringers. Fluid pumped through the joint to allow for retraction and work to be done.) Not a record, but not far off. A good twelve hours on my feet, everything aching last night. Better after sleeping, despite dreaming of work most of the night with a bad song going through my head.

The last case required me to run the c-arm for x-ray, and when the doc wanted a shot, he indicated this by saying "Spot." One of several generally understood terms. I prefer two syllables, works better for the brain, but spot is fine. When I got set up for the lateral x-ray, and the last one expected, I told him, "I'm expecting a box of Milk Bones after being called 'Spot' all evening." I think he grinned behind his mask. He is theoretically capable of a sense of humor.

A number of low-stress errands to run today. Just glad work is picking up, at least for now. So many hours lost lately, I'm not about to complain of being busy this week. Which doesn't stop it all from hurting, of course.

Misty

Another front blew through, but left no rain this time. Just an impressive cloud that soon after dissipated.


Then I noticed this brilliant vehicular configuration.

We're listening to Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me. Just finished the MS3K cast and writer interviews on three dvds from the Library. If there are any non-'mericans out there who think this is a completely witless country, Mystery Science Theater is the best proof to the contrary. Of course what they are doing is insulting the worst movies made in this same country, so it's also evidence that the detractors are at least half right. I'll admit to half-witless.

Threes

So, some more people whose blogs I read whenever they post.

Pacian, over at Spacecat Rocket Ship, and his cat, Spacecat, have a cozy corner to themselves. He writes about cool stuff from space, computer games - that he also creates, an eclectic mix of erudite subjects, and a serialized scientifical fictional novel. All in all, one of those gee whiz guys that you wanted your own nerdy-teen-girl self to have found, or hope your favorite geeky-chick meets, because she'll adore him utterly. And his little cat too. I'm just happy he still comes to visit here.

Herhimnbryn, ah, another long time friend of great encouragement. She used to write more, but at least once in a while she shares a peek into her mosaic studio, and her Australian shepherd Bryn, her loving spouse and family visits, with a little poem or two. Now, if only I could take up her offer of a visit.

And now a newcomer, Tristan who seems to have a frighteningly named blog The New Emotional Blackmailer's Handbook, the title nearly scared me off, until the photos drew me in. I spent one afternoon going through the collection on the entire site of the old emotional blackmailer's handbook. Colorful and detailed, intense and varied, an excellent photoblog, well worth the exploration.

Feral

I just read the Post Secret site for Father's Day, and felt none of the old rage, not even sadness. I learned a word to describe him just this past year, and it healed up the last hole.

This quote from Carolyn Hax, whose advice column at the Washington Post provides consistent good sense. And the word Feral.

The most despicably selfish people are often, upon close inspection, feral--they're consumed by self-preservation, and don't have the courage to take the emotional risks that are the hallmark of civilized behavior.

This isn't to say that you should handle the feral without gloves. Sometimes the best thing to do is to have nothing to do with them.

Raised on a farm, mostly by his brothers, he survived. Yet he tried to look civilized: wife, children, house, job, church going - fearing Hell if not exactly believing in God. As a wild cat brought inside, well fed, clean, long lived - but always fearful, and not to be trusted. So like my friend Dave's cat Chance, brought in from behind a Taco Bell,who became Dave's cat. But not exactly tame, and certainly not domesticated. Not Chance's fault, just not in him to be a gentle, sociable lap cat.

It's a matter of chance, what kind of father any child gets, and whether he stays or goes - and which is better. Natural selection in humans favored an attentive mother, but the sort of father conferred no particular evolutionary advantage on us as a species. Kind uncles and brothers, and teachers, filled that role just as well.

Uncle Walt was one of my fathers, who I found out much later was not much of a father to his own children. I adored him, but never got to be around him for long, because my father was intensely jealous of his wife's beloved brother. And I had a flash of insight related to dog behaviour - resource guarding. I was my father's proof of status, belonged to him, owned by him, in his control. Stepping out of that circle meant barking, growling and biting from him. Not out of sheer meanness, but out of possession, fear of loss.

He didn't love me, as such. But neither was he capable of hating me, as such. A sire, not a father, but that's more usual than not.

I worked with KB, who grew up in Kurdistan. He says his father hit him, but he felt it was to teach him to survive in a dangerous situation, and he bore him no resentment, though he could not feel great affection for him either.

So, thanks Uncle Walt, Uncle Ernie, Bill, Mr. Esper, Mr. Novak, Mr. Shirkey, Ed, for fathering those around you, sometimes including this female child. Most are long gone, none will read here, but they laid the knowledge in me that character is not defined by gender. That men and women are equally capable of full humanity. That we can all protect and love each other, without needing to be biological relations.

We just have to be given half a chance when we are young, and we remember.

Field

So we took D's parents to the Red Iguana, then to the British Field Day. In this state, unlike in Britain I'm sure, a little rain did discourage. I thought it rather pleasant, but because so many had already left by the time we got there, at least they didn't ask us for the entrance donation. FIL fell for the Rolls. MIL for the Triumph. This was the alternate for Father's Day. We like seeing them, but not for the formal holidays. So, we make other arrangements. Been working much better since our three year sojourn to Boston.

Counting

I admit I did not get the xkcd today at all. But after a quick visit to the only encyclopedia I have available, not only did I get the joke, but I found out about an eccentric - Paul Erdős, I'd never heard of before. I've sent an email to the editor at the Fortean Times, in the hopes they will want to do an article about him. Maybe they have, and I missed it. Still, I think I'd've remembered him.


Did the round robin at work, which was indeed very much like army training days when no learning occurred. Drowsy and tired of sitting all day long. Annoyed that the people whose sole job is to handle education, including writing tests for the staff, can't keep the sheets organized or write questions without typos, bad grammar or spelling mistakes, that actually make sense. Or are at all to the point of what we need to know. Inventory occurred as well, which I'd've preferred to do, but the processing staff were mostly done before we were. I did the bone freezer, which was painful and awkward, even with the insulated gloves. When I got help, it went a little faster. Not a simple task, since the freezer can't be left open, nor can the frozen bone be taken out and sorted slowly. Nor is it well organized, largely because icy plastic vacuum sealed bags are about impossible to keep in good order. Still, I enjoyed getting it done, one task of actual accomplishment today.

Oh, and the lunch. They provided a barbeque lunch. Sort of, not really a BBQ, but food outside, pale lettuce cut up in a bowl, potato salad and cole slaw - to me mayonnaise and hot sun do not mix. The hot dogs were larger than the buns provided, but at least there were jalapeño peppers. And a band, one of the staff's band. They were loud. Not terribly on key nor on time, but quite loud. Still, free food.

And the fire safety class actually had some new and useful information.

Treasures

We used to do this thing, we bloggers. Me least of all. To take a day, and praise those we read, and point others in their direction. Maybe it's like having a bunch of old friends, we just assume everyone knows everyone else. Those who drift in and out, welcome as they are, are not much mourned when they only come to one gathering, then drift off again.

But I feel the need to take a moment and make some formal introductions, say some reluctant good-byes, send out some invitations while expecting to be ignored. Today, just the praise and invitations.

And clean through my links at the same time.

The longest remaining reader here, among the first to visit once I started getting a regular score of visitors, is of course Dale. His Mole is full of poetry and insight and sly humorous sensuality, intellectual rigor and esoterica. His deep humanity draws me back over and over. And I remain moved by his gentle and unwavering loyalty. He's kept me writing long past my initial intentions, over many a hump of dismay. It's from his corner of the blogosphere that the idea of the (o) stone came. A token of presence, a way to remember the dead, a gift, a pebble of grace.

Pete of the Pohangina Valley, another long term friend here, is one of the few sites I visit first thing every morning. The Ruins of the Moment frames his amazing photos of his remote corner of the earth. Birds of character, water meeting shore with elegant grace, the land rolling out before us through his lens, all of it strangely familiarly strange.

The Crow has only flitted by recently, but her comments stand out and steal my attention. Her blog is much the same, a nest of glittering observations and ideas, photos and stories. Like most of us, a mish-mash of what's going through our heads, that she shares generously. Funny and lovely and curious.


That will do for today, more perhaps next week.

Sweetness

On Monday, I noticed a familiar name on the schedule, in my own room. I added up the age. It took me a while to put it in context, and it came only slowly, probably, perhaps, maybe. Surgeon got ahead of schedule, so I took the delay to check and gather my memories. Mike the pre-op nurse preempted my ponderings,

"Your last patient used to be a nursing instructor, didja know her?"

"Yes, I knew it, I'd pretty much worked it out. She must've been on the verge of retirement then."

Once I saw her, I thoroughly remembered her. Although not precisely what classes or clinicals I had from her. Still, she said she remembered me as well, and we hugged and chatted, and I got to tell her she'd made a difference. Maybe we exaggerated a little for each other, but kindness doesn't mind at all. I do remember her humor and gentleness. I'm very happy that her procedure qualified as ditzel. Needed doing, but a very small problem and solution, with a very good surgeon.

She impressed the recovery room nurse, too.

So much of that time is a blur of anxiety and sleep deprivation. To have a moment recalled of a certain sweetness warmed my remembrance.

Then, I covered a requested shift today, and took yesterday off - rather than get called off. So, that worked out pretty well.

Humming

Seeing a hummingbird on the way back from the library, I pointed it out too late for D to see. And carefully mentioned that hummingbirds hum with their wings. Only possibly because they don't know the words. And began a rather protracted rant on people trying to bust a commonly held belief with dubious rebuttal. I had a woman cutting my hair who objected when I told her my hair tended to be greasy.

"It's not the hair that's greasy, it's the scalp!" She corrected me with absolute certainty.

Well, actually, I know that it's the oil from my scalp that gets onto my hair, but I didn't SAY my hair produced the oil. Any more than if there is grease on a table that I think it came from the table, instead of the fries. After all these years, this still sticks in my mind.

I had one of those enthusiastic science teachers in grade 8, never looked at the book, lots of stories and animation. Well, I'd gone on a tour of a nuclear power plant with Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Ernie on a trip through Ontario, and learned about heavy water, and the isotope deuterium. And what it is used for. So when I got back to class, hoping for more information, she confidently told me that heavy water was water with a lot of minerals in it. Disillusioned, I lost a lot of my trust in showy teaching. My high school science teacher gave me the right answer the next year, after double checking his answer - to my admiration. I was one of the few who didn't defend Mrs. Z's data when it conflicted with his.

My older brother, a science geek in his last year in high school, refuted my statement that the water was getting hotter as it boiled longer. "Water gets to the boiling point, then it turns to steam, it can't get hotter than that." Perhaps only nine, I remained deeply suspicious. It took a long time for me to figure out that I was right - sort of - after all. Water can certainly superheat, water under pressure gets hotter, and it does not instantly turn to steam in all cases when it hits the magical 100C. There can be complicating factors.

Many commonly held beliefs are not strictly correct, but simply refuting them often leads to the error of simplification to the point of inaccuracy. Got any others?

Puddles

Great storm yesterday. Puddled up the balcony, which is unprecedented since we've been here. Thunder became a constant roar, microburst winds all over the place. Moby hid deep in the closet. Today when it just rained, he wandered the kitchen, looking for something. Unfortunately, we had to use the dryer, so we put Moby's bed in the kitchen nearby in the hopes he'd find that a suitable alternative. He did.

Doggies

R came by this morning, to take us out to breakfast. A HUGE breakfast, which will keep me most of the day. Looking forward to him getting his new house in livable condition, and we can have a waffle breakfast there. We got talking about bunnies and cats and dogs, and he'd heard about Spanish war dogs, used by the Conquistadores against the American natives - mostly Spanish Mastiffs and Great Danes. Being me, I did a little research, especially after having seen a "Dogs 101" episode last night on Great Danes -after having seen three of those huge animals yesterday at the market. And I learned incidentally about dog carts, which literally were for dogs to pull carts.




The shelter's volunteer coordinator - G, is supportive of my decision to withdraw, but still included me on the email calling for assistance at the booth they'd set up at the farmer's market on Saturday. I got it on Friday, after a solid ten hour work shift, and did not respond. But I have this core ethic, starting during my early years in the OR. If someone asks for a shift change, and I can cover them, I do. Unless I have a formal appointment or commitment, inconvenience be damned. And I felt the same rule applying here, G had to leave to set up another program at 1100, and Laura would be at the table herself, and have to pack it up herself. I didn't want to make a promise, so I just waited - with the request weighing down my pocket.

Woke very early Saturday, so we went to the rummage sale to support our local NPR station. I picked up a few small dishes and a little box perfect for incense, and generally enjoyed junking. Home, and snuggled down, and watched the clock. At 1030, I realized I had no real reason not to go, decided to drive down, and if I got a parking spot (a real challenge) I would help out. A car pulled out of a free spot just as I got where I'd intended to look. Ok, fine, I guess I'm stuck. I ran into G on my way in, got a hug and sympathy, which choked me up. After a bit of fruitless search, I found someone to ask at the information booth, I found Laura and the shelter booth in sore need of a banner. (Salt Lakers are supposed to be so friendly, but I'd have gotten much more help in Boston looking lost than I did here.)

Knowing how near invisible we, as a stall, were, having walked past twice - intentionally looking for her, I appropriated the stuffed dog just sitting there as a prop, and got him dancing as The Huckleberries played some damn fine blues right behind us. I have this thing about turning just about anything into a puppet... wanted to be a Muppeteer growing up. Caught more than a few people, this silly woman making a stuffed dog dance to the blues and wave at them. (Couldn't bring a shelter dog with us, due to how they do rabies shots, and the profusion of dogs brought to the market.) I like Laura, and I liked meeting all those lovely, healthy, happy dogs and good folks they brought with them. Many had spent time in shelters, and found themselves well adopted. A significant accumulation of donations, a few t-shirts sold, possibly a few volunteers recruited. My smile muscles hurt by the end, but that's alright too.

I'm very glad I did go, because the person who HAD volunteered to help out didn't show. Reminds me of a parable.

Which all means, I will stay on the volunteer mailing list, help out at off-site events as I can, and maybe go back to the shelter in the fall, when the toxicity may have settled down. I know G will use my problem as a political stick, and welcome to it. Wasn't feeling good about my lack of courage and fortitude, but I deal with difficult people every day for pay. My volunteering can't be the same ole same ole.




Feeling better and better about my decision to let the grey in, after a last attempt to dye, then strip it to orange, then cut it all off, then let head material get long. The tie-back-ableness of styleless length suits. I look forward to never cutting the damn stuff again.

Lumps

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

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

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

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

Reuben

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

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

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

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

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

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

Late

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


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

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

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

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

Irritations

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

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

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

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

Marriage

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ginger

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

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

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

Moon

I see the moon, does the moon see me?


Cool, breezy, lovely evening.

Must

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

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

Have to clean today. Must, must, must.


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

Chart

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


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


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

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

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

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

Skies

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

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

Pile

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





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

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

Uniformity

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clothing

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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