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.