Flurry

Too few photos, especially too few of The Cat. Who is always grateful for grass. (This from last week.)

Despite the cold this afternoon, (17˚F, -8C) he wanted OUT.


And not too much later, IN.


We got him a new toy. He'd been attacking it, throwing it up, pulling up the rug edge to get it, shaking it, for several minutes once I got out the camera. He went back for it after I stopped with the photos.


Just a little felt mouse, with graspable ears and long tail with feather.


A hit.

He's watching the snow come down, just a light flurry, nothing much.

Windblown

Storm blew in yesterday afternoon, whiteout for a while, snowing sideways. Alarming warnings about how bad it would be. And in some parts of the valley, certainly on interstate highways, it no doubt was. Some places got snow in feet, we got a few paltry inches, most blown into drifts. Got up early this morning, gave myself an extra twenty minutes to get to work. Roads bad, but not as bad as predicted, a bit worse than I hoped for.

Going home, car smeared with windblown lake snow, the fluffy, salty stuff, easily brushed off. Slick all the way down, ALBs shuddering but not stopping me at one steep bit, not long, but a long moment. Halted in time, looked back and the car behind me leaving me plenty of space - also stopped. Same driver followed me almost all the way home, as I sent down blessings on his head as he kept a good following distance. Parked with no intention of going out again for the next few icy days. We can get about on foot, with yaktrax on boots. So shall the year end, with a slide and a shiver.

It's been a troubled season. So many people going through life altering troubles. I consider my little accident the easiest of all, the most easily healed. Everyone alive.

I've only read about Another Year, but I want to see it. Adored Happy Go Lucky. And this new Mike Leigh seems like a companion piece.

Glad to be home, in no rush to venture out.

Renew

Head in a whirl tonight, hamster wheeling thoughts. Imagined scene for the now totally internal novel that will probably never gel. Remembered strange experiences as a nurse, always the most gross. Over and over. Uncomfortable and preoccupied. Awaiting the onslaught of the storm. Not that tomorrow matters, I don't have to be anywhere. The day after is when the snow will likely accumulate, and I do have to make it to work then.

Not that New Year signifies, but the collective focus on starting anew draws me in. Not for resolutions. Perhaps a renewal of older vows, though. To be calm and cheerful, compassionate and kind always. To refrain from complaint and utterly reject anger as a valid form of expression. To dance again, and sing more.

Stuck

Today would not move, no matter how hard we pushed. Everything sticky. Finally called home, and requested a meal, and when asked for a suggestion, I offered, "stew." D took this idea, and made a spicy, flavorful meal with peppers and... well, everything else, really. He's found a real talent for stew and chili. We are now savoring the panettoni we got last week. Remembering Mrs. Rizzardi, my adopted next door Italian grandmother. Finally appreciating the less sugared treats she once offered, that I would now adore.

Reading about concussions in student athletes, the need for giving them cognitive time as well as physical recuperation. And I kept thinking about my childhood concussion, the teeter-totter, as well as my migraines. Mouth hurts from the retainer, coping. Reminding me also of my time in braces, and how it helped with the headaches. Have not had one of those in the past year. Headaches, sure, but no migraines. Taking an hour or two out of the retainer for my sanity. So hard to enunciate around it. I can do it, but it tires me the fuckout.


Dearest friend seems to be up for forgetting and calling it an anomaly. Still raw, both. Hopeful.

Moments

I have written my friend a chatty, funny email, that if she takes offense at, means there's no hope, but if she laughs, will bring us back to our great love for each other. I wait in hope.

Still a bit upset at an altercation* at the library last week, wary of going back, tomorrow. IF they are open on Boxing Day. One year (the Great Boxing Day Blizzard of Aught Three) we sheltered there when the storms took our heat and light, and internet connection. (See photos, above.) Warmed and read email, and returned home, power restored shortly after.

At any rate, *idiot assaulted us with demands for "Knowing how to say hi" when we did not know him, and tried to pick a fight with us. Security alerted shortly after, and they will deal. I would have hit him with my umbrella, if shooing him away had not worked.

Hoping old friend will see humor. Going to be a friend no matter what. We all have Our Little Moments.* Next Letter to fairygoddaughter tomorrow. F.



Gave Red Iguana Chili sauces to D's parents, who were happy thereby, (went by for lunch, and take-out yesterday) and accepted Red Iguana gift certificate from them today. Ironic, and funny. At our urging, they decided to be Selfish, and save queso and verde for tomorrow. Good for them. Hot (spicy) food brings joy all around. SIL and BIL gave us toy for Moby, as we gave them one for their cat last year. An Acceptable Gift. Except that Moby is skittish about the sounds it makes. Maybe tomorrow he'll feel differently.

*See Stanley from Going Postal, raised by Peas. (Known for thoroughness.)

Offerings

Made it through yesterday, despite Dr. Crankypants. With the help of E the Great Scrub (no sarcasm, a lovely, bright, capable young man) who rolled with the changes. Picked up a case with Dr. Gentle German at his request because of a time gap, traded for a Dr. Jumpy case to another room, and all wound up finishing about the same time, but with good feelings and no sense of rush in our room.

Jaw aching, bad taste and raw spots in my mouth. At work, knowing I would have to remove the retainer and brush my teeth each time made it easy to resist the plethora of treats in the breakroom. (No challenge from the enormous chocolate cake, because I love chocolate, and there is a difference between love, and porn. That cake was pornographic, not lovable.)

Got home worn and edgy, D coughing and ill himself, we hunkered down together in front of twinkly lights. Crawled to bed already asleep. Heard D say something, could hear it clearly, but it made no sense, like he spoke in another language. I've told him not to speak Greek to me anymore, he's agreed. Intermittent sleep for both of us, but lasting. Moby insistent we get up at 0730, purring, walking on us, nosing our faces, repeatedly.

"I know you're awake. Get up."

Made hot wheat cereal as the sun turned the black to a textured grey. D cooked sausages later, when the timidly strengthening light padded in. Both feeing nourished, dare I say, cheered? Just a little, but it's enough.

Picking up food offerings from Red Iguana to take to D's folks tomorrow, Salsa Verde and an order of Con Queso, which I know makes no linguistic sense, but there you go. And have lunch there, since, well we're going to be there anyway, right? Pick up the adequate ginger ale (since Stewart's stopped making their wonderful stuff) for D's sore throat, and some grass for Moby. Nothing frantic, just odds and ends. Turkey roll defrosting for us to cook tomorrow evening.

Down to one hand, as cat has me on tum scritching duty. Be of good cheer, it helps.



Check out this 1925 Christmas Party photo over at Shorpy, it's a humdinger.

Grill

Retainer-like device in place. We shall see in a month.

All I want for Christmas....






is my two front teeth.

Hiver

This week totally sucks. A pattern of train-wreck cases, which until today, I more or less avoided. Told this case would probably not be ours, so I should have known. Doomed, indeed. A lovely, ugly, five hour case. Thankfully, my good karma taking care of other cow-orkers going through long, complex cases flowed back through plenty of help to get started, for which I am very grateful. Then, one nurse stayed late to get us cleaned up at the end. I work hard to get as much cleared away as possible before last case is done, but the accumulations were a bit much. Help was a gift of great worth.

What is more, the surgeon thanked me, gave me a nice, side-hug at the end. Which I don't take too seriously, but I'll accept any thanks that come my way.

That I got this nightmare case is really only fair. Wouldn't complain even if there was someone to listen.

Happy Solstice, Good Yule, Bon Hiver.

Practicum

I love when scientists are the ones who actually go out and try shit. Leading to better crutches.


And moving huge stones with balls in slots. Or possibly baskets.

Which is why I love Mythbusters. Because, so often, Everything we Know, is Wrong. And you just have to build it, shove it around, and find out where the holes in the theory lie. Life tends not to be amenable to theory. Theory is important to help us understand, but it has to be the first virgin sacrificed, every time.

Under Heaven is indeed, worth reading. Hovering at the edges of Wuxia, readable (if not brilliant) prose style. Good characters, compelling plot, ultimately satisfying. A rollicking tale, I never got irritated and wanted to just flip to the end and find out what happened. I was happy to be drawn along, and come to the resolution as it played out.

Oh, and David Mitchell is brilliant. Thank you Pacian for that link, we've been going through all of them.

Santa

HE ATE SANTA!



Tree is without blue or silver, as much as possible. The warmer array seems to be helping both of us.

Here, this song has been going through my head today.

Find more artists like Wait A Minim! at Myspace Music

From here*.



*Which I know of because of the ex, who did, give the devil his due, have good taste in music.

Dangers

Actually slept past 0600 on a day off. Seems I could only sleep late on days when I must get up. This morning, made it to nearly 0800, which helped. Sat next to Moby on the sofa, and he leaned against my leg and tucked his head into my hand, even after I got up and sat down several times to get tea and breakfast.

Raining and grey, better when it's more rain. Walked to the library, got there too early. A crowd waiting in the atrium, a voice declaiming somewhere out of sight. D forgot his employee badge, both of us thought of going in through the back, but couldn't go through employee areas without it. Belligerent voice, "Do you know how to say hi?" A few times, then directed at us, aggressive, threatening, more as we tried to tell him to go away. Between the two of us, finally got him to walk away, although he kept glaring at us. Spoiling for a fight, I'm certain.

Doors open, the crowd sifts in, and we wait. Find a security guard just inside and tell him about Belligerent Guy, someone else also accosted by him adding to our description, then I spot him getting on the elevator. Security folks identify him, although the group is too thick for them to stop him. They'll keep an eye on him. Both of us bothered and shaken, wary. We are non-confrontational people, anger frightens us.

I have no issue with the street folks using the library, quite the opposite. But a number of people on the streets are there because they are not well socialized - for a host of reasons, and I'm relieved that people trained to deal with such behaviour are there. Not just librarians expected to take care of this.

Thinking about the Elizabeth Smart abduction. And (Brian*) David Mitchell trial just finished. I saw them, robed and walking the streets, never occurred to me who it might be. I never gave him money, but a lot of people did, and supported his crimes. The whole thing bothers me. Most of the people on the streets are no doubt lost souls. Some are far worse, dangerous.

*Added for precision.

Choose

Upset with an old friend. Not going to talk about it here. Of course. But let's just say that email is wonderful, but cannot replace the phone completely, much as I hate talking on the phone. And is no substitute at all for being there in person. I'm heartbroken, and doubting myself down to my core. And my core is very dire and dark. I am, at the moment, lacking family of any kind, and so few in-person friends to call it none at all. If D didn't reassure me, I would believe myself utterly bereft of human contact. And unworthy of it.

Much of it is my own choice. I will not be used or misused, and am either hypersensitive to misuse, or have chosen badly the people around me. Both, concurrently or sequentially, no doubt. The two misjudgments walk hand in hand. Grief following grief. Loss collapsing into loss.

At least once, I chose, or probably more accurately was chosen, beyond hopes and aspirations. I have no adequate words for the bottomless gratitude I feel for the wonderful human being who most knows me, and most loves me. Only in very dark mood do I doubt that.

Put up the tree. Made the mistake of putting on the blue lights we'd gotten after the season last year. In such a mood, I only put up the fairly colorless, blue or silver, ornaments. We tried to put the multi-colored lights up around the room, and the adhesive tabs failed utterly. In another mood, I'd have seen the humor. Within an hour, I looked at the "tasteful" tree, and said "That is hideous." Blue Christmas kept playing through my head, and I took all the ornaments off, instead of throwing the whole display in the trash, with D's assistance. After a moment's hesitation, we put on the multi colored lights. This helped quite a lot. I will likely add ornaments tomorrow.

Not easy to be cheerful, this year. Have to put in a lot of effort.

Worried about health issues, for both of us. Much is worrisome. Nothing definite yet. Which is good, really. Limbo.

Got tea bag mulling spices and apple juice. Unbelievably comforting. Got our christmas dinner, as well. Our one requirement, enough food on christmas.

Watching a show. TV et al turned off and on. Moby stepped on the switch. We both laugh.

Abandon

Long, long, hard, hard days.
Staying later to clean up.
Can't abandon folks.

Today

Cool winter day, out walking several times, glad for my midweek day off. However unsettled in my mind for the future of my dentition, however too-early I woke, the time is good, welcome.

Reading Under Heaven by Guy Gavriel Kay as recommended on NPR. Not going to recommend until I know how it ends, but so far, I'm caught.

D found Stephen Fry in America, enjoying it more, probably because of having read the companion book. Funny, for all that he calls himself a coward and a sissy (cissy, but we are separated by a common language) he keeps going bravely, and amusingly. Full points in my book.

That is all, today.

Pea

Going to see an orthodontist tomorrow about the continuing malocclusion of my front teeth. That fall shoved them back a bit, and now that the swelling and bruising are gone, it's clear they are not where they were. I'm hopeful that a device can be fitted to get everything toothy more or less where it belongs. Seems a shame to mess up that year with braces.

A hard pea of scar impeding normal motion, lip is not really working quite properly. This is going to take some time to resolve, and as the sensation returns to near normal, it's bugging the crap out of me. Massaging it, and waiting. I can look serious, or smile big, but any nuance between is beyond me. Really good I work in a mask, I can let my eyes do the work much more reliably.

The little things, devil in the details, happiness in small change.

Update: Good news bad news. A simple retainer should work fine, on order. Bad news, it might not work, or the teeth could still die, and need more attention than anyone would like, and that could take a couple of months to manifest. But I'm getting it all documented now, and it *should* all be covered by workman's comp.

Prepare

Hard days full of hours
Minutes stuffed with busy-ness
Cold preparations.

Shouldn't

Strangely warm, with bright sun, to Moby's delight. Has spent quite some time out on the balcony.

We shopped this morning, brought him wheatgrass. He knows when we've been to that store, and is visibly disappointed when we don't have grass for him. A lovely mrrk! and excited chomping, no visible horking up, yet. He likes him some wheatgrass.

Terribly sleepy all afternoon. Should have gotten stuff done. Didn't. D telling me I shouldn't, just rest. Well, then.

Prejudice

Inga, a cat at the Mt. Washington observatory in the White Mountains. Long gone by now, of course, but she's lived on here for many years, another random desktop.


D mentions a recording of Ian Fleming's Bond stories, and the racial attitudes of the time. I grew up with this sort of speech. My aunt had nothing but contempt for Italians. My father used the usual slurs. My mother called anyone not mainstream "colored." (Which confused me, as they were not particularly colorful...) Facing someone of a different ethnicity, they were kind and polite, they were prejudiced, but not actively bigoted. The slant of their times. My grandmother was born in 1890. My mother, the youngest of her siblings, in 1925. So, I was not taught to hate those of other backgrounds, merely to idly dismiss them, passively. My mother's friend in grade school was Jewish, and she hated that there were beaches that barred her friend. They would go anyway, of course.

I'm in the next generation, when "Black" was the correct term, and I saw the aftermath of the '67 riots from the backseat of the car. The era of political correctness - later on. Being accused of racism, when dealing with someone breathtakingly rude, whose daughter was my friend (unbeknownst to her.) And dealing with my own biases and irrational feelings about "other." Being myself "other" as a minority in a city where being white, and both parents Canadian, meant I never was mainstream, despite my skin. I sounded different, felt different, but looked Same. And danced on the edge.

As I get older, I am aware that my sense of ethnic identity is old fashioned. Not progressed, but flung off at a tangent. I still refuse to think less of anyone for their genetics. But I find I have prejudices, a disdain for the sexism of Islam, or old style cultural Catholicism, and bloody minded, self serving conservatism of more traditional groups. Don't get me started about the baptists who hate gays so much they intrude on grief.

I find I detest the establishment as much as the libertarian idealism. I have little patience for idealism or extremism of any stripe, or people who identify with a group rather than their own character.

It's lonely out here, but here I stand.

How many war protesters does it take to stop a war? Trick question, war protesters never accomplished anything.
(Correction, how many war protesters does it take to change a lightbulb? Trick question, war protesters never changed anything.)

A dark joke, full of cynicism, but not a lie either. How many protesters stopped tectonic plate movement?

We all have our little moments. When we decide where is Here, and where is There. Who is Us, and who Them. We draw our lines, and live within them, or outside them. Or we pull away from any group, any friend, any association, and feel the isolation.

Tides

Another random desktop image, my own photo. A trip with friends on the way out, we came back early by ourselves, but we loved tide pool exploring near Monterey. Many years ago.

This week has been uphill the whole way. Work accomplished, but nothing easily. Dentist seen, teeth alive but out of line, appointment with orthodontist next week. Lip lumpy, massaging it, much more sensation - which means it bugs me increasingly as it heals, and everyone else has forgotten about it because "it looks perfect!" The lonely part of healing up.

The friends who are having hard times and are upset, and I'm not in a position to help in any meaningful way. Not without losing boundaries and exhausting myself - and still not really helping. Almost as difficult to stand out of the way and wait. But that is what is needed. Like being scrubbed in, needing to keep the field sterile, while there are difficulties with the patient, and having to stand idle, hold back, watch, wait.

Maintenance flushed the hot water heater, and we've had a lot more, and more consistent hot water since. Even took a lovely deep bath this morning, after thoroughly cleaning the tub. Dishwasher working better as well.


Moby sat behind me, occasionally attacking my hair.

Lights

I don't know the attribution of this. I use it as a random desktop image.


After the dentist, D for a cleaning, me for an x-ray and exam, we drove up the canyon to Ruth's Diner for a huge breakfast of biscuits and protein with a dash of cholula. Lip is still numb and lumpy, teeth are proven alive and a bit pushed in. I'm trying to push them out myself, with remarkable, if not complete, success. Still, anything about messing with one's teeth is disturbing. Despite all the country holiday music (that our otherwise excellent dentist plays), the last tune we heard was Linus and Lucy, still easily the coolest Christmas standard.

Being over emotional about losses, these days. Sad and lonely, and nothing to be done about it.

Not into any part of this holiday, money tight - as per. Not into the religious side, and my dabblings on the outskirts of new age mysticism have faded into non-existance this year. Friends fallen away, with the implications that I am a poor friend anyway.

Don't like presents, the only exception being the rare and elusive Perfect one, that comes stealthily from an unexpected corner. As happened this year, in the form of a round, blue box, returning my own pottery reincarnated and more beautiful. D's stainless steel bowl set, our first Festivus back, a test - that he cared more about giving me what I needed than his own desire to give something fun. Proven. Still have them, they are still used often, I never floated a "test present request" ever again. A rubbery, green gel buddha when I was a kid, nothing I would have asked for, but I adored it. I believe it was a stocking present, from "Santa." An afterthought from my mother, then. Who knew?

Maybe on the solstice, I'll get the tree and some lights up, not because I feel like it, but because it will help us feel better. Like smiling, not because it just happens, but because it helps. After the new year, I need to concentrate on a project, volunteer, or take a class, or something. Anything. Being sad is a bad habit, no matter how justified. A positive feedback loop that destroys itself. Self destruction is easy, and unworthy, on any scale.

Curse the darkness, sure. But I'll light some candles, and some sparkly lights as well. No reason not to do both.

Prickle

What the hell was going on today? Two emails from people that I am not sure how to respond to. Complications in every room. Had to work with an older scrub tech who thinks it funny to tell of mocking his wife for her bad cooking. As my father always sniped at my mother's food. Granted, she was no great cook, but what motivation or training did she ever have?

I'm very glad D is always grateful for my efforts at meals, appreciative and kind even when it doesn't turn out well. I'm even more grateful when he cooks for us, and he's getting pretty good, too. We try harder for each other, because we know we'll be given credit for trying, and can share real joy when it really tastes good. Neither of us will ever love to cook, but it's not a trial of futility with each other.

As humans, we all just want acknowledgement, that our efforts are noticed, and we matter. That someone cares that we do our jobs, feed each other, clean up, hold a hand, write a letter. If no one does that, ever, it's hard to keep going.

Hand

Thought my hands too small, short fingers, nothing elegant about them. They are working hands, for all that they lack calluses, plenty of scars though. Can't be convinced to play an instrument, either one of them, alone or in concert. Nor juggling.

Bags

Growing up, groceries came in squared off brown paper bags that had to be held in one's arms. They were reused to take out dry trash, cut to form book covers - that I could then doodle on in class, or wrap the occasional package to be mailed to a brother in the service, or the other one at college.

We've been using our own bags since our sojourn to Boston. Easier to carry cloth bags when walking, or pack them in a wheelie cart, where plastic bags would fail. We just got in the habit, one that stuck. Dealing with plastic bags in small apartments is bothersome, they are inadequate for garbage, although I used them as such for many years. Three of these have "Trader Joe's" on them. One is insulated, good for milk gallons in summer. Two came as part of a work gift, with a trunk organizer.

Amazing how often baggers just don't know how to deal with them. They expect me to just hold the milk jug. They pack dry goods in the insulated bag, and pack all the heavy items in the largest bag. I much prefer to pack my own, most of the time.



Moby can eat wherever he likes.


And bathe on the laptop, as the mood takes him.

Blip

Better than the day after...


Smile a tad stiff, a little painful, but there. Will improve. I like the little blip of a scar. To have broken so and not have evidence, seems wrong and disappointing. I'll keep it.


Mucky out there. Murky air, damp and grey. Both woke too early, achy and grey ourselves. Muddled through most of the morning, both thinking of the same place for a necessarily nutritious lunch. Hong Kong Tea House opened at 1030, which suited us, hungry and increasingly irritable. Cut my knuckle nicely on a mug, cracked as I washed it and sliced in bloodily. Nothing serious, but it made a good little mess.

At any rate, dim sum, bell peppers cooked perfectly with shrimp paste and a bean sauce, chicken stuffed buns, pot stickers, and D had chicken in pepper sauce. All perfectly done, spiced, tasty, restorative. Amazing what good flavors can do.

Guy

Turned out, I'd actually been seen by an ENT guy. Which makes me so much happier, honestly. I'm good with reconstructive plastic, but so much not cosmetic plastics. But I'd been given the ER instructions to follow up with the plastic's clinic, which I did. Today, in the middle of work. The shuttle worked well, the resident professional and thorough, but when I saw the plastic surgeon attending, the tone changed. Oh, the advice to massage the lip to reduce the scar tissue was useful, and I've already been doing that. But the emphasis on cosmetic management, high SPF lip balm at all times to reduce visible scarring, or using the "free" workman's comp to cover "weekly" dermabrasion to reduce the (already minimal) scarring on the skin above the lip. I wanted to say, "We are just not speaking the same language, are we?"

I simply refused the extra treatment, expressing disinterest in any more fuss. After the dentist, I'm done with this bother. I'm focused only on resumption of full sensation and motion. I don't really give a flying fuck about a scar, as long as I can eat and drink properly, and enunciate clearly. Not to mention bite with my front teeth. I'm fine with not hiding the marks life makes on me, let me be read clearly.

On the way through the halls to the clinic, I noticed a new clinic. "Fainting and Falling Clinic." Only wish I'd had my camera. Serious, but funny.

Frictionless

Smiling more than this is painful, pulls, and winds up looking like a teeth-baring grimace.


The scabs from the cold sores are just bothersome, eroding my humor and tolerance. I bored with this, I'm ready for it to be over. As I'm sure anyone with an injury can relate to. I was doing pretty well until the oral herpes erupted, easily the worst, fastest outbreak I've ever had under any circumstances. Still healing that disruption. Sapped my amusement at the whole adventure. Counting one's blessings at all the worse things that could so easily happened - is mostly to deflect sympathy.

But a good meal this afternoon, and time to talk it out, and I'm back to seeing the funny.

Keep thinking of the year I learned to drive.

Parents had a new car, I'd just gotten my license that summer. Winter, and very cold and snowy, driving alone, and I took a back street I should have known to avoid. The fire hydrant apparently had a leak, as the entire intersection was several inches deep, or more, in glare ice. And I began to slide sideways. Steered into the skid, but that only kept me from spinning, not sliding to within a foot of the hydrant before stopping. I sat there for a moment and breathed, started the car up again, and crept forward toward a merely-snow-packed street, and did not mention the incident until long after that car was gone.

Remembering also, many years ago, again winter, snowy, icy streets, and a road with a pronounced bow (cross slope?). Suddenly, the old Subaru slid sideways, bumping into the curb, not a thing I could do but refrain from panicking. No harm done then, either. Just a warning shove.

Friction is our friend.

Imperfection

Often, I write about D, and how glad I am to be with him. Warm, easy as breathing, supportive and protective. I've been in a really nasty relationship. I know what bad looks like. Nothing about my life with D is bad. There are hard bits, for both of us, no question. No two people can live together in perfect agreement and harmony, but thorough good will and appreciation turns irritations into endearing quirks.

I once thought I loved someone who was unworthy. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I was not in love. So much work, so much compromise of myself, a drain on my soul, but I thought, "sell while you can, you are not for all markets." He was an addict, and one never feels so overwhelmed as when one is the addiction. Extremely seductive, especially to the young, inexperienced, and already abused or deprived. It never lasts, one is doomed to be less than the addict craves, but once caught, escape is a steep, hard, contradictory climb. I knew, but I thought I deserved no more, and had no idea how to get out. My foothold was his malice, which never matched the honeyed words. I can forgive anything, but malice. That speaks to character.

D is incapable of malice. I am, or was, but never against anyone I love, and even against those I have reason to hate it takes extreme provocation. Neither of us enjoys hostility or confrontation, although I have had to learn to face it, and he can throw a punch if necessary. We never fight. Which is not to say we never disagree, or miscommunicate, or get exasperated with each other. We just refuse to hold ill opinions of each other.

We get out of step, a bit neglectful, or tired, or distracted, cranky, and have to reconnect, wake up, put our heads together. He always welcomes me when I get home (met me at the car in the parking last evening. He'd been watching for me from the window.) I always greet him when he gets home. This is the deal.

We disagree on food a lot, but we've found meals we both like. He doesn't see housework, but would never complain of my slapdash cleaning. When I'm injured, I have to remember he's not a nurse, by training nor inclination, but he does pretty well, and pays attention. And I'm sometimes too much of one when he is ill or injured. He takes care of anything that can be done online, and indulges me in my distaste for making phone calls. Children make him very anxious, but he always treats them with careful dignity. He orders in restaurants for me when I am exhausted and tongued tied.

Not perfect. Perfect for me.

Awe

People really are awesome. So much generosity and kindness to be found. I am often pleased at how good people can be.

And then, an act of breathtaking beauty brings me to tears. In September, I broke a bowl I'd made. Struck a nerve, fed into this stage of my life, when I must deal with increasing losses, and get up each morning with fresh eyes. Herhimnbryn leapt at the idea of using the shards of this pot for her mosaic creations, and I gladly sent her my stricken pot. Then she made it into a marvelous box, which I admired on her site.

Last evening, came home wrung out, to find a mysterious package. From Australia. Well, I knew it was from her, but was so struck that it was that very box. It sits, at least for the moment, surrounded by some of my surviving pottery, candle sticks and a bottle, with the bits of the beloved pot.

I run my fingers over it, the rough sandy grout, the smooth glassy tiles, and am comforted beyond words. The broken never goes back the way it was, but becomes even more lovely than it ever imagined it could be.

Thank you, so much. With a hug to your beloved, and a scritch to Bryn. Your timing could not have been better.

Fur

D's new sweater. Moby takes his duty to fur new clothes, and re-fur freshly washed clothes, seriously. Hard working cat.

Week

Faces heal, remarkably well and quickly. What a difference a week makes. My smile is stiff and off, sensation still disrupted, but were it not for the plethora of healing cold sores (aka herpes simplex), my face in repose would look pretty normal. A little different, but fine. Function returning, day by day.




Snowing madly, piling up. My last day of not having to be anywhere in particular. Not my favorite vacation, but one of my most necessary ones.

Suture

I've been asked so many times, "How many stitches?" And it has nothing to do with anything. One running suture will close the last layer of a large abdominal incision. Several interrupted stitches can be put in one small finger incision. Says nothing about deep stitches underneath, nor the length of the wound or laceration, nor what kind of sutures were used. Irrelevant information. How many bacteria dance on the head of a pin? How many feet in a bushel?

Sutures come in several kinds, mix-n-match.

Permanent sutures must be removed from skin, or stay unless taken out in a later surgery, like silk, nylon (Ethilon) or Prolene.

Dissolvable sutures stay deep, but are degraded by the body over a week, weeks or months, from fast dissoveling Chromic to longer lasting Vicryl.

Monofilament sutures can be permanent or dissolvable, but are smooth, don't tie down as well, but don't track bacterial load from the skin into the wound. Prolene, Monocryl, PDS.

Braided sutures are more often permanent, keep their knots better, and are for deeper down inside. Fiberwire is permanent, braided, often used for tendon repairs. Eventually the body scars down, reinforcing and negating the need for the reinforcement, but the strong suture keeps everything in place until the body can do this with the tissue laid down. Vicryl is braided, but does degrade over weeks. Silk is braided, technically dissolvable, but most often used as permanent, surface stitches, or to tie drains, and removed.

So, all the fuss about President Obama getting "Twelve stitches" doesn't mean anything, really. My two visible Prolene stitches outside, matched by two (or three) dissolvable Chromic inside, with a vicryl, in unknown number of stitches for deep closure, beneath. Simple stitches vs, Mattress stitches makes a 1:2 difference, in addition to running stitches, which close a whole incision in "one" stitch. A seam vs a tied quilt, if that makes more sense, at least to those of you who sew.

One of the first jobs I had to do in my OJT (On the Job Training) for US Army, orthopedic tech, was to remove a passel of stitches from a long, and encrusted, incision on an arm. Given pick-ups (tweezers) and sharp, fine scissors, I was told to have at, without further instructions. I learned, and stayed attentive and acted confident, and tried to be gentle. Managed to perform the task without causing more harm. Got all the stitches out. Taking two fine sutures out of my own lip was comparably easy, once I remembered I had a magnifying mirror.

How long is the incision, now that is a measurable criteria.

Kiss

So, so, so grateful for this Thanksgiving week. That my injury on Monday, with Tuesday and Wednesday off was followed by a Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday to heal. Cold Sores, aka oral herpes simplex, blooming in profusion across my upper lip, was admittedly a bit of a set back. But with one more day to recuperate, meds on board, life is good. Energy still sapped.

Update photos after blisters no longer goopy. Woke up this morning with my mouth not glued shut, for the first time since Monday morning. I consider this a good sign.

After twenty years of kissing D, four days not doing so rather sucks. Managed a sort of kiss on his cheek, feel so much better for it. Kissing can last.

Bar

The first word I learned to spell was BAR. My parents were not overjoyed about this, being rare drinkers, no adult I knew went to bars. But riding around Detroit, a small, bored child in the back seat, in the late 60s, I picked up on the most common word, in bright neon no less, shining all around me.

Never a big fan of bars, even after going into a few. Seemed an expensive way to drink, and when driving, not a way for me to partake. E clubs, the Army on base bars, I liked, because they were A. Cheap B. Social and most important, C. A walk from where I had to be after, no car to even consider. This is part of why I still have no taste for cocktails. Beer, shots, or the occasional simple mixed drink was all that was on offer. Starting to drink only after I was of age (ok, the day before I turned 21, but let's not quibble) meant I had no taste for fruity, disguised alcohol.

When D and I started out, I took him to the E club at Ft. Carson, along with everyone else we hung out with. The only social place. Poor guy, never a drinker, still a good Mormon - in action if not conviction, this was a Big Deal. He took it all in, worried what his parents would think - not that he was drinking anything but cola. A shabby band played with a drum machine, but provided mockable entertainment.

His experience of drinkers before that was high school friends whose aim was to get wasted and tell puking stories. He's grown comfortable with my imbibing, because I stay moderate and responsible. Rarely puking.

In Boston, we went to a lot of pubs, and both like the atmosphere. He still detests the taste, never drinks because he just can't get it past his lips.

Says he used to not drink cheap beer, now he doesn't drink a much better class of craft brew. He likes the bottles.


Removed my own stitches. Of course I did. Only two on the outside, several more inside and deep that will stay in. Counting stitches is a meaningless exercise, an irrelevant number. Although my president had his lip stitched up this week as well. Cold sores by the score, still ugly, but improving.

Pandoro

Really enjoyed the Pandoro we brought with us yesterday. Haven't had any since leaving Boston, almost forgot about it. Made it to the Italian deli last week for this one. Got thinking about Special Foods, the rare treats that one eats once a year. For ten things Friday, then.

1. Pandoro, obviously. Tre Marie. Oh, the aroma!
2. Hot cross buns.
3. Cranberry sauce.
4. Maple sugar candy. Any thoughts on where I can get some out here?
5. Cotton candy. Have not had any in >calculating< 36 years, probably not going to ever again.
6. Cadbury Creme Eggs. Well, probably not anymore, since they got bought out, and it's not Cadbury anymore.
7. Rhubarb. Used to eat this out of the back yard, only the thin stalks. Would love to have a garden just for this.
8. Mint. The fresh leaves, best out of the garden as well.
9. Gin and Tonic. Best in hot weather.
0. 7-Up and Cranberry juice. This is D's holiday thing, had to go out last evening to get some. I stuck with beer.

This list drifted a bit, but such things happen.


No progress photos, because I developed an outbreak of cold sores all over my upper lip. Anti-virals obtained, on board. Too icky to show, though. Healing up well otherwise.

Solar

Hot sun on a cold day means a contented cat. Despite it being 7°F, -14°C, this morning, solar heating is sufficient for our small apartment (flat). Also means the roads will be relatively clear on the way out to D's parents this afternoon. One great thing about thin, higher altitude atmosphere, the sun just gets through.

Booties

Found this over on Neatorama.



With the reason, and full story, with illustrations, here at Hyperbole and a Half.

I had to hold my face and cheeks, I got laughing so hard. "Must keep stitches together!"

Lemons

This surprise vacation may be hard on my body, but I'm enjoying the hell out of having time to myself. Nothing to do, nothing much I really can do, and I'm relaxing into the space. Making some damn fine metaphorical lemonade. Moby curled up beside me, I watch the fluffy, salty, lake effect snow drift down. Icy out there, I'm here in my red plaid pjs and softest sweater, reading, writing, watching bad TV guiltlessly.

All worthwhile blessings come wrapped ugly, mixed up with hard crunchy bits. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving here. And I am very thankful, for a good hospital system that treated me well. That I didn't break anything in this fall, including my brain-case. That I can be home to recover. That I know D sees me as me, and the change in my face elicits empathy only. That I didn't have to brave the icy roads early this morning. So much to be grateful for, all the important stuff.

Noodle

When I was in basic, some of the firing ranges had deep foxholes, with pallets as steps for us to be high enough to get elbows over the edges. Most of them came about to my chin, standing on the sandy bottom, concrete around. Getting in was easy, if a bit uncomfortable. Getting out, a trial. Especially since push-ups were a new thing for us, and the muscles were straining to recover from being shoved into hard service. None of us had much upper body strength yet. And we'd gotten immunization shots by the dozens, in our upper arms.

Drill Sergeant Burrell was from the other platoon, same company. He picked me out the first week, since my glasses had photo grey lenses, and got pretty dark outside. He thought this made me look like John Lennon, and I became "John" to him from then on. Of all the names I was called, this one was just fine. I'd hear "John!" shouted, and I knew it was him. Burrell was a natural comedian. A rumor ran around that when a private carelessly pointed a rifle at him on a range, that he'd punched said private out, and was demoted. This made us like him more, of course. We all wanted to punch the one or two idiots who looked most likely to accidentally shoot someone because they couldn't follow simple instructions.

Burrell amused himself on the range by watching us struggling to pull ourselves out of these deep holes with our sore arms, and chanted, "Noodle arms, Noodle arms!" Even then, I found this terribly funny.

Last evening, the secondary impact areas have been lodging their complaints. Mostly triceps, upper back, range of motion is fine, but painful and lacking any strength. I use my arms a lot to support my poor ole back when I bend over, stand from a stoop. They are not up to these extra duties right now.

Noodle arms.

Cleaned

Iced and cleaned up, looking better.

I AM smiling...

Philtrum

B&W, because no one needs gruesome.

The split went all the way through, back to front, which was a bit alarming once I realized this, sitting alone (at this point) in the ER waiting room, my tongue feeling brave. Right up the philtrum about 1-1.5 cm, depending on swell-stretch. Kept my sense of proportion, and humor, at least externally, with the various folks who cared for me. Inside I felt a bit like a toddler crying because I'd fallen down, and wanted it not to have happened. I made jokes, I shrugged it off, and tried not to be squirrely. Acting brave, even when they can clearly see through it, counts among medical people, shows one is trying. And in my scrubs, OR shoe covers, ID tag hanging, they knew me for one of their own, increasing my sense of obligation to be a Good Patient. Most of us are, really, the difficulty is in taking care of each other more often than that we are Bad Patients. Became a Teaching Moment for the resident, as well, which was fine by me. I like learning this stuff.

Surgeon concerned that a tiny bit of the lip line will likely not scar down well, and that there are options after it heals to improve the cosmetic effect. Well, that is his focus, so I let him talk. I have no issue with plastics guys who do mostly reconstructive work. I'm sure once the swelling goes down, I'll be delighted enough. This is not an area of vanity for me, as long as it's functional.

Worried that D would be bothered unduly. Kept it covered until the resident got it cleaned up in her aborted attempt to close it. I couldn't be bothered after that, and D took it all in good part. After having seen the damage, he could look at the repair and genuinely say "Oh, that looks a LOT better." He's bothered by gross stuff, but he never gets faint, which is useful. He snagged a crossword section of the paper, and read out clues. Turned out to be ridiculously easy, laughably so, and he kept me distracted as we waited, which is exactly what helps me through distressing times.

Hard night, couldn't sleep well, achy and hamster wheeling thoughts, bad song in my head too. Chilled and feeling odd. Glad to have the day off, with a swolled up face and a seeping wound. I'm sure I'll go in tomorrow, though. I'll be wearing a mask, anyway.


While waiting, read my horoscope in the paper:
Head home early today. It would be best to take the day off. A partner or dear friend has been having a very difficult time.

Ok, that last part is off topic, but you gotta admit, the first part was dead on.

Numb

No shit, my horoscope, which I read sitting in the ER, said I should get off work early, or just nto go in. At least it's covered by workman's comp. Never get in an argument with a hard floor.

So, freak accident, with our known slippery floors (yeah, there's a whole story right there) my foot, or feet, meet a patch without friction, and I go down. Face first. Full on face plant, hit everything with my upper lip and teeth. Involuntary scream brings MDs and RNs from all over, a towel is pressed to me, and an ice pack, and a blanket thrown over me. Anesthesiologist tells me I've split my lip. There's an impressive amount of blood, and my head, face first, hurts. I'm pretty stunned and shaken, and accept the wheelchair. No question, once I pull the towel away, that I will need to be in the ER shortly. Much to and fro-ing to figure out how to get me there, my car home, and D to me.

ER resident numbs me up and gives it a go, then stops, and calls the plastic surgeon, who is in surgery. We wait. It's really not painful, just hideous. Teeth are fine. And more numbing occurs, a nerve block this time, and more stitching. Even D has to agree I look much better. D made me soft scrambled eggs, and I'm feeling better.

Swollen, mostly numb. Glad to be home. Comforted in D. Sinuses stuffy.

Or

Pairs of photos, except for one. It snowed overnight, much melted. We took a walk.

This may not be a lovely, architecturally important building going up across the street.


But it keeps us from having to look at this one.


The top of the Library. City County Building behind.



Library bike rack.



Less than an hour later, after the library is open.


Friday overnight, early Saturday morning. Like a howling madwoman with a scrub brush on a fast train. A front to usher in a new season. Yes, 49 mph wind gusts. Got some to 52 mph. Cleared the debris off the balcony, and apparently moved the dish around. Either that or the winds shoved the satellite off, which seems unlikely.

20 Nov 3:30 am Temp 52 S 29G49 Vis 10.00

20 Nov 3:25 am Temp 52 S 37G49 Vis 10.00

Twenty

This is the date. Twenty years ago today is the date on our orders, when we officially began. A celebratory lunch seemed called for. A trip to Burger King would be appropriate, the place to eat on base, but neither of us were up for that. So we went to our regular favorite, the Iguana Rojo, again. It's festive. Uncharacteristically quiet there today. They didn't have decorations up when they opened, new items show up intermittently, organically. Always good to find new treasures in old places.

Places

Boston, Massachusetts, 2004, The Charles, Harvard Bridge. Pink earrings. D took this one. We'd walked much further than planned, as usual in Boston. He carried this photo, actually a similar one taken just after, in his wallet. Still does, but it's nearly worn through.

Lava Hot Springs, Idaho, in hot spring, turning 35 just fine.

Detroit, Michigan, Wayne State gym, folk dancing meeting, the phrase "She forgot to bring the eggs, ohhhh pshaw, pshaw!" for a fast Israeli folk dance. Circles and lots of people holding hands, music, warmth.

Outside of Kalkaska, Michigan, on a small lake, in a heavy snowstorm, about midnight, finally making friends with darkness.

Colorado Springs, Colorado, Fort Carson, parade field, manhole cover, standing next to D in the only place without snow, hoping he'd kiss me, watching a huge winter moon.

Eskan Village, Saudi Arabia, walking around in the rain surrounded by beige concrete buildings, falling in love while surreptitiously holding hands.

Windsor, Ontario, a Chesterfield, falling asleep on Aunt Evelyn's arm.

Antelope Island, Buffalo Point, overwhelming winds, scurrying clouds, out in the wild.

San Diego, California, on the pier, in a diner with Moira and D, with a storm, feeling the room sway and rock, with cocoa.

Astoria, Oregon, Steven's Point, on the beach, sandblasted. Remembering Crane Beach, Massachusetts in November with cousins. Right out on the edges.







Ten places. Ten that I have a happy memory in. Not in temporal order.