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.

Pierce

Granny had pierced ears as a girl, but one was torn out by another girl. She only wore clip ons by the time I came along. So goes the story. Having seen how girls fought in lower grades, this did not surprize me at all. So I was glad to wait until I was a little older to get my ears pierced. Fourteen? Sixteen? Funny how I honestly can't remember now, but I never doubted I wanted them done, to my mother's confused acceptance - her ears were untouched. She took me to Sears to have the "nurse" there do mine.

Older, round woman in a polyester uniform, cold but kind enough manner, she swabbed a lobe with alcohol (I assume) and used a hand held clamp-like machine to place the stud. I held myself stoic, I'd made the choice, I stood by it by being brave. Not worse than a shot from the doctor when I was tiny. I listened hard to the instructions. Of course a couple of days after one stud came out during cleaning, and after mom tried to get it back in unsuccessfully, I just shoved it back through, making a new hole in back. I could be tough, even then, when I made my mind up. While still painful, my much older brother flicked one ear, and I went down. Good to see him react with real shock, abashed to his toes, the jerk.

It was the era, and I was at an age, to wear the biggest hoops, the flashiest bobbles, feathers, bells, shiny and sparkly - all cheap earrings. I wore odd ones when I began to lose one of each pair - regularly. An affectation that lasted many years. My one indulgence while living on my own on so little money, a half dozen earrings for a dollar or two. My one area of trivial decoration. Aside from my mother's baby ring* (that she'd resized for herself as a young woman) I wore no other jewelry.

When I knew I would leave the ex, I bought myself a very pretty set of earrings, more expensive than any I'd ever gotten before, (maybe a whole $10.) I'd begun to live for myself again. D has given me many beautiful pairs over the years, none in a dozen set. Until I decided he'd given me the best ever, and I never really wanted more. Lost one, sadly, and would not get more until I found the ones I'd wear all the time for years. Not feeling like having a passel of different ones, these days.

I like how they feel, a fidget I always have close, a pretty I don't have to take off when I roll up my sleeves. A personal, durable talisman.

*Given to my niece, her granddaughter, long ago.

Stuff

What do you carry around with you? Mostly identification, keys (not shown), this bag to hold it. Stuff and nonsense.


Cleverly disguised, of course.

Having difficulty writing the story of earrings, but this photo for now.

Tucked

Cat sits on laptop
Not the soft blanket, but near.
Tucked in, elegant.

Slumber

Procedural

Not so much as bad haiku yesterday. One of those days of snuggling down and barely peeping out. Watching A Touch Of Frost, via netflicks, since it's never been shown over here. It kept coming up on IMDB credits for pretty much every British actor, so we had to try and find it. It's a bit like Da Vinci's Inquest, with a bit of Columbo, a charming bit of police procedural, without being as silly as Midsomer Murders, nor as grim as Homicide. Yes, I do watch too much tv.

Flattery

This is not a flattering shot, but it is, indubitably, me. As I am. The years have piled on recently. Over the past few since the back injury, and letting my hair be what it is. From a woman who didn't look forty,(or so) to one who looks her age, and a bit, in so short a time, this is hard. But it's true, so it is. I went from fine, to thinking I'd breathed my last, to being unutterably grateful to be still alive, to having a life more painful, further along, than before. Mixed blessings, fate, inevitability, all in one waxy gob. Here I am. This is it. Apex of ability and keenness passed, and so it goes.

But, I love and am loved. By a thoroughly decent human being, who is incapable of malice. A man of eternal integrity who has never passed a contemptuous thought about me. Not that bad, all in all. Pretty good, actually. Fucking amazing, really.

Let my roots go down further, catch more of the subtleties, may compassion bloom. How deep can I go.

Theft

You'd think operating rooms would not be a den of thieves. I would have, until I worked there, and was warned. I've never had more than a mug stolen, but then as a paranoid Detroiter, I never left anything else out, not unlocked. Food left out, on tables in the lounge, is considered fair game, mostly in the form of treats in bowls. Staff descend like locusts, and it all vanishes. Unless I know who brought it, I generally keep away. Even with parties, food brought specifically to share, I eat only after others have had a go at it, since I never bring food. Anything left in the fridges is susceptible to depredations, but most of us consider it theft when it's a person's lunch. Condiments brought, even if labeled, are pilfered.

At a former hospital, early on in my OR time, I came into the lounge to eat, a surgeon sat eating a packed lunch. I didn't think much about it, until another staff member came in and said, "That's my lunch!" Surgeon stops a moment and says, all innocence, "Oh, you wanted it?" No joke. Entitled as all hell. I don't know how much I used the fridge before, but I never used it again. I'll risk my food going a bit off rather than lose it altogether.

A rash of thefts from a scrub who tended to leave her locker open "only for a minute!" Perpetrated by one of the sterile pack people, both now gone and unlamented. Med students only passing through, anesthesiologists floating over, it's rarely about actual need, more a sense of entitlement and lack of consequences.

I hear that police stations have much the same problem. I'm sure, despite the pervasiveness of thievery, that it is still a minority actually doing it. But it makes everyone feel unsafe, suspicious, angry.

Doodads

Ten little things that just hang around.

Bottle opener.

Post it notes.

Nail clippers, except when you really need one.

Pots of Tiger Balm. Because when you can't find one, and buy another, then you find the old one.

Pens of uncertain inkage.

Unneeded grocery receipts. In pockets and canvas bags and the floor of the car.

Hair restraints. Often broken.

Guitar picks. Often in the lint trap of the dryer.

Little plastic oddments, especially the ones that hold price-tags on, and then keep cropping up.

Cables. Always cables.

Armistice

I'm a veteran, of a sort. I did my years, fulfilled my service as agreed, went to a foreign war and did as expected. Raised my hand, and made no attempt to get out of my responsibility. As a result, I met D, got about half of nursing school paid for, and changed my life from the ground up. I'm eligible for a VA home loan and they are supposed to bury me.


I've never considered myself a soldier, although technically I certainly filled that slot. I shot an M16, wore the uniform, and was prepared to follow orders, if not happy to do so. Because I was only enlisted National Guard/Reserve, I do not get the same benefits as a Regular military member, even though counting the days of my six years, I did the full two years worth of a regular Army member. Fair? Ha, like anything about being in has any relationship to "fair." A female vet, to boot, which also doesn't quite count. Medical, which is even softer on the scale.

My brother is retired Air Force, served during Vietnam, mostly in Thailand fixing jets. Most of my uncles on my mother's side served in the Canadian forces, one on subs out for U-boats in the St. Lawrence.

Considering that most military service members are support, not combat, I'm actually pretty typical. At risk, but not front line. In trench warfare, which the 11/11 date, Armistice Day as was, commemorates, no one was safe, everyone was a combatant, and target. Survival in the face of such dire circumstances, disease and firepower, could easily be seen as simply miraculous. No one emerged unscathed. Other wars played out variously for individuals, as well as different countries.

I don't, therefore, get all squishy about vets as a totality. Just being in the path of ordinance does not mean valor. Valor is not the best of human qualities, either. That those who put their lives on the line get treated like crap bothers me. They get the worst health care, treated like cowards for the after effects of concussion and battle, jailed and discarded. A society that takes it's young, often already grasping for otherwise unavailable opportunity to better themselves, asks them to murder for the failure of politics, then makes no, or only feeble, attempts to reintegrate them into society, reaps what it sows. I have no illusions that many soldiers are not our best and brightest, but, as the happy phrase goes, joining the Army or going to jail. I was among them, I was one of them. Poor and with limited options, I joined for the income and access to funds for school.

I came away with much more than I expected. Mostly because of the people I got to know, a real cross section of this country. With time to talk, without preconceptions, to everyone. I got to know a couple of criminals, though I didn't know it at the time. I found wonderful friends who I would trust with my life. And one I live beside and love down to my soles.

Don't thank me, it was nothing noble, nothing even worthwhile. I got what I could out of the institution and made the most of it. I never saw combat. I no longer have nightmares. I sustained no injuries. I was in it, I was not of it.

Recalibration

Massage appointment this morning, special offer of a steam bath to go with. She knew her stuff, and I had to remind myself that she could release the pain without beating me up. She did, too. Instead of tense and sore, I'm drowsy and achy, which is the right direction. Nicely steamed, so my sinuses are also much eased. Crud has been accumulating, much reduced now. Although, it's going to be a few days of more discomfort as I recalibrate. Like the clocks.

Bright grey monochrome skies, crisp fresh air, snowing off and on all day, little bitty nearly invisible flakes. No wind worth the mention, so the cold is inert, un-intrusive, benign. Drifting inside my own head, averse to movement, ambition, utility.

Blanket

Time is out of joint. Clocks in the OR wrong all day yesterday, from an hour to three hours off. Correct this morning, until they "fixed" them, again, leaving it behind an hour.

Tired of today.

Hynmlessness

Furrier

They were left too long in the dryer, and came out so twisted they needed ironing. A task I avoid generally, but will do if necessary. Laid the clean, pressed trousers on the bed. Moby takes his job as furrier very seriously.

"Don't worry, I'll get these taken care of in no time."

Had to swipe off a good half inch of slush off the car when I got off work. Just rain down here, though. All day long.

Edges

The top of the fridge where the spices live.



The dryer poetry.


Knowing where my towels are.

Gracias

Thanksgiving was not a holiday in my childhood. It was the day mom declared she did not cook, everyone fended for themselves, after watching the parade on TV. It was her declaration of Canadian-ness, since that was not a holiday she grew up with, even the Canadian version. She cooked big meals with family over for Easter, Christmas, New Year, birthdays, even Mother's Day when we didn't spend it on the road visiting both grandmothers. Thanksgiving held no official place in the Catholic calendar, either. This was always fine with me, it was usually a mellow day. Even on the occasions when we braved the cold to see the parade in person, with cocoa in a thermos, and came home to warm up and nap. And not have to spend any of that time on hard pews.

Twenty years ago, I spent the holiday with friends, knowing I was being shipped off to Gulf War I a few days later. There is the time before then, and my life since then, neatly bisected, if not evenly. The best bits have all been since then. Because every day since has been with D. And I'll take the hardest moments with him over any good moments without him. And every Thanksgiving since has been with him, and his family.

For the last twenty years, D and I have been together, the odd day when out of town we at least spoke to each other. The actual anniversary we count as the Friday after Thanksgiving. That year, 1990, we got home in May, moved in together the next year in July '92. Thanksgiving of '93, D's parents still not happy that we'd deferred a wedding, not at all getting that we felt perfectly happy with being common-law married.

So, that Thanksgiving Day, in their living room, D's dad looked at us and said, "Ten minutes in the bishop's office, make us happy." And then, the clincher, "We'll pay for the license." D looks at me and says, "What do you think?" Since I'd already proposed to him the week we moved in together, and he was in no way ready, I was not going to take a proposal from his father. So I dragged him off to the den in his parent's basement, and we talked about marriage, and weddings, and he actually knelt in front of me, and we agreed this was a good idea. I wanted to be sure he wanted this, for himself, no pressure, a chance for him to hold at 'no,' or at least, 'not yet.' He assured me that he did want to marry me, as long as it wasn't going to be A Wedding!

Not having to worry about the cost of the license helped. I already had a plane ticket to visit my parents right after finals, so we decided on the day before, December 15. (For many years we struggled to remember that date.) We got the license, D got his suit pressed, I had my blue dress ready.

Coming off finals and the flu, still ill and feverish, we drove to his parent's house.

D's parents made his three brothers at home put on ties and sit on the couch, D's mum made an angel food cake and had balloons. We gave our formal vows, already having lived by the ones we found most meaningful for three years before, and signed the legal papers. The LDS bishop said magic words over us, off the cuff, as per. Including a lot of stuff about being faithful to each other, which confused me, and had D wanting to say "Buddy, you got something to say, just say it, or we can take this outside!" The bishop also kept trying to get us to face the family, with his back to them, rather than all of us with our sides to the sofa. He failed. We were back home within two hours.

Our friend Dusty told us, "Congratulations on your capitulation!" We took it as the perfect response. I went back to class in January and told people we'd gotten married, which shocked, I'm still not clear why. Our friends who were a bit hurt at not being invited ("No one was invited...") brought forth our apologies. We resolved to have a reception for friends when we could afford it. Three years later, we did.

This is the wedding I think of as perfect, nonpareil, a paragon to compare against all other weddings. Because I felt no qualm, not a moment's hesitation, at vowing to spend my life beside this lovely human being. I knew what wrong felt like, this was everything else.

Last night, D turned to me and says, "In two weeks, we will be at 20 years!" This feels very good indeed, textured, nuanced, joyous. We could not call any part of our relationship "rocky." The rough spots have pretty much been external, or directly attributable to D's ADD, and my behaviour exacerbating the symptoms. We just get on, always have. We pour our hearts into our lives together, and both feel beloved. Astonishing to both of us that we've done so well, created such peace together.

A whole holiday to express the overwhelming gratitude at finding each other. And the bottomless well of gratitude to each other.

I'll be making cranberry sauce to bring there this year, my usual.

That

Ten Things Friday.

Yes, I am doing a post every day of November. Sometimes putting it up the evening before, of course, with two on that day. But 30 posts.

Today, ten things I would like to believe, but I don't know, because the evidence is not there, or a bit thin or contradictory. Or it's just impossible, but I want the world to work that way, and I know it won't.

1. That Homo floresiensis is a hominid species that has existed along side our species, and not some deformed humans. And that they may not be the only ones, with wild men and yeti and Sasquatch being much the same. Probably gone now, but maybe still there a few hundred years ago, and still part of our collective memory.

2. That we are descended from aquatic apes. I love that theory, and I suspect getting solid evidence is pretty much impossible. Or maybe a semi-aquatic species and a closely related terrestrial species, and both traits still live on.

3. That we are part Neanderthal. There is some genetic evidence, but a lot of close-minded "scientists" refuse to see it, and other real scientists are waiting and seeing. I'll hang with the latter group, but I really would like it to be real. It would explain a lot about how weirdly different we can be, and how little we can sometimes talk to other ostensible humans.

4. That there are local angels, or kami, or small gods. Not one big omniscient, omnipotent god who doesn't fucking bother, but minor, sometimes helpful, sometimes cranky ones, who occasionally hand out justice or hints or minor punishments or small coins. Just because it would make more sense.

5. That DEATH really does come with his scythe and Binky, offers a few words, then we are gone. I think this idea is so comforting, especially since I really no longer even want to have an afterlife. I'm perfectly happy with the idea of obliteration. I'd just like someone to say good bye to.

6. That we are alone. No ETs, no intelligent, reachable life. Maybe beyond any possibly crossable distances, for any of us or them, but for all practical purposes, this is it. We get one life, one planet, best deal with it. There is nowhere else to go, we have to make it good right here right now.

7. That there is a way to reach the closed minded, the ultra-conservative, bigoted, sexist, religious nutjobs, to break through the fear, and they will say "Ah, I understand now."

8. Teleportation. I really, really want safe, reliable teleportation. I want to go spend a day with my friend Moira, and be back in my own bed tonight. Or go have dinner at India Quality in Boston, and be back home in time for The Soup.

9. That there is a way out of the mess we're in.

10. That there was a sure way to tell a lie from truth.

Why

Bad dreams, woke crying at 0430, feeling abandoned and alone. Unemployed, I had to take a room in a convent, other elements. Got back to sleep, and dream of bathroom stalls and men in work boots and a surgeon complaining to me of not ordering blood for a case. An orthopedic surgeon doing a major general case.

Never quite got out of that mood all day, although I tried very hard to stay cheerful all day.

Why, oh why, do rental apartments in this place always, always, always have crappy beige carpeting? Never hardwood floors?

Abiding

Still getting to 75-77˚F (up to 25) in here during the day, due to the sun. I refuse utterly to put on any AC in November. Moby is happily soaking up all the sun he can get. And sometimes, he needs his nose scritched.

Just finished reading Two Gentlemen of Lebowski, amazing. The Knave abideth.

Solutions

It's been a long process. Moby has always had moments of peeing outside the box. Even when they are kept perfectly clean. We have always assumed it was an artifact of his early experiences before we found him. Bathtub peeing is pretty normal for cats. And Moby has always loved a throw rug on the floor. A few months ago, he started to use the carpet right near the door, probably because the door into the bathroom, and the litter boxes, was closed, and he didn't feel like bothering to scratch at it for me to open it for him. The presence of dogs, and possibly another cat, along this hallway, may have caused him to want to mark. No way to know for sure. But a trial for us, and a lot of cleaning up and vigilance. Moved his food nearer to where he was going, which contracted the area that smelled like a perfectly good alternative, now.

Three things seem to have finally solved the issue. First was the deodorizer that denatures the urine, really kills the smell, although it has a strong smell of it's own. We ordered a pad that he can pee on, easily washed, impervious backing. He took to it right away. And I finally remembered how much Moby loves the smell of Indian food. He doesn't eat it, but he will sniff in obvious pleasure when we have it around. One place, our neighbors always cooked, the most lovely of Indian food aromas would fill the hall, and he would sit where he could get the best wafts. So, I thought, maybe Masala spice sprinkled, would give his brain a different message about the entryway. Sure enough, he has not gone in that area, or anyplace outside the bathroom, since.



We can live with this. Old guys just get peculiar about where they take a piss. Has to be expected.