Mum

Honestly, I have been going through the photos and videos of The Wedding. Not that I care about royalty or weddings or the strangers involved in this one. But I have a soft spot for ceremony and pomp, and how societies need elevated experiences now and again. And I am fascinated with costume, which EVERYBODY wore for this event. Elaborate hats, uniforms, the whole history of British, and by extension Western civilization, filtered through aristocratic wealth. Anthropological goldmine. Theatrical extravaganza.

(For a two minute time lapse video, see this.)

I liked the wedding dress, too. The trend to more and more skin exposure, even for a formal wedding dress - our most formal occasion these days - repels me. I had to hug my new SIL at their wedding, and I'm not comfortable hugging a half naked woman. Or 1/4 naked, to be more accurate. Still. Strapless is not a style the vast majority of women pull off well, mostly it's rather embarrassing. Hopefully the new Duchess of Cambridge (I will always imagine this as Cambridge, MA), HRH Princess William (Have I got that right?) will have set a trend toward sleeves and covered skin.

This is my favorite photo of the lot. (How embarrassing, they wore the same dress.)


I suppose on a personal note, I am glad they didn't marry as teens, barely knowing one another. She seems so self possessed, perhaps she will handle the new position better than her poor MIL. Still, does it really matter, should it matter to the rest of us? Is glamour so important? Not to me, although I enjoy the pretty once in a while. Would England be the same without it's living history of a circumscribed royal family on display?

Our language and our culture here, came from that small island nation. We adore our First Family with as much ardor and criticism, if for a much shorter time. We elevate young pretties, and smash them with equal enthusiasm. Maybe it's better to have that more enduring focus, at least in the long run.


Have I mentioned that it snowed on me yesterday on my way home? Well, it's snowing again today, as well.

Egg

I was reminded of my first Easter egg hunt. My brother Bill took me, though I am not sure why. He was a kind and attentive brother, gentle with my tears and scrapes. But even he could not read my young mind. As I stood among the pressing throng of other children, I spotted several eggs. When the signal went off, I stood, waiting for all the other children to run off, and I would pick up the egg I had seen. This did not work out well. Nor did I, hanging back and expecting to find what the hoard would not, get any eggs in the end.

Not unlike my first encounter with a slide with a flock of other children already there. I waited patiently for them to finish, and go away, so that I could play. Urged in by family, I pressed in, appalled at the crush, slid down once, and called it more than enough. This was not my idea of fun. Haven't got much competitiveness at all. Grew up more or less alone, and ultimately preferred it that way.

I often quote Jamie Hyneman, "I kinda like it in here. It's private."

I have since come to enjoy mixing in a crowd, but not when we all have the same goal. I float through the masses, with my own agenda, or none at all, invisible among them.

Plosive

Lovely day, cold in the morning, swiftly warming with bright sun. Got my permanent cap in. Feels weird, but I will adjust.

Long ago, in a classroom far, far away, I once took a speech course, with an emphasis on linguistics. I learned some of the international phonetic alphabet. Because I understood between a plosive and a fricative, I remembered them. More and more is coming back as I learn how to teach my own language.

Watching another class today, made me think about how I would teach the straightforward consonants first, then the wonky ones, then the vowels. At the same time having them memorize the alphabet in order (if they don't know it) - mostly because it is used to organize so many things. I'll use songs, mime, actor games, and most of all - the laptop. Oh, yes, I will use the laptop a lot. If I can't describe a new word in words they know, how better than to pull up an image from Oogle?

One aspect I don't think I will have any trouble with will be addressing students as the adults that they are. After all, I only have one language, and despite the cultural differences of Michigan, Boston, and Salt Lake City (which are not inconsiderable), one culture. But I do know how hard it is to enter a new world, with a different set of assumptions. I had to learn "medical" and the OR, the army and it's acronyms, and I know how it swamps one's brain.

This is all still presumption on my part. Two more weeks at the earliest before I get to meet my student or students. Hopefully, just one, at least to start. I want to start simply, go from there. I'm trying to anticipate, but I'm frustrated because I don't know who I will be paired with, and everything hinges on their needs and experience. I am rubbish at pretend scenarios. Hated the "practice" shots and IVs in nursing school, once I actually gave a shot, I was good. (Never had any job that needed me to put in IVs, so I'm no good at that, but I know it wouldn't take much.) I am much better with going for it in reality, after understanding the concept and watching others.

I tend to remember very clearly what I understand. And rote memorization lets me down more often than not. I struggle to
remember my phone number. I have two poems I learned in high school still in my head - imperfectly. Not very good ones.

Must not flood my student, whatever I do.

Bookmark

Yes. It snowed today. Nothing stuck, and it was that weird, icy, snow, but snow it did. And rain. Eh. I've seen it snow, in childhood, on the first day of school, and on the last day of school. For me, that means the week before Memorial Day, and the first week of June. Mind, this was Michigan, flurries only, of course.

Here, continued snow is not to be endured, certainly not to be philosophical about, but railed against - as though whining would help. It won't. I shrug, and take what comes. Heat, for me, is another matter. I lose all my philosophy when it's over 90˚F. But that's because my brain is starting to cook.

One more class to observe tomorrow. Hopefully soon they will assign me a student for the second week of May. A mentor will come with me for the first meeting. They really do want everyone to succeed, which is very reassuring.

Maybe soon a decent essay here, and photos. Just feeling like I'm holding a place, putting in bookmarks, here.

Whoosh

Oh, how I wanted a mental health day today. But I went in, and a busy morning turned into a rather short day, which broke my heart not at all. Head in a muddle, just wanting to be quiet at home, and then, here I was.

Sad that my favorite online crossword puzzle has been upgraded to a flashy, and unreadable, format. May be good for me really, I will have to work harder ones by pen, stretch my brain. Perhaps they'd gotten too easy for me, save the ones with too many sports clues. And I really do want to try acrostics, which is a daunting challenge that I have so far shied away from.

Next week, we go through a local geology class, two classes and a field trip. Not a subject either of us has any background in, only a general interest. One of the PACU nurses recommended it, and the professor who teaches it. So, with a decent tuition discount for employees of the university - (of which I am one) we signed up. Seems like a very long time ago, and now it's here. This place is geologically interesting, an ancient lake, earthquakes, all good stuff.

Unsettled weather, a short thunderstorm blew through, with snow predicted for tonight and tomorrow morning. Exactly what those watching for flooding off the snowpack do not want. More water, a later melt, will be more sudden because of higher temperatures. One good week of 80˚F - which could easily happen here- and whoosh, down it all comes.

Bucket

"Do you know what I miss about Easter observances, growing up Catholic?"
"No, what do you miss?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all."

I think the chocolate bunny, malted milk egg candies, were all just rewards for enduring Holy Week. And it is grueling, done properly. Every day in church, Palm Sunday to Easter Sunday, hard benches, pews, endless services, some at school - since I went to catholic school as well. I felt the words, the dogmatism of the words that choked me. Couldn't shut off my ears. I did not feel good about this, as saints were the epitome of being a good child, and they all loved the mass. At least in their stories. I found mass to be a trial, a misery. It was a lesson in self discipline, patience, and critical listening - worthy skills. I got that out of it not because that was the point, but because I pulled that out of the experience.

My mother put me in pastels, which I detested at the best of times, and the shoes always hurt. The hats were good, though. I've always liked hats. Often, in Detroit, Easter was not warm, and frilly clothes were inadequate for a raw, even snowy, day.

Oddly, or maybe not so much, Holy Saturday, a day of mourning, of death, of defeat, even with it's long service with the litany of the saints, call and response service - not a mass - sit, stand, kneel, sit, repeat, wasn't so bad. I respected the acknowledgment of death. Just as the vigil service, lighting the new fire, candles, ancient hymns (especially after I was in the choir) resonated, even though it all went on way too long. I got it when my childhood religion dealt head on with death and loss, Ash Wednesday, Holy Saturday, though I was not comforted with the idea of resurrection. I preferred the idea of reincarnation, and eventually came to like the idea of Nirvana. Although I now, I'm good with dead is dead, and now is life - better live well.

I never bought the idea of one person, one man, even if he was God's son, having to get tortured and killed, as a way to save souls from hell. What about all those who came before? All the other religions with different ideas about what happens after death? It was all so far fetched, so much had to be taken on a faith I never had. Once I started hearing other myths, it seemed obvious the christian story was one more.

The reward for a life well lived, is a well lived life. To want more is greedy and ungracious.

But, have a chocolate bunny, and eat the ears first.



Why contort oneself to drink out of the bucket? Why not?

Hop

From over at Kuriositas.

Snook

Don't try to be saintly or wise,
That is not the way to live a decent life.

Give up niceness and morals,
So we can be good and ethical.

Make a fortune, and protect it cleverly,
Even cleverer thieves will appear.

Chasing the appearance of quality
Will not create better selves.

Live simple kindness, and you will be seen as a saint.
Make decent choices, you will live with the result of good choices.
Want less, and you have less to lose.

To cock a snook. To make a long nose; to put the thumb to the nose and spread wide the fingers. This is a very ancient gesture of disrespect, contempt, or defiance.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p 217.

Drink

Some days, Moby just wants to be close to us, without actually stooping to sitting on laps.




He's caught me filling his water kettle a few times, and I have to let him drink out of the cup.

Solace

Attended a small tutoring class last night, observing only. And, well, I can do this. I began to realize the breadth of resources I have in my head, from history and speech training, acting, and history, casual linguistics, and a sometimes frightening vocabulary. I know the specific difference between P and B. B is voiced, P is unvoiced, for instance. Organizational skills from the military and nursing. A willingness to play it by ear. A curiosity about everything, anything, so that I can at least ask an intelligent question on most subjects. I'm halfway through the training, thinking it will be enough for me to start. Brain awhirl through the night, though.


Strong storms swept through as I was getting out of work, rain mixed with snow pellets, thunder and winds. Then it all blew out. A short day that felt very long. Not sure how that works, but it was all I could do to keep going to the end, at about two. Wanted to nap, but couldn't doze. Hot bath helped, as hot baths do. Some days just wear hard, that's all. D in much the same state of mind, so we got chinese food delivered. Solace egg rolls.

Cringe

I have been thinking about who I might be tutoring, and how to ask the Learning Center organizers about how to place me. And I wanted to ask for someone bright, of any background. I thought about having to teach my father, and the light came on, why I want to do this.

My father grew up in a French speaking family, "River Canard French," uneducated, illiterate French. He attended school in English, rural Ontario, no help at home. Even his parents were nominal, he was mostly "raised" by his older brothers - always a bad idea. Got to about sixth grade, but when I was in third or fourth grade, he was at sea with what I was learning. (Not that he ever really tried to help with my homework at any age.) He never read for pleasure, and was angry with anyone reading a book - considered it "rude." My mother only read when he was at work, and I learned to stay away from him when I had a book in my hands. I was often mocked for "thinking you're so smart." In his defense, he did pay for me to attend catholic school, mom insisted, but he could well have vetoed the tuition. Whomever he did it for, whatever his resentments, I did get a good education, and it was his hard work on a factory floor that paid for it.


Aside from a facility to keep his cars and house in decent repair - which is a considerable job, he had no real skill. He was a mean, petty, and stupid man. Unlike most kids who think their fathers stupid until their fathers get suddenly smart once the kid becomes an adult, I only lost more and more respect for him over the years. My mother got him playing Scrabble, and he did go through a phase, when I was in high school and college, where he did try to read better. Mom assured me he'd made a lot of progress, but I remain dubious, as she always overestimated him to me. The deck was stacked against him from the start, he didn't make much of what he had, making him a man to be pitied. My hatred has all evaporated.

But I need for whomever my student is, to not push all my father-buttons. I do want to give to someone what he needed, if he had just a bit of native intelligence, curiosity, will to learn. This old hurt is, I think, what moves me to do this. As soon as the realization came, it filled that question completely. I will talk with my coordinator about this weakness, and request consideration accordingly.

A woman's got to know her limitations.

Went to get my permanent tooth cap. Dentist put it in, had me bite down, "tap, tap." I tapped, then crunched. Broke the new cap before it even got in. So, they got the new one to the right dimensions, put the temporary back in, and made me a new appointment. I laughed with the dentist and his assistant, had to keep tapping and grinding on it to get the right shape for the remake. Fingernails on blackboard. I kept laughing, what else could I do?

That crunch is familiar not only from breaking my teeth, but from my work.

Sometimes I have to prep an arm or leg that is quite broken, after the patient is anesthetized, and I get that crunch of broken bone edge against broken bone edge. Crepitus is the official term. It's the one sound in my work, the one feeling, that still gets to me, viscerally. I told D about this most carefully, and it didn't take much. He knows that feeling from the inside, in all kinds of bad ways. And he needs to stop reading right here.

Really hard to have to hold a badly broken arm or leg, hold it in a sterile manner, wash it fairly vigorously with prep solution, while it is not stable, and making scrapey-crunchy noises, until it can be draped. Of all the jobs I have to do, this is the one that still makes me shudder. Doesn't stop me, but I cringe every time.

Swept

More rain, then more rain.
The clouds came down to my head.
Swept me off my feet.

Dress

The best expressions of love are least understood.
We know better the familiar and enjoyed,
Spending more time on what we fear.
Then obsess endlessly about what we hate.

You will be as trusted and trustworthy as you are capable of trusting those around you, inspiring confidence as you go.

When we don't talk everything to bits,
We look at all we accomplish
With great joy and honest pride.

Walking-out dress. Uniform, smarter than that used on duty, which British soldiers assume when leaving barracks in their free time.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, ed.1963, p 941.

Re-watched Danger UXB again this week. Surprisingly good, even on second viewing. Intense and funny and really quite well done. Based on memoirs of Major A. B. Hartley, no longer in print, which makes me wonder if they were readable in the first place, for anyone outside of bomb disposal anyway. I'd love to get my hands on a copy, but the only ones available are very expensive.


Six years ago, I began this blog in this form, and my head was in a different place. It's been a long, strange trip.

Literacy

I am starting a new project, tutoring for literacy. It's an exercise in bravery, for me. Something entirely new, using that coursework toward a theater degree all those years ago, finally. Improv, acting, elocution. I thought about The King's Speech, his tutor was a good old failed actor as well. Well, I failed more surely, with only one real speaking part in one play the whole seven semesters. (It was a Scottish play, but not THE Scottish Play, and I think I would be horrified today if I could hear my accent then.)

Did six hours of training today, six more next week, and two class observations over the next few weeks. I'll be tutoring one on one, or a small class, of adult immigrants or refugees who for whatever reason cannot attend formal ESL classes. It's a 3-5 hour per week commitment, including prep and transit time, an hour or two of actual tutoring. Off to the library, or an established classroom.

Going to be looking for good photos to stash in a folder, and use to point to. Stories, strong images, relevant photos. The sight of workbook drawings and stilted, often outdated, illustrations made me feel a bit nauseated. I like working from real, one of my difficulties in my own learning. I have a hard time doing pretend exercises, when the actual is barreling down on me. So, I will try to bring in real things to handle, actual photos to illustrate. Gods bless the internet, I intend to use it extensively.

Oh, maybe that's what I can use that old wiki for, an online resource. I shall have to ponder this. At the moment, my brain is a bit full, which is why I'm spilling out here. Wasn't going to write about it openly here, but I guess I am now. I will not mention it at work, ever. Under the principle of good works being something for the right hand to know, and the left hand left oblivious.

So, ahem. NO praise to me for this, ok? Encouragement, resources, jokes, sure. I will delete any comment telling me "atta girl!" or anything like it. Just don't go there. I'm doing this for reasons obscure even to myself, but 'thanks' is definitely not one of them. Not even sure I'll be any damn good at it, but that's part of why I am giving it a go. Eventually there will be stories, with the individual disguised completely. As much care of their privacy as my patients get.

Scares the crap out of me, honestly. In a good way.

Oozes

Damp morning, stark clouds
Colors hinting at the edge.
Seeping, spring oozes.

Faces

Get home, eat, go to bed. Get home, eat, go to bed. All I got. More in my head, even fingers won't cooperate.

Oh, wait, D sent this to me at work, at my request. Cheered me consider'ble.

Seriously

Getting the place ready for the carpet cleaner. Get one supplied by the management for lease renewal, and the entry and main path surely need it. Especially keeping in mind our old feline guy's attraction to the front hall for peeing purposes. All is in readiness.





He's a wise old cat, we're sure he has his reasons. Moby has therefore found his usual perch in an unusual place, but takes it with aplomb. A very serious cat.

Dead

My mother had a disturbance in the freckles on her arm, from falling against a wood burning stove as a child. She told me of cold water apartments, no tub, but water heated pail by pail to fill a galvanized tub. Just a toilet down the hall. Of moving a lot, having to do with paying less rent - never fully explained. Her father was on the pokey, or was the on the dole? during the depression, and the Canadian government had him spreading ashes on streets in the winter, hauling trash in the summer. Aunt Evelyn told me of how he drank, a pleasant enough sot. Evelyn hired out as a nanny and housekeeper, glad to get away.

For granny, of her ten children born, five survived to adulthood. Michael, the oldest, drowned at 17, caught in the undertow so the story goes. Granny outlived all but two, Walt died the day I started college, his wife Peggy lives on. Evelyn of pancreatic cancer, after a decade caring for Ernest who fell off a roof and survived brain injured. Grace of breast cancer after clearing her house of the hoarding after her husband Elmer died. Only the youngest, Jerry (without his wife) and Mary (with her bastard of a husband) live on. Well, I think Uncle Jerry is still going, I'm not sure. He and mom were not close. And I'm not close to any of them. And this was the side of the family I liked.

Lots of cousins, Jerry had eight, Grace had two, Walt, two, Evelyn one. And they pretty much all reproduced. Liked my cousins, met them at funerals, mostly. The great aunts and uncles, then... well. I did go to a lot of funerals, said a lot of rosaries at funeral homes. Might be part of why I don't mind heavy, ornate furniture, but don't want to live with it. Funerals are good, because no one expects anything but sadness and solemnity, and usually people start telling stories and having a laugh. Weddings are just the opposite - everyone expects them to be so much fun, and they have always disappointed me. Strained, fraught, and dismal.

Not all the cousins survive, either. Brian and Larry are gone, probably more of Jerry's offspring. More will come.

Not that I'm feeling morbid, I just remembered stoking the coal furnace as a kid, and mom's stove injury, and the rest just unraveled.

Nom

From Cakewrecks. Made me laugh. (Note similarity with my nom-de-blog, and make assumptions.)

Hanging

"I couldn't leave it alone! It was hanging down!" My OR hat, which I do have to iron a bit to make it fold in the right place.


I have the sense I have offended, bored, dismayed, some readers. Maybe, like me the last few weeks, some of you are just not feeling like talking. Maybe I've just not given you anything to respond to. There is an ebb and flow to life, connections. And I know by now that any momentary pseudopolularity is fleeting at best. Just as I visit some sites rarely, or at all, anymore. I've read what they had to say, and have nothing more, even inside myself, to respond with. Commonalities synchronize for a while, then dissipate. I worry, sometimes, that I should refrain from commenting on any site of a writer who used to visit, and does not anymore, that they would prefer to be left alone, as they leave me alone. It's so hard to tell in this medium.

City

I have just finished Open City by Teju Cole. I remember reading one of his blogs, aspiring to be half the blogger he was. Then he deleted the whole project, erased it completely from existence. I respected him for that, although I wanted more time to read the rest of his words that carved to the bone. His world of Blogistan.

The book is like that blog, meandering, shocking, quietly waiting for a storm to break. I found the (near) ending disturbing, uncertain, ambiguous. I want to know facts, that cannot exist, as such, in fiction. Choose to fill in the blanks as I like, there is no actual answer. No real ending, no beginning. A walk through an urban landscape, with all the memories bobbing up. As I have my miles of walking Boston, the one aspect of living there I most miss. Watching the city go by at pedestrian pace.

Took me a long time to work my way through this novel. Not a piece of writing to be rushed, not to be swallowed in one gulp. It will stay with me a long time. But I will not read it again.

Ten

I tell myself, 10.
You will be loved, utterly.
It will take some time.


I've been taking walks with a small girl, myself at about age ten. About to face the uphill battle of adolescence without support, and worse. A brother in the military, another in a cult, a father without boundaries and a rage issue, a mother beaten down and capable of undermining in response, and her (me) - too smart for her own peace of mind, and deeply frightened and unhappy. Poor, no outlets for creativity but the library, in a large, urban, but in no way cosmopolitan setting. Craving affection and acceptance. She has her bicycle to ride a short way from home on her own, carrying a burden of warnings, largely ignored.

I want to tell her to be brave, keep studying, stay aware, and persevere. Tell her she is beautiful, only her distress keeps the boys she craves away, the very attitude that protects her from her father, so she must endure and survive first. That she will be attractive, and will attract some lovely people, and one really nasty one. But that one is just as important, to teach her how not to love, how not to live. Because of him, she will find her true path, her real love, so she must be open to all of it, all the pain and mistakes. Do everything, but remember. Remember wearing a large cross, and every crush, and every half hidden word of the relatives, and hold it all in her heart, so that one day, she will have all the pieces to put together and understand. Wring every lesson from each pain, make it suffering worth enduring.

It really does get better.

Pour

Pour yourself out,
Find the stillness left.

All the stuff comes and goes, as you watch.
Nourishing and flooding, and then dying off and ebbing.
Nature changes changelessly,
Seeing the constancy is important.

Keep your mind open, it will foster compassion.
Compassion will prise open your mind.
Without a cage on your heart, you will be great hearted,
And the great hearted are filled with divine spirit.
This divinity is the humble way of tao.
This is the eternal path.

This is the real heavenly reward, when we are already the tao,
When the body is simply the feet of the tao.

Pound. The unit of weight (Lat. pondus, weight); also cash to the value of twenty shillings sterling, because in the Carlovingian period the Roman pound (twelve ounces) of pure silver was coined into 240 silver pennies. The symbol £ and lb. are for libra, the Latin for a pound.
- Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p. 719.

Filthy

Zen chime alarm clock, my hand made bottle, Ida's framed photo, herhimnbryn's box with card, salvaged and repaired Boston lamp.





Filthy weather, snow rain in a "wintry" mix (as the weather boffins phrase it these days.) We went out for a short while, I have a gift card for a shop I do like, but it's an outlet store, and it's always a matter of chance if I find something I really want enough to put down actual money for. So, I kept thinking, do I want to tell my dear D's parents that this is what I spent their gift card on? And, despite feeling like I should get something soon, so I could thank them again, saying "I got this, thank you so much!" I figured it should be something worthwhile. The cashmere, mid arm length gloves, were lovely, but a bit much for a pair of gloves, for me. Or a very nice t-shirt, that might be too clingy for me to wear around them, and too much $ for my taste anyway. I enjoy the browsing there, and I have the card in my bag for whenever.

So I left, having enjoyed, magpie-like, having stared at the shiny for a while. I'm very good at walking out with nothing in my hands. Goes back to my mother telling me to look, but not touch, anything in the toy aisle. It was all mine to look at, and I put my hands behind my back, or in pockets, and the treat was to visit the toy aisle. I didn't much like the all cammo/truck/car boy's section, but no more the all pink/barbie/babydoll girl aisle. I tended toward the androgynous playthings even then. Stuffed animals, games, balls and leggos, better by far.

I retain this ability to be satisfied by perusing the goods, without having to bring anything away with me. Better, because I still have cash in my pocket. Or on my card. We don't even have checks these days. Get irritated when some old bugger in front of us in the grocery line pulls out a checkbook. Sheesh, who still uses checks anymore? We were fairly early adopters of cards, debit, credit, whatever. Paypal, even.

I have taken up the next step of the cleaning, the bookcase is smelling of lemon oil, the music books in some kind of order. Detritus discarded. Dust dismissed.

For those of you who only come for photos of Moby, here.


(I don't mind, he is beautiful*.)


Still snowing. Still going to snow. Happy skiers. Worried flood control people. If it gets very warm very fast, this could be sloppy. All that snow, nearly twice the average, is great because it's our water supply, bad because it does flood here. (D spent some time sandbagging during this, as a BS.)



*Even if he does have an old guy's predilection for peeing idiosyncratically. We're working on it, calmly. Not his fault, just a cat thing.

Half

Rather unwell this past week and change, from the temporary capping of the tooth and sequele, from the wild mood swings of the weather, from whatever dust or pollen has blown in from the west, or an idle virus with nothing much better to do. So, I've written little, with much halfassedry, just to keep my mind from seizing up completely. Damn all for comments on any other sites.

Wound up with a short day, and a promise kept today. Slipped into the staff access to the library booksale, with a surgeon I work with (that I like, and respect) and D, who does have a badge and permission after all. As Dr. W walked down the hall to our place, I opened the door so she had some idea how far, and Moby wandered out. Now, usually, someone walking up the hall would cause him to freeze and retreat hastily. This time he gazed interestedly, then rubbed his chin on the corner as she approached. Didn't quite let her pet him, but even that much was a wow.

Found an old Paddington I'd not seen before. I could do with a small bear story.

We walked home in the icy rain, or the rainy snow. Got quite unpleasant about halfway, mostly because we were dressed for April, not February. Both of us thought to wear more, and forgot at the last moment. It's been raining heavily for the last 24 hours, snow mixed in great deal of that. Rather like a houseguest that started out fine, but as the months have worn on, and it still is hogging the couch, one simply wants it to go away. But some years are just like that, and there is nothing to be done.

Stopped to look at a rain jacket I'd seen, didn't like it on second look. Found the grass to plant this summer that Moby adores. Brought it home, and he was instantly demanding we put it down and stop messing about. One mug tea, one mug cocoa later, and we are all warm and dry, with a grassful cat.

It is pleasant to have a half day on a Friday of a week with but fitful comforts.

pluviose
adj. rainy (Via Futility Closet)

Reflex

Went to the massage school for a reflexology massage, very inexpensive so we both went. I just thought of it as a hand and foot rub. I accept that reflexology could well be a real thing, but I also consider it over-thought on the various charts and among stringent proponents. After waking up with my head & sinuses aching, and my gut turning over and over, spending the morning getting everyone to settle down and quit whining so loudly, I was eager for a non-invasive therapy. By then feeling more or less normal, I think it did help smooth out the last wrinkles. It was certainly very pleasant.

Head acted a bit like a migraine, but not quite. And I haven't had one for oh, maybe a couple of years now. For which I am very grateful. This was odd, and probably related to the unhappy temporarily capped back molar. Anyway, feeling entirely myself this afternoon, to the point of getting vacuuming, laundry, and dishes done.

D made sure I had soda water before he left for work this morning, and brought lunch when he came home. He does take good care of me.

We're making pizza this evening. About all either of us were up to, making or eating.

Muddiness

April confuses
Wrong footed, a duck shuffle
Mud sticks to my socks.

Cap

Ear aching from tooth
Prepped for a cap, not happy.
Taking a sick day.

Yeah, it snowed. Mostly I slept through it, although in my dreams I walked along a road, watching shallow snow melt to nothing as I looked. It's all gone now, more may come, but not much. Difference of 40˚F from yesterday. Long, hard, dream stuffed sleep. D woke me at 0930, knowing I would not want to sleep longer.

Trust

Over the last year, less, Moby (never a lap cat) has taken to curling up beside us, even between us, on the sofa. We have long felt that the proof of our being good people to him, is that he trusts us. And this trust has grown, so that I can have my hand on his tum, on his face, and he falls deeply asleep. It occurred to me today that he has also earned our trust. I have my arm exposed to his claws and teeth - he could easily do significant damage. I know he won't, save in extremity, by accident. This is one very asleep cat. I bopped his nose with my finger accidentally, and he did not so much as flick an ear.

The best friendships grow slowly, layering trust upon trust.

Pan

Last night:
Warm, windows open. Inside all day for me, another long day, but it's all income, and I can't complain too much. I was the runner, the opener, the turnoverer, the break giver, the clean upper. Got home by 1830, worn and welcomed.

That is the best part, that D always brings me home. Despite my fiddling with putting away my baggage and taking off shoes, and bitching about my day, he waits until I pause, then eagerly greets me and hugs me. It is a wonderful life, to be always wanted, embraced, welcomed. I am unspeakably grateful, to know where home is, always. I never forget it was not always so for me, that for long years I had no home. Twenty years on, and I still value this proof of being beloved.

I've been thinking about values, about what values matter. Certainly not family or religious values. I remember my mother talking about a new married couple choosing each other first. About how my brother didn't value family over friends. All about a vague kind of precedence. I never quite understood it. Loving one's father because he is one's father. Assuming love (should love ever be assumed?) due to genetic proximity. This very idea offends me. I've never been much motivated by money, only the security that sufficient money brings. I'm not a believer, not a joiner, not a fan of institutions as an ideal.

I value kindness, competence, serious attention to one's work, and great amusement at the vagaries of life. I value expressing love in any form as many ways as possible. I value art and wit and intelligence, as well as critical thought. I value care of the helpless, children, pets, the elderly. I value respect of those who have earned it, and gentleness for those who have not. I value discipline and self control, and those who know they have no control over anyone else. I value thoughtfulness and curiosity.

This morning:
Thinking about a discussion on another blog years ago, commenters getting hot under the collar about using a dishpan, the consensus that everyone uses them and they are useless. Their reasoning mostly in the negative - that their mother had one, neighbors, and they could not see why.

I use one, my mother did not. I remember having to plunge my hand into the cooling, greasy water to pull the plug, and retching as I did so. The water in the large sink lost heat very quickly, and I've broken glasses on the porcelain - a treacherous accident. So, when I got on my own, I bought a plastic pan to put in the sink, like my aunts did. Uses less water - that stays hotter longer. I've never broken anything on the softer material, and when I'm done, the dregs get poured down the disposal cleanly.

I remember a story from the infamous Reader's Digest, of a woman who cut the ends off the roast. (Yes, this was a very long time ago.) When asked why, she can only say she thought it has something to do with the flavor, because her mother always did it this way. The mother simply says her mother always did it. The grandmother is asked, and she replies "Because that was the only way to make it fit the pan I had."

I've never been any good at memorizing, it takes a huge amount of effort and time for me to get a short poem in my head, or a phone number. But if I know why something does what it does, why someone was given that name, why that number, it stays forever, clear and connected. It doesn't even have to be a big important why. Much of what I do at work is protocol, we do it that way because it works well enough, and simplifies complex tasks so as not to confuse others. The tourniquet has two hoses, one blue, one red. In this place, we always use the red one, unless both are needed for a bilateral surgery. Then we use Red Right, Blue Left. It really doesn't matter, as such, but prevents inflating the wrong one on both sided cases, and keeps the one not connected from being accidentally used - to no effect - on the rest.

Why do you do what you do?

Clouds gathering, proof that the mild day will be shoved aside for at least one more snowstorm. At least it doesn't stick around down here on the valley floor.