Nudity

Writing as (joe) has a wonderful post about her nude photos. It's a theme, over there, and she takes extraordinary photos of ordinary people, with a kind eye and a deft thoughtfulness. She has noted often that the men tend to be more shy, reluctant, self conscious of their body "flaws" than the women, and much harder to convince to have their photo made.

I wonder why, as is my wont. Maybe because men identify more with their uniform clothing, that denotes their job, class, status. Be it a suit, jeans and t-shirt, or a more specific uniform. To remove that in front of anyone but an intimate, a lover, leaves them without identity, and very vulnerable. It's probably more complicated, and certainly individual than that.

Women, although more vocal in their self criticism, are also more used to being looked at, and exposing their bodies. Both in and out of clothing.

Honestly, I don't get it. But, then, I live in my skin. I am not exhibitionist at all. Neither do I care if anyone sees part of my body that is not socially acceptable. Typical nurse, yes. Parts is parts. Whatever. I have been socially naked, been to a bath-house in San Francisco, modeled for art classes. I could handle a nude beach, no problem. I change in a locker room every damn morning. I get massages, without a whiff of embarrassment when I remove clothing. Lived in barracks, and have, under admittedly dire* circumstances, shared a shower with other women. I can change a tampon without being noticed, under barracks conditions. I am comfortable in my essentially heterosexual identity, with the potential for experimentation long past.

I would, of course, pose for (joe) anytime. But then, I'm probably more comfortable in my skin than a majority of the people I know.

Weighed myself at work yesterday, after our young man scrub, who can't gain weight, did his. I've lost a few pounds from the last time. I have done nothing different. I don't really care. This is who I am, this is what I am, and I will not be my weight obsessed mother.

*We had undergone a "smoking" which involved being in a hot room, coerced to extreme and extended physical exertion (scissor kicks and jumping jacks and such, over an imagined group crime), then allowed a very short time to shower and get into bed (cots). So we mobbed the shower, two at a time, and got clean and scrubbed, admitting only to each other our losses of bladder control in the two hour (hazing? I can only assume) trial. I found out later, we'd gotten off fairly lightly compared to other units, and I knew at the time that our female Drill Sergeant was extremely reluctant and very disapproving - she silently took my glasses from my chest, and gave them back to me after. Several women had terrible blisters that made taking the final PT test very difficult. The sweat of our bodies caused the condensation on the ceiling to rain on us.

Water

When I was small, I would throw water up with my hands, and close my eyes, to remember that frozen moment. Flung water seemed the most beautiful thing.

The rain drenched, and spouted out of the gutters, today. Thunder, lightening. I didn't see any hail, although it sounded like it. Rain is difficult to photograph. Impossible to share the experience completely. This is as close as I can get right now.

Helicopter

Dale mentions Tree of Heaven, and I am instantly transported to my backyard as a kid, the smell that gets in my mouth. There was another tree in the back yard, that died, my parents spent a week cutting it down and getting it out - which was exciting and sad at the same time. More sad, they never planted another. The stump, and the area around it, never grew grass properly. It may have been a horse chestnut, but I was very small when it died, and I don't remember.

The Tree of Heaven, despite my mother's love of A Tree Grows In Brooklyn (which she told me was that kind of tree, that grows in sidewalk cracks) could not be killed, and she really tried. She heard that a copper plug would kill it, and surreptitiously hammered one in. Didn't phase the organism at all, apparently. Although it grew into our fence, it was rooted in the neighbor's yard, and for whatever reasons, a series of neighbors never cut it out. Eventually wound up with a neighbor who hacked it down, and the seedlings proliferated in the blighted area.

I was fascinated by the story that it wasn't a tree, but a shrub of some sort, a weed in practice. I had a soft spot for weeds, since no one liked them, and I found clover and dandelions attractive. Even I had to admit the Tree of Heaven stank and littered, and spread. Dropped nasty wormy things.

The front yard had a lovely old maple, though. I loved the spinning seeds, played with them often, throwing them up in fistfuls, gloried in them spiraling down. It's roots lifted the sidewalk, and leaves shaded the place. I hope it is still there, dropping helicopter seeds.

Mute

Hush the intrusive,

Can't close your ears, mute button.

Listen to silence.

I keep the laptop on mute, unless I know I want to listen to something. I have a fast finger for the tv remote, never hearing ads at home. Noises are bothersome, because ears don't shut like eyes. I have little tolerance for loud sounds, and insistent ads leave me feeling downright hostile.

Through

Cat on balcony at twilight, through window reflections.

Temp, 90˚F (32C) down from 99˚F (37C.) Hot, dust clogged, gusty winds, also carrying smoke from a tire recycling center fire.

Snowpack finally melting, after so much preparation, flooding so far has been very contained. But eight people, almost all children, have drowned this spring in the fast, cold, runoff.

Eerie sort of evening.

Sticky

So, I've been thinking about my odd shoulders. Which is what I do. Had I been indoctrinated to medicine, I would be a diagnostician. Hell, a more thorough education in any one thing and I would be one of those annoying people who worries at problems until they are fixed, and fixes them. Instead, I'm a generalist, an Encyclopedia Brown, but with no deep skill-set.

Still, when I get a good question, my brain will not let it go. Being told that the bony anatomy of my shoulder is probably "interesting" and being asked how long it's been like that, has stuck stickily, and will not let go. I'm sure I have always been like this. I could not put my arms out to my sides to do push-ups in Basic, but had to hold them more or less in front of me. Which got smartass comments from the Drill Sergeants, but because I could do them otherwise to form, they shrugged and counted them. Last night, lying in bed on my back, I noticed my hands did not readily fall with my palm up. That would be Anatomical Position, corpse pose, supposedly relaxed, which always took effort for me.

If my shoulders are "interesting" that might be why. Lacking normal external rotation, my palms most easily rest turned in, or down. Leading me to wonder if whatever* caused my fetal feet to turn in, might also have turned in my shoulder girdle. Never noticed, not obvious, never caused any problems, until now. Even now, since the joint is stable, I'll get the soreness worked out. I'm not about to let any surgeon mess with it.

We all have such oddities. Some clear, some problematic, some nearly invisible, some invisible without specific and intrusive examination. Unevenness, twists and interesting formations.

*Other than the fact that I was a large (8lb,10oz), long baby with a very small (4'11") mum.

Purse

I started doing daily Sudoku in Boston, because of long T (train) rides to and from my first job there. Mostly, I focused on the crosswords, because of two local papers, both of which were left on seats. Often, one on the way out, if I didn't nap, the other on the way home. The free paper as well, which had the sudoku. Took me a while to start it, and I often screwed it up, several times a day, in pen, because I have difficulty seeing numbers. They flip around somewhere between cornea and brain, or maybe on the way back out through the pen in my hand. Considering this therapy for my mild dyscalculia, I plugged away at them, until I could solve as many as I scrubbed. Now, I can do most of them.

When I got home from grade school, my mother would play a game of Scrabble with me until it was time to get my father from work. She made me do the scoring, very frustrating at first, I got better with practice, learning vocabulary along with addition. So, I figured any practice with numerals would be good. I think it has helped, besides, I've come to enjoy sudoku. And I've gotten pretty good with crosswords as well. Not up to competitive* level. And not up to the acrostics and British versions, those just baffle me, no idea how to begin. Still, I have gotten a few fellow nurses going on the simple ones in the newspaper, often they make me finish them and correct their mistakes. This takes a whole new level of skill, I've found. Gradually, they get better, and I don't get to do the ones in the paper at work.

D and I got a crossword collection for our last trip, and have been doing them together since the only ones we had were in the Army Times. You might be surprized that the AT ones were not the best, and we found odd errors.

These days, we are working our way through a Will Shorts collection (of 200, increasing in difficulty) often as our evening ritual before bed. As they get trickier, we use wikipedia to teach ourselves words we don't know more and more. Which also harkens back to our early conversations late at night, when all we had was Brewer's and a dictionary to answer our ponderings.

I've been asked if this isn't cheating. Well, if we were in a competition, it would be. Crosswords are puzzles, self education, collaborative solving. We gather whatever resources to figure them out, if we don't know an answer, we discover it. I don't really understand how one can cheat, unless one simply copies the letters from an answer key, then tells everyone they solved it. We gather hints and look things up, unless we are utterly baffled, we avoid the sites specifically for answering crossword clues. And it's not like we are boasting to anyone about how perfectly we do them. We enjoy the process, and often stop to talk. We joke about "crossword- words" and we make mistakes.

Like with perse. We had the clue and all the letters, and could not figure it out. Perse took us both quite a while. Per se. Oh. Well. Yes, indeed.

*Wordplay is a very fun documentary. Really. I know, a documentary about crossword compilers doesn't even sound good on paper. But it's funny and very entertaining.

To

Yes, I oogle* myself, frequently. And those I most wish to leave behind. Keep one's friends close... etc. I want to know how easy, or difficult I am to find. If you have my correct, or original name, you can pay about $20 and get my address and phone. So, if my kin decides they need to reach me, I can be reached. Knowing how stingy they are, it will have to be for something important. If at all. This is a great comfort to me. The ex won't do it, I know that much. And he doesn't know my current, shared-with-D-last name. No way for him to know it.

I want to keep tabs on those I wish not to find me. I've had some odd success, there. My brother won a contest on a local (for him) radio station.

Otherwise, I am pretty much unfindable. I like this. On the other hand, my blog name brings up my blog first. Then a series of unrelated links and people. Which also works.

I long fantasized about escaping, going lost, running away. An old desire, to disappear in the eyes of those who had too much to say in my life. It has occurred, almost without effort. I could be found, but not for those without rudimentary internet search skills. Anyone I prefer not to find me probably lacks these.

Once I dreamed of taking off, abandoning my name and connections. Escape and vanish. Until I met D, this was a constant in my life, this desire to escape. From early childhood, all I wanted to do was obliterate my existence. A difficult habit to break, that urge for oblivion. Now, I only want not to exist for my kith.

D and Moby are my home, and that is where I escape TO.

* add initial G.

Horse

I keep seeing so many ads for cut rate car insurance, and I know to avoid these companies. Not everyone has this reaction. I always assume that a hard sell means I'm being sold a bill of goods, a crappy product, a scam in short. The Free Credit Report Dot Com ads were entertaining, obviously expensive, and as it turns out, selling a dishonest service. All that money thrown at me for something aggressively promoted as "free" is so obvious.

We have our insurance through a company with very few ads, if any these days.

This is the one very important lesson that my parents deserve full credit for teaching me. They'd gotten taken a few times, when they could least afford it. Once for an overpriced electro-stim machine that they didn't need in the first place, another time merely having to pay a monthly installment on a TV, car and mortgage at the same time. There may have been another instance, but I was not given details there. I learned suspicion of anyone too glib, too pushy, at my mother's knee. Add to that my own father's preference for lies over truth, given the choice, and I knew not to trust easily.

Not that I haven't bought the odd overpriced, unnecessary item. Or a life insurance policy that sucked up money, and is now long gone. Anyone can get momentarily sucked in. But I know to avoid anything urged too insistently on me. Even if I think I want it, I will, if shoved, walk away.

When we were looking for a car, long ago, knew what we wanted, just had to find it, I took a test drive. And the saleswoman gave me that "What can I do to have you drive this home today" line. I happened to be in my own neighborhood, so I got out of the car, and left, walked home. Never went back to that dealership. We got the exact same car elsewhere.

Anything too easy, good to look at it closely. Always look your gift-horse in the mouth.

Ask the Trojans.

Dull

Nice little twelve hour Friday. Not a bad day, given how bloody long it was. Feast v. Famine, a day called off, another day the same week gone long. So it goes.

Heat has begun, melting off the snowpack a bit. So far, no serious flooding, one inundated park, the sandbagging done nearly two months ago preventing problems.

Gods, this is dull. But then, so am I right now. Head buzzing slightly, thoughts turning muzzily.

Watched a show about Eisenhower and D-Day, with Tom Selleck. Which sounds wrong, but actually worked very well. Selleck, I think, is one of the most underrated actors of his generation. He has such a deep, quiet, steady sense of humor. The show itself didn't really work, never gelled as a story, but Selleck as Eisenhower felt exactly right. I wish I liked more of the stuff he's been in, most of which I consider crap.

Going to go stretch my shoulder out, and see what I can do from my Yoga for Wimps book. Gently, like a cat stretches.

Perks

My shoulder has been sore the last few weeks, so I finally had the will - and opportunity - to corner one of the surgeons for advice. It really is amazing to see anyone in full skill mode, and with someone so able and well trained, it's a kind of joy. I was able to be an oddball example, so he seemed to enjoy the challenge. Nothing like a good biological puzzle for these guys. And they tend to be very generous with their time and effort for the people they work with.

Consider it a perk.

Upshot, my shoulder is stable, probably a capsular irritation, and he gave me some stretches. Downside? I have something very strange about my bony anatomy. My shoulders do not rotate properly. I couldn't answer the "how long has it been like this?" although after I got home, I think I figured it out. Yes, I think I have. Because in Basic, when I had to do push-ups, I could not make my arms do what everyone else did, although I managed a workaround. To the point that I had no problem passing the PT test, including the push-ups.

So, I have Issues with my shoulder joint, but I'm working on reducing the pain. He seemed to think it was irritation of the capsule, which makes sense, since the muscles all work, it just hurts.

Addiction

When did "addictive" become a selling point? When did dependence become attractive? I'd noticed this in ads lately, the word addictive as something positive, and this puzzles me. Addictive food, or coffee, or any item being sold. Ok, maybe not tables, or socks, but every damn thing else. What is the deal?

I strove to be independent, and addiction was a weakness, a character flaw. Understandable perhaps, even treatable, but not desirable. A trait one admitted to, like being addicted to Tetris (not that I was. Welltris was my downfall.) Not anything to be proud of, more to be gotten over, or past. Certainly not a reason to buy something.

My sole drive, when I was young, was to be free of constraint, inner or outer. Failed a lot, but further dependence was repellant. So, what is the deal?

Gyro

A little talking is normal.

Gusting winds come and go.

Heavy rains don't persist.

Earth is lumpy and things are scattered,

Everything has a lifespan, everything dies.

Why do we think ourselves eternal?

If you understand the idea behind the tao,

You know you are part of it.

Act virtuously, and goodness becomes part of you.

Lose sight of this, and you are lost.

When you welcome this paradox,

you will be embraced by eternity.

That balance will be there, inside.

Accept mortality,

Knowing nothing is lost.

Trust completely, and be trusted with everything.

Gyromancy. A kind of divination performed by walking round in a circle or ring until one fell from dizziness, the direction of the fall being of significance.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963. p. 425.

Dads

For those of you good dads who read here, thank you. You keep me rooted in my knowledge that there are all kinds of good, responsible people. You give me hope that children will find love from grown-ups, and will therefore learn to love well.

I've never been jealous of those who had good fathers. Seeing a patient dad with a child in public makes me smile. I'm a little sad for myself, but this is luck of the draw. But I never forget that good parents are a matter of fortune for a child, there is nothing magical about having children for parents. Decent fathers deserve credit for their skill and effort and heart. Just as decent mothers deserve praise for their love and endurance and attention. It's an insult to say it all comes automatically, since it clearly doesn't. Look at the number of abused children to demonstrate that it is not a given.

So, thank you. From one whose parents did a poor job in many ways that most mattered to me. Stay interested, keep them as friends when the temporary insanity of early parenthood wears off, let them see you as you are, and see your adult offspring as they are. I've seen it work in other families, so I do know it's possible.

Thanks, dads.

Just, not mine.

Gold

D's parents gave me a gift card for a particular outlet store I like, where I have found some very good stuff at a considerable discount. But, as happens with places like this, I had not found anything despite several trips (which I enjoyed) since their gift. I kept the idea in my head that I would wait until I found something irresistible - that I would get anyway, and then use the certificate. Especially since I had no idea how much it was. And I had to be able to show them what I purchased, so - nothing embarrassing to any of us. Not hard, really, but no nightwear - which is not a common feature of this place anyway.

Today, I found these shoes, already at a discount, and with their card, quite a bargain. They are a sturdy brand that makes my hiking/walking/every single day shoes, but, well, they are purple and they gleam gold. I have not had shoes that could be described as "pretty" for many, many years. Not really a problem for me, since I see footwear as utilitarian first and last. Ever since I was very small, and had to have special shoes fitted for me. The shiny patent leather shoes for my Communion, bought big for a growth spurt that never came, leaving me with nasty blisters, reinforced this practical view of shoes.

I've always been by nature rather practical, wary of pain, distrustful of fashion and downright hostile to frivolous decorative clothes that detracted from their protective functions. I want coats to be warm, shoes to be comfortable, and everything else to cover me decently and not fall apart. Rarely have I put fashion first, although I do prefer flattering clothing, and I do know the value of good fabric and attractive colors. My mother worked as a seamstress, as did her mother, and she taught me how to avoid shoddy work. But I often did not have the income to get quality, and had to go for used, thrift stores and hand-me-downs. Which was fine. Really, not that big a deal.

But in Boston, at Filene's Basement, I found out the value of designer, label, clothes, at a discount. If one goes for classic, last year's fashions makes no difference. Chosen carefully, I found Kalvin Cline* worked very nicely for me. I'd never have paid full price for it, but it really did make a difference, and it was nice to know I did have taste, just - not the money to indulge it.

So, I trained my eye.

Today, these shoes gave me quite the come hither stare. They fit. I like them. They are mine. By far the prettiest, coolest shoes I have ever had. Feeling quite pleasantly smug about this. I would not have looked twice had they not been the same brand as my working shoes, and were therefore going to hold up to serious walking.

Moby has always seemed to enjoy our touch. This pleases us immensely. I trimmed his claws today, never a favorite activity for him, but he tolerates the front, and I do the back ones - one at a time, usually. I actually did the whole set, skipping the already blunt claws, all in one go. Just a bit of grumbling at the end. He really does not like me messing with the back paws. I can only assume I've gotten better at it, so it irritates him less.

Well, that's just fine then.

*Intentional misspelling, keep the spam away.

Wag

Saw a bumpersticker, "Bark less, wag more" and liked it so. Seems a good enough encapsulation of the renunciation of anger and embracing kindness. Reminded of the persistence of the depression of my twenties. Still not sure how I survived. Pure ignorance of how to leave without leaving excessive mess. Dealing with the childhood abuse, poverty, and no idea what else to do. Lost and alone and not making reasonable progress.

So much of what we need to know, we only figure out much too late, but we figure it out deeply because we pay the price of not knowing. Tricky, that. Just have to live long enough to learn from our error. And take it seriously enough to never do it again.

Got through "skills day" with a nice cache of kiwis and little cheeses. Not sneaked, just gathered. Helped with inventory. Still a short day.

Choice

I had this idea of what my life would be. I would escape from my parents' home, go to college, get a tv series, and live happily ever after. Instead, I found out I was no actor, and no doubt for the best as I would have hated the life. I married the wrong person, moved across the country, and wound up studying science, in a war zone, with a good person, then further education and training, and a different sort of life than I could have imagined, but which suited me much better.

One never knows, really. Or at least, the people who seem to know probably just chanced on the right path early. Plan? There ain't no plan. I don't need no fucking plan. I don't got to show you no fucking plan.

The Trousers of Time have at least a couple of legs each, and who knows which leg one will wind up in? Or which one was initially intended? If, indeed, there was anyone to do the intending.

Each choice leads on to another series of options, and we do what we can with what we have. Bad decisions eliminate a lot of possibilities, as do safe ones. And we wind up more and more who we are, as our actions and the results, form us and mark us.

Here I am, now, for good or ill.

Monkey

I usually stayed with Aunt Evelyn or Aunt Alma, Evelyn my mother's sister who had toys for me, and would take me to the Rose Garden on the bus. Alma who was my father's brother's second wife, who married in the year I was born, and who took me in when my mother had surgery when I was only two, delaying taking in Gigi until after I returned to my parents. Both took me for a week or so every summer, to my lifelong delight. Aunt Alma would take up bicycling later in life, and I would join her, riding the suburban streets and church parking lots, poodle running along. Aunt Evelyn lives in my thoughts to this day. Always.

Aunt Mary was my father's oldest brother's wife. A smoker, with a smoky smoker's voice. A large, loud woman with a lot of heavy dark furniture, very stylish 70's home, gold mirrored walls, black velvet paintings and all. She took me for a few days, one time. Very odd, as we were not close, although I had nothing against her. She took me shopping, and on my side trip to the toy department, usually a look-don't-touch experience, she talked me into actually getting (letting her get me) A Barrel Of Monkeys. This deeply miserly child, (with other's money, since I had none at all of my own) accepted a gift, very reluctantly.

Thing is, I really enjoyed it, over many years. Linking monkeys. In bright pink, admittedly. (Art and Mary were rich, by my standards.) It was a large barrel of monkeys. Always made me feel every so slightly guilty. Aunt Mary let me stay up and watch Beach Blanket Bingo with her, until very much past my bedtime. It was a strange visit, and to this day I'm not sure what to make of it. It was not repeated. She was kind, and took care of me, but I felt like I was imposing on a stranger in a very strange place.

I like to think she would be happy to know I remembered. Her daughter Carol was my only cousin on that side, much older than me, and I have no idea what happened to her. Also a smoker, and drank Pepsi like water, I was her flower girl for her wedding. No idea what happened to Carol. Large, hard women, with hearts of gold, and very unhealthy habits. I hope she's doing well.

Gush

Or not. Despite tripled snow pack and full rivers, the spring is staying cool, not in any rush. Hopes are for this slow melt to continue. Unlikely seems to be the theme this year. A perfect un-storm. So far. A few spots of flooding, but nothing like what it could have been. Still clearing high elevation roads of snow.

Weird year in weather.

Game

I remember the year I got Battling Tops. Ostensibly a game, but more of a toy, really. My favorite kind. And although, because it was my Christmas gift, I got as many turns as I wanted, all the adults, brothers and cousins, aunts and uncles, rather took it over that holiday. It was loud and silly, and winning was as much chance as skill. Rivaled Ker-Plunk. Connect Four served the same purpose several years later.

Most of the time, I had no one to play a game with, so this kind of game could be simply played solo. Balance and fine motor skills, observation. Like stacking blocks, with refinement. Spirograph fit all this, not even pretending to be a game. Much better than dolls, which could be dressed, and undressed, and that was about it. (Except when I could get a rope and swing them around in an extreme amusement park scenario.)

There was one, no name I can remember, with colored wooden balls, and a spinner, simple elimination process. I was happy enough just rolling the balls around the board, with it's dimpled holes for them. Remarkably sturdy spinner to send them flying. Sometimes my brother would play with me, at least I remember him doing so once.

I often asked for games when pressed for gift suggestions. I had the idea that this was a reasonable request, price wise. My mother often wondered at me why, when I rarely brought the games out with the few other children in the neighborhood. But they were rough, competitive, and always had to go first. Not fun to have a game with. So, I could play with these by myself most days, and when we had a crowd over for holidays, I could get the adults to join me - to the extent of enjoying each other's company, and I was just another player. They tended to either let me go first, or at least take turns fairly, handicapping me when I was very little.

Games had much more appeal than cards, the bread and butter activity for gatherings among my kith. When I was too small to hold a hand well, I was roped in to learn, which could be frustrating and tiring. I would, eventually, get pretty good at Euchre and 500, and there was another called Pedro that got played for a while. But a card game had too rigid a structure for me as a kid. Once started, I had to finish the game. I'd get bored, or feel imposed upon, and I was never skilled at throwing a game, to end it quickly, undetected. Anyway, I knew I'd be yelled at all the way home, for pouting, or for being rude.

When I got into my late teens, the brothers and cousins were scattered, the best older players couldn't play anymore, and the ones left were very slow. A game with my father, granny, my mother and I was a special kind of torture. My mother was very good, very fast, as was I. But her mother was in her late 80's, my father was a lousy player at best, and both of them were quite touchy. Oh, yes, that was fun.

Beat all the joy out of it, poisoned the sense of accomplishment. I would enjoy a good four handed card game, but I'm back to where I started, with no one to play with. I do know a couple of good solitaire variations.

I still love a game with good "toy value," especially if magnets are involved.

Realize

You do realize

I answer you with essays

When a stone won't do?

Law

A day with good flow.

No matter how much effort,

When everything works.

Law. In-laws. A way of referring to one's relations by marriage--mother-in-law, sisters-in-law, etc. In-law is short for in Canon law, the reference being to the degrees of affinity within which marriage is allowed or prohibited. *

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p 537.

*Found looking for Lawks, which was not there, sadly.

Critical

D has been an RPG gamer for a long time, surrounded by friends who gathered for (Critical) Mass* up at the engineering building at the U. Early days together, he would come in late, feet icy, and I would provide warmth. He never bored me with details, just a few good jokes. I once, long, long ago, thought I would like to play D&D, but never found an in, and few girls did at that time. Generally, I think the GMs would have driven me mad, and I prefer geometric games, like Tetris and Welltris - I'd love to find a new version of the latter that works well. Maybe not, I got pretty badly addicted. Still, crosswords and sudoku are more my style.

This morning, he got to game on skype. I really enjoyed listening to his part. At one point, they asked what all the noise was. Me, of course, messing about in the kitchen. I did offer to make tea for everyone, but D did not pass on that message, probably wisely†. I'd been around for a few games, back when there were a group of friends to play, and mostly, I kibitzed. This seems to be my best way to join in. A few snide comments, the odd joke, with a good book in my hand, I was contented. Now, by offering virtual tea.

Flooding locally, so far, minimal. Cool start to summer holding off the huge melt gush.

*Critical Mass used to be the gaming group locally, and is now a bicycle activism movement that started on the west coast. Very confusing.

†Actually, D did not hear me, or he says he would have passed that on. Oh, well, next time.

Soppy

Went for a "Thai Yoga" massage from the massage therapy school. Excellent student, good hands, feel better. Having a very bad week with my hips.

In relation to my having four tattoos, and that I know this is considered a 'stable' number, she asked me if I did witchcraft, not completely unreasonable, given. I said no, unequivocally. Knowing about tarot and numerology and astrology is not at all the same as believing in it. I consider it being culturally educated. Like being able to quote the bible, as an agnostic. I felt as though I was talking to myself at one phase of my early adulthood, although I never went quite that far.

When I mentioned I'd done bellydance, she waxed poetic about it celebrating femininity. A neo-feminist, with an anti-male bias that she rather assumed I shared. I don't. I'm old school feminist, humanist would be a better term, although it has other meanings. Not fair to condemn men who lump all women together and insult them, then do exactly the same to men.

I don't need to dance to "feel like a woman," - as she professed she would. I've never cared about what gender I felt like, embraced being a tomboy, as long as strangers didn't actually call me a boy. This was part of why I wanted long hair, so that I could be myself, but not be mistaken for a boy. My mother tried to defend those who called me "he" by saying a boy would be more offended at being called a girl than I would being called a boy. I disagreed, and insisted that if in doubt, don't make that kind of comment at all. But the thought stayed in my head. Maybe it was true, about who would take more offense, but why? And why did it really matter so much? Maybe because so much is made of boys having to act certain ways in order to be considered men? Why is the worst insult to be called a girl, or to "scream like a girl?"

But for women who simply turn the insult back around is a childish response, showing themselves no better, no more capable of actually thinking.

Female is the default, although it is more complicated in practice. Had to insert a foley (bladder) catheter for a patient with ambiguous genitalia, which I did first try, but only because of my experience. I've seen a lot of urethras, and this structure was a bit of both sexes. The patient otherwise looked fully female. The people who live here, inbetween, are the only clues to what sex differences might mean.

We are really all more alike than we are different, and I think it's more important to unite ourselves than further widening the divide. Yes, we live in an unjust society with the male predominant, but to blame any individual man only adds to the injustice. Yes, statistically the sexes are distinct, but it's a fluid line with a lot of overlap. The balance of hormones and genes is delicate enough, throw in strong cultural imperatives, and it's a complete muddle. The experiment is contaminated beyond saving, and no definitive conclusions can be made.

What we do know is that we are all people. Start there, with compassion. With the reality we can discern. Amazed enough at the beauty around us without resorting to making stuff up.

Magic. Sheesh.

But she did a grand job on all the tight spots, and much of the pain is gone. I can deal with the politics and soppy thinking for someone who takes some of that away.

Inspection

Nose.

We don't make a fuss about him inspecting our food, since he is unfailingly polite and fastidious. Usually, he sniffs, seems to say "Huh. What is that?" and wanders off. If Chicken is Involved, he presses a bit, but only a bit. I'm always glad to share when the chicken is unspiced, and he knows to wait. Still, he does love to Inspect.

Ale

Day off of a very slow, pathetically slow, week. D had to take a vacation day, this close to the end of the fiscal year. We got the car cleaned yesterday afternoon, including vacuuming out the detritus. Today, got to the park for a Good Walk (forgot the camera), recycled some glass, lunched lightly, and stopped for Epic beer. Imperial Stout is fabulous. In reserve, a Smokey Porter, which is amazing.

D asked a very smart question, for a non-drinker especially, about the difference between beer and ale. I could not answer. So I looked it up on wiki when I got home. Unsurprisingly, the entry is extensive. It's not simple. I wish he'd asked at the brewery, I'm sure the guy there would have given a good answer. Brewer guy commended my choice of beers, neither of us understands why some people only like lite beers, where we both love stouts and porters. We both loved his enthusiasm. I did get to take some credit for turning on a lot of the drinkers at work to their (now one year old) brewery.

Much low back (euphemistic for butt) pain, beer is pleasant anesthetic. Going for massage on Saturday, taking nsaids, stim and D will put his elbow into the soreness.

Life, whatcha gonna do?

Sparks

Tristan always has the best photos. Today, he posted a link to a puzzle, the Bruegel painting, Netherlandish Proverbs. I knew it depicted various sayings, but only heard a few of them. Wiki has a fairly long, if necessarily incomplete list.

My favorite so far-

He who eats fire, shits sparks.

So many ways that would be useful. I'm going to try to revive it. Although, in English, 'farts sparks' might be easier to say.

Bonny

Mild, bonny day. Pollen in the air, but not the type I react to. Weird day at work, but good, busy enough to feel useful.

And got some good news. There is one person at work who, well, always frightened me. Retired military, not good at his job, pugnacious, mean sense of humor, a mixer and chaos monger. Familiar, very like my Air Force brother. I only reported his treatment of me once, early on, on a clear and fact based complaint, then kept my own counsel ever after. Honestly, I could easily imagine him showing up armed and belligerent the week after being fired and removed by security. So, when I heard he'd handed in his notice, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Going later to clean the car, quarters in, hose it off, vacuum it out.

Blotch

Thousands of muddy

Pawed cats swarmed over the glass.

Dusted rain v. car.

A roiling pressure

Tumbling winded power wave

Moving dirt about.

Fad

The building has fliers up about a community party this week. With an "80's!" theme. (shudder)

Obvious from their "contests" for big hair, and the like, they are thinking late disco era, Cindi Lauper and MTV. It did occur to me to put on black and plaid, chains and make-up, and put my hair up in a mohawk, sneer at them all and stomp off. Not worth the trouble, but it would be funny. To me, at least.

The only reason I liked disco music in high school was because one did not need a partner to get on the floor at dances. No one ever asked me to dance, I could hardly mourn the loss of couples dances. Nor did I have musical taste at the time. At least, I'd never heard anything that really deeply appealed to me. So, there was likewise nothing I especially hated.

In college, I got to go to a dance club that played (recorded) punk and new wave - and although I never really dressed up for it, I liked the music, and the styles that went with it.

Ultimately, although I had to wear what was available in stores, I never went to extremes. I prefer camouflage, not standing out. Never had the income for "fashion." Never prioritized faddish clothes.

And I like the updated versions, of music and fashions. Often, they seem more sophisticated and aware than the originals. Winnowed of the chaff, better thought out.

I think I've put this up before, but it's worth showing again.

Tires

Six months old. Right after a rough trip home through an Idaho blizzard. Not the color we would have chosen, but we had to order ahead through the internettage, and as long as it wasn't copper, we were happy enough. (Would have preferred dark blue, black, or red. Oh, well. One gets used to the color, when it proves reliable. And fun to drive.)

We've had the car four years now, it passed inspection and emission (once we replaced the high beam bulb on the passenger side.) But the place that replaced the bulb was surprized that the tires passed, since they probably should not have. So, we will budget for new tires in the next few months. All in all, it's been a remarkably sturdy vehicle, good on gas, no real repairs, just oil changes and tiny recalls. And the tires are all worn very evenly, which is good. But before we get more winter, new tires are called for. It was an expensive morning, with more to come - but we can put that off a bit.

I would like to be able to fix more of these things myself, but without a garage or any tools, nor expertise, it winds up being cheaper to pay more to have the pros do it. It goes against the grain every time, though. I prefer self sufficiency. Part of why, even if I could afford it, I would not actually hire anyone to do my house cleaning. I once thought it would be bliss, but I've come to realize the job one does for oneself does more than getting the job done. It's a lesson*, and a source of pride and satisfaction. As well as knowing it was done either correctly, or at least good enough for oneself.

At any rate, it's all done but the treads. Legal and streetworthy.

*As a nurse, it's even more important, because when I have to wipe the bum, I know what the "output" looks like, and that means more to me than some minimally trained aid. Not so much in the OR, but in long term care, I could also assess mobility, mentation, skin quality, hydration, and anything else unusual. Seems simple, the kind of thing any trained monkey could do, but there is more for those with eyes to see. Just as OR nurses who scrub in are better circulators, and it's always easier to circulate for a nurse scrubbed in. Drives RNs nuts to have a scrub behaving as though they understand the nurse role, when it's pretty obvious they don't. Lulled by the odd, bad nurse, I'm sure. But honestly, the vast majority of us are pretty good. The bad ones are memorable, and for the most part, rare.

Surfeit

I don't do diets. Ever.

I work with a gaggle of body image and diet, and food, obsessed women. Which I struggle with. My mother was a dieter, of the yo-yo type. All the women in my family were from peasant stock, not tall, a bit dumpy, and I express the phenotype just as much as my cousins and my aunts, and my granny as well. My mother pushed her pudginess into obesity.

Oh, I'm sure there were reasons, which she hid behind her eating habits. Her father was quite a piece of work, from what I have pieced together. She married another, who made her life miserable. She really never gorged, kept her treats small and rare, but she went on drastic diets, lost a lot of weight, then gained it all back, and more. I remember coping with it, as a small girl, thinking about her choices. I defended the protein diet she got on, to my aunts and granny who worried about her health. I went on some with her, like the apple diet.

The summer before I started high school, allowed to borrow books from the adult side of the library, I read through the romance section. By the time I was done, I was thoroughly sick of the genre. Which is exactly the way I felt about diets by the time I reached adulthood. They seemed unreal and toxic. I would never indulge in any fad diet, and talk of food as a subject tended to sicken me. Nor, indeed, ever read another romance novel.

So, hearing my cow-orkers go on about food makes me despair of women today. Not all, of course, but this mind-set dispirits me. I figure this is part of why, although I am certainly dumpy-body-shaped, I'm not obese. I've never lost or gained a lot of weight quickly. I was thinner in army basic, but I also stopped my periods and got severe bronchitis. I was thinner in Boston because I had to walk so much - but I also had more foot and back pain. I'm not a natural runner, and I'm getting older. I look very much like my cousin, who is also, (and I mean this with great warmth and affection and admiration) a dumpy woman like (but 20 years older than) me. She has no issue showing a photo of herself in a bathing suit by the pool on vacation. I strive to have such confidence. I'm getting there.

The only food I enjoy is the stuff I actually get to eat. Otherwise, it's pictures of food, and since I can't smell or taste it, I can but shrug and say, "eh." I eat more or less what I want, while listening to my body. When I have enough, when I've overindulged in sugar or bread, when I need vegetables or fruits, or need concentrated protein. And I adjust. I listen when part of me says, 'enough' and I stop. I don't drink soda, I never plan dessert, rarely order any when we eat out, don't keep candy in the place. Most of the sweets I eat are, have you guessed? Yup, at work, brought in by the dieting women.

Duck!

We took a walk. It's a lovely day.

Hoho

Fall back, to find the way on.

Bend with the wind, to stay standing.

Empty out, to be filled.

Accept wear and aging, to see through young eyes.

Have exactly what you need, and be rich.

Hoard and be greedy, to feel useless and baffled.

Be wise, and understand wholeness.

Moving this way

without fuss,

You show others.

Never justify or defend this balance,

it will be obvious to those who will see.

No need to get praise,

the wise will notice.

Unselfconsciously,

the wise just do,

without snapping or complaining or blaming.

Hard to quarrel with those who shun anger.

The way ahead is not always the way through.

We have to give up everything,

And be with everything.

Each of us the center of the universe.

Ha-ha. A ditch or sunk fence serving the purpose of a hedge without breaking the prospect.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p 427.

(Not to be confused with a B.S. Johnson, Ho-ho.)

Lightness

Nothing as comforting as a cat curled up beside me, he reaches out to put a paw on me. Claws outstretched then relaxed, not a warning. I rest my hand on him, he doesn't stir.

Rouchswalwe writes about keys. I have as well.

I loved having keys, proof of independence and trust. Front door, back door. When I started working at the library, I was given a key to the storage/restroom. When I got my first car, two more keys, ignition and trunk. In my first apartment, my own keys, and keys to the radio station. Downright greedy about keys, kept every key I could no matter that I wasn't using them anymore. It would take many years and moves for me to thin the key ring, feeling relieved and unburdened.

Now, with smartcards and electronic fobs to get into work and this apartment building, my keyring stays light. No more separate car trunk keys, either.

D got an ipod a short while back, a refurbished, non-phone. I'm coming around to it's usefulness, for him. That and he has a photo of me as his wallpaper. The same one he used to carry a print of around in his wallet, with a worn spot. After so many years together, I find this deeply touching.