Fuzz

Moby's got himself a sunbeam.


He does look bigger in this photo, doesn't he?

Summer is lingering annoyingly. September highs should not hit 80˚F and more, every blasted day. Only a couple of 100˚ days all season, but it seems to be making up in duration what it missed in intensity. Cursed high pressure system sitting on top of us, oily, dusty and overheated. I look longingly at my sweaters.

My nose has come around, sailing into the wind, back on course... to overextend the metaphor.

Restoration

Woke well after a solid night of sleep, with my humor restored and a clear path before me. The fog inside my head has lifted. Some of my physical symptoms were the usual cyclical/hormonal ones of this phase of my life - exacerbated by all the oldfamily regurgitation. Talking with Eldest Brother (EB) was the right choice, as I had a less emotionally fraught relationship with him, and my bullshit meter always worked better. The needle pegged when he expressed dismay that the other brother hadn't notified me.

"Well, it wasn't for lack of trying!"

I did not say, "Yes, it was." What he would have been correct saying was, "Well it wasn't for lack of a half-assed thinking about trying." This is where D is my sanity salvation, since he immediately laughed when I told him what EB said. "That's crazy." Yup. If our mother was the one who died, would they have done as little, shrugged, said "we tried?" I expect so.

And I thought, again, about talking with my mother, and I still have no desire to hear her take on all of this. And I have nothing I want to say to her. I would not be re-establishing contact, just expressing condolences - once. Which would be misleading. I am not prepared to talk with her regularly, unless we clean up the old lies and evasions - which is way more work than it could ever be worth. There is no satisfaction to be had, I am not going to play that game. It's not fun, and no one ever wins. Rather like Monopoly.

_________________________________________________________________

The ukelele class was excellent. Instructor told us never to practice, only play. By the end of class, got us through Over The Rainbow together, and it sounded pretty good, with three of us singing* the words - rather sweetly if I may say. Couldn't get to the G in time, but I got most of the A chords, and all of the Ds, strummed my way though. The one young Asian woman (Chinese perhaps?) for whom English was obviously a second language, struggled, and he asked her if she knew the song. Well, no, actually. Cultural assumptions will get you every time. Instructor suggested she get it on iTunes, the rest of us chimed in, "Youtube, for free."

It was warm and welcoming, and we sounded lovely. Partly because as we came in, he tuned each uke. D tuned mine up before I left, which was nice. This morning, I remembered less than I hoped, and my hand cramped right up, but I could make it sound good. I'll play more.





*Definitely the Wizard of Oz, Judy Garland version.

Hungover

I had too much beer last night, and too little water, not enough dinner, and knew the risk. Or, rather, the certainty. Which at 2AM surely arrived. No regrets, only a physical misery that some cruel, perhaps wise, part of myself, hoped would reset my swirling brain. Slowly rehydrating, as soon as I was sure it wouldn't just reappear. Weak tea, dry crackers, I know the routine from the inevitable results of early (and occasionally misjudged later) experiments. I'm quite a cheap drunk. It's an easy line to cross, especially if I've already had a couple. Another inadequate night of sleep, though.

As I come out of it, I think it is working. Delayed my call to my mother, for one thing. Tonight, the first Ukelele class.


Had to scrub down to where it was bleeding, debridement of everything dead on top. Had to distract myself so that I could. I think I have made progress. Settling down, clearing away.

We are exploring a trip to one of the national parks north of us. Yellowstone, or Grand Tetons, but a few days into the wild, probably next spring. D enjoys making vacation plans, and does a great job of it. Thankfully, we always like the same sorts of vacations, never doing too much, experiencing beauty and wildness.

Tomorrow, more better.

Watched

He gets fascinated with my skirt. He sits at my feet and watches me. Sometimes he reaches up to 'suggest' I play with him, chase him, throw something for him to chase.

Sense

After a meager amount of sleep, about useless at work, physical symptoms still strong - to my utter consternation. Dr. Hutch walked in on me in near-come-apart, and said "I don't know what's wrong, but this will help!" and rubbed my neck and shoulders. He was quite right. Came home, called about the arch supports I'd ordered as a kind of warm-up, then called my eldest brother.

He's still full of bullshit. Still not as smart as he thinks he is. But my training in various areas, plans over the years of utter silence, and reading of Smiley's interrogations served me well, as I let him talk and gave away very little of myself.

"So, Bill* got hold of you through D(...)'s parents." (D is on the online white pages, took me 30 seconds to find our phone number that way. His parents are unlisted. I found my brother's number in as much time there. I did not let on that I thought this utter crap.)
"No, I found the obituary online." I say, calmly.
"Oh, no." Says Brother.
"(Mass. Cousin) is in contact with me." I inform him.
"She disappeared after she retired..." (No, she didn't. She's been retired since before I fell out of contact, and has the same address, and phone, to this day.)

I found out a lot of detail. And a lot of what Brother was told, and I have translated from Comfort Language ("he wasn't in pain") into reality - he died a slow, scraping death. A whole load of unnecessary misery. There are a host of reasons that turning away from the whole , surviving clan was an attractive choice. I had to face it all, though. Tomorrow, I will call my mother. And try not to dread it. I started with the Brother first, because I knew he would be more flip and oblivious. Figured, if I can deal with that, I will move ahead to the steep section.

I think that is what I am experiencing. All in a gush, all the sewage behind the dam. The reason I could not sleep last night, despite every technique I've ever used to glide away from the logs of memory. I was birling away over icy waters, every memory of aunts and uncles, cousins and brothers played and replayed with the shitty underbelly spewing away.

All real, none of it makes a fucking bit of sense.

I've never been good at forgetfulness. Trained too early to remember everything so I could understand, and I may have overdone it. I like to think that I am as intelligent as I think I am. Just like I know exactly how drunk I am at any given time. Or how tired, or tall (5'6".) Names, dates, numbers, all lost. But I remember events as though I were standing there, with overlays of the interpretations of subsequent information adding meaning. Just how my brain works, or fails to work as the case may be.








*The second eldest brother. The Fall Guy.

Convolution

All day yesterday, I shook, blurred, struggled to keep my focus. Less today, but as though I teetered on the edge of an anxiety attack. Spoke to my supervisor, who surprizingly has also had the experience of the loss of a bad parent, and unexpectedly encouraged me to take some time.

I got an email from my Massachusetts cousin in the afternoon, my original kith had not contacted her. This shoved me further off balance, and I took supervisor up on the day off this week, Thursday. Because it is slow and I might be called off anyway, so I won't have to explain to anyone else what I can hardly explain to myself. M. the secretary will code it as funeral leave, and I trust her to keep this in confidence.

It's all a bit convoluted, that the people I'm estranged from ignored me. But it has to do with their professed value for family, no matter what, unconditional love (so they said), and adherence to form. I expected, though I no longer know why, that they would contact me - at least. That I would be offered a choice. Foolish of me, to think better of them. They knew our cousin could contact me. With my real name, and especially with D's first name, I'm actually quite findable online. Instead, silence. I'm not saying I don't deserve silence from them, only that I hadn't anticipated it.

Funny, how common this experience, that is so rarely mentioned. How to deal with the death of a disliked parent? How to grieve when what you feel isn't sadness, or loss? But you all wrote so eloquently in yesterday's comments. I could say no better, not with my mind hamster-wheeling around, squeaking all the way.

To feel one is alone, bereft of close kin, is one thing. To know one is disliked by the figures of one's childhood, to know one is adrift afar from those who first professed love, and insisted on one's love in return, is quite another.

I still have no idea what to do. I feel this intense need to do something, but no idea what. Some ritual, some rage against the petty horrors of a useless connection, some act of will amidst the avalanche. But nothing suggests itself, and words fail.


Let the dead bury the dead.

End

Apparently, my father died two weeks ago. Searching online for exactly this sort of information, I came across his death notice. I feel no joy nor grief, no anger nor even relief. A huge wave of something broke over me, as though I'd bashed my head very hard, and am left stunned and shaken, but without pain. Jostled and odd.

I thought, "Well, 42 years of wishing finally worked." But I don't feel that way. I do not know what all this is that overwhelms me, leaving my hands trembling.

The next choice is if I should even bother to contact the remaining genetic kin, who made no effective effort to contact me. Cleaner, simpler, if we just all keep it polite and distant. I let my dear cousin in Massachusetts know. She may not even have been told. I expect not. I did sign the online guestbook, offered my condolences on their loss, and left my email. So they know, if they chose to look, no excuses later. The door is unlocked, that is all.

Please, do not offer me condolences. That would be completely inappropriate.

He was 88. He was a soul in torment all his life, that he blamed and spread that misery does not negate his own suffering. I sincerely hope there is nothing after death, no hell, no heaven, just a recycling into the eternity. He is, for my part, now utterly and unconditionally forgiven.

Goldfish

When you walk well, you are quiet and leave no mark.
When you speak well, you don't hesitate and stutter.
A good accountant adds the same way every time.
A good door keeps out wind and rain,
Closes easily, stays locked.
Good knots stay secure, they don't need bulk or tape.

Life abandons no one,
If we keep aware, learn well.
We each get a lifetime.

Do well, practice, turn on the lights.

The ones who know,
Teach those who do not.
Those who will not learn?
They are the duty of those who will.
Those who understand should be respected.
The willfully ignorant must be cared for.

Not about fairness, we must all fight against confusion and foolishness.
No matter how good or clever we can be, the weak are not to be blamed, but lifted up.

Goldfish Club. World War II. It is similar to the Caterpillar Club (q.v.) and is for those who had ditched their aeroplanes and taken to the rubber dinghy. A cloth insignia was presented.

Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p. 406.

Cemetery

We took a walk in a green and quiet place today.

Give them an

... as they say.

This one had so much going on, it felt a bit of a mess. Designed by committee. Worse, a family committee.


We were amazed at the number of masonic markers. Lots of familiar names, which may or may not be related to the still living with the same ones, or the various buildings around the University.


And, well, I would never trivialize anyone's grief. But they seem to have done it themselves with this kitsch hollywood treatment. Which makes it seem even more sad. I think real art might have been more of a comfort, if anything could be.


The deer live here, wary of us, but content to let us wander.


Let me decompose as cheaply and cleanly as possible. Let me mulch a garden for deer.

Laziness

One of my deepest issues with standard religions is the exclusion of the sexual from the sacred. (To say that the sacred is sexual to the exclusion of all else is also wrong.) To be of the sex that is excluded seemed the extension of the blind spot, not a separate issue.

Growing up in enforced catholicism, albeit of an assumed rather than explicit version, chafed against my own strong instincts, which I knew to be reliable. This became very clear once I lived on my own, and walked urban streets alone, knowing that I was vulnerable, but capable and aware of subtle changes. Raised by a dangerous and unpredictable parent trained me better than I could have dreamed. I may never have felt indestructible when young, but I ventured out as though it didn't much matter. And I knew when to trust my instincts, and have been proven right. Or at least not proven wrong.

Any faith that excises Any kind of human experience has immediately gotten a hole. Often displacing it in another area. For us to deal with our human condition, we have to start with the human part, and use everything we got. Every impulse, every altruistic thought, every selfish vice has to be accepted and turned toward living a worthwhile and humane life, in an ideal religion, for it to be worth bothering with. It has to take us as we are, and ask us to be our best possible selves. It has to be like real love.

It has to include our infinite gender variations, our sexual selves in all their messy glory, our ingestions and excretions, our highest intelligence and our silliest jokes, our violence and failings - lest they obsess us and take over, our vague dissatisfactions and angelic aspirations. Our fears and joys and small pleasures alike.

The abhorrence by the orthodox of the idea of a religious buffet, an eclectic mixture certainly is more about power and authority than the care and feeding of a healthy soul. Why not find what is good from each, for you in your unique life, to grow deep and true? I've never heard a rational argument against picking and choosing.

I like the idea of Enlightened Laziness, and Mobyism.

Punkin'

Happy Autumn.

Beet

Going to dinner with D's parents. Thankfully, got off early enough. A speedy day.

This mesmerized me. Below is a rant, don't feel you should read it. Just watch this.




Despite our last patient being a squirrelly drama queen nutjob. Not that often we have a young, healthy crazy patient. Older, ill crazy folks are fairly common. These are the people who think the Nothing By Mouth thing is a kind of joke, tell everyone their life story without invitation, take longer for the pre-op nurses to get ready than the elderly, half deaf, mobility impaired patients - who we expect to take a while. The ones who have no impulse to calm themselves, even with clear and calmly repeated prompts to take a deep breath, relax. The ones who go down fighting, but without a known, clinical anxiety diagnosis. Had one when I was in Boston, in recovery room, having a complete freak out about the nerve block for her arm, wanted us to make it go away. Well, that isn't possible, it takes hours to wear off, that's really the point. Admittedly, it is an odd sensation, but most people find it amusing or mildly annoying at worst, not to feel a limb, to sense that it is in a different place than it actually is. This woman was screaming, demanding, squirming off the gurney. Her boyfriend stood and watched, a kind of awakening horror on his face. As though he'd known she was eccentric, but had no idea she was earfuckingly insane, and realization was dawning. He was determined to stand by her, get her home and safe until she was stable. Then, he was going to run away as fast as humanly possible.

These inconsolable people never get just local anesthetic with a whiff of sedation, they cannot be trusted to be still through the case, to tolerate any amount discomfort, not to try to get up and leave. It's a full on general, for simple safety. That we have quiet after is just a plus. I've seen the lighter version tried, and seen it go bad, prolonging the surgery unnecessarily.

We once watched the show Mad About You - for a couple of seasons, until the one where the lead female has surgery. She behaves wholly inappropriately, demanding and ridiculous throughout. I could never see the character as believable after. I know the difference between the abnormal normal of such a stressful situation, and the freakish abnormal of someone broken completely decompensating. Especially for a minor, ten minute, hand procedure, that most people could easily manage with a local or a bier block.

Still, takes all kinds. I just prefer the ones who have some modicum of self control, or a good reason not to be able to.

Twelve

A solid twelve hours work, but with good support. Lifted 64 three liter bags of irrigation fluid for four extensive joint scopes -two complex shoulder repairs, two ACL knee repairs. That comes up to handling over 400 lbs. Broke my own record of bags for a single case, from a previous 23 to a current 30. Changed out the 20L suction device 4 times on that one case. Started our last surgery after 1730, but thanks to a couple of folks staying to the bitter end of their shifts, we turned over VERY quickly.

Most of the day, I worked with P, who has very good eye language. I sometimes struggle with her accent, I have a deaf spot with a lot of Asian Englishes. But she is very good at catching my eye when she needs to communicate with me, or miming what she wants. Sometimes, she just writes me funny notes, and holds them up. And she tells me I'm rather good at picking up on her prompts. She will point, or look, and I go and check, bring her what the surgeon asked for - then I look at her to see if she already has it, and she either waves me off, or nods, and I (continue to) move. Likewise E who relieved her, gives me a word or a smile, and I respond. It's so important in this job, and a real joy when it works well. A kind of trust and respect.

From when P left at the end of her shift at 3, until E took over at 5, I had to deal with a scrub for whom this subtlety is a closed book. I feel her staring at me, but when I give her a questioning look, she rolls her eyes back. I look at the irrigation bags to check their level, and she looks at me for a while before realizing I'm not looking at her. No matter who I speak to, she answers. This is the kind of skill it is nearly impossible to teach, it has to be picked up by the observant and sensitive. Hard to describe, and those who don't get it get huffy and frustrated.

So wrung out when I got home. D made me dinner, I used the foot massager and iced my back. Moby slept on me quite a lot last night. Lots of dreams.

Pester

Another low-census, called off day. The less I do, the less I want to do. I got up early, intending to start cleaning. Having my tea and cereal, Moby snuggled in, a program about engineering the Coliseum and the Pantheon in Rome came on, and I still have done nothing more than move a few items in the kitchen and made another cup of tea.

Just got an email from D, apparently Moby was Adventure Cat this morning, walked out in the hall with him quite a long time, so he got to work later than planned. We are just going to blame the cat for our delays today. Mostly because the cat doesn't care, nor even notice. In fact, he got a chicken burger last night, so he's quite content. When we get ground chicken, we pull a small amount aside before spicing, and cook it up in a thin burger, cat-portion size. He likes this very much.

"You want to say it's all my fault? But I still get the chickenburger, right? Cool, whatever, I never do understand you people."

I think I have come to a weird acceptance of my isolation and lack of much attachment. It is a little sad, but it's also very analytical, working out the rules, moderating my expectations. Not unlike understanding my physical limitations. My mother often warned me not to be a pest, and ingrained in me is the prohibition against pushing myself on anyone. Inside this is a hesitation to grow too fond of anyone, and constantly distrust my own appeal and value. For an outgoing child, the warning may have been moderating and humanizing. Multiplied by my own introversion, this was a terrible positive feedback loop, telling a shy child to doubt herself even more. Now with a lifetime of lost friendships to prove it.



Now, I must get the vacuuming done and the kitchen clean, and be of use.

Portrait

The one way I know I was not middle class growing up was the utter lack of studio photo portraits. I had school photos, which my parents bought and gave to family, mostly wallet size ones for the aunts & uncles, and a 3X5 for each grandmother. Most of which I detested and would have preferred burned. My mother took some lovely Brownie snapshots of us as kids, in B&W. And every birthday and Christmas and vacation had photos, developed at the local drugstore and stored thereafter in old shoeboxes. I loved looking through them, with the negatives kept in the envelopes - although never used past the initial prints. Photos outside of vacations, holidays and birthdays were vanishingly rare. A few to commemorate snowmen, or new clothes, or rites of passage - communion and confirmation, the sparse weddings.

And I treasure those recordings of my early life. The spontaneous, if predictable, moments, illustrating my growth over time. No one else involved, no artificially strained smiles for a stranger in front of a bland background, instead - the reality visible on film. I've always had very clear visual memories from ridiculously early in my life, and I know that the series of photos have reinforced that. Not created the memories, but kept them alive.

I can only think that if I'd had to have professional portrait photos every year, I'd have rebelled much earlier in my life. I go stiff and awkward in front of a photographer. Only since I've had photobooth on this laptop, and have learned out to take self portraits, have I liked my own image. Digital images, allowing for feedback and mistakes, willingness to try anything, all I needed.

Thinking about family a lot, recently. My father is 88 years old. My mother 86. I wish I had a passable relationship with them, but it's really not possible. And I do feel awful about this, but not as bad as when I was in contact with them. I love living without a hole in my integrity, not having to deal with the lies and picking. But I am grateful for having been given adequate food and clothing and an excellent education, I really am. They came from a different generation, hard-core working class of the last century. I know I was the unplanned, surprize child, late and not entirely welcome. An added expense, rather than an additional resource. No anger, really not. Just the intense need for separation.

Likewise for my much older brothers, for whom I was at most, a toy, no matter that I idolized them. None of us were real people to each other. So, when they moved out, I disappeared for them. Now, in different parts of the world, we really are nothing to each other. A genetic similarity really doesn't mean anything. They are not my saviors, they are just guys with their own lives, and they have no clue about what I am, nor do they care, nor should they. And I have had to let go of my idea of them as "brothers." I have had better luck with my cousins. (Found out from cousins that no one really thought much of my father and oldest brother, and I thought them well liked, in contrast to my experience of them. Wow. )

So, here I am, happy with my aging phisog - one that echoes my aunts and mother, and completely alienated from my roots. I don't think I had worse than any misused child, better than many, but I had the personal will to say Basta! and make it stick? No money to go after, I'm sure that helps. Excessive ability to rationalize, and just decided that the logical thing was to walk away with the story of Lot's wife to remind me never to look back. "Let the dead bury the dead." Luke 9/60 bothered me immensely when I was ten, but there it is guiding me to this day. Not pretty, but appropriate triage. Probably doesn't speak well of my compassion, either. Once I decide and promise, that is it for me.

And that may have something to do with my mother's extreme irritation with anyone holding grudges, and great insistence on getting people together who held same. I felt that it was better to just leave all parties alone.

Maybe I just never felt any bond with either of them, so when the dependence was gone, there was nothing left but a non-existant nostalgia for the 'good old days.' A lack of attachment may be at the heart of my indifference, rather than level of abuse, since that was fairly moderate, all told.

This is a theme I expect will be a source of worry all my life, in varying amounts at different times, decreasing gradually over the decades.

Grief

Long, long ago, I had a friend, O. I don't know that I was a good friend to her, although I certainly tried. When I found D, he loved her as well, as she seemed to love him back. But for reasons never explained, she withdrew from both of us, and I could do nothing but accept this. Right before we went to Boston, O's sister, also a peripheral friend to us, was in the ICU, and we spent much of our last month sitting by Ida's side. When we got back, D ran into O once at the library, and it was all very civil, even warm, but nothing followed. Likewise, we met again at a Library function, since her other sister works there as well as D, and it was convivial, and she made no further contact. We lived two blocks away from her.

Our friend Dave was her mother's IT consultant, so when her mom died this month, Dave told us. We showed up at the memorial, to be good people, supportive, to pay our respects to her mother who was A Woman To Be Reckoned With. Not knowing if we would be of any use, but adding our pebbles to her tomb, as it were.

And although we expect to continue to be outside of her circle, we seemed to provide her some comfort today. Hugs, and a few subtle tears, old stories, a couple of stones from the chest, remembrance. She has not just lost her mother, a difficult woman by all accounts, but her father - poisonous but brilliant apparently, her uncle, and first of all her sister Ida - whom we all loved, and whose death we only heard of much too late. All within the last couple of years. With, from what she told us today, legal issues of great intricacy. Which follows, who knows who left what to whom, in what order, and now the daughters remaining have to sort through it all. A tsunami of grief and loss. Dave showed up while we were there, which lightened the mood somewhat. They talked Macs and IT for a short while, which seemed to delight the non-computer-connected O.

A half hour, only that. Did not want to get in the way. Not about us. We just wanted her to know we still cared, still think about her.

Press

From a few nights ago. Rained well today. Lovely.

Moby found the laundry.


"All pressed and re-furred."

Crap

Weird Al says it so well.

Dammit

Conversation at work yesterday about what we were not allowed as kids, and vowed to have as adults. She believed she would play all day, and no one would tell her what to do. I smiled and nodded, that was not quite what I meant. I wanted to be left alone when I wasn't hurting anything. Not to be yelled at, and taking it, because someone else was in a bad mood. Having to lie to sneak a little extra food when I was hungry. Being told "facts" that were wrong, and I had to agree. So, when I did become an adult, I was able to make my own decisions.

So, Ten Things.

1. I can eat a handful of chocolate chips, and I don't have to put them in cookies or baked desserts. I can eat a spoonful of peanut butter, right out of the jar, without having to hide it from anyone.

2. I can put my feet on the sofa. It's my sofa. Although I don't stand on it often, I can. I also always take off my shoes when I come in the door, so that's alright.

3. I do not go to church. I don't have to go every week. I don't have to listen to that kind of talk.

4. I don't drink milk at all, nonetheless at every meal. I chose what I eat. And if I make a botch of a meal, I choose to eat anyway. Or not. I don't have to "clean my plate."

5. I don't immediately, and sweetly, answer every question asked of me by anybody. Sometimes I stay silent, sometimes I think about it a long time, sometimes I ignore questions. It's not an obligation.

6. I don't have to kiss anyone goodnight that I don't want to.

7. I can sleep in my clothes, if I want to. Or naked. Or with my head at the foot of the bed. And I go to bed when I want to.

8. I keep my hair at the length I want, and I don't have to have it cut or permed. I don't have to have bangs, or not tuck my hair behind my ears. I do have to wear a hat at work, but I chose this line of work*, so ultimately - that's my choice as well.

9. I can swear. I try not to at work, as a professional habit, but dammit, that's up to me. I choose my words, when and where and how.

10. I can stand in the cold, not wear a sweater, and not catch a cold - oh, wait, that's what I do for a living. I choose when to wear more clothing, or not bother. Yes, I am wearing that out, mind your own damn business.


*This is how I dealt with the authority issues in the military. I signed up to that set of rules and expectations, so I was, in essence, giving myself orders. Likewise, I never minded (for long) when I had to do things, if I understood (and agreed with) the reasons or the results.

Crumbly

Have some nothing much,
On a plate, with a cracker.
I'll wipe up the crumbs.


Two spam comments on earlier posts. In a way, they don't even seem to be trying. One was from "Free Cloud Hosting" as though that wasn't proof enough. Even though the comment called me "dear" and called the cat "cute" clearly it was not one of us. The vague comment from "Web Hosting India" (clearly a clever nom-de-blogg, uh huh) "Its looking nice.I like it.Thanks." (sic) was even more of a clue. At least blooger does have some kind of system to deal with the potted meat product these days.

Moby curled up beside me, very nearly snuggling, nose and paws touching my leg.

Switched shifts for cow-orker to take a class. Three full days in a row at this job wears hard on me, Wednesdays off makes it so much easier. Took a long, hot bath last night, which helped a bit.

Dreamed I'd moved to a small village, approached by a loud man who assured me the locals would never accept me, and I needed to attend his Big Social Event, and later he chastises me in the pub for not showing up. I told him I'd never agreed, to leave me alone, no wonder the locals didn't want him around, don't dare try to boss me around... etc. No one said anything to me, but I had the sense that I'd won a point among them for standing up for myself against the loudmouth.

That is all.

Parakeet

For reasons beyond my ability to explain, the Henry Kissinger song is stuck in my head.

Air

Air is not too bad, but not quite pristine. Lots of weed pollen. Hoping for more rain, however brief. Waiting for autumn, however brownish-yellow.

Vaccine

Pouring rain, for a short while I expect. But we'd gone out for vegetables, and walked back in rain. Lovely. Remembering getting caught out in the North End of Boston during our first few months there, soaked through and with no clear idea of how far we had to walk to be home and dry. The wind made it shiveringly cold, and we were in t-shirts and shorts, no jacket nor umbrella, no break in sight. Taught us to be prepared, and not mind a bit of wet. I knew better, growing up in Michigan, but I'd grown complacent living here, where summer showers are short, the sun after very hot, and the skies are not, as the song goes, cloudy all day. Not in the summer, certainly.

So we enjoyed our short soak, and are now vigorously toweled off and rather cleaner than expected. D has milk, and all is right with the world. Egg drop soup for dinner.

I've been reading through the archives of Letters Of Note, a wonderful site full of snooping through other people's correspondence. Including Kurt Vonnegut's first letter home after his internment (who here mentioned Vonnegut to me? I can't find the comment.) And several by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Also came across a rant about Encyclopedia Brown. Fair, but not entirely to the point. Yes, the solution to the mystery is an obscure, often obsolete, bit of esoterica, but for me that was the reward, the jewel, of the story. I was reminded of another series of books, about a boy much like Young Mr. Brown, but not mysteries, a bit higher reading level, and a Grandfather lived with the family. Once, they'd brought back fireworks, the car caught on fire, and the whole lot went up in spectacular fashion. I can't for the life of me remember the second series of books, but I do conflate them with Encyclopedia B.

Got my flu shot Thursday, and have been, as expected, a bit peaky since, very tired, achy. Given that I tend to be very ill indeed if I do snag a virus, I am very much pro-vaccine, and consider this inflammatory phase a tiny price to pay for the potential protection it affords. Still very confused at trained nurses, who should understand better the mechanism, who think it "gives you the flu." Yes, a vaccine can cause an inflammatory response, that does feel a bit like the flu. And, yes, it is a best guess for what strain will predominate in a particular year, so it's never a guarantee. And some people just don't come down with them that often, or that badly - but they can be carriers, and nurses can easily come in contact with patients with lowered immune systems, and one particular strain might get them this year. I have learned to be silent and let the chips fall where they wilt.


Having lunch at the BBQ place today, I refreshed my realization that meals are a chore. Much as I do enjoy good food, it never balances out the effort put into shopping, cooking, cleaning up, nor even the effort of deciding what to get or make. My Aunt Alma used to say that some people live to eat, and others eat to live. She was the first sort, I am definitely the latter. If I could swallow the promised futuristic pill of nutrition, and everything would still work properly, that would be just fine. I remember Granny seemed to live on tea and toast, seemed perfectly sensible to me, even as a kid.

Rings

When asked about Lord of the Rings, I always feel I must both apologize and admit having read it many times. But the last time I read it was thirty years ago, and I have forgotten so much, and skimmed over so many battle (and eating) chapters in the first place. Probably read The Hobbit when I was about eleven, with the rest following slowly over the next couple of years. Then, I read the trilogy every year, mostly as a way into a world that was not the one I had to endure. One with magic, a mechanism much craved by a powerless child. I was given the Silmarillion when I was maybe 18, and failed to read more than the first twenty pages or so, eventually skimming extremely lightly over the rest in despair and exasperation. I don't think I ever read LOTR again.

Many more fantasy novels would be read, swallowed whole, then returned to the library*. At some point in my late 20s, after too many multi-volume epics owing their roots to Tolkien, particularly since I got them from the library and it became more and more difficult to read them in order, I called a moratorium on trilogy fantasy. Basta. Thankfully, I then found Pterry. Breath of fresh air, and oh did I ever get the jokes.

So the LOTR movies were not so much a disappointment as a point of disinterest. (Peter Jackson committed the sin of Meet The Feebles - ugh, which I hadn't connected until after I saw the first one.) Fellowship of the Ring was pretty, but dull, and not at all the world I'd visited as a kid. Never even considered seeing the rest. I could go into the why, I had two thorough film classes, might even manage a paper on it's failings, if I could generate enough will to bother. Take it as read that there is much to criticize. Even ignoring the divergence from the books.

My imagination did better, then. Today, those are just old dreams, polyester bell-bottoms, corduroy vests, all browns and beiges. The trek to Mordor may have been hellish, but making it through hell meant a lot to me at that age. Today, the urge to find that in a story is long gone. And magic is less than unreliable, useless as wishing, a waste of time and effort better spent actually thinking through a problem and working to solve it.

I've also lost my taste for heroism. The real good guys just get on with it, without magic swords or mysterious prophecies.


*Which is why I know that if Harry Potter and my childhood had overlapped, I would have read every one with gusto. And outgrown them at about the same time.

BBQ

So, we get a call yesterday afternoon.

"Were you going to make it to the barbecue?"
"Um... what bbq?"
"Uh oh... did you get my email?"

Apparently Gargle minus has a way to invite people to a party, and that it has a serious glitch. The good part about very old friends is that they will just go ahead and call to ask, eventually. He wound up calling everyone else, since he was the only one to get his own invitation, and, it being for Dave, everyone showed up anyway, however short the notice. A lot of kids around, but they lived mostly in their own sphere. Happily for introvert me, K had me frost the cake and make tortillas. The food was a bit haphazard, but tasted wonderful. I'd never seen a whole fresh pineapple grilled before, but wow. And K made some sauce not for the weak of tongue. Dave's birthday is later this week, an excellent reason to celebrate.

Wound up talking with a woman with a small baby, and a real, if self-taught, education. D in his element then. I try to keep my own area of expertise low key, as always, preferring to talk about anything else.

Bunch of good folks, always a blessing

Labor

Laboring. He loves this, will hold on to my arm with his hind paws, and rub his face on my hand, let me warm his belly, press in close and fall into a deep sleep. Very comforting.


Got up at a reasonable hour this morning, only an hour later than if I had to work, but the brain barely functioning. D asked me a question about breakfast, and I had to think really hard to figure out what he'd said.

"I know I'm moving around, but the awake is a lie." He grinned.

I don't know where that came from, but quite often the most clever things we say comes from that automatic, uninhibited part of the brain that seems to work better when we are slightly offline.

Colors

We walked around the park this evening. The locals are not particularly interesting, but this one is at least colorful.



Booths out to catch the crowds. Mostly cheap tie-dye, but this stained glass gleamed in the late evening sun.



Ducks swim in the pond of gold. Since the oil spill last year, it has finally gotten cleaned up a bit, some of the silt cleared.



I don't think I'd ever realized before how aligned the central walk is to the steep climb into the Avenues. Lake bottom here, foothills there.

Laser

Playing with Moby a bit last night, and wrapped the ribbon around him, and in a moment of silliness, tied a bow. This seemed not to bother him at all, and he walked off to have a nibble. More that I was taking photos. It was still on when we went to bed. Well, he never got fussed about collars either. He presumably removed it sometime during the night for bath taking, which wouldn't have been difficult, it was very loose on him.


Today, a rope.

Fridays are just too long to manage posts, nonetheless ten things. Maybe seven things Saturdays. Scrubbed in on hip arthroscopies, simple stuff, but a lot of standing. D made chili for dinner, for which I am very grateful.

So, as I stood there, I thought of the surgery gadgets, most of which make a good sound, starting with clasps.

1. There is a kind of double clasp used on a lot of instrument cases, and all the sterilization pans. I pop the plastic arrow tab as I release the lower clasp, pull it up, and release the upper part to remove the lid. There is a particular feel and sound to it, and I know immediately if it wasn't sealed properly in the first place, or if the tabs are missing - without looking. Lots of variations on this double seal from the various suppliers. Reminds me of the adjustable metal clasps on my brothers' hand-me-down galoshes when I was small.


2. Clamps. Most of the instruments are clamps, and most of those are ratcheted. Clamping one of these on a towel, unclamping, clamping, unclampi... well, it's a great fidget. Oh, and very useful. Loading a needle onto a carbide coated needle driver is a skill all by itself. Putting it in the right place at the correct angle and direction for a left or right handed surgeon. Not difficult, but it does need to be actually learned.

This photo shows a proper shaped needle, but the driver is smooth - no carbide grip, only occasionally used in plastics. Which would be right, since there is no swedged on suture, but an eye, and only in plastics do we ever thread a needle with an eye. The direction is for a right handed user, but the grip needs to be closer to the back, and the angle needs to be up and out, not flat as shown.


3. Staplers. To close skin, or seal the gut after having to take a bad bit out. Really amazing variations engineered by people who can flex space in their head the way I can't. But my favorite is the LDS stapler, because it has a CO2 canister to power it, and it makes the most wonderfully satisfying ssshhhthunkgsss.

There is an inservice video here, skip to 55 seconds in to hear it, instead of going through the whole thing and fall asleep instantly of the utter boredom of it. Above all, don't buy anything.

4. Nerve stimulators. These are little, electrical, pen like objects used when doing repairs on hand injuries (mostly under the microscope) to isolate or locate a nerve. Always interesting to see enervation in action. Useful in a scrub's hands as a threat to cranky surgeons.

5. Laser pointers. Lasers have not proved as useful in surgery as anticipated, or still widely believed by the general public, with the exception of eyes and a few tumor specialties. But when a rep is directing a scrub on a new and/or very complicated instrument/hardware set, a laser pointer is a sterile way to say "this" doohickey and "that" thingmabob. IF they use it correctly, and don't just wave it around. Also good in other settings as a cat toy.

I've suggested a "bring your pet to work" day, but for some reason, no one has taken me up on it. The dogs would just lie under the tables, and lick the floor. Cats would jump up on the sterile field and take a nap... oh, wait, that could be a problem.

I had seven yesterday, but since the list was on the field, I could not bring it home. And I just can't remember the other two, so they couldn't have been very good gadgets.