Worry

Not to worry, not going anywhere. I am simply tempted now and again, and only because of the route I have to use.

Two hard, hard days. At least it's raining. Real rain, not just a swipe through. Enough not to water tonight.

Chard

Bloooger has changed something, or gargle has, and it was quite the job to get signed on here. They really, really, really want this connected to the 'gargle--' account with my real name, and I'm simply not having it. Bastards. I will keep my privacy, no matter what crap they want to sell ads at me for. I seriously considered just deleting it all once I got here*, with D's patient and able guidance. More than guidance. Once here, I couldn't do it. This forum matters to me, and that is the simple truth of it all.

Without which this space would be empty of beautiful and interesting things.



When I took Moby out for a sit and wander this morning, Sebastian the neighbor cat, walked the northern perimeter of the yard. Moby watched him, then looked at me, as if to say, "What was going on there?" I shrugged. After a few moments, Moby got up, and walked the same area, toward the sidewalk, around the Hedge, and I held him there. He did not give up, so I walked around, and there was Sebastian, a couple of feet away. Moby settled on the very green grass a little closer, Sebastian hissed a few times, and watched warily. Moby nestled in, as if to say "the grass really is greener here." I had to admit the truth of it. But when he got a little too close and other cat - more used to fighting - hissed more seriously, I pulled Moby back. He then growled a bit at me, and hunkered down. I had to step in and pick him up, in a most undignified manner, explaining that he was out of his territory and had overstayed his dubious welcome.

Once inside, he simply flopped, whatever dude. But perhaps thinking, why can't we be friends?



(Not Moby and Sebastian.)

Brought in a bit more of the tiny harvest to ripen the rest of the way on the window sill. The chard is nearly enough to manage a full salad. Enough cayenne already to make several batches of chili.





*But if I do ever just disappear, that is probably why. I'll leave messages in comments on your blogs so you won't think I'm lying dead in a ditch or something.

Bye

Another one like the last. Best to smile and wave.

Tune

Cat needed a good rub down when I got home. My arms barely up to it. That deep purr with the chirp note makes it all worth the sore muscles.

Very busy day.

And an ER RN making an ASS of herself. To the point of several staff wondering if she really was a nurse, not a tech or assistant puffing herself up. And nearly being cancelled, since she refused to sign the consent, which meant no IV, enough to cause a delay. Making a lot of odd fuss, so that we all thought she was simply nuts. Well, probably was. And I have never seen anyone - without a psych diagnosis on record, who scowled so much at the staff in the room. We all smiled and did what we usually do, lots of reassurance and care and a couple of warm blankets. I was the core monkey (resource/lunch nurse) and since I knew ahead of time that there were Issues, I made sure to help out, get her moved over to the table, take out the gurney, that sort of thing. Checked in with PACU at the end of the day, and apparently she did very well, and admitted to being, essentially, terrified.

Really now, OR nurses are mostly loud, not really scary. Best out of the public eye, but not really psychotic. Just a bit eccentric. Possibly downright weird. Not as bad a rep as maternity nurses, though. About tied with ER nurses.

Certainly she has some kind of underlying problem that she needs to address. Fear can bring this out, of course. Few people are at their best when responding in fear. Possibly no one. Maybe heard horror stories, most ER patients who make it to the OR don't have a real great chance of making it out in one piece and breathing. Maybe she is just burnt out, or has made mistakes she won't admit to, or seen errors that she sees as endemic. No idea.

Must shut down, shut up, tune out. Bye.

Cleanup

Tomorrow is the Neighborhood Cleanup in this area. So, folks put out their old furniture and big trash, large yard debris, the day before, and the salvagers pick most of it up. I like to think of them as urban beachcombers.



I'd been 'walking' Moby when our next door neighbor started making her pile, which inspired me to get ours done. When she put out this table I snagged it.



She didn't care, as long as it disappeared. I also snagged some large rocks that were left by her house's Previous owners. I'd been eyeing those rocks, but didn't want to be pushy. When she offered them, I admitted as much.

So, three really nice tables in a weekend, for considerably less than the prices asked of a single, none as useful, table at several consignment stores in town. Score.

Nearly everything in our pile of unwanted mostlyIkeashit was cleared, save the ancient wire fencing cleared from beneath Hedge and a few lengths of pvc pipe. Rather impressive, really. Even that might be gone by morning. And we have a table and lovely rocks.

The lamp on it was also a yard sale item, one of a pair.


I love that this will all be re-used, recycled, create income for the industrious, instead of simply dumped.

One trait of my father's that I share, admit to, and appreciate. He was always scrounging, never short of a bit of wood or a tool for a project or repair. If asked, he would probably have thought I mocked him for that, only going to show that he didn't listen to me. I genuinely admired that in him, a sharp eye for something potentially useful, without being a hoarder - as he used what he found and was perfectly able to clear away the excess.

We were poor, but not because we were wasteful or lacking resourcefulness or flexibility. I never minded hand-me-downs. I loved the salvaged bicycle that I got to paint - or would have if my mother hadn't gotten lilac paint instead of dark purple. The one aspect of himself that he harped on that he assumed I hated him for was the one real shining aspect of him I did like. And yes, I'm sure I told him that, but he never listened nor believed me so I stopped talking to him. Self fulfilling curse.

Mesa

We knew we wanted a few small tables, but at a bargain or not at all. We have happily used wooden barstools and a potter's stool for lamps and mugs of tea, or dinner (we do eat at the couch much more than at a table.) Living in small apartments and moving so often, we like our furniture small, light, sturdy, cheap and multi-purpose. So, the idea of a coffee table has long been quite alien. But the back/spare/guest/winter snug room, last on the list of first year projects, needed a more permanent approach.

Last night, D found a yard/estate sale listed in an ordinary, but slightly arty neighborhood. When we were up by 0600, we figured why not check it out while the air is cool. Got there by 0730, and immediately found this for $10.



Seemed more than fair to me, good for beverage liftage as well as foot support, or a small lamp. Cleaned up rather well, fits in here for style as well.

Then this one, with a few random paint daubs, tall enough not to attack ankles, and a small drawer. For $15, which also seemed reasonable.



D tempted by music technical gear*, but left it since he now does everything digitally. But this little mirror for $1 seems like a slit to peep into another space, which he likes.


See what I mean about this dull, blue paint sucking the light out of the room? Paint sale coming up next week, I think I will do at least two walls just to up the luminosity.


So glad we got out early, clean cool air raised our spirits considerably. I dug more out of the back, found a small parabolic mirror, D did a load of laundry. Went out for early lunch, a few minor errands, then crashed. Cat approves of us taking naps, he thinks we should do it much more often.

No luck changing the sheets, cat's been here all afternoon, with no intention of moving.



Since the air has turned bad again, high particulates including smoke and high ozone, we will stay in and call it a very productive Saturday.


*I don't know what, an effects processor and drum machine? If D asks me to specify later, I will add to this note. Wow, I got it sufficiently correct!

Thou

A few good eggs, a glass of beer,
And thou beside me, with a cat.


Twas a longassday. With insufficient lunch. D rubbed my feet. I am unspeakably grateful and pooped.

Laps

"Just sit here and pet me. You'll feel better."

Snaps

Letters of Note is a bit uneven, for me at least. Some weeks I soak it in, others I skip. I miss writing letters, and getting them. Which is why the blog, it's my version of writing letters, and rather satisfying since you all write back, one way or another. The letter linked above, from E.B. White about being distracted by letters to authors when he would be writing a book, startles me.

I have never written a fan letter for anything, nor would I expect, nor even want a reply on the rare occasions I actually considered the task. The idea of a teacher or librarian urging a class to write to a favorite author strikes me as a bit bizarre. Nearly as weird as a class writing "to any soldier" letters during Gulf War I. Those were annoying, as they clogged up the system so that we didn't get mail from our own loved ones. All were students given the assignment by teachers, so we pitied them, but it was a terrible idea. Oh, a very few without anyone to write to them took the any letters. We all did just to thin out the mailroom.

Still, I'd rather read a good novel than an irritated letter from an author. Authors write books. Friends write letters (if in the form of blogs and email and comments these days.)

Teachers are odd ducks, as a group. All kinds of individual exceptions, as per. Overanalyzing poems and symbolism in works of art, then getting their young students to harass the authors, then getting shirty with authors for being pointed writers. Ever hear about Harlan Ellison? How he wrote when he got irritated? Great to learn vocabulary from, certainly. Really, really esoteric vocabulary. I love the idea of a teacher writing Ellison for an explanation of his work, citing a particular (and spurious) interpretation.

Never cheat an angry writer with a platform. Like handing a sword fighter a sword, then insulting him, and expecting not to be sliced in half. Words as weapons, not to be dismissed by the stupid and shallow.


But I digress, (as usual really.)

I would never question a writer who decided not to write about a popular character. I think George Smiley could easily have ended with Smiley's People, but his framing sections in The Secret Pilgrim allow him a profoundly graceful exit. I was never one to think Douglas Adams should have written more Hitchhikers books. I know Terry Pratchett has told his stories. And that there will never be a sequel to To Kill a Mockingbird. I'm good with this. Although I would like to tell Mr. Le Carre that I don't think he does as badly with women characters as he thinks, they are seen from the outside, but there is a sense of a real character inside. Ahem. Sorry.

I've also read Satire That Blasted Art, and I think that finding particular, staid, meanings in art is like dissecting frogs, a cruel and useless exercise. If done as if there were a right or wrong answer, anyway. There isn't one, not with any real art. It's all a matter of interpretation and what one brings with them. A chemical mix of attitude and experience, artist and observer.


If I wrote to an author, I would expect a snappish reply, no matter what my question. That's what I adore in writers, that ability to say whatever comes to mind, eloquently, without regard to sentiment.

Darks

Listening to a show about color, with Mr. Stephen Fry, yesterday. How in Italian there is a word for light blue and dark blue and they are seen as different colors. My only issue being that in English, there is a different word for dark red and pastel red. Which is to say Red and Pink. This is not mentioned in the show. Seemed pretty obvious to me.

I like Red, not so fond of Pink. I like dark, Azul, Blues, not found of blu or pastel blues. All in all, I much prefer intense colors, and dislike pastels.

With the exception of paint on walls, since dark colors suck in light, where light colors reflect light. This place gets very dark at night, but painting has to take it's turn. Not even thinking about painting until next year, despite all the dark colors all over the walls. Damn, it does make it murky in here after the sun goes down. Not so much an issue in the summer, but we are starting to dread the winter darks.

Exterminate

Exterminator guy arrived at the last moment in the estimated time. After a few minutes, I understood why. Quite a talker. Pleasant, lots of stories, belongs doing face to face customer service sort of work. Honestly thought him quite gay, but he spoke of his wife and sons, so I amend. Maybe gayish. Not for me to say. Reassuring sort of impression if he's meeting women alone in their homes, at any rate. In the best way.

Put out snap traps and a few glue traps - to protect Moby. Apparently the old fashioned cheap-ass wooden traps are still the best. If I find a glued mouse, he offered advice on how to end their suffering more quickly. Anoxia, which I know to be rather blissful.

Sprayed around the windows as deterrent. Not entirely clear on that, but defer to expertise. Moby socialized politely, as he so often does. The Decon ones we got are not very useful, apparently. For roaches, yes, for mice, not so much. Oh, well, at least they are safe around cats. I.e. Moby. The snap traps are not where the cat can get hurt by them. This is probably all a bit of overkill, but - as he mentioned, more than a few folks in this area have called them in. And we know Previous Owners have had a mouse issue (judging by the number of traps found in a bag.) Best to be certain and thorough.

E. Guy also chatted with me about fruit fly infestation, such as it is. A simple swipe of everythingcide (from work) down the drain will do the trick. Hospital grade killing solution. I can do this. Already made headway with cider traps.

Friend K I wrote to mentions difficulty killing things, when I mention mice issue. I don't like killing things, but I do what I have to do without too many qualms. Not a happy job, but a job that must be done sometimes. As when I find a spider in the OR. I kill it. It is out of place, will not find food, I cannot take it outside. Spider will not survive anyway, so I end it quickly. As I once had to kill a mouse that a roommate's cat had mangled. Thirty years ago, I still remember how bad it felt. Still.

I have much less of a problem with death than I do with torture, suffering. Death is release from pain. Nature will not hesitate to kill something outside it's range. For many years, I would have asked my mother, via time travel, to have aborted me rather than raised me. I get it.

So, end suffering, end infestation. Tolerate spiders outside, as well as other creatures in balance.


Friend K(above) tells me she is pregnant again. Oh.

Joy.


Well, except that our friendship with that couple is, again, on hiatus. For another 18 years. We are not kid people. Glad they are happy, so we are happy for them, of course we are. But it is as if they went overseas for a year, then came back to say they were going to move there. We have to be happy for them, for getting what they want, and we are. But D and I are a bit sad for ourselves, that we can't just be friends with them as we once were. Nor within the time we allotted for raising children already present.

Children are welcome here, but not with enthusiasm. I'll get toys and coloring books, and take each for the individuals they are, while waiting for them to become adults.

I feel so old today. My face shows the strain of loneliness and bad air. I really didn't need a no-case day off.

Friend K's brother is husband of ex-bestfriend, which doesn't help. I've never mentioned to her that M and I are ex-friends, nor will I. Not my job. That is on M - Ex-friend, as she ended it. All kinds of knotted pain. Snarled allegiances. If M doesn't say anything, I surely will not. K's husband, Dave, is dear to me, but mostly as D's friend. D and I are both feeling fraught. Friends with children do not realize how disenfranchised they make their childless friends. We will never say a word, knowing how taboo it all is, but we ache.

So, I offer nursely advice about nausea, and smile and congratulate. Not my life, not my choice. I will try to grow my tomatoes, and, in time, my strawberries. Still think it's better than being disappointed in offspring. I will not pass on my pathological family manners.

Lungs

Again.



My lungs ache. At least keeping inside, instead of taking a walk in it, means I'm not so bad this evening. A few episodes of exercise induced asthma in my life, but more than a few of near things. That one year when I smoked a total of about one pack - mostly because it pissed off the soon-to-be ex as the divorce loomed, was still not a good idea. But then, I was in a very self-destructive state of mind. That was over 23 years ago, a lifetime.

Also battling a plethora of fruit flies. More cleaning, boiling water down drains and such, cider traps out, as well as manual swatting. Bother, bother, bother. I've been slack with keeping the kitchen as clean as it needs to be. Work to be done.

Hacking off the branches got a little exciting, mostly because one twig caught on the power line, but worked out in the end. D had my back, as usual.

Meticulous

No cases scheduled tomorrow, so we get a Holiday. What holiday? The 20th of August, of course. Maybe to celebrate "War of 1812: American frigate USS Constitution defeats the British frigate HMS Guerriere off the coast of Nova Scotia, Canada earning her nickname "Old Ironsides"." Ok, probably not. But a day off is a day off. And I always have stuff to do.


Exterminators coming to deal with the mouse issue Monday. Saw another one, Moby heard it first. We flushed it out from behind/beneath the stove, with the vacuum, which startled Moby away, and he missed wee mousie. He's been stalking the area where the mouse came from and ran to, judging by his ear movements, he can hear it. I'm sure he could catch it, I'm wary of what else he might catch. And if I would have to perform the coup de grace. Had to do that once with a mouse a roommate's cat had mangled, not a task I would want to repeat.




Rather fun watching him hunting, so intense and engaged.


Meticulous kitchen cleaning today. Scrubbed and shined. More to do, always more to do. Got down two branches overhanging the roof, which was more complicated than I figured, it always is, but everyone is alive, no need to call emergency services - so that's a win.

Fires

Hellish stinking air.
Ozone, smoke, particulates,
Murky orange clog.

Sour

The fantasy will kill, as it distracts from the reality. I think I stayed so attached to the story of a loving family, despite a bully of a father who didn't love me, because I so needed to believe I had been loved, a bit, as a child, by my mother and brothers. That I had been seen and understood, and given a chance, they would make amends of some sort, but circumstances got in the way of a closer relationship. I've been chipping away at this carapace for thirty years, clearing away the fairy tale, getting down to all the raw truth. The beautiful, stark, naked reality.

And it is beautiful. Freedom has always come with it, as each layer peeled away. Life has been seeping, then streaming in, with each moment of insight, every ping of revelation.

Lately, it's meant me giving up even the glimmer of any kind of relationship with any of them, including nieces. Nor would I want it, not in reality. Letting go of the fantasy of someone saying, "Oh, but how could they have done that to you?" Of my mother even thinking of acknowledging harm done, other than the innocent martyr's self flagellation of "OH, I was a terrible mother!" without specifics to indicate she was actually aware of having done anything that warranted forgiveness. This will not happen.

Which all comes down to gently snapping myself away from any such thoughts. Let the dream go, and wake up all the way. This is where I came from, this is who I am, this was the hand I was dealt. I don't need anything from them, I expected nothing, and what little I would have liked I now renounce.

Sour grapes? Sure, perfect tale of the usefulness of rationalization. If I can't have the prize, sitting and yearning won't get it. Best to walk away, and leave the desire there as well. Anyway, maybe the grapes were sour. Not a bad way to cope with the unobtainable. I don't need their love, it wasn't real anyway.

Let the dead bury the dead.

Retribution

When the days run long
feet complain, retribution
will surely follow.


My long finger suffers from tendonitis, but will have to shovel dirt anyway. There are no cases on Monday, everyone gets an impromptu holiday, and I have to dig. It's time for another deep hole in front. I may move the lemon balm mint to the front, as it's downright bushy out back. Physical work satisfies me greatly, even as the aches accumulate. But I will go easy on my feet. Not standing for nearly a dozen hours on hard floors two days in a damn row.

Must also do a real dust abatement day - eyes are feeling sandpapered. The air is particulate ridden, smoke mostly. A summer of difficult breathing.

Chat

It's Black Cat Appreciation Day





We think that is EVERY day, but it's worth joining in.

Moby was not sure he looked as lovely on the other side of the new spread, but has come around.

Perfectionism

Over the years, dealing with self-titled perfectionists who give more than 100%, leaves me aghast with the very idea of perfect. First of all, nature abhors perfection, monocultures and any such layers of exactitude. Abomination. The very strength of any species is the errors in their genes that make them capable of adaptation. If every copy was perfect, all it would take is one perfect predator, and it's game over.

This is all beside the fact that every proclaimed perfectionist I have ever known has been profoundly angry and dysfunctional. They are constantly raging against the sins of those around them, the lapses, the peeves. And they are often blind to their own gross errors and breathtakingly rude assumptions. They miss huge swathes of important tasks in order to fix trivial details that don't really matter that much. Then they go to great effort to correct what others will surely do wrong, never noticing that it has already been done properly.

Oh, and giving more than 100%? Any points over that have been stolen from someone else, since there is no such thing as giving more than one has.


I can only think these are the assumed A students. I got mostly As, but not all, and I always had to work for them. My teachers raved about me, I was told how smart I was, but none of it mattered because I still couldn't escape. Ok, smart is useful, but how do I get out? How do I turn this into enough money to get away? As for their own sake? Always? Really, the best thing I ever did was contract for Bs in nursing school when that was an option. Such a relief, do exactly this to these specifications, get a B, concentrate on the more time consuming classes. Brilliant. I only heard later "C's get Degrees!" No employer has ever offered me an A+. 70-90% is the most anyone needs. Engineers need better in certain areas, but not - say - in keeping their shoes clean or hair combed. It all has to balance.

One of the worst perfectionist nurses I've worked with, was made a charge nurse a few years back, and now only fills that role on rare occasions. (Yes, she pissed everyone off that much.) She would put an O2 tank and mask on the patient's bed, and I already had one there. Not just once, it happened regularly. She would correct other nurses' charting. This is like telling your Mother-in-law how to clean her house. Worse, as this is a legal document, and we sign our own names to it, and each know what we have done, and have all been taught to chart differently. She's actually a reliable circulator, although far from perfect, and I would have no qualms about her being on my surgery or of anyone I loved. I wouldn't pick her especially, though. One of the nurses she most complains about is a bit lax, but everyone around her is calm - because she is so easy-going. I don't like getting breaks from her, but I love working with her. Relaxed Nurse gets things done, but more slowly, and with everyone around her able to think.


A former friend was so much focused on being perfect that she rarely got anything done at all. Internet searches into infinity about obscure problems with her child, didn't get her vaccinated or enrolled in pre-school. Part of why I am not at all inclined to try and reestablish the friendship.

I take very good care of my patients. But I don't always fill in the nice-but-not-necessary parts of the charting. I'm not meticulous about charges when I'm busy keeping the surgery going. I sometimes don't put on gloves to pick up a dropped instrument on the floor, but sanitize my hands after. Sometimes I run for items at the last minute, but I'm pretty fast. I forget things, as everyone does.

For me, perfection is like saying π should be 3. Well, it's not, and there's no getting around it. Error is built into the system, and perfect is impossible. Because that is how we become adaptable and how we grow. It's all just taking care of each other and not losing our sanity.

Kind beats perfect every time. Good enough is all we really want, really.

Strawberries

Sitting on the front porch, until it gets too hot.




Went home early on Monday, called off Tuesday, normal off Wednesday. We knew it was going to be a thin August. Having a new surgeon will help eventually, but it takes time. The unexpected slack left me with the urge to work vigorously. So, I dug three more Vs for the front yard, and two trenches in the back. Strangely, although my back is strained, it also feels a little better. I will watch it carefully.

The clover Vs are adding up, as are the clover.





The first back trench yielded a lovely, large stone, and a very corroded axe with a degraded rubber handle, as well as a lot of rocks. The buried hatchet is not new, but I don't know how salvageable.

The guy and son came to cap the chimney, now have a flue, and I cleaned the firebox reasonably well. Then added some very dense insulation foam scrounged from work just this week. I don't think we'll be getting a lot of drafts this winter. Fire box still rusty, but much better and not caked with ash. I suspect it is original with the house, so must be kept, as a ship's bell. And if we really want to burn a yule log, well, it's safe - the chimney is apparently good for another 80-100 burns. That should take us through the next 30 years easy.

Huge pile of ash over the very back beside the compost heap - which I knew was going to be a problem and why I left it until last. Lots of dog/cat turds, and plastic enmeshed in some kind of florist agglomeration. Coco mat liner, looks like. A trash pile. Moved most of the ashes to the side near the garage, maybe try to grow something, maybe make my bottle wall there. But the cleared and soaked area - clover next year, strawberries planted the year after, and Strawberries in Three Years!

Sunflowers, however meagre, are still alive out front.





It's not that I do that much most days, but that I go out there every day and do something. Then I do research. Trying very hard not to do anything really stupid. Rage, rage against the ignorance. I take afternoons when it's too hot, and do a whole shitload of nuthin'.

Spread

I love the old black spread, that I got when I escaped the ex, in my first apartment after. Twenty years on, it is badly torn around the edges, faded and thin. So we started looking. Found this at less than 1/3rd the price originally asked, and Moby approves. He's been on it since early morning, off and on.





Just heavy enough to reassure, without being too warm for summer, and a gorgeous color.

Do

It's a sort of meme going round, so I had to join in.


What my friends think I do.




What my mom thinks I do.





What society thinks I do.




What my boss thinks I do.




What I think I do.





What I do.

Seventeen

Reminded by a comment elsewhere of myself at 17, and maybe I should talk to her as well. Because she was so lost and frustrated, full of fantasies and inadequacies and misplaced focus.

Mostly, she wanted to be kissed, and that wasn't going to happen for another two years. The hormones were off the scale, with no place to put them, and a keen intellect with nothing else to chew on. The eternal question of the young, "why don't boys like me?"*

Well, they don't like you for a series of complicated reasons, some of which have nothing to do with you, some are precisely because of who you are. Let's untangle it a bit.

Start with you. You are beaten down at home, shy, depressed, angry, and unstable. That all shows. Like a huge neon sign flashing in the dark, it shows. Even when they don't know what it says, it keeps people away out of sheer self preservation. As long as you have to keep up that fortress wall against your father, you are not going to be able to let anyone else in. That's core. Until that part of your life is through, you are impermeable. And as you start to get rid of it, chances are the guys most attracted to you will be users who want someone vulnerable. Lucky you.

When you do get through that, and stand tall and confident, you will become more attractive. It isn't all about being pretty and fashionable, at least not for the guys you will be interested in attracting. There will be enough to reassure you, when the time is right.

The rest of the problem is them. Well, sort of. You have a very small sample size, and you are an outlier even in the whole of the population. Your looks are perfectly adequate, but that mind, those interests - dear, you are at the edge of the scale. Not extreme, but pretty near the edge. How can a small high school throw up anyone like you? Yes, those three or four guys that you like talking with, that you would love to kiss, but again, small sample sizes skew the results. Three of them are gay. You weren't to know. It's not you they don't want to kiss, it's any girl.

And guys your age are not interested in your type, even if you weren't buttoned down. Yes, yes, I know, you would have jumped them given half a chance, but you didn't read that way to them. You developed early, but it doesn't show. And at that age, most of it is about the show. And the unconscious drive for the most genetically healthy. You really don't look healthy - bad mood and bad food - not appealing.

When they get older, men appreciate subtlety and personality and intellect, but not now, not most of them. Anymore than you care about them aside from their desire to kiss you - rather impersonal when you consider it. You are not the only girl not getting kissed, and it's not about who is prettier by your standards, but by the sexual appeal standards of the most confident boys. The introvert boys are dealing with the same issues as you.

Not to mention the catholicism that keeps the honest from pushing the rules. That's on you and them.

So, hang in there, learn your own body, and know that you are in it for the long haul, not just the first kiss. You want love. There will be plenty of kisses, and not just from one guy. Eventually, from just one really good one.

Read, wait, be attentive, grow when you can. The rest will happen.



*Or whatever gender you needed kisses from. Switch genders freely throughout, in fact.





Almost forgot this from the wonderful Whiskey River.


"You're waiting for that magical day when someone makes the connection and recognizes who you really are. Maybe they'll first catch the sparkle in your eye. Or perhaps they'll marvel at your insights and the depth of your spirit. Someone who will help you connect the dots, believe in yourself, and make sense of it all. Someone who will understand you, approve of you, and unhesitatingly give you a leg up so that life can pluck your ready, ripened self from the branch of magnificence. Well, I'm here to tell you, your wait is over. That someone, is you."
- Mike Dooley
Notes from the Universe

Eight

Eight years ago, D brought Moby home from the shelter, on the train, carrying a bag of food as well as a vocally unhappy cat. We weren't to hear his voice for months again.






He's made five moves with us, and I believe he is happiest here. We are very fortunate to have found him, and he seems as happy to have chosen us.

Cooks

Too many people,
All around a toe today.
No damn fun at all.

Months

It's been three months, a bit less.






Really, not that long.

Only seven months in the house.

I want it to feel cared for.

Experimental

Two hard days, but with good people to work with, which makes all the difference. The last case this evening was experimental, I can't explain why without a potential confidentiality breach, but the surgeon placed experimental devices that in others will be eventually used to attach prosthetics that will move as a normal hand would move. Lots of set-up, and remote video, and recording, researchers with cameras and supplies. Nothing too strange, and they were very appreciative of my handling of so much (to them) equipment. Yeah, well, I've seen more new equipment and larger entourages many times before, this was relatively minor. Not to mention interesting. And I got a lot of it set up during the previous case. I have eaten more complications than that for breakfast.

Metaphorically.

This is probably why I have learned this wobbly, but untippable attitude. The lab/engineer/research folks seemed impressed. I considered it a slightly more complicated, busy case. Not the worst by far.

Worst most busy case ever was the arm disarticulation for bone cancer, with about 30 frozen section specimens that had to be run down the hall, two surgeons, residents, equipment everywhere, and just me, running. Fast. For about five hours. Felt longer.

Feeling better about the garden. Nothing I could do about the salinity but water more, and the rest is a matter of growing stuff there and lots of compost. Not planting would not have done anything but stasis. Three to five years before it will recover. I can cope with that, I have time.


I do love experimenting, collecting data, researching. Learning patience, an eternal lesson, never done.

Moby very chatty last night. Quite the variety of vocalizations for a long, long time. The news, one supposes. This is so much a new behaviour for him, we like to think it is indicative of confidence, and perhaps of confidences.

Patterns

Moby wanted to go out. So I got his harness on, and he walked away. Not terribly unusual, but then he went to the back door - which is. We went out the back way, which hasn't happened all summer. He sniffed long and thoroughly the back/side porch, explored the garden as I snipped off the lemon balm mint flowers, went back to the porch. Then back out around the garden, right to all the edges, paws in dirt. The driveway, out to the front. Much sitting. Then back, flopping at the neighbor's back door. When she came out, he watched her, then rolled on his back for a scritch. I had to urge him out, before she moved her car. He sauntered out front, and lounged half on half off the walk and the grass.

Just didn't have the heart to make him go back in, he was so engaged and content. I had nothing better to do, mere boredom didn't seem enough of a reason to cut short his evident enjoyment. D says we were out the better part of an hour. Well, that seems little enough to do for a beloved. Eventually he decided to come in. I took the brush to all the debris on his coat, and he settled in the guest room.

We watched Everything is Illuminated last evening. Strange and compelling film, tricky, funny, beautiful, touching. Eugene Hutz is a marvel, and the soundtrack is one of the best I've ever heard. I've never read the book, not sure if I want to. The story is obscured, and I think I prefer it so.

Continuing to clear sod and plant clover, the amount I can do easily in one session of hacking and planting. A series of Vs. The pattern, as it forms, appeals. I remember coloring as a child, and drawing patterns, doodles, repeating shapes in varying colors.



Mostly because I had no clue how to draw what I saw, or what I could see that I wanted to draw. I preferred to just lay down lines and colors, not trying to represent anything - because I felt I'd be no good at it. If I was given a drawing assignment, I did reasonably well. Rather like writing assignments. "Write about something" made me crazy. Write about what? I wanted a direction, the excess freedom felt like I was being cut adrift.

Obviously, this is not as much of an issue. I've been writing here for many years without direction save where impulsive winds take me. No grades, no paycheck, only comments.

Childhood frightened me, every day a new terror, another threat, a lonely death. Now, I am not frightened. The menaces still sit beyond, I know I walk the last steps to death alone, as we all do, but now my heart is safe.

And I can hack shapes into my lawn.

Mouse

A cry of dismay rang out from the bathroom.

"What?" said I, as a small mouse ran around the corner just as D exclaimed, "A FUCKING MOUSE!"

Verily, we have a mouse, and Moby up his tree in the front room. Although he came shortly after, sniffing interestedly. He's been lurking around the sighting area since, and an abrupt, loud, chase in the wee hours may have been after wee mousie. He can surely smell the wee.

I know better than romanticizing the little buggers, they piddle as they move, a kind of chemical information trail, leave droppings in food, spread little mouse colds and flu. No objection to the odd field mouse, and none at all to them out in the wilds. In my house, sorry, no. We will take this seriously to avoid infestation. Moby will do his bit, I am sure.

There was a mouse that had a pathway in the wall of my childhood bedroom. Never seen, I heard it on it's regular rounds as I fell asleep at night. One year we got my easter basket from the attic, the plastic grass had been a nest for mice, full of poo. I had to be convinced that not just the grass, but the whole, old basket had to be discarded.

A mouse may have a house, but not mine.

Fault

The fault lies not in myself, but in the sodium.

Texture Clay Loam

pH 6.8
Normal

Salinity - ECe 2.1
High

Phosphorus - P 96
Very High


Potassium - K 580
High

Probably mostly from previous inorganic fertilizers. Poor drainage and I need to water more, but less often, I think. This week I will call the county agent and see what they have to say. But it does explain why the beans just sat there, and the edges did far worse than the middle. But, the potatoes - do they LIKE all that saline? Maybe. Much research to be done, plans to be made, studying and finding out.


Great Salt Lake indeed.

Peering

Deciding where to jump next.

Geometry

A bowl for a short stem garden rose. My Aunt Evelyn would be touched. She had one for the roses Uncle Ernie brought her.




From the living room, through the Music Room, hallway, into our bedroom.


And back, so that the front room blinds are visible.


I love the geometry of this place.

Moby is getting ready to chase.

Lawn

It doesn't look like much, but I am working on it. Dead lawn, we're working on killing it. Decided that we didn't just dislike these chairs from ikky-a, but couldn't be bothered.



Bit by bit, planting mini-clover, which is better for the soil, and will stay green with a lot less water. Not to mention how well it seems to be doing. The package says 5-7 days to first sprout, but we have been seeing sprouts after 3 days.



Clearing away the plastic netting in the sod, comma by comma.


Cayenne in the deep-dug hole is flourishing. After the ripe chili, there were three more on the plant.



Is this a sunflower I see before me?

Or at least the bud for one? I will have to wait and see.

I know I am making progress, but sometimes all I can see is how far I have to go. Must refocus. Making myself wait until the end of the month before I dig another deep hole, to rest my hands. Having a bit of difficulty, one finger in particular gets very stiff and painful overnight.


Found a site with Krazy Kat cartoons. I had no idea, it defies words. One strip, I had to examine several minutes, then I could not stop laughing. Utterly absurd, I could not explain why it struck me so, but there it is. I'd heard it described as genius, but the bit of it I'd seen was incomprehensible. Still is, but I can now see the brilliance and absurdity and deep, deep wells of humor.

Wow.

I will not try to convince you, when you mind is ready, Krazy Kat will appear.