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Moby loves my robe. No matter where it is.



Eleanor loves being up in this window. Good thing the screen is nailed on.


She seems to enjoy tripping the motion sensor light left on the mantle.

Lab

Interesting Saturday at work. Voluntary, paid by an alternate revenue stream. The reps for the various companies demonstrating their products. Using real anatomy specimens, for real surgeons, assisted by real nurses and techs. Late start, (Surgeons? Not on time? Really!?) which gave people time for coffee. Reps were pleasant, as they often are.

One of the four in my room was rather quiet(call him Q). Just before the scheduled start time, one of Q's colleagues (M) asks for some tylenol, that Q is not in good shape, very unlike him, because he climbed in the mountains the day before, and has back pain. I get her some, Q has tried to stretch out on the OR bed (this is fine, not being used for anything else) then up saying it hadn't helped. This does not look like back pain to me, at least not of the muscular variety. He's also looking grey and ill, nauseated. Another colleague mentions that Q had peed blood.

Ah.

I get the most organized of our nurses in on this, and ask about what their insurance will cover. We are very near a real ER, after all. I get a wheelchair, which Q refuses, until he takes a couple of steps, then accepts as probably a pretty good idea. M gets Q up to the main hospital, with one of our techs for directions. She gave me a huge hug first, just for doing what I do. This happens just as the first docs start arriving. Of course it does.


The whole lab process involved various surgeons floating through, and practicing with the new anchors and hardware. Some ancient surgeons ignored me, bothered me not at all. Most, though, were very friendly, looked for my ID, which kept flipping backward. I flipped it back and introduced myself, genuine ambassador for my rather nice facility. They liked our OR lights, and the size of the rooms, and were very appreciative of the chance to experience this in a real OR, with everything available that they would have for the actual surgeries. All the sterile supplies were saved from extra unused softgoods this week.

As we are cleaning up, making sure feet get back, marked properly, identified in their bags and returned to our lab downstairs, we get news. As I figured, kidney stones. They gave him fluids and drugs, he caught an early flight home to Ohio. Found a little info that altitude can precipitate kidney stones*, although he was probably already forming them, and a bit of dehydration and elevation exacerbated them. Poor guy.

Got a box lunch, but a very nice one from a pricy local restaurant, sandwich, potato salad and cookie. Roasted veggies on the sandwich, potato salad with olives and roasted red peppers, perfectly spiced, and coconut cookie - not oversweet. So, all in all, five hours doing a slack version of my job, at a premium. Cool.





*Chronic high altitude, at least. Not sure if it could happen acutely. Altitude sickness can do some crazy shit, though.

Array

From get ready.



Her instigation. A sneaky tackle.



Growling stand off.



The Chase.



Escape.



Pursuit.



Learning to get this recorded is going to take a long time, and a lotta luck.

Flying

Apparently, Eleanor can fly. Both of them chasing madly last evening, in and out of our lines of sight, taking turns. We watch as Moby runs low, and Eleanor LEAPS, flying past 3' off the floor, keeping pace. Good to see Moby so active and engaged, even if he did growl and hiss at her later. They are definitely not snuggling up together, but they are finding common ground.

After a week of chondroitin/glucosamine, Moby is moaning less, and moving a lot more. As much as one can tell with cats, I tend to think it's doing some good.

They chased around for a good twenty minutes this morning as well. Even after Moby hissed at her (& took a moment to himself) he chased around with her again.

Got to see another of Eleanor's flying leaps. She's got a funny hop, and a long leap, that seems to come out of nowhere.

Off to work, a lab for the various companies. Getting paid well, going in late, should be pretty mellow - no patients to worry about. Get to see all the newest toys first.

Sherpa

Remarkably, I am feeling rather good today. Full day, lots to do, busy, and I was up for it. Enjoying my work. A plan is in action, I don't have to stew over why now, what's happening to me. The time for intellectualizing the issue is over, I need a different way in, and that is in the works. Nothing more for me to do, but stay calm and... um, carry on.

Patient, big guy, in pain not only for where he was having surgery, but also the other side - which seemed to be bothering him even worse.

"So, when do we do the other one?"

"Tomorrow!" he booms.

He's loud and funny, and we like him. He's a bit difficult, but apologizing enthusiastically. An Extrovert, used to being in charge, but appreciative of people who know what they're doing. We keep him laughing, he makes us laugh.

As he's about to be induced, the resident anesthesiologist puts the full O2 mask on him, and he orders her, "GET THAT OFF MY FACE!" She tries to explain as she is getting her drugs going, and he repeats the demand several times. "GET THAT OFF MY FACE!!!"

"No." I say, and hold it more firmly.

He mumbles it out one more time, quieter, as the drugs take hold.

I have seen many people irritated with that mask, pulled on it, asked for it to be gone, complained of it. But I have never been brusquely ORDERED to remove it, with the clear expectation that he'd be obeyed. Dude, you are not in charge here. On this point, I am.

Once one decides to trust a particular expert, it's wise to let them lead the dance. Keep a certain reserve, of course, but let the sherpa do the job.

Contact

One day, a man with a camera took a photo of his son returning from Gulf War I. Not realizing it also held his future daughter-in-law. He would apologize for not printing it, not knowing.

I love it as it is, raw and moving.

My first steps toward a real home, the first I would ever know.

Quite a while back, a GP decided I was depressed, and put me on antidepressants. When I found the side effects intolerable, and inconsistent with performing my job, she castigated me for bailing on the therapy. Told me that I had to take it because I was depressed, as I would take the right anti-biotics for a particular infection. Last time I went to her. Always wondered if one could culture out depression, and what media got used. Agar?

What I had begun to realize was that I was dealing with anxiety, well covered. Not OCD, but PTSD. Anxiety without panic attacks. Getting myself in knots, and hurting. Migraines and pain. Misjudged reactivity.

I love being touched, but only with permission. Once, in AIT, about to stand in a color guard, the smaj*, a small woman with a powerful presence, asked permission of each of us privates, quite politely, "May I touch you?" to adjust a collar or an insignia. May have been pro-forma, but she waited for permission. She was not my direct superior, although somewhere up the chain of command. Awestruck by her dignity, and respect, I remember her. When we had March By every week, she would stand and shout "Be Proud, Charlie Company! Be Proud!" Which is a hokey as it gets, to Sousa Marches no less, but it still worked. I marched with my back straighter, and felt personally chuffed. Even as I knew it was hooey, it still worked.

My new therapist reminds me of her. I feel respected, and in good hands. I have a sincere, if beautifully disinterested, professional, cheering section. A guide to the underworld. My job, as I see it, is to be courageous. Stand up straight, be proud, march on. Very reassured that she considered the family dynamics "bizarre." Oh, yes, oh, thank you, it's not just me.


And this is the reason. Why it's coming up now. When I'm safe and home. Because I can, finally, deal with it.

Still sucks.






*Sargent Major.

Remains

Blog reluctance, it happens.

September, the painting continues, slowly.


The cat watches.



She finds ping-pong balls irresistible, which makes for amusing noises on wood floors.



Really should just cut down the remains of the sunflowers.



Hoping I can use them to hold down leaves on the north side of the 'lawn'. Give the worms a chance on that side, since all the leaves were blown off last fall.

First therapy session today. Very strange. Talked a bit, recapping of one's life is always a challenge. Ended with a guided imagery, me calm, in a safe place, and (with permission) she tapped the sides of my knees. I burst, exploded in sobs from nowhere. Uncontrollable, choking violent, wracking keening. Rather like that vague ache you take to a doctor, and they put a hand there, and move you so, and you are in agony. "Well, there's your problem." Yeah, I think this is the way through. Really going to be rough.

Like when the dentist cleared that abscessed tooth.

Where was my safe place? In the hot tub in Lava Hot Springs, on a cold winter night with snow all around, dark with bright starts, train whistles blowing, steam rising. Floating in the hot water, weightless and warm, wood soft with age and algae and water. Far away and with only the wind and quiet sloshes in the mild silence.

Wrong

This is just wrong.

A Few Clouds
90°F
32°C
Humidity10%
Wind SpeedS 21 G 35 MPH
Barometer29.74 in (1001.3 mb)
Dewpoint25°F (-4°C)
Visibility10.00 mi
Heat Index85°F (29°C)
Last Update on 21 Sep 2:53 pm MDT

Another damn 90˚F. Scraped and caulked the last bits on the front of the porch, but no painting. Ran out of time, roller was stuck in the, um, fuzzy part of the roller. Took D's parents to lunch for his mum's birthday, then ran errands. D has new shoes. He always feels abashed about spending so much on shoes. I figure good shoes are essential. We did a bunch of little other jobs, food for cats, trying some kitty chondroitin/glucosamine for Moby (it's helped me), other unrelated items.

Whatever my parental failures, they did two things absolutely right. I had a very good education, and I always had good shoes. Turned in feet as a baby, special shoes I wore in the crib (kicking all night) and then always solid, leather, well-fitting shoes, not cheap. So, yes, D gets good shoes now. He does not have usefully shaped feet, and they hurt him without good care. I'm not putting up with that from some damn pair of cheap shoes!

Today is about taking care of each other. Painting can wait a little longer. Ain't getting that cold, yet. Eleanor is lounging between us, apparently feeling loved.

Oh, and thanks Fresca for this. Gogol Bordello is a marvelous face slap. In the best of ways.

Snippets

D got hold of Not the Messiah. Pure delight. Some of the more seriously pedantic serious music listeners make lack a sense of humor, but the performers have well honed ones. And Eric Idle has some serious musical chops. Had a huge crush on him, when he was on the Oscars once, when I was a kid. He sported a beard, tuxedo, and red high top sneakers. That crush has never completed faded. D understands.


Had The Sun Whose Rays are All Ablaze going through my head, because of Dale. Which also makes me want to see Topsy Turvy again.



And Rose Marie for reasons I can't explain.

Maybe that eleven hour day with hair metal on, all day, which left me with a headache, but no ear worms. Musical equivalent of draino. Left with the deep melodies.

Woke to Moby cuddled up to my hip. Eleanor had to sit beside me as I had tea and cereal. Later, I'll clean up where somebody peed on the mudroom floor right next to the litterboxes, and the bathtub as well. Ah, well, easy to clean, part of the deal.

Summer has broken, a few stray hours of heat still scattered about. Off to throw painting clothes on, do the rest of the scraping, a bit of caulking, and with luck, get a little actual paint up there. Also got some brick sealant, spray on. Guy at Ace warned us it would look white and foamy, but not to worry. I asked if it would look like Fuzzy Wuzzy soap.

"Yeah, like that. I remember that. How old are you?" He stopped and tried to backtrack on that last bit, realizing that asking a woman over age 20 how old she was might not be appropriate. But by then I'd already said, "51."

We both remembered the toys inside, he said he'd gotten a little plastic bullet. SO couldn't do that today, probably for the best, really. I seem to remember a whistle. I loved those strange little soaps. No one worried about me swallowing a small toy. I put a pebble up my nose, once, wound up in the ER, but it was my brother that got me laughing enough to blow it out. I was perhaps 3 or 4.

Verge

Cats seem to have made a small, but discernible, improvement. Moby curled up behind me on the bed this morning. Eleanor jumped up on my legs - I startled, as did Moby. But she just took up a spot near the foot of the bed on the other side, and Moby settled back down. I drifted off again, when I finally woke, both were still there, Moby under my hand, relaxed, facing her. It's been touch and go from jumpstreet, but we are starting to get more consistent harmonious interactions. More play that is obviously play, not struggle.

We took a walk in the mild afternoon air. Temp got below 60˚F (15.5C) this morning, still almost cool enough for long sleeves this afternoon. Windows open, AC off. It's been a hot bugger of a summer.

I love this verge garden, my goal is toward something like. Anyone that can offer a translation?



And I so want to look inside this house. I don't think I'd want to live in one like this, but I find the style very attractive.


Very different from the other houses here, but somehow it still fits in. Rather like the sunflower row, some bright fresh yellows, some decrepit and past their time, every stage in between, all crowded in together.

Made my first appointment for therapy, although I'm feeling a lot better this week. There seems to be a conspiracy to get me in for help. Getting that same-day appointment with EAP, to start. Everything falling in place or me to resolve the old crap. And my reflex to pull back, tell myself I'm fine, just needed a short rest, is probably a self-destructive impulse.

Remembering a surgery, young woman, double mastectomy, the old kind - radical, down to chest wall, terrible prognosis. She was* a nurse, had a positive biopsy, never returned for follow-up. For years. Her reason? Taking care of her sister who was dying from breast cancer. Easily the most horrible thing I've ever seen. It takes a lot of intelligence to be that stupid.

I'm doing my damnedest not to be that stupid. Because, Oh, I could be. Have been. No doubt, will be again. Maybe not this time, in this way.


Fall, cleaning up. Preparing for winter and next spring. Eager for the coolness, sweaters, gentler colors of autumn.




*Almost certainly, was. Hard to imagine how she could have survived even that year.

Neighborhood

We've lived within this four to five block area for all our lives* together. The oddballs are part of the world. I have to assume they think much the same of us.


Long ago, a young man with wonky eyes, heavy glasses, and limp. He used to pull a wagon with yard tools. Over the years, there were more tools, with a cart. Now, he's got a motorized cart and a small trailer, with a mower and full landscaping kit, apparently making a living among the small gardens here.

Recently, we've also seen a guy, cleaner and in apparently better shape, than when we first encountered him two decades ago. Asian guy with long, matted dreadlocks. Used to stand on a particular corner, keening and rocking, in a hell of his own. He now seems more purposeful, if still slightly shambling, his clothes are clean and in good shape.


This week, one of our stranger neighbors, had a set-to with the sunflowers, again. Sometimes, he seems pretty harmless. Actually took me a while to look out, as I figured him as a guy arguing with a voice at the other end of the phone. No, no phone, just inside his head. This happened right after the sunflowers started really blooming. Around the same time as the first encounters, I walked past him at the grocery store, he was outside, shirtless and ranting madly.

Another local inhabitant is a heavyset guy, shorts, flip-flops, long dark hair and massive beard. Asked me once if the blowflowers grew out of the dandelions. After a moment of internal translation I agreed they were. He stomps around, back and forth, or lounges on the grass verges around.

One guy, heavy glasses, backpack, cap, bad limp of some sort, carries around what initially looked like a baby. Really just a rather realistic baby-doll, full size. Never says anything in my hearing. I figure there's a story there, and I'd rather never know what it is.

This is our neighborhood, in part. I'll take all the nuts over meth dealers/makers. The nice, if not quite stable, young families. The strugglers, the dog walkers, the middling and workers. We fit in perfectly.



*Except the three years in Boston, and one year in a different area of the valley. Our four previous apartments and the house are all within walking distance.

Mike

Mike is for M. Good old Mike.





At the mic.



Michael the Archangel, muscular, manly, mauling and magnificent.




M meanders and moseys among the many Mikes.


Zulu, Yankee, X-ray, Whiskey, Victor, Uniform, Tango, Sierra, Romeo, Quebec, Papa, Oscar, November, Mike.

Détente

Strange, five days off in a row, only one counting against me as a sick day. One, actually to my credit as a low-census day. Needed. My words are much less tangled.

Cats seem to have reached a satisfactory state of détente. At three months, this is promising. By four months, I think we'll be seeing the signed agreement. Moby watched her in the chair a long time. Later, he got up on the other chair, she came in a while after and resumed her place. They were both in the same spots a couple of hours later.

Gravel

Thinking about the abandoned smoke detector, D suspects they put it there. I scoff a bit, but then wonder if they didn't have it up in the kitchen, where they are often put in apartments - to annoy everyone. Every time they cooked, it went off, so they put it in the cupboard, where it got shoved all the way back. (Honestly, I could have sworn I'd wiped all the way to the back.) With the battery still in. A sort of sonic time-bomb. I may have seen it, but not realized what it was. Or, flat and white and in the corner, me getting tired, it fit nicely into my blind spot.

The concept of PTSD for an adult, once abused, seemed pretty obvious to me. I've dealt with it, over and over. Those scars don't disappear, that's the damaged raw material I'm working with. Frustrating, the original damage I've done so much work to repair, discard, remains. EAP counselor sending me for EMDR. It makes a kind of sense that using my eyes as a way in to this deep abscess might work for me, even if there is some controversy over how well it works for everyone.

I had to look him in the eyes, the shouted order, the constant demand. I can still see those mad, stupid eyes. Eventually, I learned to stare at the bridge of his nose. Which I think freaked him out a bit. Have someone look you in the nose, and you really can't tell that they aren't looking you in the eye, but it feels off, wrong, in some vague way. The tear reflex that plagues me, when stressed in that same way. He'd scream at me until he got me crying, then yell more that I was "turning on the waterworks." As though on purpose to soften him up, when I knew so well crying only made it worse. A therapy through my eyes? Yeah, I can see how that could work, for me.

Mostly, I made it to sanity, but not because I'm wired up properly. It's a kludge the whole way.

Gut still unhappy, but keeping to itself this morning. So far. Staying home, though, so as not to pass it around. Listening to the demolition crew clearing the debris of the house across the street. As it was. In better times, before the fire.


Now gone.


Hitting some potholes and loose gravel, best take it slow for a stretch.

Montezuma

First of all, it wasn't the fridge. It was a smoke detector battery. In a smoke detector we didn't know we had, because it had been left behind at the back of a cupboard over the fridge that I was certain I'd cleared long ago. I was wrong.

The repair guy did not charge us. I gave him some tomatoes.

I've been stammering. A known phenomenon, but always limited, situational, transient. Over the past few months, it's crept up on me, persistent and accumulating. I can't get a word out, and I get very frustrated with inarticulation. When still struggling to form words after a long weekend, time to call EAP. They had a cancellation. Seen. Now I have a PTSD diagnosis. I think this is accurate. Further therapy to follow.

Also spent most of the day running. As in the runs. Severe trots. Hoping I'm not contagious, but likely, am. Have felt better.

Suspecting this is a typical sort of stress response for me. My life is at ease, safe, so the bubble of crap bursts with the lowered pressure. I can handle it now, so the demon appears.

The house across the street that burned last year, was torn down today. Just a pile of rubble.

Iron

Lt Rain
66°F
19°C
Humidity73%
Wind SpeedSSE 13 G 23 MPH
Barometer30.08 in (1014.3 mb)
Dewpoint57°F (14°C)
Visibility10.00 mi
Last Update on 08 Sep 11:53 am MDT

It's been raining, off and on, since last evening. Too late for the garden this year, but good prep for next spring. When it stops raining, I plan to dig some deep holes for next year, statis and peppers, poppies and potatoes, grasses. Fill holes with leaves as mulch for winter. Plot for the raised beds on the verge. All weeds over the woodchips this year, but the tiny lilac flowers are sorta pretty. Definitely do the sunflower fence again. That worked even better than I hoped.

D removed and capped the wires for the so-called light over the back door. Attached haphazardly, with a bare, indoor bulb, even under the eaves and dry, it seemed risky at best. Put up a motion censor battery light, as we have on the front porch, to see the door and steps in the dark.

I think it may have once been a proper outdoor porch light, slathered in layers of black paint, over white paint. Obscuring the decorative ironwork details. Paint stripper, scrubbing, more stripping, more scrubbing, brasso, goo gone, then picking, and the paint is all but gone. I'm not even sure which way is up for it.


Moby hiding, not that unusual when it rains. Strangely, found him in the space behind the futon couch in the back room, where Eleanor hid the first week. He's settled on his other Excellent Hiding Place. ("I like it in here, it's private.")*



Eleanor is more easily startled, but can't seem to stay afraid for more than a few moments, and is right back out and up. She does not like the vacuum at all, whereas Moby doesn't seem to care unless it's roaring directly toward him. But Eleanor seems to not even notice thunder, and that sends Moby as deep under as he can find.

Put a fruit fly trap out, just as I had to last year.

Sterile

Scrub nurses and techs all have stories of stupidity. Mine is of contaminating myself putting on my gown, one, two, three times, in a row, in exactly the same way, on an OR light. Felt like I had not two brain cells to rub together.

Another nurse, just getting to the point in scrubbing where she started to work alone, told me this story about herself. A delay with the patient, she decides to open and set up. When her circulating nurse gets back, he asks her "Don't you want to put on gown and gloves first?" She had all her sterile set up, but all contaminated setting it out with bare hands.

We all have a moment, when that tunnel vision takes over, when we find ourselves at our destination, unaware of how we got there, and realizing we've missed an important step. We like telling new people, who are feeling incompetent, that we all felt that way and it does get better.

Learning the OR is all kinds of hard, because we can't slow down for new people. Learning at speed, with innumerable variations, and cranky people. Add that we forget how hard it is, the first time we don sterile gown and gloves, the sense of where we are in space, draping properly, trying not to break very expensive equipment. Nurse hired with me broke four laparoscopes in one go, dropped to the ground, pure accident. Tens of thousands of dollars to replace at the time. No, she was not charged, but she felt dreadful.

When we drop an item, it can be nothing - a paper gown, a pair of glove, or an expensive stapler, or a living related kidney. I know of one of the last, surgeon moving it through a substerile room from the family donator to the recipient, and ... something happened, the kidney was on the floor. This is irreplaceable. The surgeon weighed the risks and benefits, thoroughly rinsed the kidney in sterile saline, then antibiotics, and attached it to the patient. No doubt with great anxiety. We really don't have a three second rule in the OR. On the other hand, fingers are reattached, and are hardly sterile, and frequently work just fine.

I often wonder about sterility, if we actually achieve it, or simply an approximation that often works. I'm pretty meticulous, but a lot of surgeries before the idea of sterile technique did not result in death or even infection. Much of what we do has not been scientifically tested, it's more protocol and habit. But our habits do keep in pretty safe.

Not to say our habits don't save us, and breaks in technique don't cause problems - to the negligent, over time. But one time? Probably not. On average. As a whole. So, we are vigilant, but the accidental breaks, once in a while, don't seem to be a problem. As far as we can tell.


When nurses from the floor visit the OR, we tell them their idea of sterile is not ours. And it really isn't. What they call sterile, we accede to call Clean. Clean contaminated we see in my facility, usually not Dirty/Infected. These are defined categories, with specific criteria.

Stink

The Great Salt Lake has at it's shores, vast marshes, algae, brine shrimp, mud. A quite organic odor, strong and salty. When the wind blows over that and into the city, as with a storm approaching from the west or northwest, there is a Lake Stink effect. Once smelled, not to be forgotten or mistaken. Presages rain, snow, but sometimes it's just a bit of wind. Call it a fart.

As I came out of work (late) this evening, the valley full of dusty haze, that smell in my nose, I knew a storm approached. A windy front, carrying particulates that obscure everything, and promise nothing. No rain, not surprizing. When it stays dry here, the rain might fall, but fail to get down to the ground. Absorbed by the dryness long before quenching earth.

The air has cleared somewhat over the last couple of hours. No more 90s in the forecast, not to say it won't heat up that much for certain. It may cool down a little overnight. One can hope.

Especially with a beeping fridge.

Bleeping

The fridge, yes the one we got almost a year ago, began chirping last night. To me, sounded like the low battery alert on a smoke detector - encountered enough of those in apartments. Piercing, coming from the freezer. Cleaned all the edges, made sure nothing was blocking, even pulled the whole thing out and unplugged it for a pause. Still bleeping at us just about every 35 seconds, according to D's count. Echoing off the kitchen floor tiles and in the hall.

Sometime in the wee hours, it stopped. To my immense relief. I'd gotten to sleep, disturbed though.

Should still be, just barely, under warranty. Either way, must be fixed. Some information gleaned from D's research is it might be a fan starting to go bad.

Not feeling up to much today. Stayed a little late at work, as I was still cleaning up my room when the other two finished up as well. This is what we do, pitch in and get it all done. For all it can be a frustrating job, we do help each other without being asked. Getting new people on board with this takes some time.

Trimmed down the blown parsley, topped the lemon balm flowers. Probably should have done it long ago, but the bees and wasps, damsel flies and moths, seemed to enjoy them so much.

Not looking pretty out there. Not tidy, even. Better than last year at this point.

Thinking the back along the garages, should be a place for clumping bamboo. It is supposed to do fairly well here, especially if there is shade. Don't think anything else is going to do well there, not even lettuce, nor spinach.


Reading Lawrence in Arabia by Scott Anderson. War, Deceit, Imperial Folly and the Making of the Modern Middle East. WWI is an event I have never studied, never had a class about. Black Adder is probably the most I've really looked into the subject. Knew it was a mess, debacle, atrocity, killer of kings and countries, only in the most general terms. This book sparks my interest. D got a copy of Fall of Eagles from the library, which we've watched. Disappointing there is nearly no mention of the Ottoman Empire, since that carcass motivated The Great Loot.

About 3/5ths of the way through, and I just want to understand more. Keep thinking of the covert wrangling over Syria a century ago, and how those abuses and injustices continue to reverberate today. Crusades, Ottomans, tribalism, oil, corporations, people don't stand a chance. Not to mention literal religions that can justify mass murder with words. No, I don't just mean Islam, but any powerful religion, any emotional, irrational persuasion. Can't say I like Christianity any better, at least of the smug and obedience demanding varieties. Any system that demands people abandon their brains for the sake of eventual comfort after death, not respectable.

As for T. E., a nutjob, certainly. Largely a product of his culture and family, of his time, but cursed with a subtle brain and a conman's heart. I love that he's still considered a hero in his own country, says something lovely & odd about the British character.

Sheeps

Fascinating, watching dog and sheep and human. When dog laid down, looked so much like a pool player lining up a shot. And the sheep bore passing resemblance to a roller derby pack. So athletic, so subtle. Flanking maneuvers, herding behavior.


There were the occasional standoffs, stubborn sheep. But no biting allowed.


Gorgeous landscape, dramatic clouds. Took the fast route there, pouring rain when we arrived. Took the slow route back, through twisting, shoulderless, paintless almost roads through the wild mountain passes. The main route back is freeway, and down Parley's Canyon too many SUV drivin' maniacs going 80. So, we returned with deliberation, passing a profusion of yellow wildflowers and already turning leaves.

Watercloset

September, finally. Grey day, keeping the heat moderate, but the humidity heavy.

D wanted to fix the wonky flush handle this weekend. Friday, it went from wobbly to whoopsy. Local hardware only had a cheap replacement with plastic components, so we headed for Home Despot. Universal one, all metal, more expensive, but nothing significant when considered over many years. D got it all attached and working with almost no swearing at all. I first assisted.

The handle turns up, rather than the more usual down, which feels quite normal to me. D wants to put up a sign for guests, saying "Lift" with an arrow. I think an elaborate Victorian font and a pointing finger would be ideal, and he agrees.

And I got thinking about blessed curses. Forced to hold a worklight for my angry father in the cold winter garage as he worked on the car and cussed me out. Unpleasable bastard. Which makes my current work, including adjusting lights for cranky surgeons, holding, handing, preparing, seem like such a doddle, easy. Same situation, but shouting is rare, and I'm allowed to swear a little as well. I try not to, as a professionalism thing, but I have at times.

Not that I thank my father for being a damn bully, but I learned the kind of patient stillness of assistance. Used it for art modeling as well.

Just as the army, awful and upending, brought me into contact with people I'd never have noticed before. Their clothes or make-up would have warned me off. So, I found lovely people everywhere. Learned to look past costume and decoration. Taught me never to excuse myself, just do the damn job, because no one gives a crap about my excuses, only if the job is done. I learned how to succeed there, because they made it very difficult to quit.

And thinking about some good choices, sometimes made in youthful ignorance. Not to kill my father, not to even actually try to be a professional actor (I would have hated the life, and the business) to join up, to go to nursing school, to stick to D, never to get pregnant, get a cat, buy a house with a garden. The list of bad choices are longer, of course, but I'm not interested in dwelling on my host of failures.

Scraped more paint, one more day of that, some caulking and hammering down of nails, and I should be able to paint. Moved the compost pile, picked a poor place for it early in the summer, and finally changed it.