Batted

Granted, the day is mild, despite the bad air, but Moby seems happier, more mobile, since we got the heating pad under him. He slept there all night, luxuriant rather than tightly curled. I feel badly not having it out and on all this time. We feel for him, we all wake a bit stiff and sore. Every age has it's trials and tribulations. Today, he is a warm-butted cat.

The cats are moving around each other easily, sometimes chasing, sometimes Moby watches her as a fascinating entertainment. He hisses at her about once a day, but everyone knows it's pro forma. Although when he jumped to the top of his tree, and she followed to the next level down, he made it clear she was to leave. NOW. Then batted her off the lower perch, too. We have never seen her on the very top, so I suspect this is a repeat lesson for her. Very much a "Get off my lawn!" moment.

But mostly, there is an acceptance, this is the way it is.

The light is gorgeous this time of day, this time of year, through the haze. Over my shoulder, through the mirror, just some golden details. Not the first time I've photographed myself.



This is one of the first Photobooth images of myself,

Up

It's going to be fairly tall, but in scale for the neighborhood. My understanding is that a lot of the young, homeless men in this area are also GLBT, minus the L technically, but maybe not in spirit. Two spirit guys. This also fits around here.


Got out the heating pad, thanks to Class's reminder earlier this week. And, thank you for the reminder. I didn't want to shift him to put it under, so I draped it on top. This seems to be working, we went out for an hour or so, and he was still there on our return. With a warm butt. He's gotten up since, and the pad is under the blanket now.

Eleanor took over the sheepies, likewise unmoving during our absence.



We drove up the canyon, got out of the toxic air for a while.

Stopped at a small comic book shoppe, doing the small business saturday a day early. Don't tell, ok? We needed to get out rather badly.

And 23 years ago, on the Friday after Thanksgiving, D and I were at the armory, packing and sorting out paperwork to be sent off to GWI. We count this as our anniversary, (observed). Have not spent a day away from each other, although a few only talking by phone, since. Mostly together, minus the odd, short, work trip. Seems to have turned out very well indeed.


So many left-overs, need eating up*. We're working our way through them. Stuffed peppers for breakfast.



*

‘Needs eating up.’ That was a phrase of Sybil’s that got to Vimes. She’d announce at lunch: ‘We must have the pork tonight, it needs eating up.’ Vimes never had an actual problem with this, because he’d been raised to eat what was put in front of him, and do it quickly, too, before someone else snatched it away. He was just puzzled at the suggestion that he was there to do the food a favour.

- Terry Pratchett, Thud.

Buy

Happy Buy Nothing Day! Take a walk and ignore the ads (nearly wrote ignore the Eds, but that's not nice to Edwards.)

Be a frugal tightwad, stingy and prudent. Let them scream SALE until they're hoarse, it's an extra expense since it's not needed in the first place. We can do our bit to bring back the holiday for retail workers.

One exception can be the small, local shops, if it feels necessary, but it can wait until tomorrow. Small Business Saturday, bring cash please.

Eleanor has taken to sleeping between us every night, sometimes shoving D to the edge of the bed. She expects a cuddle, with much head rubbing, in the morning, which is a rather pleasant way to wake up.

Much

They loved D's stew, the roasted chicken stayed moist and tasty, the sparkling juices went down a treat. Just four people over, and comfortable, low key. Eleanor socialized a bit, Moby'd already slunk off for a nap since he'd been up all morning.

More food than we needed, but that's always the way. I didn't really cook much too much, but it's hard to scale, with only two of us to handle the leftovers. D's mom struggles with it because she still estimates for seven or more, me because it's been the two of us so long. Easy to overestimate, better to. Glad we skipped the green beans and the yams, not needed. We will not need to actually cook all weekend. Nor will we be sick of turkey.

The cats have already volunteered to help polish off the chicken.

Panettone amazing, every time it's better than I remember it.

So much to be thankful for. So much Home.

Panettone

Aaaaaaa…nd, four days off. So needed. Time away, time to NOT BE AT WORK. Don't care what I do, or don't do, just don't have to be there.


It's not even particular irritation at them, just, tired. Worn away by the voices and opinions of people I don't choose.

Not that I particularly agree with the in-laws in all things, but I care about them personally, and I do like them, quite a lot. Good souls, every one. Easy to feed. D's mom is a much better cook than my mom, but that's not saying much*. And if I'm any better than she is, it's simply a side effect of never having had to cook for five sons. Give them decent, flavorful grub, and a few treats (olives and artichoke hearts) and there is joy in the kingdom.

As someone with barely adequate cooking skills, or interest, myself, any tasty meal is a triumph. But I will stuff 'em til they burst. NO one leaves hungry. Not on my watch. I am not above bought pie. And Panettone is a treat under any circumstances. Let 'em eat cake.

There will be music and possibly games, maybe something on the screen. Doesn't matter, really. This is not a chatty, sociable family, but comfortable.

Feel like I should do more tonight, but then I realize, I will be awake at 6 anyway, no matter what I do. Without enough tasks to fill the time as it is. Chill tonight, tomorrow stay busy, remember to eat, then enjoy. All will be well. D's already got his stew aboil.

Cats is chasin'. A happy, gallumphy sound.








*Poor mom, unappreciated at an onerous task she had to perform daily, with little interest, instruction or skill.

State

The house across the street progresses.



An additional floor.


Neighbor cat Sebastian has been sitting here all morning, apparently hunting birds.


Our Eleanor watches out the window.


Moby stays curled and warm.

Blanket

One dozes, you see.
Do you knot their shoelaces,
Or toss a blanket?



Working in hospitals, I've often seen the exhausted nap on staff room sofas. And I'm intrigued by the difference, some people immediately giggle and want to prank them, others say "awwww" and cover them, find a pillow. Some, of course, ignore, but far fewer of them. Everyone seems to take a side, irritate or defend.

I consider this a vital test of character. The ultimate in morality. The impulse to torment, or the impulse to protect.

Remembering a lovely painting at the DIA, always drew me in. I never remember the painter, so I can't find the image, but it is of a girl, asleep on a striped pad on a bench. Her booted foot pulled up toward her, in her clothes, but in blissful dreams. I could stare at her a long time. She embodied serenity, and safety, even in her vulnerability.



Young Girl Sleeping, Eberhart Keilhau. Can't find an image yet.

Chocolate

Same price as the usual one.

Must do some substantial cleaning, since we will be having family* over for the holiday. My idea, my suggestion, my invitation.

Gratitude is everything.

Worth cleaning and fussing, cooking and shopping.

Life gives it's compensations, little treats. Just so we can see the enormity of compassion.



*D's kin.

Heroes

A huge part of the therappy for me has been healing my sore heart by redreaming the hurts. I get help, I get a say, I get what I needed then. Not to change the past, but to patch the holes so I stop falling into them. Especially at night, or when they echo in the words of unrelated people.

Hardly in danger of believing the fantasy, I too often despised fictionalizing as dishonest. But the real memories have outlived their use, and imagining gives me a raft to float through the flood of muck.

Started out with a sherpa, to guide me through to the top of the mountain, through the most difficult terrain. A smiling presence, beyond my understanding, but reliable.

Then a Michelle Yeoh, Cheng Pei Pei warrior, who keeps the harm at bay, and teaches me how to defend myself. And anyone else being bullied.


A Jeeves, to take care of my needs when a dependent child, taking care of the adult details I had no way of knowing. Also patiently teaching, or finding tutors for me.


A jokester demon to mock my self indulgence and pity, irreverent and rebellious and irritating, but my demon. Perhaps a sort of Nac Mac Feegle.



None of these figures are for my adult self, only for the child I was, when I couldn't take care of myself, didn't know how to get through, didn't understand. That part of myself that still lashes out when I feel hard done by, even when I'm perfectly capable of doing the work myself. Those overreactive spasms that appear when I'm ill or stressed or shocked, that need to placated and dampened. Not to deny or silence them, but to listen to them, and not make them shout because I ignored them too long.

Head off the tantrums with a judicious nap or snack, or soft word and a hug. So that when I'm really pushed and exhausted, I have some reserve, and a small self that knows it's time to be brave and patient, and perhaps a bit silly.


This really is the wonderful part of stories, they give us alternate endings, and a choice about how we begin again as well.

Video

Over the years in the OR, I've had the misfortune to be part of several broadcast surgeries. Often connected to conferences, live feeds, lights, cameras, extra people, tetchy surgeons. In recent years, a few nerve implants for prostheses, streamed for research, involve far fewer guests, as the cameras are built into the lights, into the system. Still, people underfoot, adding complexity and the certainty of some error, largely correctable.

Today, a guy who videos his athletic feats, and makes a living from his web presence, has convinced the surgeon to wear a head camera - gopros, and has another in his hand, another on time-lapse he asks me to place. Yeah, I admit, I'm a tad envious of his three gopros. I think we all are. He goes so far as to get a spinal anesthesia and no sedation at all, so he can stay alert, and we are certainly capable of accommodating this request. Most of us who work in surgery completely get the idea of being awake and remembering, but numb to the procedure.

So, we get everything working, do what we do, and the cameras occasionally beep, which we make sure are the cameras and not alarms for some other bit of equipment. He's pleasant and cooperative throughout, tolerates everything with remarkable calm. Not really wanting to be on his video, but I'm largely not identifiable with mask and hat. All in all, these small cameras are a much less intrusive way to record in the OR.

Some aspects of the lack of privacy online bother me, but I like that secrecy is less secure. Light in the dark corners. People do act more ethically when they know they are being watched. We are social creatures, we need checks and balances. The idea of privacy is a shaky one in small towns, or large families. Maybe losing it has the potential for some good. As well as harm. As a very private person myself, I have wildly mixed feelings. This incursion into my work is uncomfortable, but not a bad thing. Manageable.

I suppose I should also describe how video works in my job. All scopes are routed to screens so that the surgeon can see inside the knee/shoulder/hip/wrist/ankle joint. Images can be captured, as well as video. For open cases, the spotlight has a camera as well, and pictures and video can be taken. Part of this is teaching, part research, documentation, explaining later to a patient what the problem was and what was done. I can route one screen from the arthroscope, another from the inlight cam, or the microscope. The screen can be turned so the patient can watch, and if appropriate for them to be awake, they often do. Makes the job more involving, since so often, the only one who could ever really see was the surgeon. Even being scrubbed in, seeing what is happening is difficult and intermittent at best. These cameras help.


But then, like life when done properly, much of surgery is very dull. A process of dissection, careful, like cleaning an ancient painting, or posing claymation figures. Best seen as a time lapse. A full recording of a whole surgery at normal speed, would be incredibly tedious.

Tissue

Granny always had a handkerchief, with lace, or some embroidery. Clutched in her hand, as much a part of her as her swearing by using the words "blessed be!"

In nursing school, during clinicals, I saw the same in other elderly women, a wadded handkerchief in fist, the next generation with paper tissues. At first, I thought, 'just like granny.' After a while, it became a sort of badge of age, and sex. Older men almost never did this, not in hospitals, coming into surgery, older woman always did. Always. Caught with it, they apologized. I told them how usual it was. Sometimes I didn't find it until after they were under anesthesia, and it dropped on the floor. The telltale kleenex in the palm, a reliable pattern.

And now, in myself. I'm sure, were I brought to surgery, someone would remove a clenched tissue from my hand. This is not especially new, but more constant. Not just for tears, nor colds, but my nose drips, and I don't want to snort out, nor use a sleeve. Did enough of that in the army. I prefer to empty my nose properly.

D uses one tissue, and throws it away. I figure unless I've done some damage to it, a little sniffle of snot on one side means plenty of pristine area for future need. If a tissue gets into the laundry, I accept that it's my fault.

Cloth handkerchiefs, while more reliable and economical, needed to be washed, and usually were also ironed. They weren't as soft on the nose, either. My job* was to iron my father's "snot-rags" which irks me still, when I do my rare ironing of my own. Got in trouble once, for not doing a really good job at this. Mom was the one angry, not sure how much of that was my father, although he had to have reported the ill-ironed fabric. But it all reflected on her, apparently. I wondered at the time how much a bunch of other factory workers cared about slightly imperfectly ironed handkerchiefs of my father.

Got more kleenex today. Puffs, with lotion, to be specific. Tis the season.



(Not an ad, not an endorsement, merely for illustration.)





*One of my other jobs was shining his shoes, not just the Sunday ones, but the ones he wore to work. Washing the dishes I hated, but it never felt personal. I'd have preferred to take out the trash.

Gruesome

We walked around the neighborhood last week, found this gruesome pair.


The home across the street continuing to take shape.


Didn't see the top floor when I got home in the dark last night.


Epic Brewing makes some of it's beer in bourbon barrels. They are selling the empties, and after careful consideration, we got one. As well as their luscious Cubano sandwiches, which D loves.


Moby already likes it, sat next to it on the small rug it's on, then walked on it, very carefully at first, then more surely. Used it to jump on the mantle, which he has not done for a while. He has lost some of his fluidity over the past year or so. Chasing around with Eleanor has emboldened him, kept him mobile. But he will never be the jumper he once was. If only because the landings hurt too much.

A cold and a rainy day, soothing to our overheated souls. If not our old joints.



I've cooled off internally, to the point that I have to stomp out hope that the worst might be over. Hope is a bugger. Also got a copy of Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain, some good paper, kneadable eraser, and a charcoal pencil. Start small, but start drawing. Back in high school, lo the decades ago, I could actually draw competently, if not quite at the level of artist. I'm more content with the idea of simple competence these days. Seven years writing, and I feel I write quite adequately. Dare I say, Perfectly adequately? If I could get to that level drawing, it would give me pleasure. I will never be able to throw pots on a wheel again, neither thumb nor back will agree to that. Must make adjustments. As D has had to with his guitar, after shattering his elbow. We all feel the weather, even as we love the rain.

I desperately want to draw my demon.

Nourished

Another late day, I'm well into overtime this week. My back and hip joints know, do not approve. D made sure to have food ready, specifically a rotisserie chicken from the local grocery store. Kept it in the oven, where it stayed warm.

When I got home, he met me at the car, and walked me in, me staggering a bit. Met by both cats, unique. After a few minutes we realized why. Oh, yeah, they know when there is good chicken to be had. As I wolfed down some, I had to portion out some to the feline contingent. Discouraging Eleanor from approaching too close to Moby with chicken, throwing morsels to her a bit apart.

After, I also had peas and rice, and the cats chased each other about without animosity, and a great deal of energy, as D and I watch old film noir. Mystery Street. Awfully good one. As mentioned in an episode of Leverage, which is also rather good.

Feeling nourished, amused, and cared for. Nothing else to want. Drugs, hugs and food.

Porter

Went into the brewery. There is only a small space for public customers, and a cold case with their current selection. Three people choosing, putting their bottles in boxes, as I get my three, (maybe four.) I'm about done, when one guy with a box is ready. I motion him ahead, he was there before me, and thanks me. I put my bottles where he had the box.

"No problem, you were here first."

The one guy at the register apologizes for the wait. There is a second register, but no one on it. Middle of the day, they don't staff as much. The other woman and guy and I all pooh-pooh the idea that this is a noticeable inconvenience.

"If you are in a hurry to get beer, you need to reassess your life." I say.

"If you are in that much of a hurry, go get a bottle of cheap whiskey at the liquor store." Says the guy waiting with one bottle. The woman who may or may not be with him agrees, "Beer is not about rushing."

We chat, and the woman with the box motions me ahead.

"Nope, you were here first too." I tell her.

"You were ready first, though." She is more than willing to let me ahead.

"Really, not in a hurry. My day off."

We smile, employee apologizes again. But we are beer folks, an air of mellow abounds.

When the guy with one bottle glances at me, I wave him ahead as well, he was there when I arrived. In good time, I'm taken care of.

"Thanks so much for being patient!"

I smile and huff a laugh. Surely goodness and mercy and smoked porter.

Yellow

Another session, another little moment. Humor and compassion are not optional, they are the keys.

Manager being an ass, as per, again, this past week. Connected reactions from me, to her, back to the paternally inflicted damage. Can't change her, so I have to change myself, my own actions and reactions. Suddenly saw her odd, birdlike head motions, and she turned into Big Bird. Could not stop laughing.

An overgrown, childlike bird, confused and knocking things over. Imagined myself treating her with patient curiosity, and myself with kind strength. I was a little old for Sesame Street when it came out, but I remember how much Big Bird loved Mr. Hooper. Maybe I will have to go back and watch some of those interactions. Find my Mr. Hooper inside. Just imagining her in that tiny office, as a huge yellow bird puppet, feathers floating in the air, will help.

It's the damn tears, you see. They just turn on, against my will. As I instantly become that trapped child, with the angry red sweaty face spitting abuse, stinking of sweat and onion and cigar, demanding an answer, and it better be the right one, and keeping every childish word as ammunition to throw back at me forever, demanding I look at him. And I can be silent, ask questions, be curious, pull back. Let him fade to black & white, with a grey cloud between us. And I can withdraw from my manager, ask questions, see her as a demon in my own mind. Demand that my demon sit beside me.

"Hey, you are MY demon, you are on MY side. Sit here."

And the red, scrawny thing clasps my arm, rests it's shiny head on my shoulder, painfully with sharp talons and spiky horns, but gazes up at me, abashed.

"It's ok, demon, you are just afraid, it's ok, shhhh…."

I take the time I need to think, to ask, to be genuinely curious, kind. Reassure her, since her own demon is what she is trying to attack and manipulate. Her own blindness she can't see beyond. Her own fantasy world with it's own rules I can't see. But I could talk with people who'd had strokes, schizophrenia, alzheimer's, and keep them calm. So, surely, I have the tools, the skill, to approach her as a problem, one I can cope with. One I can keep from hurting me. Keep her small, and not nearly so monstrous as I imagine. Not feeding her gossip, which she relishes. Draining off the anger, deflecting blame.


Compassion.

Involves opening myself up completely. Refusing the illusion of the noise on the surface. Gazing beneath, and knowing we are all in this together. Strip off my clothes, let others gaze upon themselves.

Xmission

We are not party people. But last night, we went to a party to celebrate our ISP's 20th anniversary. Again, this does not really sound like fun. Strangely enough, it was. We've been with them from their first year in business, D first, then he sponsored me - back when they wouldn't take a new account unless someone who didn't need much technical help would vouch for them. I got an email that is just my first name, their name, and a ., .

The founder/owner is a good guy, CS major, who didn't follow his passion, but grew it from a seed of interest, with a lot of skill, incredibly good timing, and the ability to see the right action, then worked his ass off. He wanted the internet, and access to it, that didn't exist. So he built this thing for himself, and found that other people wanted it too.

D remembers when he was just a member of his friend's BBS, and a rave DJ. Which is why D so wanted him to win against Orrin Hatch (wasn't gonna happen, sadly.)

The nibbles were excellent, a long time since I've had shrimp. We didn't really talk with anyone, but the atmosphere in the room was pleasant. One employee chatted with us a few minutes, which was kind, nicely mingled. There were men in suits and women dressed to the nines, and there were people in sneakers, jeans and hoodies, with everything in between. For once, I felt no self consciousness about my clothes at a party.

And we were in my old workplace, refurbished completely, but still familiar. The old library moved to the new library, and an art & science museum upgraded it for earthquake standards, and made other substantial changes. But the space is the same, the rooftop garden looked untouched, and the view oh-so familiar. Odd, but pleasantly so. D and I had some of our first conversations in that room. Then we got to play in the part of the museum they had open.

Finally, we got a little package of swag, an Internet Survival Kit, someone had fun with it. Explanations aside, I think there are specific stories for each.


If you ever have a reason to work with Xmission, do so. No, this is not a paid endorsement, this is personal loyalty after so many years of being cared for. I don't complain much about spam for a reason, most of it doesn't get through to me.

Mouser

A lot of noise through the night. Vehicles racing, revving, possibly dragging a metal sledge. No idea what went on there. Later, heard cat chasing sounds, with some vigorous thumping about. Early morning, the distinctive sound of Eleanor horking.

So, I put on the light, got up to find the wet pile of used kibble. And couldn't find it. Careful where I put my feet, I went for cleaning supplies, and turned on more lights. The hork-up was much drier and contained than I expected, next to part of a toy.

No, not part of a toy. Part of a mouse. The back half.

Well.

We figured that if she got hold of a mouse, she would know how to kill it, based on how she attacked toys. Apparently, we were correct. Maybe she brought it to the bedroom rug for me, "here's half a mouse, want some?" I have no way of knowing, but I suspect Moby helped, a sort of tag team approach.

We'll get traps for the basement, and rely on our mousing team up here.

Nothing to be done about the loud cars/trucks/motorcycles outside. Although I'm going to imagine huge mousetraps ready to snap down on them.

Prank

There is a video going round, a prank*. Parents tell their kids they've eaten all their halloween candy. Kid react. Several women at work think this is very funny, the raw fury of these young children. I know they are good people, presumably decent parents, so I have to guess there is some aspect of living with a child and tolerating their screams and crying, that I am missing. Still.

Avoided it, until I happened to walk in when they'd pulled it up, caught maybe 30 seconds. One kid, maybe 3, sobbing, his mother (to her credit) stops the 'joke' and gives him back his candy, he rebukes her "that wasn't very kind!" That she kept the video and made it available for this program says something else again. That is when I walked out. Too close to home.

Thinking about RR and her respect for the baby dignity of her granddaughter. A respect I got never from my parents, rarely from others as a kid. This is the hole I am working to repair now. A bag of candy may be trivial, and a minor thing for such strong reactions, but that is the whole of those children's treasure. They worked for it, earned it,it belonged to them. To make a big joke out of taking it away from them, particularly by the very people who are supposed to protect them, is, as the boy rightfully says, unkind.

My father always justified his cruelty to me as training, that the world would be so much worse. Except that it wasn't. The personal, overwhelming, torturous meanness he inflicted on me when small and helpless, remains the worst part of my life. In large part because he was supposed to be my refuge, protector, father, home.

Maybe, though, I am missing something. Some gut reaction, nervous laughter, no real harm done*, that people who live with children's seemingly overdramatizing use to cope. As nurses laughing in the midst of death and horrific injury, a way to deal. Or that kids with solid families, no abuse, having the occasional mean joke played on them, can roll with this. Sounds fishy to me, but I have no point of reference. At least, not one I can rely upon.

Another of my own demons, that I have to deal with. Grab it by it's scrawny throat, and as it bites and writhes and burns, demand it's truth, the lesson, the secret. Swallow it whole, or let it swallow me.

“One evening Milarepa returned to his cave after gathering firewood, only to find it filled with demons. They were cooking his food, reading his books, sleeping in his bed. They had taken over the joint. He knew about nonduality of self and other, but he still didn’t quite know how to get these guys out of his cave. Even though he had the sense that they were just a projection of his own mind—all the unwanted parts of himself—he didn’t know how to get rid of them. So first he taught them the dharma. He sat on this seat that was higher than they were and said things to them about how we are all one. He talked about compassion and shunyata and how poison is medicine. Nothing happened. The demons were still there. Then he lost his patience and got angry and ran at them. They just laughed at him. Finally, he gave up and just sat down on the floor, saying, “I’m not going away and it looks like you’re not either, so let’s just live here together.” At that point, all of them left except one. Milarepa said, “Oh, this one is particularly vicious.” (We all know that one. Sometimes we have lots of them like that. Sometimes we feel that’s all we’ve got.) He didn’t know what to do, so he surrendered himself even further. He walked over and put himself right into the mouth of the demon and said, “Just eat me up if you want to.” Then that demon left too.”

-Pema Chödrön

*I have my doubts, obviously. And no, I'm not pointing anyone to it more specifically.

Squirts

Two days watching the walls go up on the new home for homeless young men. My understanding is that there there is a real need among the gay and transgendered in particular. After the fire in the existing building, the project got pushed back. Given the age of the old place, maybe it's just as well they get new construction. Safer, given a group home situation.




Listening to a story about the banning of trans-fat on my way home. Glad I've already gotten away from a lot of processed foods. Switched to real butter a while back. Grew up on margarine. Heard part of the next story, about why cheese is dyed orange.


Moby ill yesterday, couple of bouts of the hersheysquirts, refused food, slept, crept into the bottom of his tree and stayed there all night. Poor kitty. D very worried, me as well. When he got home, though, Moby was up on the top of his tree, and up for a nibble as well. I'm thinking he accidentally ate some weed with the grass, or he 'et a bugge.' That would have to cause a bit of the runs, I would think. Held him awhile when I got home, he nestled in for a minute, then wanted down. As per.


We know he's getting older, but we want him around for a long time yet. As with each other.

Redheaded

I was not what my mother wanted. She wanted a little girl, her little girl. So she made me do the things she was denied, due to poverty, too many siblings, not enough safety.

She was given red, high-top sneakers from the dole. She hated them, but they were the only shoes she would get. I was put in solid leather shoes, hard soled, and although certainly in part because of my turned-in-feet issues, just as certainly in part because they were not sneakers. I had sneakers, for play, sometimes, when I was a bit older. I'd have loved those red high-tops.

She wore hand-me-downs, often in dark colors, cut down from adult clothes, cast-offs. She loved pastels and ruffles, lace and embroidery. While I wore some hand-me-downs, as rarely came my way, with only older brothers, mostly she made my clothes or I got new from the store. The late 60s, early 70s were not a good time for a modest child, who loved black and dark purple, to have to rely on cheap clothes, and mom was a decent seamstress. Too bad about the double-knit fabric, but sometimes she used cotton. And at school I wore uniforms - which she also made. I had no issue with shabby clothing, preferred older styles. She often apologized about her poor sewing, not as good as her mother's. I never understood that.

She rarely got milk, which she loved. She made me drink a full glass of whole milk at every meal. I gagged on the stuff, and I'm sure that was part of why I had such an irritable gut. She hated vegetables, and would not buy anything green that was not in a can. Potatoes and corn were the only vegetation I knew, and disgusting canned lima beans. I knew from Aunt Alma's feeding me that I loved spinach, fresh or frozen. My mother would not even try. She never needed to eat vegetables. The obesity and yo-yo dieting were unrelated. She never ate much, but none of it was fresh, or green.

She hated her red hair, kept it short, permed, curled. Cut my hair, resisted my constant struggle to let me keep it long. Had me perm my hair in high school, and 'treated' me to more perming in college. My hair was a constant source of commentary, good color, but why was I doing THAT with it? Whatever that was.

I imagine myself now, talking to her little girl, giving her my glass of milk, giving her a fluffy Shirley Temple dress, including those shoes. And brushing her hair (I can't remember ever stroking my mother's red hair, it was so often in curlers, or not to be mussed with because we were going out.) I'd admire the color, how beautiful, just as it was. I never got why she hated it so.



This dress, so short, so … ugh, gives me nightmares.

I haven't quite gotten to the resolution here, but I'm sure compassion for her small, wounded heart, is the right direction. I don't think, if we could meet both as children the same age, we would like each other. Not hate, but a distinct disinterest. No common ground. For a woman who so craved her own little girl, that must've been heartbreaking, in ways she couldn't understand, or couldn't admit, even to herself.

It is all to grieve for.

Float

Floated up to the main hospital today. Not my choice, a mandatory policy. It's been two years, near enough, since the last dreadful time. Never had I had a good day up there, someone always latched onto some detail that I'd not been shown, that I missed, multiple "corrections" from multiple people, interfering with my ability to manage my job, so I made even more mistakes. The physical place is a maze - which is typical of hospitals, but at least most of them provide a map for floats. And doing spine, which I have not done for seven years, since leaving Boston.

Getting up an hour early couldn't have been easier, since my body isn't convinced it got up early at all. For once, the time change broke my way. Had to catch the train, since driving is an even larger mess. Got decent directions on Friday from others who knew the way, all written down. As well as the tip to put myself on the out-early list, being so early I was the first.

Turned out to be a decent day. Only one case, able to ask for help clearly, and got it, without shirking any of the actual work. Knew the surgeon - when he was a resident, and the resident who is still a resident. Anesthesiologist pleasant and helpful as well. Remembered more than I expected, although it took some prompts. Once the case was done, they sent me home. WHY they had me there at all on such a slow day, when surely their own staff were called off, is way above my pay grade to comprehend.

At one point they asked for music, which I did not know how to turn on. Got some assistance, and it was just radio. SEEK'd through until some music came on, and they all shouted "That's fine, that'll do!" Fine. I wasn't really listening to it anyway. Maybe fifteen minutes later, the current resident says, "Zhoen, are you Christian?"

"... no." I looked at him with baffled suspicion and surprize, having never been asked that question unless by an evangelical about to rant at me. Although he'd never seemed the type, one never knows.

"Well, that's a Christian rock station."

"Oh! I had no idea." I laughed. The vagaries of living in a religion dominated state were discussed. When the music paused for a short sermon, I turned it off to general approval. No one minded the music, background sound. But not the preachin', oh, no.

Clocked out at 10 am, caught the train home, with a bit of walking. Good view of the mountains and lake from up there. Cold, clear day. Snow flurrying off and all all day.

After lunch, I looked at the dining room with disgust, and went for the mop. I consider this a very good sign. The first whole room, down to the corners clean I've managed for way too long.

Coming out of the mud of my mind.

Morte

Devils Night, All Hallows Eve, All Saints Day, All Souls Day. A week to celebrate spirits and ponder the grave issues. Decay and recycling, redemption and loss, all bones dancing together on the Día de los Muertos.

Terrified of death, cemeteries, skulls, loss of my little personality, as a kid. Frightened of everything, to be accurate. Only funerals, as long as I didn't have to approach the coffin, didn't bother me. Sad, but a chance to meet up with cousins and assorted kin, always wound up laughing.

Devils Night is largely a Detroit thing, when the young men set cars and garages on fire. Well, demons gotta eat, too.

All Saints was my childhood parish, dedicated to the nameless who nevertheless abide in heaven. Catholic Church allowing that only their god knows for sure who made the grade, and they only know about the ones with followings, miracles, or a good horrific death in martyrdom. A working class church, in a neighborhood build around a population of factory and produce depot workers. Who only hope for a seat at the table, nothing showy, no churches ever dedicated to them.

(Can't find any images of the church, but this is the area.)



All Souls, well, no one is sure. Maybe in Purgatory, maybe in Hell. For the catholic heretic, maybe reincarnated. Hungry ghosts or lost out here in the stars, or perhaps atheists rolling their eyes.



I have come to think all this convoluted argument about what will happen after we die, where we'll go under what circumstances, what it will be like, distracts us from living well now. If there is always going to be another chance, another life, another way to make it come out right, I think we get careless over the one life I figure we are given. Or just careful enough to avoid actual damnation. We tend to neglect relationships, putting them off until that eternity in heaven, rather than treasuring each moment.

Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Limbo, all right here, right now, with each choice, or neglectful non-choice.

Breathe in, this is it.

Glad

Nearly completed painting the front triangle. Not a lovely job, but a lovely color, and will protect the wood a bit.



Moby wanted to go out, since it is sunny and mild. The garden is autumnal, but lovely enough for all that. Begged leaves from the lawn service that my south neighbor hires, so her renter doesn't have to do maintenance. They were confused at first, but since I proved willing to empty their bags for them, they rolled with it.



Looking extra creepy for All Souls Day, Jack is apparently a meth addict.


Surprized I didn't catch any of the plethora of bees on the lobelia.


Glad he got me out in the sun.

Bosom

Mrs. Rizzardi. For whom I would always smile, so I was told. Who shouted my name joyously, and took me to (what can only be described as) her ample bosom. Thick, cats' eye glasses, with a fine chain dangling, draping around the back of her neck. Flowered full apron over flowered housedress. Cream colored knitted cardigan sweater, leather scuff slippers, thick beige stockings bunching around the small trees of her ankles, I studied her with utter approval. Would escape to her house sometimes, sit quietly beside her as she read, on her stiff sofa. Magazines about Padre Pio on her coffee table.

Aunt Alma, who told with delight of the time she fed me toast in a high chair, and took a nibble herself. "OH, you were so mad, and told me, EAT OWN TOAST!" Then she'd giggle. My mother would cringe, that me being naughty was not punished, but actively encouraged. I preferred Aunt Alma's version of me.

Gigi, the black poodle, who lived to chase her ball, and whose teeth I brushed with my own toothbrush, and who once saved me from having to eat steak. I hated eating meat as a kid. She'd been eying it, as we sat on sofas in Aunt Alma's basement, watching TV. I made sure it was nudged past the edge of the plate, and well within her reach. Aunt Alma reacted with shock, Gigi had never done anything like that before! I staunchly defended her, maybe I just wasn't being careful enough, and I really didn't mind, not at all, how about a bit of peanut butter and jam on some bread?

Anna. Who gave me my first of only two nicknames, Froggy. Who laughed at my jokes and told me her story. And although we diverged in interests and life paths, we still email once in a while.

Steve who won me over with absurdity, and made me laugh all through HS.

Scott in AIT, low stress conversation about the craziness around us, of men and women and life, without any other motive than that we enjoyed each other's conversation. Another Scott, who was honest about what Basic would be like, and later helped D get me medication when I was so sick in the barracks.

Voog, who hated her first name, or being touched, and always woke me up to tell me her adventures in the Psych ward after she got off her training shift. Annoying all the other folks in nearby bunks, but she wanted to share with me. We resonated, although we never talked about why.

Maureen and Sandy and Michelle, who surprized me with a lot more friendship than I deserved, while flailing out of the bad marriage. And who took care of so much when I was suddenly plucked up and shipped off to GWI. And Helen and Ola.

Todd, in nursing school, who loved to pull the chest-nose bop prank. (Think Three Stooges.) Even more when I wouldn't fall for it, but only smirked at him. Excellent to study with, kind, exuded an aura of safety.



Part of my Practice, to bring to mind all the people who have loved me, helped me, cared for me. So that I know I was not unloved, too much proof to the contrary. Why is it so much easier to remember the hateful people, the slights? Not hard to figure, knowing that fire burns after one experience is vital to survival. Still, positive reinforcement works better. Tis a puzzlement.