Each

Eleanor got between us, suspended in the blanket. Moby got a fountain to drink out of - he likes it.

Cold and clear and calm today. Took the car in for recalls. Only time I'll go to a dealership, we will go elsewhere for the tune-up. They did check the tires, I was dreading putting air in, so that helped.

Bright sun in the late afternoon, melted the ice on the west windows. Last sunset of the calendar year. Well, we'll be going to bed long before the clock calls it the next year. The city is doing it's usual outdoor downtown festivities, but without the fireworks. Because LAST year, when the air was so terrible with the inversion, adding a load of smutty ash into the air for no reason, the city got a lot of well deserved flack. This year, a disco ball. Um, ok, well I don't have to breathe it, so, whatever and good.

Happy New Year. Health and joy, love and home. Prosperity and warmth. We get what we wish for others.

Title

For those wondering what the titles are.








Not all of our books, but mostly all. With a few games and movies as well.

Roaring

The wind roared all night, blew snow on the car inside the (doorless) garage. Very cold, about 14˚F. Winds down here only about 10mph. But on the way up, I caught the downslopes, wildly blowing snow, shoving the car around. Felt like 40-50 mph. At work, the wind closed the car door hard. Breathtaking, both in force and cold, took all I had to open the door to the building, it shoved me in and threw the free papers in the lobby about. Glad I had parka and warm gloves.

Everyone stunned clocking in. Buffeted. Ceiling tiles in the entrances were falling down. The receptionists were shivering, as the temperatures dropped to about 40˚F at their desks. I brought them warmed blankets, and they wrapped up gratefully. Stories of trees fallen over major streets, icy roads. Patients struggling in. Semis pushed over on freeways, power outages, fences flattened.

I asked G if he'd rode his motorcycle in.

"Um... yeah." He grinned.
"With a sail?" I added.
"And tire spikes!" Which got him laughing.



Coming home at 5, the winds had abated considerably, still bitter cold. One place recorded a gust of 78mph. Shudder.

Reminders

For inexplicable reasons, the song "I'm a Woman" has being skipping 'round my head, poking me and asking stupid questions.

It's an awful song. Turning tables is still prejudice, for one thing. But mostly "never let you forget you're a man" is a line that makes no damn sense at all.

"Honey, I've forgotten, am I male or female?"
"Well, dear, I've forgotten as well. Guess we'd better check."

No, this does not happen. Who thinks about their gender like this? Unless in the middle of a specifically gendering activity - sex, childbirth, prostate exam, gender reassignment surgery, buying a bra/jockstrap, who has to make an effort to consider their male/femaleness? Or need to? ALL the time? DO men need to be constantly reminded of their testicular existence? Ok, yes, some men do seem to, I grant you. As some obnoxious women also appear to constantly need reassurance that they are pretty and have boobs. But most of us just get on with it, and our interests do not particularly correlate with our gender.

And as I pile on the years, I think less and less about it. As an irrelevancy. Or an annoyance. Menopause, please?


Dec 8:15 pm MST 20˚F (-7C) 84% humidity 12˚F wind chill


Very icy and blustery this evening, going very cold overnight. Looking at even colder nights to follow. Wearing the parka in the morning, mostly to keep out the wind. Down to 3˚F on Tuesday night, Wednesday morning. -16C.


I have bilateral cats. For a long while, they were both sitting between us, me with an arm over Moby, and a hand on Eleanor, to make sure she didn't bop anyone. Now, one on either side, leaning in. I think they like my robe.

Decembering

Various Decembers, 2005-2013.

Cleaner

Yup, motivated at least in part by wanting to see out better.

"I'm tired, time to cuddle."

Darning

And to darn. Thanks to the lovely folks at Blazing Needles. So helpful, found me the perfect color match, and the right wool for my poor cashmere sweater. No matter that I got it at an amazing sale, I didn't take best care. And I do love it, for being soft and a terrific color and so warm.

I'm not very good at mending, although I rather enjoy it. If you could see the stitches better, it would look much worse. Instead, the mends nearly disappear, because I listen to the experts and start with the right material.




This is always a problem for me, taking care of things. I'm not terribly careful, even of stuff I really do value, for it's innate quality, or love of whomever gave it to me. I should never have put this sweater through the wash, even on delicate. I see that now. But it's typical of me, from childhood on. I tend to see things as loved best by being used, and wear and tear are marks of love and appreciation. Very Velveteen Rabbit sort of attitude.

And my mother ascribed to that, ostensibly. She brought out her nice china, her decorative serving plate, for all family gatherings. (Sometimes, even just for us, we would eat in the dining room off the good plates, for no other reason than feeling fancy.) But when Granny dropped her glass decorative plate, shattering it, during the washing up, she was so angry, but said nothing to her mother. Bitterly complained at her mother's carelessness to me, though. After. For years after.

Clothes took on other shades of paradox. My mother sewed, she and her mother had been seamstresses. Her mother sewed all her children's clothing, including boys pants, and winter coats. My mother never claimed such skills, although she worked in a truss factory (her mother was floorwalker there) before marriage, and sewed her own dresses, and my school uniforms. Everything had to be ironed, she took on the idea that if any of her family wore unironed (or less than perfectly ironed), unmended clothes, she would be ashamed, She would look bad.

So, when I tore or mis-hung, or didn't properly fold and store my clothes, there was a clear message of moral failing on my part. I was being careless of HER work. Socks and underwear had to be folded and in drawers as well. Grass stains on play pants knees were proof I wasn't a proper girl. Failure to iron well provoked disdainful anger, and I had to do it all again. Actual damage tripped Retribution, often comparing me to my brothers, who even as "boys weren't as hard on clothes!" as I was. I wonder now if this was adjusted for age. (Like when I broke their old toys, meant for children older than I was when given access to them.)

Probably good that my father hated the smell of bleach, and forbid my mother using it in the house. If I'd have used bleach at all as a kid, new vistas of clothing damage would have opened before me, dropping me into a spotted hell. No, it was after I was out on my own that white splotches became my hallmark.

I knew how much work and/or money went into clothes. I did try to be careful, really I did. When I had to buy my own clothes, and had no way to replace anything damaged, that didn't change at all. Felt just as badly, but couldn't have felt worse. I got it, but... things are things. Part of why I became such a rummage sale/thrift store aficionado. Much as lovely colors and soft fabrics appeal to me, when I'm wearing them, clothes are just a sort of blind spot. If they are comfortable, they are forgotten, as I bash my way through whatever I'm doing. Good thing I wear scrubs at work that are not my worry.

Things have a lifespan, and if I really love them, they aren't going to last as long. Longer if I paid more attention, certainly, but cloth worn often, washed as needed, by someone as messy as me, will wear out. And I'm not going to beat myself up for wearing soft lovely sweaters too often, just because holes appear. Or if anyone breaks something of mine that I like, because... it happens. I read while I eat, so I spill. I get wrapped up in a job, and long sleeves are wet before I remember to push them up my arms.

The woman at Blazing Needles helping me asked if the holes were from moths.

"No, just, me being careless.'
"It happens," she said lightly, no hint of judgement, only kindness. I could have hugged her for that.


Oh, and a link to a cracked article about women's clothing.

Darn

Yesterday was very strange, one surgeon, twelve cases in two rooms scheduled til 1730. Full staff with two lunch nurses - R and I. We made sure the scrubs never had to clean up or open, but got breaks instead. I stripped the bipolar cords of copper as each case ended. Even so, by 3 the waiting wore away at me, and as the 2nd to last case was going and the last one open and ready, I begged off, to no one's annoyance, since everyone felt exceptionally pampered all day.

The parking lot was very icy at 0645, wore the generic yaktrax, so I felt safe.



If you deal with icy walks, I highly recommend something like this. Wish I'd had 'em in Boston.

D has been very conscientious about clearing snow and salting around the house. Not inside, a-round.

Woke to Eleanor walking on me, so she got a good cuddle, flopping on us, kneading, quietly purring. Finally got up, couldn't find Moby in any of his usual spots, until I happened upon him by the window where the water bowl sits on the sideboard. He stares at me expectantly. Very little water, he's likely swatted it out, in an attempt to determine the level. So I fill it, but I slosh it all over. He draws back from the wetness, but doesn't leave, perching just on, even over the edge, to finally have a good drink, sheesh. Once he's done, I replace the wet pad with the dry one. It's fairly good at keeping the water from the wood beneath, at least. I try not to leave a saturated one there to go moldy though.

On christmas morning, D called me in to the music room. "Zhoen, come in here" he says quietly. Eleanor and Moby are sitting together on the stool. "She was there, and I'm pretty sure he jumped up to sit beside her." His back to her, which is polite in Cat. They weren't there long, but no one bopped anyone. Inching toward harmony. Well, they have all the time they want.


Really enjoying the Strong Language blog. If cuss words bother you, then heaven's to betsy, don't visit there, gosh. The filthy words are approached from a linguist's POV, but, golly, even so.

17°F
-8°C

Getting cold, and I'm not at all acclimated.

Licking

Cozy evening, snuggled down with a cat between us. Santa brought Dylan socks. Per request, nice warm ones. And me a long sleeve knit shirt, very dark. His mom, brother, SIL and nephew came by, a bit later than planned, because his dad was sick with a nasty cold and needed to stay home. I made brunch. Hash browns with peppers and shallots, eggs in purgatory with bacon, fruit and ginger bread. They brought cheese and crackers. Nephew is more interesting than even last month, crawling up a storm to their amazement. Giggling at D asking him to "say 'surrealism'." He's not a year old, and words are still a while off, but he seemed to enjoy the challenge.

Cats greeted baby, then decided on discretion.

Snowing since morning, but just enough for show.



Eleanor has been licking the windows. Not sure if it's because she's thirsty, it has a flavor, or she's clearing a place to look out. Could be all three, of course.




Minimal shoveling, which is fine.