Frames

We spent some time yesterday removing the excessively long nails from the wood we got as a 'present' last May. Moved it to the front porch in preparation for assembling it into a raised bed frame.

I've kinda given up on the north side of the lawn, need some decent soil. Will start to put it together, with previous owner's leftover deck screws, tomorrow. So, a raised bed with a nursery soil delivery, is what it needs.

I'm thinking the verge will get clover/buckwheat/sunflower seeds in the early spring, to displace the nasty weeds. Maybe the year after I'll do something different. I've considered blackberries. The sunflowers this year were awfully good to the birds, but it was a bit too much for me to repeat. A moderation next year, although still the sunflowers. More variety.

Cats very close this weekend, both in the sideboard window, until Eleanor got anxious and bopped Moby, "You are too close, quit lookin' at me!" who then sulked off. We cleared some of the back bedroom today, both cats fascinated, walking in, and out, and through, repeatedly. Once done all we'd planned, Moby settled on the bed, Eleanor sat for a while in the sunny window. He's there on the left.



Most of the day yesterday, he slept on the chair, and Eleanor kept napping beneath.



I highlight the positives here, but they are often distant. Gradually, very, very gradually, they are growing more consistently comfortable together. If only Eleanor would stop bopping Moby, and if only Moby wouldn't LOOK at her...

Cats, who can figger 'em?

So glad to have an extra day to rest this week. Sinuses so unhappy last night, I irrigated out, drugged up, slept, but then woke too early and foggy. Damn weed pollen. Fucking snot.

Bees

And birds. Sat for their portraits.



Dirt is good for our minds.

Small

Our little romas ripening on the sill. Ate them with fresh eggs last night when I got home. Farmgal brought eggs by work, as I was being serenaded, and a box of peaches for everyone. When I got a little break at the beginning of the next case, to have a ripe juicy peach to sustain me the last few hours, life felt so much better. By the time I left, they were all gone, everyone had a moment of pure enjoyment.



The tall grass is living up to it's reputation. The other ones will hopefully start looking more like this by next summer, or the one after. There is time.

The sunflower seeds have been mostly eaten. Feeding the birds.



But fresh blooms still appear, still attract new bees. Sunflowers do have a smell, which I find pleasant. Not exactly a perfume, but a friendly, homely aroma.

Nightmare

Not the worst case, nor the worst patient, not really, although I struggle to clearly remember any as bad. Chipper and self involved, manipulative and saccharine, a young, trained singer, the story is she is an opera singer, who insisted on getting a block and sedation to avoid an intubation. Not in itself an unreasonable preference, but we have laryngeal masks, that could have been managed. And taking out hardware is not a reliable surgery, it either goes very well and quickly, or very badly and takes a long time.

We were also waiting for her, late, and with insurance issues, and the pre-op crew were trying to get her ready quickly - which they do very well. They asked her to open the door when she was changed. Seemed to be taking a while, they gave her extra time before knocking, only to find her sitting there reading scripture.*

When I greet her by name, and ask her what she goes by, she tells me her rather dramatic and unusual middle name (think - Winterella.†) In a bright, overfriendly voice. Ugh, I think. She chatters on the whole time.

The ROH ¬ does not, as expected, go well. Non-union, no bone in the middle -just connective matrix, so taking out the plate would leave her with an unstable bone. Surgeon goes to her head to tell her this, and that he'll have to put on a new plate. She begins sobbing, uncontrolled in any way, loud. I'm getting the necessary implants and tools, drill, c-arm, and the resident anesthesiologist tells me the patient wants a song played. I do know keeping her calm is important, but it's down the list a bit at this moment.

Thankfully, the program I have running for music does allow a song/album choice, and after a minute or two, I find the song. A hymn ‡, on an album from BYU. Anesthesia resident asks me to turn it up, amid other things I'm doing so they can fix the bone, I turn it up. And then I get asked to start it over. I ignore this, as I am doing more critical tasks.

Patient starts singing along. Loudly. Off key. To the sappiest sort of hymn you hopefully cannot imagine. I'm in hell. At least the whining, sobbing stop while she's singing. Surgeon has broken scrub to talk with her family to get consent, since she's been difficult to convince. She does agree, but under sedation, this is not considered consent. Then she cries for the surgeon. The resident surgeon rolls his eyes at me, and puts on his deepest most reassuring voice, and she latches on to him for male comfort. I continue to keep everything afloat as different items are needed, surgeon returns, she sings loudly and sobs intermittently, nearly squirms off the table, so I get an extra safety strap on her.

This goes on for hours. She is tough, despite all the whining. Give her that.

Her singing is of the pretty, pop star variety. Trained, strong, but warbles all over melody without every actually settling on one.

The sort of voice one says "She's so clear. I can understand all the words!" As though that were some kind of artistic virtue. As my 75 year old patient told me this week about the sort of music she likes.


If I want to hear the words, I'll listen to speech. I'll read the damn lyric sheet, if I care that much.

Singing isn't about clear verbal communication, most lyrics are silly, and I can't stand clear, merely, pretty voices. I prefer the rugged beauty of souls who have suffered and endured. Aretha Franklin has a beautiful voice. Bob Dylan has a beautiful voice. Nina Simone had a beautiful voice. Nothing to do with pretty, or understanding the words. Fuck understanding the words. Music is beyond words, if you think you understand by articulation, the soul is lost. I detest musical pablum. Who understands the words in Opera?

She again delayed us by keeping the surgeon talking to her as we got the next case ready. As far as we could do, needed surgeon, had to drag him away from talking with her, telling her the same information over and over. And over.

When I have needed treatment, I make sure to say, 'do what you usually do. You know best what works well.' And I'm so aware of my own role as my own advocate, and not at all obedient. But I don't want to unnecessarily upset routine, since that sets me up for random distraction problems. Like you don't tell your waiter how to put down the plates.

I sometimes have to sit on my hands not to help in restaurants, but I know it's important not to interfere. Not to make too many special requests. Not because I'm wrong, but because it may not work. Let the people who are good at their jobs get on with it, once the decision is made.

Yes, I did work a very long, difficult day. Not quite 12 hours.



*Book Of Mormon related.
¬Removal of Hardware. Usually for pain, pushing through the skin. Most hardware will stay in permanently. At least, that's the intention.
‡LDS liturgical music is mild, bland, and child-friendly. Dull.
†The real name is actually more phony sounding, reality always beats fiction for unbelievability.

August

42 years difference.

Out on the porch on a cool August afternoon. Weeded a bit, laid down mouse repellant, turned the compost and planted green onion ends where the sunflowers failed. Tidied up a bit, ran dishes, not a lot of doing, but enough to call it good.

Last evening, Moby was in the closet in the canvas bin when we went to bed, due to thunder. Eleanor got in the closet, and did not come out until after we were asleep, so we think they may have been together. No way to tell, and we didn't want to upset a delicate balance. Eleanor mushed up against my hip all morning. She stayed when I got up, which makes me wonder if Moby was on the bed then and I didn't see him. He was there an hour or so later, at any rate. Both asleep in mirroring postures a foot apart.

Not too much after that, they both stared wet food out of me. Well, stared at me in the kitchen, until I gave them gooshy food, which they both gobbled with all signs of contentment. Off dreaming their own dreams again.

So odd, this coolness, this greenness, at this time of year. More like the late summers of childhood than anything normally experienced in this part of the world. The light is wrong for the temperatures. Maybe that is getting me in this frame of mind, thinking I should be back to school, but anxious about the return as well. I was never afraid of school, it had a purpose, which I needed. Easier than childhood home. Less time around my father, eager to be studying, but the unknown of new teachers and bullying classmates. College only worrisome because of the complexity and uncertainty, randomness of the schedules and room assignments. Many dreams about being in the wrong class, not having studied for the right test, not wearing clothes to class, that sort. The work was to an end.

Only work, now. Better. And creative stuff, writing here, growing a garden. Tending. Observing. Listening.

Minimal tests.

Whacked

Rain, rain, rain and more rain. This is in no way a complaint. Best August in memory. Have not had to water the garden in a month.

Having a hard time keeping track of what day it is. On Saturday I woke certain it was Wednesday. Today, I left work convinced it was Friday and I had the next three days off, at least momentarily. The date keeps slipping away from me as well. I knew the 28th was a scheduled Big Game that would make getting home tedious, but I thought it still a week away.

S at work, suggested I go home, my room and everyone's lunch covered. Asked me if I was feeling unwell.

"Oh, just the usual, cyclical... " I waved my hand in exasperation.

"... Whackadoodle?" She suggested, finishing the thought.

Yes, yes, that. Exactly. My own clock is overwound, or winding down, but not ticking well, nor properly stopped neither.

Need to do some of the therappy techniques, as my mother seems to be haunting me again. Autumn brings a kind of ramping up, preparing, slightly anxious mood. Work to be done.

Moby seemed to want to go out, so I got him in the harness, with his assistance.* Never made it over the doorstep, with the evident communication of "Hey, it's raining. Why would I want to go out there?" But then Eleanor mewed and bothered. So I got her in her harness, with fairly little trouble. She mostly rolled on the porch, then sat on the step in the rain, pulling to get under the bushes where the burrs live. Came in when she gave up on that plan. Then mewed at me that now she gets catnip.

Yes, indeed she does. Another flower, and another strong reaction. She's calmly coming down now. Moby gone to hide in a closet.


*He pushes his face through, then puts his own leg in the loop, maybe half the time does it himself without needing to be guided.

Trash

Long ago, I saved the covers from the TV Guide. Why? It was there? Something about a Very Special Issue, maybe. My mother always bought the Guide, and I'd read through it on Sunday afternoon, planning my week. That crossword was the only puzzle my mother would do, and I'd join in.

At a certain point, cleaning my room, I took down all the ones taped to the slanting wall and threw every one away. Saved a few for a week, then tossed them as well. It all seemed cheesy, tatty, and more than a little pointless.

Never had trouble sorting through and discarding.

Had a sort of boyfriend in junior high, and when he still hadn't tried to kiss me after many months, I ended it in exasperation and ennui. Threw away everything I associated with him and stopped myself thinking about him. A decision I never regretted, pick off the scab and be done.

In innumerable moves(22,to enumerate) I have discarded more than I have at any moment possessed. Lost things have rarely wanted me back.

Even when I left the ex, with one car load and not much else, the only item regrets were the wine glasses from my friend that he smashed, a few lost recipes, and a record of Carmina Burana by a French group on historical instruments without the Orffisms. I'd love to have that recording again, but it's in my head anyway, really.

When we left Boston I discarded the Raggedy Ann my brothers had given me as a small girl. She was deteriorating badly, and I'd not been in contact with either brother for many years. D questioned this, made sure I meant it, and said no more. Over the past couple of years, after the attempt to re-approach family, I'm quite sure leaving behind the stuffing and tearing fabric was right.

Taking time this weekend to thin some of the accumulation, a bit at a time. Not to the point of a yard sale, sadly. Mostly just garbage not worth taking to a thrift store. Recycle the plastic and paper, discard the rest. When we moved in, sorting seemed too daunting, so we moved it all with the intention of weeding later. Not knowing what might or might not be useful.

It's not that more needs to be done, it's that this is a constant, endemic to life. Remember learning that the Ambassador Bridge was constantly being painted, finish one end, start again at the other. As a kid, this seemed worse than washing dishes, never done. Now, I find this reassuring, every part of life takes in, and needs cleaning and repair.

Our new neighbors are gone for a week, and I have been eying their weeds. She isn't interested in gardening, and he is a surgical resident (not ortho, I won't be working with him), so their lovely xeriscaped garden is looking unkempt. I attacked it this morning, and pulled the spurge and spiky weed. Hope they don't mind, I won't admit to doing it. Well, not precisely admit, as such. If asked, "... I may have done..." I felt sad for a lovely bit of landscaping, and fearful of spread. No blame, just, a need to do what I can. Filled their yard waste bin. But I can take that out to the curb before they get back. D will have to bring it in Monday afternoon, but he's agreed.

Food in, shit out. Good stuff in, garbage out. Everything wears out, erodes, washes away. My life as well, in due course. I find this rather reassuring, won't be cluttering up the place beyond my time. Hope to be food for something, then.

Bin

Yet more rain overnight. Lots of thunder, so Moby stayed in the canvas bin in the closet until late morning. We had to get out for food, but couldn't get back in because of another damn run. I don't mind the fund raising ones so much. But this one is just corporate sponsorship crap. We had to park over a block away and walk back with groceries. We got notice, but didn't think about it until on our way back. Bother.



Cool, but the sun is still an August sun, too hot to sit in long. Moby, though, didn't care.



Ate lots of grass. Intrigued by the watering can, reluctant to come back in.


Bees bumbling about. Neighbor not easy around bees, but I've had no trouble, with them nor the thread-waist wasps. I don't bother them, they go about their own business. Friendships with the blooms.



The party's over...



Hard to believe the summer, officially, has one more week. Labor Day marking the social end of summer, here. Time whizzing by faster and faster.

The catnip will go into soil soon, since it's looking pale and worn. May come back up next spring. Sebastian may gnaw it to a stub.

Shit

Lt Rain Thunder Shwr
62°F
17°C
Humidity80%
Wind SpeedN 20 G 29 MPH
Barometer29.98 in
Dewpoint56°F (13°C)
Visibility10.00 mi
Last Update on 22 Aug 5:24 pm MDT


This ain't the typical August. Can't remember an August like this here. No fires, some flash floods, and down below 60˚F expected tonight. Everything green. I wonder what some of the knock-on effects will be. More deer? More fire next year? Certainly some landslides. Even some possibility of snow in the upper elevations.

Scrub jay visited the other day.




Eleanor not exactly bothered by rain, not in the way Moby is, but she does seem to want something. I carried her out when it was pouring down, for a minute. Brought her in, and realized I could open the window, given the temperature. She sat and smelled out for a long, long time. But she still mewed wanting, so I brought in a bit of cat-nip flower, since the leaves had been pretty much eaten by Sebastian. Well, I think the flowers have more psychoactive substance.

"Oh, wow. That's. That's good shit, man."

Listen

Flask reports a challenge to sit and listen, in her neck of the woods. Intrigued, I sat out and listened.

Mostly, traffic, since it was about 5PM. Cars, and trucks idling, and the distant hum of traffic, perhaps even from the freeway. Squealing breaks, and tires. Funny, how newer tires squeak on the pavement at so little provocation. Motorcycles, busses, the odd snatch of a radio, a car door closing punctuated the dull roar. The bouncing clatter of a trailer behind a pick-up, a siren far away.

I could hear the "spare change" couple down and across the street shouting in their loud and carrying rasps. A cough, a woman's laugh, distant male voice,a neighbor opening his door, Spike barking, a shopping cart rattling along the sidewalk. Odd how clearly I could hear the distinct clatter of gears on bicycles rolling by. A small plane overhead. Thunder in the distance, wind in the trees.

And birds, the scrub jays claws as they land on the porch, pick up and carefully choose which peanut in the shell they want first, a whoosh of wings as they flap and soar away. The pretty finch songs, more distant chirps of unknown birds, a caw from a probable crow or blackbird. The jingle of a dog collar, the train-like click clack of a skateboarder. Faint footsteps.


Another bus, D opens the door, time to eat.

Grievéd

As with Fresca, so here. Songs that will reach through dementia and touch the underlying soul. I'm just afraid someone will play me 'Hey Jude', or 70's pop/rock, which I listened to and learned, but it wasn't really the music of my heart.

I prefer the complex melodies, minor keys, dense harmonies, sad songs smoothed and enriched by decades or centuries of voices -as the Sacred Heart hymns. Or by They Might Be Giants or Paul Simon. Jean Redpath versions of any old song, since the melodies got recycled so often. And that one damn holiday song that strikes my one sentimental cell.


Swing low, sweet chariot.
I'll be Home for Christmas.
Africa. (Now Shall My Inward Joys Arise.)
The Grievéd Soul.

Obvious Child.
Saw you my Maggie?
Ain't Nobody Here but us Chickens.

Anna Ng
The World's Address
Take Me Home, Country Roads.

I think my memorization of lyric will survive anything but brain death. Or at least the song, carved into the rock beneath the skull.

Racoon

Yup, real, if tiny lashes. My eyes have been less blurry and irritated as the process progresses. This may well be as long and visible as they will get. I'm good with just this much. Any more growth is simply bonus. I'm calling this a win. Just wish I could get a photo as good as the first try, and that I'd done a baseline photo. Looking over these, there really doesn't seem any difference. No objective measurement. Still, feels better.

Woken by thunder in the wee hours. Woken a bit earlier by Eleanor kneading my ribcage as I lay on my side. Painfully, and not because of claws. When I turned, she laid on my sternum, shoved her nose under my chin and kneaded my throat. Not terribly comfortable, either. She moved off, I fell back asleep, until the storm whipped through. She woke me again in the same manner about 6, with the addition of kneading at my breast, like a suckling kitten. Pretty obvious this is what she's doing, so I tolerate the discomfort for a while and curl around her. Friends do what they can.

Once up, sat on the sofa to browse here, drink tea and eat a muffin, and Moby needed attention and affection. Cats feeling in need of reassurance, apparently. All that water out there, makes 'em jumpy. Ok, now both beside me. I am sandwiched by cats. One snoring. As I watch the scrub jays deciding which peanut to take first. Not sure why they bother testing several before flying off, they always take them all in the end. Finches on the sunflowers, arguing.

Dug some of the mud and weeds out of the gutter, nice dirty job. More than I could finish, but made a significant improvement. Pulled other weeds, easier to uproot them when they are well soaked. And poured boiling water on a recalcitrant patch in the driveway. A method, that, with the 20% vinegar, has proved remarkably effective in the areas I've treated two or three times conscientiously.

Prowling the intertubes for Guardians of the Galaxy clips. Looking forward to watching it at home, since the spectacularity of it was not the appeal for me. I'm all about the characters, Rocket and Groot in particular. For me, real funny is not fluffy, but rooted in the deadly serious. This movie oozed with authentic humor, flip and fey and furious. So often it's easier to deal with the more dire emotions at the remove of a fantastic being. Puppets and talking animals, ents and aliens, experimental story telling, isolating the variable for clarity.


Fun seeing it full screen at full volume, once. Probably the last time I intend to go to a theater for a film. I like being able to move, keep the volume moderate, avoid pre-views and ads, get a mug of tea or run to the bathroom. I've grown more fussy and impatient with sitting still and being fed a tale.

Finished The Attenbury Emeralds, Jill Paton Walsh, last night. I find her writing to be very much like Sayers, and the characters believable older versions of the originals. Credible extensions of the Whimsey universe, with a quality all her own as well.

Tub

Trooper takes a bath.

First time after I dug him out of the garden, helmet off.



He's going to prefer the roomier one.



Sometimes here, I intentionally mis-spell words that might be clock-bait*. As for bugge, that is to deflect (rightful no doubt) criticism of my lack of etymological†, or entomological, correctness.

Therappy, I feel I must give proper credit.

"He said it provided" --his forehead wrinkled--"occ-you-pay-shun-all ther-rap-py, healthy exercise, prevented moping, and offered that greatest of all treasures, which is Hope, sir."

-Terry Pratchett, Going Postal.


*see what I did there?

†What's the difference between and entomologist and an etymologist? Only the etymologist knows for sure.

Parasols

Yesterday's yardsales finds were less practical, more arty, than we normally find.

Roadrunner print isn't staying here but we haven't put it up on the wall yet.



The brass, doll sized claw foot tub, is a bit of a mystery. Not a production piece, very much one off, imperfect. As though given as a personal joke, made for a child, perhaps for a doll house, or a creative planter for a tiny succulent. Whatever it was originally made for, it fits here now.



D spotted this lamp at an otherwise not-for-us sort of yardsale. He put a red bulb in it, and it's now behind his desk. Nice foot/step-on switch. We think we know where it likely came from. A funky local furniture store where we got our sofa, and futon. We both remember a lamp very much like this, that was beyond our income.




And a parasol from Japan, so it doesn't have that strong lacquer smell of the Chinese ones.



Total outlay, just under $15.

And they have Eleanor's story on the Adoption center site.

Aunt

Pit bulls in flowers.



Looks like an Aunt Dahlia to me.

Blurry, and I'm too tired to re-take, but this is the size of the window, with sills about cat-butt wide.



With cats, at a more decorous distance this time.

Unbelievably tired, with a bruised hand from an injudicious turn at work. Getting a bit of OT this week. Not evenly spread out, starting and ending with 12+ hour shifts. Still, we have a new nurse, from the same place we poached our other two fairly recently new nurses. I think they all got tired of the cancer docs, although probably all that cancer too. I knew early on I would never do oncology. Just, not. I'll stick with the bones and the boys and the toys. Even after a week like this.


Which means we have a really good crew these days, all in all. Just one stinker left to shift, and she's only part-time. One airhead scrub, not bad, just a bit flaky. And another who tends to disappear if not scrubbed in, but does a good job and will rub sore shoulders amazingly well. Two newest scrubs are stellar, if a bit green. Green stars? One very personable and quick, the other less so, but solid and dependable. Which is a nice mix.

Meaning, hard week, but not bad. No sense of having work dumped on one. Makes all the difference. Still, pooped.

Colleagues

Domestication

Appeasing gods may be akin to taming beasts.
Propitiate and whisper, reassure and guide.
Please the angry gods, feed the whims,
Hunker down, survive, keep them from biting, killing.
Create bonds and incur debts.
Call in favors, eat them lest they eat us.

So, we have cows and cats, if not doing our bidding,
Living with us to mutual benefit.
Dogs fawning on us, after suitable offerings.

The gods are practice,
Always watching, balancing the trades.
A relationship we have understood since before we were fully human.

We need to study our gods more closely.
And the animals we have made family.
To understand our minds. And our families.

Speechless

Of yesterday, best not to speak. Over 13 hours, and my room wasn't the last out. How can one, rather personable, surgeon cause so much chaos? A mystery. D fed me, and I ate, then crashed. He takes good care of me, for which I am immensely grateful. Even rubbed my poor feet.

Today, my circulator whined about the surgeon, and complained to me about how much she hated working with him. All I could think was, can I ask not to work with YOU? Because she doesn't listen, and she's grumpy and difficult herself. The surgeon is loud and sarcastic, but he does a great job, and I think he's funny. He thinks I'm funny. It works pretty well.

I don't mind when they chew at me, if they are doing well for their, our patients. Competence, for me, balances out a great number of personal sins.

Cats is chasing, but they started like this.



Storms approaching. So, I'm glad Eleanor is getting Moby chasing about. He gets so anxious and hides. If she can distract him even a little, that's good.


Yeah, it's blowing, and raining. Well, gotta go.


Here's another one of Happy Eleanor.

Beauty

Skewed

Yes, I do have a left eye as well. I realized this morning that if I wanted to be really scientific about this, I would have just treated one eye and not the other. With very good results, could have looked more than a little odd. As it is, I'll have to tolerate a bit of potential data skewing, if not visual lopsidedness. Not really possible to get a good double blind, anyway.

The best information I could find online (yeah, see where I'm starting from?) cautions a three month wait for definitive results. Which puts me at about Halloween. Even if I don't get more growth, I'm getting marked relief from morning crusty eye. Less itching, at least. So, even if there isn't a return of lashes, I'm pleased enough with the results.

Taking eye photos is proving less reliable than I expected. Got lucky on the first few, not so much with subsequent efforts. Hard to focus, since I'm mostly guessing. Very instructive.

Confusion

We woke to both cats on the bed. This is intermittent, sometimes they tolerate each other, sometimes not. Nice when they are being friendly and engaged. Not expecting, no forcing.

Driving home yesterday, we talked about how we dealt with adults when we were small. D mostly confused by un-delineated expectations. Mine was the other side, over-demanded. Sit on his lap, smile, say please, say thank-you, be polite, don't be a pest. I don't want to sit on his lap, don't grab me, why should I smile when I'm frightened and confused? I'm overwhelmed, I don't understand that the thing they are handing me is for me, I can't remember how to say thank-you right now. I'm small and bewildered.


This last was a tiny doll in a tiny box from an adult cousin I met for the first time, his mother, my mother's sister, Grace. I never felt comfortable with Aunt Grace, which was a problem because she really, really wanted me to like her. Which is probably why, as well. So, cousin Brian, who may have had a beard, came along with the same baggage of unfamiliarity. The doll was given to me in a way I didn't understand, perhaps it wasn't a birthday or christmas, maybe it wasn't wrapped, so I didn't understand it as a gift. I failed to say 'thank-you', and when prompted, lost use of my newly acquired voice. Bringing on my mother's wrath, and removal of the doll. Being a doll, this didn't bother me unduly. But by being a disappointment and incurring her following anger, in front of strangers, I was crushed.

The little doll in the little box that I was not allowed to play with until I thanked them a constant reminder of shame and injustice. Which I suppose I did on a subsequent visit since I recall playing with it. Didn't snub them out of malice, not at all. I'd been thrown into a game of Bad Family Dynamics without warning, not able to comprehend the rules. But penalized anyway.

The beginning of my resolve to never do this to any child.

Really, really important to keep in mind a child's age and ability to deal with social situations. Never attribute to malice what is more likely confusion. Brian, I found out later, was a kindly soul, who danced with me at my brother's wedding. He would have been sorry that his generosity was the cause of so much distress.


So, I put no weight on a negative reaction from a child. They are first off, allowed not to like me. May have nothing to do with me, anyway. I won't allow a parent to force a child in my direction. Let them come in their own time, if they choose. Talk to them as though they understand, because who knows, they may. Treat everyone, of every age, as a complete soul worthy of respect and dignity.

Really, not that hard.

Cream

Driving home from D's parents, passed a scruffy, rusty white panel van, with minimal signage indicating the sale of ice cream.

"I wonder if he'll sell me a dime bag." D wonders.

"If not, he's in the wrong business." Says I.

Seriously, I would not buy confections from that guy. Well, not drugs either, but if I were looking for dodgy illegal pharmaceuticals, I would assume he'd have an assortment. Apparently, that's a fairly common cover for dealers these days.

When I was quite small, we used to get a very nice ice cream truck, sold freshly made soft serve - in chocolate and vanilla. Used to think I only liked vanilla, until a neighbor bought a bunch of us little kids a cone, giving me chocolate without asking. Dubious, I could hardly say 'no, thanks.' Good thing, found out chocolate was my favorite.

Not that I ever really loved ice cream. But it was cold and sweet, and AC was nowhere in my early childhood, no matter how sweltering the summer night.

When those soft serve trucks stopped coming around, I never cared much about the ones that only sold pre-wrapped bars.

Today, someone left a mixer out for salvage down the street. Considered that I've never had a mixer. My mother considered hers essential. In part because birthday cakes were mandatory. I've come to realize that cake is not a favorite of mine, either. More a delivery system for frosting, if chocolate, preferably fudge. We've bought the odd cake over the years, but mostly we don't do dessert.

As for the family, largely a matter of bringing three (of five) sons, with spouses and two new grandsons, together. One six months, one three months old. Both in remarkably calm moods, given they don't have a year between them. The older fascinated with my watch, and later with my shoe.

I like to think I'm a safe person for a child to be interested in. Won't push, or expect, or grab. Treat them like a cat, I'm here if they feel like investigating me, or ignoring me if they prefer.

Much preferred adults who never pushed or grabbed, but let me approach quietly and curiously.

Snip

I can feel them. And there is perceptible color. If I'm fooling myself, I'm doing a damn fine job of it.

More snail removals this morning.

Woke very early, before the chime would go off. Took me a great deal of calculation to decide this is my day off. In that state of mind, of tired semi-sleep, this is very difficult. "Um, one... . Um. Monday was, yeah, and then there. One... oh, yeah yesterday was Tuesday... right? So. One... two... ."

Eventually I got to Wednesday, and assured myself I could sleep a bit longer. Although by then I had to get up to stagger to the bathroom. Laid down a while longer, and napped because Eleanor had to sit on my throat.

This is not Eleanor, but Sebastian, eating the catnip on our porch.



Not a huge surprize.

Sup

Torrential rain last evening. In the kitchen, Moby slunk past, then into the bathroom closet. Eleanor sat in the window staring out, only slightly askance at the most intense barrage of thunder. We sat on the porch to watch. Even we got a bit worried at the ferocity, standing with our backs close to the house as the spray flew in. Still, marvelous.

A bit more rain as I drove home. Garden all green and wet. Loving our small crop of tomatoes, low acid, easy on the stomach.

Slip

We went to see Guardians of the Galaxy this morning. First time I've wanted to see a film in a theater in a very long time. The whole experience no longer comfortable for me for many reasons. But this was fun.

And, I needed distracting.

As I got out of the shower, D came in from outside. There had been a neighborhood altercation of some sort. As I was still quickly drying off, the shouting returned, between the houses, then at the side/back door. So I threw on clothes as fast as possible, feeling shaken. Woman shouting at the back/side door shouting at a guy "You're a woman beater!" among other declarations. D opens the back door, and she yells at him to call the cops. Which he does.

This is at 0900 on Sunday morning. All people we've seen on the block, the guy someone who nearly ran D over with a bicycle on the sidewalk, then screamed childish abuse at him. The woman looks like a typical meth user, likely prostitute. Others of various descriptions involved. By the time the police arrive, the ruckus has shifted down the street a bit, like a childish game of tag such as the other kids in the neighborhood used to engage in. Involving a lot of mindless screaming and hiding. Not just the running within a range, but hiding and ambushing.

And I'm still running on adrenaline. Shaking, my stomach hurts, and I can't eat. We do still go to the movie, walking to the train, some of the actors in the morning drama ranting at the low-income apartment building in our path. We hurry by

So, sitting watching bad trailers and low-production-value ads in the dim, as we snark, is soothing. The movie in my taste, could do with less CGI and fewer battles, but the funny overwhelms and charms. And it has a big warm soppy heart, for which I forgive nearly all. Mostly by imagining it as the manifestation of a hurt boy's imagined fantasy.

When next I cannot find words, I will say "I am Groot."

Having beer, now. Soothing the coming down from adrenaline. Once that stuff really swamps me, takes me a long, long time to find a balance. Takes a lot to really rattle me, but once shaken, I do best not to stir.

Slurp

Several years ago, I had a bad summer flu, markedly itchy eyes. After that, my eyelashes never grew back. This may simply have co-incided with onset of rosacea, or some other factor, but it's when I first noticed. Also, became much more sensitive to light, more easily irritated. I considered eyelash growing crap, but on further research, it has to be used constantly, not just until the peeper hairs return, and it ain't cheap. Likewise considered cosmetic tattooing, but I'm not convinced it could be done subtly enough for my taste. I used to wear mascara, but D has always preferred my unadorned face, which is a compliment that I've always taken very seriously.

When I got the face cream, the PA mentioned doing eyelid cleaning. Couldn't imagine how I could do more than shove my face in the shower, so I put it far back in my brain.

But a couple of weeks ago I found this, see bottom panel that says "Strengthen eyelashes."


And thought, well, castor oil has to be pretty cheap, so why not try? Not as easy to find as I'd have expected, still, got a good size bottle. Applied it like mascara morning and night, which also helped with minor itchiness and hard crustiness. And, well, I may well be imagining it, so I'm documenting it here, I think the lashes are returning. Not expecting lush and thick and long and dark, since they never were that even when I was young. Something, anything, would help.

I sincerely hope I'm not fooling myself on this.



Found four of these glasses at the yard sale this morning.


Moby snoring on the chair by the window. Scrub jays gathering peanuts.