Happenstance

They just "happen" to be in the same place at the same time, most of the time. Like on the bed, or by the front window. Mere chance. Really.


There is an old joke, scrawl on the wall of the men's room bar. "I fucked your mother!" and beneath it in a different hand "Go home dad, you're drunk." There is a bit of concrete sidewalk in our block with the first sentence, I so want to add the second one.

What is white, has raisins and is very dangerous? Shark infested rice pudding. A joke out of one of the many, many joke books I read when I was in grade school. What is yellow and goes "slam, slam, slam, slam"? A four door banana.

I have always loved jokes, I remember them in strings, as other people tell theirs. I'm not the best at them, but I can often find one apropos. They lurk in my brain, buried in their masses, from my early diet of every joke I could find. I don't need new ones anymore, I have quite the stash of old ones. D knows if I'm upset, especially if I'm crying and can't stop, to trot out any joke that comes to hand. Sympathy sinks me, and further annoys me, but any attempt at levity is a lifesaver, and I grab it with both hands and hold on tight.

He tells one, and for some reason I only remember the punchline, never the set up. Still works.

Artie chokes three for a dollar.

Peanuts

This is what I most love about the garden.

Lids

We have difficulty recognizing each other when we accidentally meet outside work, like in the grocery store.

Another hat. I have quite the selection.

So tired of the heat. Will it ever be cold again?

Mostly Cloudy
87°F
31°C
Humidity 21%
Wind Speed S 9 MPH
Barometer 29.87 in (1005.1 mb)
Dewpoint 42°F (6°C)
Visibility 10.00 mi
Heat Index 84°F (29°C)
Last update 29 Aug 8:53 pm MDT

Smokers

I remember my mother complaining about smokers in line at the grocery store. I remember long lines at the grocery store*. Both seemed pretty awful to me at the time. My mother also put a rare foot down about my father smoking his awful cheap cigars in the house. So, he'd light one, walk around the house, then go out to the garage. Have I mentioned he was an asshole? He was an asshole.

Patient this week, a physician with a pack-a-day habit, probably a good 50 pack-year since he was 78. Surgeon exasperated at this. I wondered when it became the norm that doctors DIDN'T smoke, since they surely once did. A little research, and I suspect when hospitals stopped allowing smoking inside, around the mid 70s, is when it finally broke a lot of those habits. So, doctors now in their 60s may have smoked, under that are unlikely to have ever been smokers, over that are likely to have quit at some point.

I remember cigarette ads on television, catchy jingles and cartoon characters.

Indoor Clean Air legislation really started snowballing in the 80s. Finally, to not choke on the stink of smoke in stores, then restaurants, even bars. Always a minority in this country, around 40% in the 60s, they held the rest of the population hostage to their filth. Still do, when they sneak as close as possible to building entrances. Around 20% nationwide, below 12% in California. Likely about that around here, since there is a church expectation to avoid the stuff.

A little more research, and it becomes clearer that it's closely tied to class and education. Self medication for mental illness, as well.

Medical people hate smokers, as a sort of personal hatred. Unlike with the obese, where we simply dread dealing with them, and are frustrated knowing they will not have good outcomes. Smokers, now, we get our knickers well twisted over them. A day surgery recovery nurse I worked with in Boston didn't mind them, though. "Oh, they're great. Pain at a 8 or 9 of 10? Tell 'em until their pain is down to about 4, we can't let them go have a cigarette. All of a sudden, they feel so much better, pain's about a 4! Miracle!" I tried that, and it worked every time. Smokers had a lot more pain, a lot less relief with drugs, but the mere thought of going to smoke worked wonders. They don't heal up as well, though.

Nothing worse than the stink of a smoker's car, Aunt Mary and Uncle Oscar smoked, as well as my cousin Claire (who probably OD'd on semi-purpose due to dental malpractice, but also her own inability to heal.) Uncle Norman and Uncle Milton smoked cigarettes. Uncle Walt was about the only one on my mother's side who smoked - a wonderfully aromatic pipe - still likely the cause of his heart attack in his 60s.

I smoked probably three whole packs of cigarettes, clove and rose, over a year in the middle of the divorce, feeling rather self destructive, and wanting to piss off the ex who originally quit at my insistence as a condition of continuing to date. Irony, what can I say? Haven't smoked since, certainly never going to.

To think, patients could once smoke in hospital rooms. Most houses reeked of old tobacco smoke. Old cars still smell of it. Not that long ago, when we'd visit Lava Hot Springs in Idaho, there was a diner we walked into, guys smoking at another table. We ate there once, and did not go back. A few years later, no smoking inside at all.

Seems so utterly weird to me now. Such a sense of it being completely unacceptable these days. Who smokes? The immigrants, the poor, the insane... a terrible slur, but it seems the public judgement. So, when a doctor is unabashedly smoking? Our surgeon yesterday was out of words to express his disdain. Especially knowing that all his hard work putting him back together might well be in vain.


Smokers don't heal right.




*Can't remember the last time I stood in a line of more than two, at a grocery store. Self check out really makes that much difference.

Sentences

Harvard Sentences. A sort of strange poetry in the randomness. See:Languagehat.


Warren Keelan, amazing photos.


Got home about 8PM last evening. D fed me, which is good. No doubt why I slept so well. Woke around 7am to two cats, one on each side of my legs. When I stirred, Eleanor stood on my chest for a cuddle and a scritch.

We got out, yardsaled. This has been good for us, get us moving on a Saturday early, gives a structure to an otherwise mushy day. Gets us on the same page, working together. And we find stuff we can make use of. A couple of wooden boxes D has a project for, a wooden lazy susan, a nice mug. We are good at not getting interesting stuff if we don't actually have a need or use for it.


Artist drawing mental disorders as monsters. Not sure I entirely agree with the imagery, but your results may vary.



Sonny Eliot, weather guy in Detroit when I was a kid. Reminded by a clip of Bruce Campbell messing around on a different station, I knew he was riffing on Sonny. Ishpeming was the dead giveaway. Sonny would point to this little town (with squeaking sound), and report the weather there. He always notified us when Hell (MI) froze over in the winter. A ham, but with a sort of sweetness to him. Also did "At The Zoo" a little local show where he would meet various animals at the Detroit Zoo.






And for Phil, who never gets a nap.



Enjoying Felines of New York.

Cats

Thwap, thwap, thwap.



And a different hat.

Again

Bad news, again. Apparently an aggressive form of suicide, because how else to explain? Guy wants to end his life (and they are overwhelmingly men), so he kills others along with himself. Finding the blame for his ill lived life outside himself.

Women will kill themselves of course, and sometimes their very young children, but usually not in some splashy overt manner involving strangers or even co-workers.

I've written about my own struggles with the urge before. For me, not being any more of a bother is critical. Apparently for violent young men, they feel quite the opposite. Make the most mess, take others with them, wreck everything. Make the news, go down in a blaze of "glory."

That ain't glory, that's muck.

Even a tidy, lonesome suicide leaves gashes across the world, though. Unexpected hemorrhages, ill placed inheritances. Is this the point of anathemizing the act? Not so much to condemn to hell, so much as to direct the anger and confusion of survivors? It can never have been so rare then, that every village, probably every family, has at least one death this way. My eldest uncle at 17, almost certainly drowned himself, though I was never told this until a cousin explained a couple of years ago. Makes so many interactions make so much more sense. My cousin's wife, in chronic pain from dental malpractice, again, almost certainly ended her own life. How many car "accidents" were impulsive acts of self destruction? How many overdoses were half intended to end all suffering permanently? How many crimes, a cry to finish with a chaotic life?

Hiding behind condemnation will never address this critical issue. Scorn only leads to greater desperation. When I most needed help, I would not reach out for it, lest someone take it all up a notch, to keep me from killing myself. I needed that option not to feel desperately trapped, I did not need to be under a heap of officialdom, only someone to help sort out my distress. Let me keep my choices open "Ok, well, let's see what we can do, if nothing else works, you can die gently."

One of those disparate themes of the unpublishable novel idea, in my imagined society, that anyone can suicide, it's a process of putting one's life in order, with help, then a sure and controlled death. Most people will do this at least once in their lives, only to omit the last step and keep on living.

The potter lays a steadying hand. If the lump will not center, it's mushed down, re-wedged, starts all over. No judgement, no regret, try again.

Weighty

Heavy morning, no real rain here yet, but it's round about. Airways still feeling reactive this morning, taking it quietly. Overcast, thinly misty droplets only.

Taking photos with a new tool. Under the pretense that I can get texts on this, which is true, and will certainly be the communication medium default soon, if it is not already. Working better to keep me in touch, as the university system often gets overloaded. Easier to turn off, keep an eye on the room. It has a camera.

I'm slightly worried about posting the photos, but with care and editing, it should be fine.



The anesthesiologist does not have a huge belly, nor a tumor. He's blowing warm air down his shirt with the hose from the warmer. Don't worry, there is one on the patient as well.





The House Swab study we participated in has a preliminary report.

Wasp

I watched a thread waist wasp of some sort, perhaps an inch long, carrying a blade of grass twice it's length, toward the bamboo chimes. Swung the clapper, which deterred it not at all. Noticed the one chime had a wad of grass in it. Got the spray bottle of isopropyl alcohol and a small clamp, not wanting a wasp nest at our front door, since that is when they do get aggressive.

Pulled out several woven plugs of grass, and perhaps a half dozen dead crickets. The wasp returned, and I spritzed it away. No, not in the chimes, not a good place to live, really not.

"But the rent was great, and I'd already started to move my stuff in! Dammit!"


Perhaps not a nest, but a cache, either way, not having wasps right where we walk through every day.

"WASPs need not apply!"

Harsh heat, clouds thickening to the southwest. Everyone sneezy and a bit off their game. Had several cases that looked to be big and complex, turned into big nuthins. Home early, watered, idled, sneezed.

Contrasts

Partly Cloudy
97°F
36°C
Humidity 11%
Wind Speed VRBL 6 MPH
Barometer 30.09 in (1012.1 mb)
Dewpoint 34°F (1°C)
Visibility 10.00 mi
Heat Index 92°F (33°C)
Last update 24 Aug 2:53 pm MDT

It's beginning to look a lot like...August? Summer snow blankets mountains of Alberta and northwest Montana
Photo credit: National Weather Service Grand Forks.

Unfair man, just, unfair.

Raconteur

Raconteur. That's what I'd love to have been, a storyteller, long form humor, life of the party and general bon vivant.

Yeah, never was gonna happen. The odd punchline is my consolation.

For short spurts, with a bit of alcohol on board in particular, I can do a brief comedy routine. Especially as a double act with D. Making people laugh is critical, the whole shooting match, breaking through the tension to the humor level. I can almost always get at least a smile out of anyone, often some variety of laugh.

Part of my recent joy at work is a resident with a sarcastic and pervasive humor, who appreciates my version of same. We've been keeping each other going this past week. We really do form warm relationships with these young doctors, support them, harass them, and keep them in our hearts for years after they are gone. Rather like high level foster children, or dogs. I would say cats - and they are as independent and willful, but they are much more doglike, in their difficulty and work ethic. They will take care of me when I'm injured, I want them skilled.

In my original family, making people laugh provided some space. The funny ones were given some allowance. The funny ones were my favorites, since they didn't criticize, they seemed the smartest ones, and they had good stories.

Neither of my parents were funny, although my father sure thought he was. My brothers could make me laugh, if only by tickling. Uncle Walt could talk about anything, at length, and I would sit beside and soak it all in.

Conversation was not a feature of my family. Stories and jokes, yes. Card games, sure. Gossip in private? Yup. Listening? Not so much. I listened, since nothing I had to say was worth anyone else listening to, and I had better not pester anyone.


Theater people are not ideal for fostering better communication methods. Perhaps I learned best in the military, sitting around bullshitting for entertainment. Nursing, distracting my patients with trivialities.

D and I talk together, but we are often quiet together. We make each other laugh, not necessarily through verbal media. Body language, timing, references, the merest looks. I'd like to think I amuse Moby, although I suspect cats have very dry sarcastic and wry senses of humor, and never deign to laugh out loud. I'm certain Eleanor thinks me comical, because she picks up on my straight lines.


"Nirvana is this moment seen directly. There is no where else than here. The only gate is now. The only doorway is your own body and mind. There's nowhere to go. There's nothing else to be. There's no destination. It's not something to aim for in the afterlife. It's simply the quality of this moment."
- Jane Hirshfield


Two fish in a tank, one says to the other "Do you know how to drive this thing?"

Smoking

Today
Widespread smoke. Sunny, with a high near 86. Light and variable wind becoming northwest 5 to 10 mph in the morning.
Tonight
Widespread smoke. Clear, with a low around 65. Northwest wind 5 to 8 mph becoming light and variable.
Sunday
Widespread smoke. Mostly sunny, with a high near 91. Light and variable wind becoming north northwest 6 to 11 mph in the afternoon.


Worked three long, difficult days in a row, breathing dry muddy smoke from fires further west. Lots of bad moody at work, not me. More like after the fall of the Soviet Union, the old resentments kept in check by the abusive government were set free to feed on each other.

I covered S' Wednesday shift, given Tuesday off since it was the only slow day this week. This was not a congenial trade, but I agreed to it, so there you are. Or rather, there I was.

Every morning, Eleanor has mewed at me, insistently. This morning, I sat, and she says "Finally, yes, a good cuddle, we've needed this all week, but you kept leaving!" Yes, I'm sorry, you are quite right.

Face

Introversion.

I've never been a great conversationalist. I tend not to ask many questions, not from lack of interest, but fearing "pestering" and avoiding intrusiveness. After going to so many new places, and having to answer so many of the same questions, I tend not to ask others the same, being tired of them myself.

Where are you from? Where were you born? Married? Children?

Born in Detroit, but haven't been there in decades, don't want to go back, not sure it says anything much about me today. Married, yes, but, well. Twice, but that's not casual conversation, given that the ex was abusive. Never wanted children, but I don't want to get into that on a superficial basis.

So, I have stock answers. Like how I wound up in Utah, "ex husband, long story." I begin to understand why all my drill sergeants, when asked where they came from said "my mamma."

Growing up, among children there, "what are you?" meant what cultures you came from, Mexican, Irish, Black, Italian, Polish, whatever. As kids, it probably said a lot about us. In my 50s, not much at all.

I understand it's an accepted way to open discussion, but I'm tired of it. And I don't ask questions, because I tend to diagnose on not much data. I don't want to know more than people are intending to tell me, and since I do anyway, I try to mitigate. Try not to ask too much, not to pry. I'll hear anything, nothing bothers me, but I wonder if others realize how much they are telling me?

So, I relate a story, and hope they return one. It's a real struggle to actually ask a question, as I so want to avoid triteness, repetition, or intrusion with reflexive analysis. I suspect this shows in my comments.

Sorry.

Fancy

"Show us your fancy pants!"

Those ruffle bottomed underwear put on small girls when I was small, along with the short fluffy dresses, were apparently a source of public amusement. When it was just aunts and female cousins, I have some memory of not minding at all. Up to a certain age, and I wonder now if that didn't coincide with the end of diapers. I do have some very early memories, so I wouldn't put it past me. The sort of underpants to cover those pads, seems possible. Having a fluffy butt, and flipping my skirt up to get it out of the way of the bustle-thing (with lace.)

I hated the short dresses, longed for the long skirts, full and swirly. Then the 60s came along in earnest, and that vanished as a possibility. I don't really understand why little girls were put in such silly short dresses. Cold legs and careful embarrassment all the time. My craving for dignity and elegance shot to pieces with pale pink nylon net ungenerously applied.

Smocked bodices were another weird thing, not bad as such, but incomprehensible as an ideal for me. Shaping technique? Texture sort of thing? Dunno, never seemed especially pretty or useful. A curiosity mostly.

These days, I think of clothes as basic covering in pleasant colors. Three new t-shirts, all gotten as premiums*, are of a very soft cheese-cloth material. They won't last long, but I love how buttery and light they are. The rest are all very sturdy Carhart shirts, mens. Long way from baby frills.





*A fiber internet company, a gift from the community gardens for the tour, and the museum/library trivia night win.

Turning

The work-bin enhanced compost is doing well. Even the avocado pits are starting to break down, I don't mind that they take a while. Got a good 5 gallon bucketsworth out of it, with my neighbor's grass clippings mixed in. Well sifted, tossed in around the strawberry plants - that are looking much happier these days.



The tomato plants are producing, but with a lot of dry dead leaves and stems. It's not been a great year for tomatoes here in some areas. We are getting them a few at a time, off and on. Next year, plant the pease, then put in the tomato plants among them at the end of May.

Doing a modified drip irrigation, which seems to work. A mere dribble with the sprinkler face down, forget it for an hour or two, make sure I turn it off before I turn in.


Beer traps for the pill bugs and earwigs, since they have been feasting on the bok choy and the strawberry leaves, little buggers.

Thumb bothering me since yesterday evening, so on with the brace and in with the nsaids. Off today, covering a shift Wednesday instead. Rather at odds.

Disappear

Moby's always been good at disappearing.


"I know exactly where I am."





We had a good game last night, if not particularly high scoring. We agree on words we both know, with special acceptance of any really good words, however iffy.




Watched the finches for a long time this morning, they love the sunflower seeds, of which there are a plentitude. The scrub jays drop in a little later for the peanuts. Bees tend to prefer the late afternoon sun.

Arid

A dry time, sun low and hot, unexpected humidity, and an August garden. Paint to hold back pushy ivy. Watering spots of stolen moss, the tomatoes, the transplanted strawberry plants. Everything looking about done with summer.




The water stored in the recycle bin is long gone, recent rains were not enough to refill it. Doing a manual version of drip irrigation in the back, sprinkler face down, water barely on.

New residents and fellows, the resident anesthesia staff are causing the most heartburn this go round. Not much on the common sense and practical learning, not much for listening or efficiency. This is bad in a place with fast turnover times between cases, and the surgeons will make their unhappiness known. I step back and await fireworks.

Mostly Cloudy
90°F
32°C
Humidity 31%
Wind Speed NW 10 MPH
Barometer 30.13 in (1013.9 mb)
Dewpoint 55°F (13°C)
Visibility 10.00 mi
Heat Index 88°F (31°C)
Last update 15 Aug 1:53 pm MDT

Listless

Eleanor has not been hopping up on the bed the past few weeks, presumably some sort of Cat Agreement with Moby. But I've missed her. So I brought her in with me last night, and she seemed to enjoy snuggling into me. She didn't stay very long, but that's her choice. I think she returned at some point.

One of those restless nights, when I woke about 1300 and didn't seem to actually sleep, although I'm sure I actually did, until the wee hours. The alarm caught me in deep sleep, so I waited for the second chime as I moved my aching joints into shape.

Hot, and for here, rather humid feeling. Maybe just because we are not acclimated to a hot summer.

Partly Cloudy
98°F
37°C
Humidity 17%
Wind Speed SSE 17 G 24 MPH
Barometer 30.01 in (1009.3 mb)
Dewpoint 46°F (8°C)
Visibility 10.00 mi
Heat Index 94°F (34°C)
Last update 14 Aug 5:53 pm MDT

Watered the tomatoes and strawberries. The "bok choy" still alive, but much bugge eaten. Getting a very few tomatoes. They are very tasty though. Trying to eat salad every meal I can, my body feeling the lack of greenery lately.

Otherwise, listless and vaguely itchy. Worried about the odor in the back coming from the compost, until I realized it was hippie neighbor's chickens. Doesn't bother me, really, but it's distinctive and within a certain radius, pervasive.

Moby is reacting to the reflection off the laptop on the sideboard*. Good to see him engaged, but not wanting to cause a spill off the ledge.




(I may have a new toy, mostly for at work. That I can text with.)

Freak

Eleanor wanted OUTOUTOUT! "You haven't taken me out in YEARS*!!!"

So, after only one, not three, runs around the table, she flops for the harness, and we go out. Luxuriating cat on sunny walk, grass eating, more rolling, as I sit on the step.

UPS guy runs up, I go to take† the package, and the leash slips out of my hand and Eleanor has bolted around the house, through the side porch. I shoo apologetic UPS guy off, they are on tight schedules, and this is not his fault, nor can he help, and I'm laughing because I can hear the skittering thumping of the handle.



(Who was it here to suggested this? Great idea, we use it all the time.)

I head off around the other side of the house, to head her off, as I hear the trailing handle round the front bush, then she vanishes up the steps, as D opens the door. I run in after her, and she's gone through, to Moby's astonishment, to disappear under the bed. I grab the handle, pull her out to disentangle her, and hold her snugly as she shivers. I can't help giggling and chortling while I comfort her. She won't even sniff the catnip spring D brings in for her.

Freaked the hell out, but at least she knew where to come back in, even with that thing thumping behind her the whole way.

Poor kitty. She'll be ok.




*It has been a few days.

†10. THEY WISH YOU’D MEET THEM HALFWAY.

Want to make your UPS driver’s job easier? In a Reddit thread, one driver said, “if you see them pulling up and you aren't in the middle of something, meet them half way, or walk up to their truck.” Every extra step adds a little bit of time to their day. “If 10 of my 150 stops do that in a day I would get home 10-15 minutes earlier and actually get to spend time with my family.”

Layers

Ever do something you know you should wait, but you don't and it turns out for the best? Last evening, I really shouldn't have run the heat gun over the door, let it cool, then stripped. D thought it might only be a single layer, which is difficult to remove this way. But I went ahead, and found this gorgeous wood beneath. Admittedly, one panel is pretty rough, and will need a lot of sanding. And the framing just won't clear this way at all. The other panels, though, are all this lovely color.

This is why I keep on with this, discovering the next glorious surprize awaiting beneath the layers of time.

Saw my kitty-corner neighbor, James, with the chickens and the house with the roof held up with a tree bole. I'd chatted last week with the other chicken keeping neighbor, who mentioned he has a stray hen, likely from James. Called to James, but he didn't hear, so I walked around the corner. I knew it was something of a squat/flop house. One guy on the porch bench asleep, a woman on a sofa inside the front door also crashed. I called out to him in his kitchen, apologized for bothering him, and waking his friends, asking if he was missing a hen. He was very glad to hear she'd been found, he'd even tried to find her at animal shelters.

"Apparently, she's just hanging out with the chicks around the corner."

He laughed, thanked me profusely, clarified where I meant, thanked me again.

It was as if I'd stepped back in time to the 60s, a true hippie pad. Still, I felt a kindness and a welcome in their squalid shabbiness. Glad I live a more ordered life, perhaps a little sad that I could so little tolerate myself a more chaotic existence.

Walked out later to get groceries, as we returned through the sunflowers, the finches, that normally scatter with anyone passing by, simply ignored our arrival. This cheers me immeasurably. I feel like St. Francis of Assisi and Jane Goodall in one. Bees and scrub jays, tiny mantises, cats and finches, all see me as Home, part of the scenery, nothing-to-worry-about. Not to mention the raccoons - whom I would prefer to see me as a threat.

Storm blowing through, lots of rain and thunder, a bit of hail and wind. D off to a work meeting, on foot (as per) and I just hope he got there mostly dry.

Addendum: This story about a bullying HOA is part of why I love having an odd mix of strange neighbors in a shabby old, low-rent, historic district. I'll take retro-hippies any day.

Sari

George feeling very fancy.

Moby more elegant.

Gun

Mid knead bliss.



Scrapers, the one that looks like a pie turner is meant to open up painted shut windows. Which it does admirably, but it also scrapes loosened paint rather well.



The heat gun†, although some care must be taken as it can easily burn... anything. My skin, the wood, the house down. Run it ahead of the scraper slowly, and away from me, as the paint bubbles up, it scoops off nicely. I've noticed a lot of variation on the quality of the strip, thicker paint works better, when the wood beneath seems to have a thick oily lacquer it's better. The corners are difficult.

I made a judgement call on the presence of lead paint, since there seems to be no reliable, nonetheless affordable at any quality, even the expensive ones aren't reliable, test for lead paint. I figure this place wasn't besmirched by paint until the 70s, based on the age of the house, number of layers, as well as colors. Looks like a base coat, then two to four layers at most, and only on the wood framing in the back areas. I would not bet this way on the walls, where there is certainly lead paint right on the plaster. Good ventilation, and not letting my arms get tired. I wear a filter mask, goggles and leather gloves, long pants, and long sleeved shirt. Forgot that last one today, but it worked out.



It's not perfect, but leaves me with spots and smears. Next step, eventually I will sand and stain and lacquer, but getting off the black or grey stuff is my immediate goal. Tiny picks and perhaps a random orbital or finish sander, if I can get one for a good price. Not in a rush on this.


I did a time lapse, but can't figure out how to post it. Getting my IT guy* on it this evening.


†Like every damn 'Merican must have.

*D, of course.