Drive

People at work getting all wound up about Christmas Eve, a Monday, and one surgeon (not known for his speed) getting on the schedule for a full day. Different stories. It doesn't make cost effective sense to stay open for one room all day, especially since we get a pay differential in the afternoon. But that's a side issue. We don't stay open 24/7/365, we have weekends, nights and holidays off. And the nurses forget how many of all these we have worked, routinely. And resent being asked to after assuming we wouldn't.

I figure I'll take whatever luck gives me, making no request or complaint either way. Stay out of the froth. I'll still get the next day off.

Today, one case cancelled because the patient was on drugs. High as a kite, I heard. Which has happened before. But this time, they called EMT to get him up the the Main hospital, because he was ODing. First time I've seen that, patient getting loaded into an ambulance as I leave work, for self inflicted recreational drugs use. The problem of facing a stressful situation like surgery, with only one coping mechanism - drugs. Yeah, anesthesia on top of that would have killed him.

The (probably) narcissist nurse (NN) has finally given her notice. The excellent J, who doesn't trust NN one bit, mentioned she thought she'd be happy, but has mixed feelings. As do I, relieved of course, but I can't be happy about her mental illness and failed life. Like with my father, I want NN far from me, but I still pity her. She's caused a lot of distress, is unteachable, needs to be away from vulnerable patients, so this is good. But I wish her treatment, not punishment. Far away from me. When K told me on Monday, recounting how she called NN to task and the resignation followed, K mentions we can cope, it's only ten days. I say, hell, I went through a divorce, this is nothing. We'll be short handed, but we can deal better with that than with someone not doing her job safely.


Watching the snow piling up on the mountains. Rain down here, impressive morning fog.



Told the story this week of being in Kindergarten, walking home, older girls talking, and I butted in, offering a correction.

"We were not talking to YOU."

I pulled back, hurt and shocked, but wiser. My first lesson in Not my circus, Not my monkeys. A cow-orker says they were rude, but I know I was, even if I didn't mean it so. They were right, I was wrong. There is a time to step in and confront, to stop bullying or protect, to call out bigotry or injustice. But there are far more times when the right thing to do is keep one's own counsel.

Never grab the steering wheel when someone else is driving, unless they've passed out, or are trying to kill you...

Variation

Thinking about sexuality and sex and gender and all the variations. A spectrum, a graph, I am convinced the utterly male macho heterosexual man and utterly female, feminine, heterosexual woman are the real anomalies, the only actual queers. Most of us are a bit off the ideal, in this as in all things. Perfection is sterile and vulnerable. Only when error and variation are present is there life. Messy, complex, vibrant life.

I've been reading about new information coming out of genetic research, stimulated in large part by the search for a cure for AIDS - closely tied to homosexuality. Poetic, really. Rich pickings, myriad complexities.

It begins with XX and XY, but even that is flawed, as it can become XXY, XXX, XYY... we ring the changes from before we have our full compliment of DNA. The card shuffle is just the beginning, since we also have mitochondria just from mum, mosaicism, and our receptors for hormones can have incomplete expression, or mum's uterus contaminated by previous occupants... um, older siblings. Not to mention how it all gets triggered differently when we hit puberty. An apparent girl can become masculinized, an obvious boy exposed as female. Or what looked like one or the other begins to form into a bit of both. We've only begun to suspect environmental chemicals' effect.

Then, of course, is how this is interpreted through the pressure of culture, twisted by expectation and a societal imperative for simplicity and clarity. Subtlety and confusion are not well tolerated by rigid cultures.

It's not just a matter of inclinations, but of degree. Is asexuality the opposite of sexual obsession, or the flipside of bisexuality? Why is dress sense a part of it? Except that it does seem to be? What is core, what artifact?

Not that I think there is a moral matter here, but that understanding would enlighten us to how our minds work. Computer networks reflect human brains that create them.

We are all part of these natural processes. However man-made and artificial, there is no outside. It may have gone askew, toxic, cancerous, but that too is part of nature. Our houses and freeways and factories are as organic as a bird bower, or a beaver dam, or a wasp nest.

Change is inevitable and imperfection critical.

Sin is built in, necessary.

Taking a day off. Oh, not off work, it's already my day off the job. But I had a dentist appointment this morning, and the light in my face made the headache far worse, to the point that it felt like a migraine brewing. I took my mix of OTC meds when I got home, and hunkered. Also, after the last two days at work, my feet - heels, were painful even after a night's sleep. And the toe I stubbed on Sunday is black & blue and swollen and unhappy.

Not doing well. All whiney, too.

Need a tooth recapped, with requisite cleaning out of the old repair. Scheduled for January, when work will likely have slowed a bit.

Drowsy

A long sleep, luxuriating in drowsy. A five day respite from all the running.

We cleaned the music room, took up the green, yardsale rag rug that has lain there for perhaps five years. Six? Got it for $20, maybe less, we remember it differently. Vacuumed it, and around it, and considered shifting floor coverings about. Still not settled. But I made the executive decision that I knew Dylan would not like, to try it in the dining room. Not forever, but as an experiment.



He sort of likes it now, although we may replace it later.

Shallot sprouting.



Moby's stairway to his waterkettle.



The grey rug is for taking the piss.





Getting the balance between the beauty of wood floors and the warmth of rugs, echoes and dust and catfur everywhere, the cost of decent rugs, and Moby's propensity for using non-wool ones as urinals, is tricky. We are looking at vinyl floorcloths, which are reasonable in the smaller sizes, but get prohibitive as they get larger.



At any rate, much of the dustfur is now discarded.


Moving very slowly this morning. In no hurry to end my break.

Roaring

Rain all through the night,
snow on the garden
Winds roaring away debris.


We got 52mph winds just before 0500. Clean air, a dilute gesso for the week.

We ate well yesterday, and no one stopped by. This happens some years, the risk of informal invites fall out thusly, a goose egg. Nothing lost, Dylan's chili was amazing. Enjoyed each other's company and a quiet day together. We'd have liked to see people, but honestly, we aren't the most sociable people. The upside is that often around holidays we wind up short of food unless we plan to feed others. We have to make a very conscious effort to keep up the nutrition when we don't have the structure of a work schedule.

And the House is clean.

And the mountains are thick with snow.

Chili for breakfast.

Chili

It rained well. We cleaned adequately. Got food for today, peppers and onions and cilantro, tortillas. I made cranberry sauce to take to the inlaw event. In the afternoon, Dylan fired up the iTunes on his phone, from my playlist, and we headed out to the far southwest. The journey into deepest suburbia was more tolerable than I'd imagined. A good view of the Wasatch mountains newly snow covered.

Dylan's brother and spouse are good folks, despite not having proper bookshelves, only religious books, mormon pictures on the wall. The 4 year old nephew glommed onto Dylan, to his bafflement. Dylan does not know how to deal with kids, so he treats them like somewhat mad adults. He gets lots of practice at the Library, and he's gotten good at it. It's polite, rather formal, and I find it very amusing. When their 2 year old woke up, the disorder ratcheted up.

Dylan's parents I did my best to politely stay at a distance from. The other brother and SIL from SD, with their 4 year old and 2 year old sons, are lovely, but more young boys did add to the chaos.

The house is newish, certainly built in the last 10-15 years, and that odd sort of open plan that is neither flesh nor fowl nor good red herring. No real dining nor living room, but a hash of the two. And the way people arranged themselves in the space reflected that disarray.

I ate well before I left, because I am so used to eating at 1100 or noon, that a long car trip on an empty stomach would make far worse. Not to mention, the traditional thanksgiving foods are just not how we eat. Dylan felt much the same, although he did wait to eat there - what he could. I brought a thermos of tea, because no one in that family would even think to offer a hot beverage of any sort. The seating was random, not a formal sort of table, so I could get away with it. Dylan understands, and would not read any of this as "rude", although I had a panicked child inside me that was convinced I'd be screamed at the whole long drive back.

He called it for us at 5, since we wanted to get on the road before it got too dark. A clot of hugs ensued, from the brothers that was fine, from MIL I tolerated, managed to avoid FIL. What most annoyed was MIL trying to force her grandsons to "Say bye to 'Zhoen'." Over and over. Seriously, why does she care if they know my name? I'm a stranger to them, will rarely see them, they'll forget me by the next time. I wanted to tell her "Leave me out of it, and leave him alone." I didn't. I will always treat children kindly, but I'm never going to be any one of my niblings' favorite aunt. Not going to happen. Doesn't hurt my feelings.

As we drove out, Dylan mentioned he wished he'd stopped in the bathroom. I'd thought about it, but in the bottleneck of goodbyes, skipped it. We took a route with a lot of commercial development, hoping for an open large grocery store. What we found were McDonalds. The first one he demurred, the second we stopped. I bought fries, ($1.39 for toilet access on Thanksgiving afternoon is reasonable) he used the restroom, we were especially polite and thankful to the counter people. I ate fries the rest of the way home, Dylan feeding them to me as we did the crossword puzzle, discussed the oddities of open plan modern architecture, and he enjoyed my music.

Got home, ate salad, took a walk, fed cats, read books.

Today, we will make food, open our House to whatever friends stop by, and balance out.

Time for me to shower and get started. Dylan's chili already going.

Gratitude

Reading with a cat can be challenging.



So grateful to have her around.

She got a little weird about books at first, as though she'd never seen such a thing before. She's used to them now.

Reminded of a time I met a snapping turtle.

Zap

My mother had contempt for the idea of microwave ovens. Aunt Alma, I think got one, after I'd moved to another part of the country. Not entirely sure on that point. But my mother... toaster oven was daring for her.

My first microwave experience was at work, where I managed to get hot meals for lunch because of which. Damn useful. Dylan got our wedding present from his father from R.C.Wiley, a simple microwave with a single dial, to his father's consternation, but our delight. In it, I learned to cook potatoes, boiled in water (15 minutes, because that was all the dial went to) as well as Apple Stuff*.

Microwaves have meant hot meals, when cold would have had to suffice. An economy of power. Not how to actually cook a meal, for the most part, but the way to heat already cooked food. And a way to cook potatoes, since when boiled in the microwave, they come out nicely soft and ready to be fried in spices. As well as beets.

But I steam vegetables. I fry eggs. I roast beef in the oven, I make catsoup in the slow cooker. Microwave ovens are tools, used appropriately.

The one that came with the house is a RadarRange, which is oddly retro and pointless. But this 107 year old House doesn't mind. It has too many buttons, we have highlighted the relevant ones with red or green fingernail polish.

A cow-worker claims she hates the way microwaved meat tastes. I will never push that, but I wonder about the results of a double blind trial. We warm up the cats' food for 5-7 seconds in the microwave, so that it's not cold from the fridge and smells right. They seem to respond to this.

My mother was amazed that Aunt Peggy could lay on the table a meal of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and all hot on the table. I do think that's amazing. But failing that, I have the nuclear option.



*Apple Stuff, apples cut up with oatmeal, cinnamon, butter, in a dish, for 15 minutes. That's it. Adjust to what is available. What could go wrong? With this? Nothing.

Rolled

Yesterday rolled and rolled. Thankfully I had Jodie as my fellow runner, we handed off to each other all day. Everyone got lunches, I was able to get our scrubs breaks between many cases. Despite being short handed, with one sick call. Not to mention the pre-holiday stress and a long schedule. By 1700 we were both pooped, with two rooms still going,but she had to work today. I encouraged her to just go home, which she normally wouldn't do. So when she agreed, I knew she was proper exhausted. I caught a wee second wind for the last hour of flurry.

We are trialing the vocera, a sort of personal intercom system. Getting the phrasing right is tricky, but it's useful, and will be better as we figure it out, and everyone has it. Like a transit system that is very small, people like it, but need it to go many more places.


Worrying over the holiday, as we are going to Dylan's brother's. I haven't spoken with any of them* for the past year, because his parents, well - his dad, treated Dylan badly, and I needed to step out of the role of peacemaker. The thought makes me anxious. And reminds me of driving out to Grandma's.

I was never given any kind of choice, visiting maternal Granny and paternal Grandma, was mandatory. On birthdays, Mother's Day, and other assorted holidays, random Sundays. Over the river and into The Sticks, La Salle Ontario for Grandma. She lived as an invalid with Aunt Madeline, her youngest, and only daughter, a rough, loud woman of uncertain temper. And Uncle Herbie, a stubby crude sort who wore plaid suits and obviously disliked kids. I was not allowed to read, although I could sometimes go outside or sit in a side room. There were no toys, nothing to do. The two chihuahuas were not friendly. Grandma only spoke French, and never got my name right, in the limited time she sat out among us, rather than staying in her bed - which worsened as she aged. I would sit with her beside her bed, but she never talked with me. In its way, it was worse than mass.

The long drive out was boring, but I would imagine myself waterskiing the many ditches beside the road. The drive back was my father yelling at me for rudeness, because I'd missed some question, dared to have a book to read, appeared to sulk or pout, was insufficiently friendly, failed to eat enough or enjoy the food enough. There was no winning, I don't think he much liked being obligated to go, so he accused me of what he dared not admit he felt.

Far worse if we'd also visited Aunt Evelyn & Uncle Ernie, who made me feel welcome, had toys, and let me go off and read, listened to me. I would be blamed for their imagined sins of "snubbing" him as well. Perhaps they did, he was difficult even when being sociable.


I know this trip a half hour drive into the valley will be fine. I know. But the memories fill me with dread. What if, what if, whatifwhatifwhatif... ?

Making cranberry sauce tomorrow to bring. Still warm it will be, with orange slice on top. No brandy, though. For the sake of the kids, not the mormons.



The saving grace is that my original kith did not celebrate Thanksgiving. This holiday is all mine own, hand crafted with Dylan right from the first one we didn't spend together, but thought of each other, as we were sent to Gulf War I that following weekend. We celebrate this time of year as our anniversary. My 28 years of having a real home for the first time.


So, I find my courage and my reality, and tomorrow will be fine. I can do this, with grace and kindness. It's not really that hard. And I have so much to be thankful for.


I will also make sure I know all of my nephew's names. Out of respect. More than I got from my grandma and her daughter.



*We wouldn't have visited with his brother anyway, only seeing them in the context of parents normally. The family is not close, because of distance and lack of common interests. Good people, just... random.

Brand’s concept of the “Six S’s,” itself an expansion of a prior idea by architect Frank Duffy, offers a useful framework for thinking about how we build our houses for change. Brand describes six elements of a building that change at different rates, from most to least permanent: site, or the geographical setting, legally defined lot, and context; structure, or “The foundation and load-bearing elements…” lasting anywhere from 30 to 300 years; skin, defined as “Exterior surfaces” now changing “every 20 years or so”; services, or the “working guts of a building: communications wiring, electrical wiring, plumbing, sprinkler system, HVAC...elevators and escalators,” which change every seven to 10 years; space plan, or “the interior layout–where walls, ceilings, floors and doors go”—which can remain static for as few as three or as many as 30 year


Setting, Structure, Skin, Services, Space, Stuff.


We are near downtown, on a medium traffic street, between where we both work, with groceries and transit within walking distance. We are on a very small lot, but with space for parking and a garden.

The foundation is concrete and sandstone, with brick walls and wood framing (I assume).

Generous

Our house is flexible.

We can close off or open up, there is space for storage, the basement could be finished - although not by us. We could put some doors back up and shut off parts. Our house is a living thing, she creaks and squeaks, expands and contracts.

In my parent's house, I was afraid of the noises, and was told it was Settling. THAT made me fear it would fall into the earth. Well, no. It was reacting to sun and heat and cold, humidity and storms. All the different materials reacted differently and rubbed against each other. This House does the same, but now I hear singing. House the Home is glad to have us, protects us, and we pay attention.

She breathes.

We added some eyes, because there is some evidence it deters crime. It certainly has stopped the amount of trash left in front.




The former basement window, long blocked, with the AC unit wires coming through, as well as defunct dryer vent and sprinkler pipe, was a worry. Our painter/handyman came to fix it. He thought the wood was in fine shape, although it looked bad - that was only surface wear. He used the pressure plywood leftover from the laundry room project, patched it, then refused payment. Says I support his business enough by recommending him on nextdoor. Well, alright. Talk about a good neighbor. We have several windows for him to get working again next spring, and will insist on paying him for those big projects.




I'll slap some paint on that eventually.


This is not why we treat people with kindness and respect, but it is the (always unexpected) side benefit. Generosity begets generosity.


Had the usual gang over last night to watch a mystery, two extra showed up. Makes us happy that people feel welcome enough to just show up and eat. They raided my tea and found the Wild Sweet Orange. I invited them to rifle through and find what they liked, so glad they believed me, because I meant it.

Thinking about former cow-orker at a party here years ago, who took it upon herself to start washing forks, because of course I wouldn't have enough... not bothering to look in the drawer where there were plenty of forks for people to have clean for the dessert. She is only about 10 years older than I am, so to be treated like a foolish daughter stung. I try to treat everyone as an adult, even when I have more experience. I can still learn new things, and never assume ignorance in others. Then I thought about a friend's Rule.

His rule is more a general guideline, and it's about when a woman is too young to date. Half your age plus seven is the minimum. Which seems a reasonable approach. So, I thought, to see someone as very young, take half your age minus seven, and under that you can get away with seeing them as the younger generation. Over that, treat them as equal adults in all things.

Or age 21, whichever comes first.

So, 56 divide by 2= 28-7 = 21.

Yup.

Orange

I was small, perhaps five or six, and there was a wedding shower that all the women in the family on my mother's side attended. For some reason, I was deemed too young, and was left with the men at Aunt Evelyn & Uncle Ernie's house. My father, brothers, other uncles and a few older male cousins were there. It was summer, and they were in the back yard.

I remember being thirsty, and it took some doing to get an Orange Crush from the male adults present, so I must've been too small to get one myself. I remember it tasted funny, and I tried to tell these people who were supposed to be taking care of me, but I was dismissed and ignored. I don't know how much of it I drank, but I was taught to finish what I took, so if I poured some of it out, or left some in the bottle, I was being rather naughty. Then I felt very dizzy, and tried to tell my father and uncle and brothers, but no one seemed to care. So I went inside and laid down on the spare bed, feeling very alone and frightened and ill.

I would remember this strange incident, because it seemed important. After I was old enough to drink, I figure the bottle had somehow fermented. But how likely is it that a commercial soft drink would go bad like that? Up until last night, I'd assumed it was a manufacturing error of some sort. But then I thought, what if one of the uncles or cousins who'd gotten me the soda had spiked it? I wouldn't have noticed them doing it, although the taste was off. Perhaps they were annoyed enough at having to 'babysit' that they spiked my pop? Knowing more the history of my family now, it seems more probable than a national soft drink maker having a single fermented bottle.

Some days I'm especially glad I've been estranged from the whole pack of them.


And, don't assume children will forget bad things. The memory may be twisted into their reality the rest of their lives, even if they can't find the words to express it.

Nun

My name got missed for the honor roll when I graduated high school. But it did mean I avoided a hug from the bully nun.


Ok, lemme 'splain.


Catholic school, had two nuns working as principals my first three years. Both respected, and energetic women, who obviously cared about us, knew us by names. The last year a new principal who threw her weight around with numerous petty rules and constant threats directed at us seniors that we would not be allowed to walk down the aisle at graduation.

I never cared about the ceremony, I'd attended both my older brother's graduations, and was not interested in my own. But my mother cared deeply, and knowing how much my tuition was, and being grateful for a solid academic opportunity, I was not about to disappoint her in this. I would wear the purple National Honor Society sash and do my duty. I was not about to challenge arbitrary rules and risk that. I would keep my head down, high school was temporary. Even then, I think I had a pretty clear view on that. I lived to leave my father's house, and high school was wrapped up in that.

But this bloated nun was a piece of work. Intrusive, arbitrary, and racially insensitive. There was a pep rally, and she showed up wearing an "Indian" headdress, carrying a tomahawk and whooping... . My friend Anna was Iroquois, we sat through that exhibition together. The school team were Lions, not any sort of tribal name, so there was no reason, no excuse.

Pep rallies were bad enough before that, after unbearable.

In the last week of the year, we threw an impromptu water balloon fight, inside the school. Someone, and I wish I knew who, got the principal with one. Glorious.

But graduation day came. I didn't get to wear the dark purple gowns that had always been used before, now they were a tacky gold. But I had my sash, and sat in the second pew with my friends who all wore the same sashes. We'd taken our educations seriously, our homes were variably fraught, and we'd seen the way through. I was 10th of 137 students in my class, which I considered pretty damn good. At least I avoided having to give a speech. Principal sat at the table set up in front of the altar looking pleased with herself and apparently enjoying being the center of attention. Oblivious to the number of parents, or family members, climbing over the railing and running around the aisles taking photos. It was a zoo.

She announced various awards, then had us stand as she listed the NHS students. And skipped my name. My friends were more bothered than me, but I also knew my mother noticed. Then they passed out the diplomas, and I watched as my friends were pulled in for a hug, to their dismay.

To this day, I don't know where I got the self possession, but when she handed me my diploma, I told her. "You missed my name for the National Honor Society, it's too late now." I took my diploma, did not shake her hand, and escaped the hug. She looked askance at me, like she'd been savaged by a mouse. I defaced her image in my year book. My mother said I might regret that one day. Hasn't happened yet.





I was so young.

I am so much happier now.

Still best not to push me too far.

Batches

I had a dream. At work, and something flew by in the sterile core, which became a bird. Sparrow or small dove sized, with a very long and fluffy tail. I knew I had to get it out, and we talked about getting a box perhaps. Then my manager and an anesthesiologist walked through, in deep conversation, manager had a parrot on her arm. Anesthesiologist put her finger out, and the bird stepped on to perch. I thought, Oh, good, she's taking care of it, but they walk on and the bird is still there. So, I put out my finger, and the bird steps onto it. I hold it gently, and with help, get it to an outside door and let it go. It flies off. But then a large bird foot with shackles drops. The bird is far off, but seems to be fine, so I don't know where the foot comes from.

I woke a bit worried.

Only days later did I remember my grandmother's superstition that a bird in the house meant a death. Given that I only knew about this is because birds regularly came in my converted from a bathroom childhood bedroom, and no one died in that house, I never took it seriously.

The U bookstore had a great deal on tech supplies, and Dylan urged me to get a laptop so I could write again. Compared it to his guitars, we need our creative outlets. And he reads here. Spending money on myself makes me very anxious, but I accepted with gratitude. Had a mandatory meeting at work this morning at 0700, bookstore opens at 0730, so he came up with me and read in the waiting areas. He set it up when we got home, and the pent up words are flowing out.

Feeling rusty, awkward, but eager to stretch out. Wanting to write thousands of words in a batch of story.



The sun was streaming in. I put Moby up on the arm of the chair, and he paused, decided this was a Good Thing, and took a bath. Eleanor sat in the window close by.

Writing

Writing with an external keyboard and an ipad isn’t as cumbersome as, say, with a pencil clenched in one’s teeth on paper. But for me, it’s enough to dissuade me from trying to write a ton for November. Every time I consider it, the amount of writing diminishes, a thousand words a day - ugh... maybe 500? Every other day? As the right hand side of the page disappears, I roll my eyes and recalculate down.

Dylan’s desk at his desktop is set up for him, and I am overcome by the little annoyances. Subtraction ensues.


I love to write, but I am not driven to. I have to make the mechanics of it easy to get results. Writing is what I do for comfort, and clarity. When it’s too much work, when it drains me rather than fills me, I stop. Because lemme tell you, this week, I have very little reserve. Pain drags on me.

As we were finishing up our short day, no one eager to leave before 2, the last room cleaned en mass, 8 of us walking out through the core began a chorus of Bye! Byeeeee! Byeeeeeeee! Increasing in intensity and silliness, until we were all giggling. A spontaneous, improvised moment of absurdity. I love that we can be silly together.

My surgeon yesterday is also one of the most dryly sarcastic people I know. I’m not used to the people I work with ‘getting’ my humor, which normally I lay out there solely to amuse myself. That DrC sees it and reacts to it in kind throws me off a bit. Then I laugh, but it takes a second or two. When he jokes, it takes me a few seconds to be certain he is not serious.

Being able to laugh, and sing and dance while on the clock, well, it’s wonderful. Our patients don’t see it, or the drugs mean they won’t remember. Comeraderie.

We also have to know when to drop it in an instant and focus on the job.