Snowglobe

Gusty winds, blowing snow, bright sun, predicted lows in the single digits. Feels like a snowglobe, walking through, it actually sparkles. Glad of my dense-fabric duster and a good hat.

At work until 3, home now, settling in to a couple of days off. I knew getting off at noon was too much to expect, and sure enough. Everyone just feeling at wit's end. Sitting watching the bright swirls, glad to be inside and cozy. Occasional white outs. This is in the middle of the city, imagine what it's like on the long, flat highways.

The winter holidays are important, to our emotional health. To celebrate or at least to retreat from work and noise. Having had neither this year, even on alternate days, has ben trying. I want to shut it all out, just for a little while. To live by my own rhythms and listen to the quiet voice. Not to drive, not to shop, not to clean, or leave the house. Nothing, just a little space of nothing.

Tidy

I have tidied.

There was a drift of socks.



It's not even a matter of tired. Weary, trudging along, needing time away, to myself. And it's not on offer.

Cleaning helps, even as it draws from the same barely damp well. A sense of satisfaction consoles.

My hands are cracked and sore. I am getting some improvement in the trigger thumb, a week after injection, which is about par. No instant fix, can take a couple of months. Healing slows under the piled years. Feeling my age, seeing it in my face. Another phase of life, no skipping any of it. Wring every lesson out, give it all back when I'm done.

For the first time we've seen, Eleanor showed interest in a christmas tree. Every year, she seems to ignore it, or has field blindness to it. Today, with the table moved closer, she checked it out, walked the mantle, and sat by the top, exploring once with a curious paw. Very delicate inspection, only knocked over a single card.

We were always prepared that a cat would tip over our trees. When we got Moby, the shelter made a point that cats can destroy household items, and we had to sign that we understood and would be ok with this. Well, of course, a living cat is more important than any chair or fabric or glassware. Still, good to be in the right frame of mind to begin. Like the orthopedic surgeon in the ER telling Dylan that the moment his elbow hit pavement, it would never be the same again. Not the sort of thing you want to hear, but it made the healing process more tolerable - expecting a return to uninjured is not the goal. Functional and with minimal pain is more the thing.

But Moby never was destructive, nor is Eleanor. Oh, the lamp was always wonky after it fell from the mantle after, (we assume) Eleanor conducted a gravity experiment with it. Since we rescued the lamp from the trash room in Boston and fixed it, we just fixed it again. And the durrhi rug is pulled from cat claws from day one. We are messy humans ourselves, so, fine.



Perfection is an illusion, and a poisonous one. Let us be homey and sufficient.

Craft

A scrub who has never much impressed me, reminded me of someone but I couldn't think who... I finally remembered. She has borne and adopted a total of eight children and donated a living related kidney. However altruistic, this leaves me cynical and dubious of how much good she's done. Sometimes, too much is too much. And then I remembered.

In Basic we had a woman who treated us all like her children. None of us young enough, she was perhaps 27 at the time, I was certainly 26. She corrected us, and tended to us in ways we didn't need, and we mostly ignored her despite our annoyance.

One of our Drill Sergeants, Craft, was 21, we found out for some reason, but we were required to accept his authority, which I had no problem with, nor did most of us. Private Mother, perhaps not so much.

Once a week or so, we would be in the Day Room in the evening, to get our mail, maybe clean our M-16s, chat informally with whichever DS was on duty and in the room. And Private Mother told DS Craft... "No, Dear."

We, well all of the rest of us, felt the chill in the room, and thought "...oh no."

Private Mother was doing push ups, as we were dismissed to our cots. As far as I know, she may be doing scissor kicks to this day.

Well, not really. The next morning she was in formation with the rest of us. But her "mothering" stopped.

When I say "I ain't nobody's mama" what I mean is that I'm not Private Mother, ever. The scrub that has tried to call me Joanie* reminds me of her. So giving, so controlling, so incompetent, so annoying. I wish I could make her do push-ups until I get tired.

Many of our residents are very young, but I accept their MD as valid, their training and education as a matter of course. I have other more generalized skills and knowledge, but their expertise is impressive and important. I take their orders, their preferences that don't conflict with their attending surgeon's. They can't come into my kitchen and rearrange it, but I don't contradict them about how they take care of their patient, that doesn't conflict with what their attending surgeon says.

Age doesn't matter here, and I take that to heart. Whomever knows best gets to say. I know about positioning a patient under anesthesia, but I will take suggestions and improvements.

And patient requests.

My Drill Sergeants were Johnson & Johnson and Craft. I can still see their faces. I hold them in some esteem.











*I hate diminutives. Nicknames are fine, but not diminution.

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

Stillness

Quiet descends on our neighborhood. Or maybe it rises out of the soil. The boisterous boys with monster toys, have charged off, and the rest of us can finally be heard. Misty morning, I crawl from bed, put on robe and crocs, step outside, and hear Spike&Mike come out their door.

"Did you hear me come out?" asks Mike.

"No, I just happened to come out at the same time," says I.

"Still in your pjs," he laughs kindly.

This is the level of our conversation. I pointed out the tree on the porch that I scavenged on his intel. We chatted about being allergic to christmas trees as I ruffled Spike's ears and told him what a good dog he is. Spike liked the smell of my robe.

Dylan and I made eggs and baked the frozen ham croissants, hot tea with half&half. We will walk around the park later, like we walked Boston Common on this holiday before.

2005

Solstice. Standing still.

Hogswatch

The light drains from a washed out sky. We huddle with intermittent cats. A small real tree on the porch, scavenged from the free pile of the garden center around the block. Neighbor told me about it. I'll see if any are left tomorrow, and snag another one to compost. Good for the soil. I've learned not to bring piney greenery inside at Yule, my sinuses object. I knew my arms would rash from being poked by fir tree needles, but didn't connect that with a christmas runny nose. Now, I leave it outside.

Lots of sugar at work and pizza from our anesthesia director. I ate a peppermint meringue, the rest was too much. Nurse manager got everyone a card and a chocolate bar, and something else that hasn't arrived. She wouldn't tell us what. She wished us Merry Christmas, and I replied Good Yule, Happy Solstice. She's Jewish, I'm agnostic, but what the hell. There are lots of holidays, next year I'm thinking of celebrating Yaldā. I finished up just before 1500, and the last two rooms looked to be done within an hour or so. The three surgeons working got labeled as Scrooge and Grinch, and Marley(which puzzled a number of people who didn't recognize Jacob Marley as Scrooge's dead partner.) They reminded me to come in on Wednesday. Oh, I'll remember.

Lots of dreams last night, I had to do a research project that was due that afternoon, and I didn't even know the criteria. Thought I'd do something on weather, but then it became a work project. Cats walked through the dreams, and I was in a vacation house with two toilets, but I couldn't get to either with any privacy.

This is in part my introvert nature asking for time away from people. It's not physical exhaustion, although with my several little injuries it sort of is. It's emotional emptiness, which only solitude can replenish. This is not enough to refill, although I'll make it work as a stopgap.

Again this year, today, we got a christmas card in the mail, in a shaky hand, with an easily misread address, meant for the senior center up the street. Again, Dylan decided to just walk it over rather than send it back through the post. An S and a 5 do look similar, too bad it should be a 7.

We will do something for Hogmanay, maybe.

Enough

We did our "christmas shopping" this morning. Which is to say, groceries, since we must have enough to eat on the holiday. We've been remembering army stories a lot lately, perhaps it's the cold. The temperature isn't that low, but it's been the kind of cold that cuts through and exhausts energy. Yeah, that's digging into those memories. Colorado Springs, Ft. Carson, we'd taken a the weekend before as leave, while most others opted to rush back to spend it with their families over the holidays. The base didn't tell us remainders the chow hall had different hours and a Christmas meal - until it was over. We were not provided any food that day. No one would deliver food on base, taxies were not allowed on either, so any kind of Chinese food or pizza was out. The 30 or so people in barracks ate sweets from family care packages, and drank. I knew better than to drink anything on an empty stomach, and was already sick of sugar. Late in the afternoon of our fruitless attempts to obtain real food, oranges appeared. We scored a few each and ran off to eat them together.

We promised each other on that first christmas together that we would always have enough food on that day. This will be our 29th, which feels really nice.

Freeze-dried strawberry block in the MREs were a strangely appealing treat, even though they were the consistency of styrofoam. So when we saw this, we both immediately pegged it as Holiday Food.

Of course, I've worked a number of christmases and been on call for more. Dylan's parents have struggled, foiled in their assumptions we participate in their traditions, eventually giving up in the face of reality. The worst involved his father reading the bible christmas story, slowly, aloud, to the captive family. ugh. I figure any joyous expression must be optional. No assuming, never of course.

Our moving friends still wanted to get together last night, so we went, carpooling with another friend. Reminds me of when I had the Groundhog open house three weeks after moving in, partly to prove to everyone at work that I meant what I said about getting all the boxes empty.

Wondering again how I got so good at packing, and I think I must give my father credit. He could pack a trunk for a car trip like a demon. He was a demon, so that does follow. A scrounger and a packer, he really did keep his garage and basement, wood and tools, in good order. Funny, I never thought about this before. That ability, if not the general inclination, to keep stuff fairly tidy, came from both of them. Yes, it's a bit like finding a speck of gold in a pile of debris, but there it is, and I will use it.

Dylan did not like holidays, the expectations, the idleness, the forced festivity. By scraping it down to time together and a day off work, we have come to a happier place. He likes the tree(s)and lights I put up.

We shall celebrate in our small, quiet way. With dried strawberries. And enough food.

Greige

Move for friends went well, lots of people, including brothers with vans and mother and sister with cleaners. Dylan did a fair amount of carrying, I mostly packed and assisted. Brought a Panettone cake (and a knife), which was appreciated and shared. Drove our tardis car(bigger on the inside than the outside.) And assisted organizing, gently, with permission only. Finally, we took their recycling to put in our bins, save them a trip to a center. They looked like I remember feeling whenever we moved. Tired of decisions and overwhelmed. I hope they go and get food. I wish I could have given them my Moving Guidelines. After doing it 23 times, I have some good tricks. And that karma presenting bill thing. Pay up in full, and on the top

The previous residents of the new apartment not only failed to leave TP, but also a bowl of dissolved turd, which I flushed before N could see, she did not need to see. Nice place, but very beige. As per Rental Law. Gods, I hate beige. And greige. I'm not being smug, only grateful, that we have a lovely house of our own, instead of greige apartments of decreasing quality and increasing rent, that would eventually disallow cats. We must have cats. There are no apparent neutral colors here, well, a few grey walls, but I've got plans to get rid of them soon, too. Planning to paint over the dull kitchen blue in February.

We got tacos, nice salsa, at a little place in Rose Park. The western side is very diverse, which we would have been happy in as well, if the busses ran better, or it was easier for me to cross downtown to get to work. Our neighborhood is as well. Dylan tells me Salt Lake County is now minority white and minority LDS, so I sigh relief. I grew up a minority, and I think everyone should be. Humility is all about being able to listen and learn. I strive to always be teachable.

Thinking about my father's mother's funeral. I was 20 or so, and not on good terms with him in any way. But I sat beside him in the pew, a church in La Salle with the kitschiest art I'd ever seen. Held his hand as he grieved his 98 year old mother. I didn't really know her, she was always old, didn't really speak English, and never said my name right - calling me Junie. But I was the Dutiful Daughter, and faced our mortality beside my father, with grace and dignity. I would dance, with bitter anger, on his grave, seven years ago. But I'm proud I did the right thing, then, in that gaping maw of grief. Whatever he was, however much was wrong, I did the job in front of me. And I can live with that young woman who did the right thing.


It was good to feel that we were useful, actually, practically, useful.

Trigger

I know it's just a matter of expectations. Most of us expected to have Christmas Eve off, after a long stretch of long, hard days. Then one surgeon scheduled a full room, and most of us hoped to be called off. Three more rooms were scheduled, and it's a regular, full day. People are seriously pissed off.

Now, I've worked Christmas, gone in on call, holidays were prime time for transplants - which was what I took call for. Alternate celebrations were the norm. But now that I don't work holidays or take call, working even a holiday eve feels dreadful. It's not, not really. Banking hours for lean times.

Dark times at the solstice is usual. We need to celebrate to get to the other side.

My favorite hand surgeon offered to inject my thumb, actually apologized for not following up last week. By the time we were both able, she had to scrub in on a complex case with another surgeon. But both hand Fellows had come to watch, the better one just observing. So, she had him examine my hand and inject. Apparently, it's a trigger thumb. I knew it was clicky and catchy, but that part wasn't painful. Turns out to be the same core issue. The shot was painful, but I'm tough, and it passed off into a hard ache. This was last night, when I'd relieved a nurse who was having a migraine. Today, hand is better, slightly. These things take time. The steroid may be part of my ickiness. Good Fellow assured me it has a high rate of success without recurrence.


That and the removal, scraping and reprepping of a crown over a root canal gone bad. Having someone take power tools to one's face can unsettle one. The local only worked so long, but I didn't want to wait for more, so I had them keep working. Painful, but not bad enough to make a fuss. The taste of the... adhesive(?) is horrid bitter.



Helping friends move tomorrow. We cleaned out the car Wednesday in preparation.

It's raining.

Good Solstice. The dark is as rich as the light.

Endure

Seven years ago, we were going through the process of buying House. Today, one of our best scrubs, hard working, smart, funny, needed to have Boxing Day morning to sign on her new house. I offered to help cover, since there was pretty much no one else off that day. We are short staffed, and long scheduled, this month. It's not what I'd like to do, only going to get the normal one day off for Christmas, and I'm feeling like I'd love to take a month off. But, I will not grumble. When Karma presents it's bill, best to pay it in full and immediately, otherwise the interest accrues really fast.

We also have friends moving this weekend, their apartment building undergoing renovations, so they had to find a new place to life. I will hide my aches and fatigue and we will use our car, that is bigger on the inside than the outside. Or so it's always seemed, through several moves, and how much furniture we've put in it.

Two long difficult days. More in the queue. We do our best to cover people for lunches. Our manager came in and mopped and opened with us. She's a peach.

There will be a slackening off, maybe sooner than we'd like. So, I stay cheerful, and do my best to squelch complaint, even inside my own head. It helps, to stay positive, or at least neutral.

We endure.

Redux

With slightly better light.

No more angels at the top of our tree(s).

But she's still there on the mantle.

Felted

New topper for the tree, a felted moose ornament, found in Ogden today. So, on the train back, I thought, why not put up both trees? I have enough ornaments, gathered over my lifetime and earlier. The small silk one we got while in Boston, ordered online a pair, and gave the other to a friend of Dylan's. Could even do themes. Not like color, but perhaps material?

And as I began, I sorted, not thinking too much, feeling my way to my choices. Until the Shiva tree held only old ornaments, those bequeathed, all from before my time, from elderly neighbor women leaving their decorations to the only family in the street with kids, from aunts, baubles that I have handled since childhood, a few my mother knew from childhood. A century and more, of christmases. With a hindu god on top. As we turn toward a more inclusive celebration, shining twinkly lights into dark corners. The turning, multicolored led in a lamp at the base, like Aunt Alma's silver tree.

The Moose tree, another silk, but found at a yard sale a couple of years ago, holds every ornament since. My lifetime, our christmases, Yules, Solstices. Festivus for the rest of us, but for the christians, too, if they want to join in. (They are welcome, so long as they behave.) This one is full of recent ornaments, our initials, the house, the lump of coal dug up from the back in a tiny decorative sack, gifts from work, a special bought one added each year for ourselves.

We did the crossword together in the train on the way up, challenging, but we got it solved.

BBQ

Article about gossip.

People at work getting seasonal crankiness. I'm not immune, although I do my best to stifle the symptoms. This is probably my first year not down with the goombah, which helps me. Everyone else has been variously ill. We're short staffed and long scheduled. With a midweek christmas, and a full schedule on the Eve as well. But at least our narcissist nurse is gone, gave her notice and left, to no one's dismay. I'd rather have no one than someone that can't be trusted. We shuffle around and get each other lunch breaks, and it all works out.

I really must put up the tree, for the sake of bright lights to cheer us through the grey days. We'll leave it up past Epiphany, sometimes a good week past, depending on how we feel.

Today we take the train up to Ogden, for BBQ, meet a friend for lunch. We remembered last night that today is our legal anniversary. Only took us 25 years to remember before the day passed. It's the least important anniversary, but the most practical.

Struggling to get "the right food in the right cat" as Dylan puts it. One medicated for Moby, the other for Eleanor who would prefer to just eat, then hork up, kibble. Most days, it's not a problem. Some days it's impossible. Cats, eh? Who can figger 'em?





Bon Hiver.

Age

Seven years ago.



Oh, yes, the years creep.
Age lays a shawl over me.
New rug under foot.


The new rug.



Thinking about my childhood desire to be an actor, despite every reason I would be terrible at it and detest the life of an actor, I need to add that I was no chameleon. So, I couldn't even have been one of those character actors you never recognize from one part to another.

The first great decision in my life was to recognize how badly I would have starved trying to stay with that profession.

Pantheism

There is a holiday appropriate song.



You never write, you never call
And now you wander in the hall
You look familiar;
I barely know your face at all

We never get together at all
Until the last day of Hanukkah.
I got you a harmonica
And a bag of chocolate coins.

The only thing we have is fights,
But there's got to be a change tonight.
Please be nice on this feast of lights.
We never get together at all
Until the last day of Hanukkah.

I got you a harmonica,
And a bag of chocolate coins.
The only thing we have is fights,
But there's got to be a change tonight.
Please be nice on this feast of lights.



I'm not Jewish, but then I'm not a believer in any faith. Nor will I assert that there is no god. Because to do so is to believe in the absence of a god, which is also a faith. I tend to think that all the gods are equally real, and say much about the interaction of the human mind with the universe. Our definitions of what gods are, however illuminating of our own half hidden motivations and worries, is only half of the story. The reality is one thing, our interpretation another.

I was once castigated because a believer in god thought we "really thought the same thing using different words." When I asked him to define what it was he believed god is, Oh, no, not going to "catch" him that way! Well, I wasn't trying to "catch" him, but how can people believe when they don't know what they believe in? I'd been told much the same by my oldest brother, who's beliefs were fervently all over the place over the years, and he expected me to convert along with him at each turning. He too was a believer, a salesman, Air Force recruiter, bought into Amway too. Eventually went back to Catholicism. His pushing me into Buddhism did lead me to Taoism, at least as a general philosophy, but nothing else stuck.

Pratchett's idea seems a more practical way, on his Discworld, the gods are real. No need to go around believing in them. See below.



I ain't against gods and goddesses, in their place. But they've got to be the ones we make ourselves. Then we can take 'em to bits for parts when we don't need 'em any more, see?' (LL)

Everything was a test. Everything was a competition. Life put them in front of you every day. You watched yourself all the time. You had to make choices. You never got told which ones were right. Oh, some of the priests said you got given marks afterwards but what was the point of that? (CJ)

Most witches don’t believe in gods. They know that the gods exist, of course. They even deal with them occasionally. But they don’t believe in them. They know them too well. It would be like believing in the postman. (WA)

Oil

The lights.

Sharing

They are accustomed to each other, and willingly share the same space. Company, if not exactly friends. Still, so much of our lives are simply not minding the people around us, at work, in public. These two seem to have come to agreement.

At work, there are three people who have recently or are going through divorce. It's sad, but better than living with irritation and dismay when love and safety were expected, promised. I don't know if I would have divorced for that alone, would have endured my life and waited for an ending, had it not turned worse. Better, to be able and willing to chose to end the relationship, however painful, and try again, or chose differently at least. Marriage is only as good as the people in it.

To imagine my life without Dylan, just to fulfill a promise I did not understand making when I was so young and inexperienced, is dire. Marriage should be closer, should involve real friendship, mutually satisfying companionship. Whatever else it may be to the couple. Loneliness in company is miserable. Loneliness when there was supposed to be love is an eternal empty ache.

The cats know we love them, and they (in their cat ways) love us.

Love at home.

We went out to Adib Rug Gallery, just to look and admire. It was slow, and she asked to help. We knew we were going for the lowest end. The two men turned the piles of rugs, and we watched guiltily at their work, given that we were looking at the cheapest ones. We found a half dozen dhurries we could afford, several we liked. Many of the expensive ones I Oooo'd and Ahhhh'd at, I have a pretty unerring ability to spot the most expensive ones. My taste is good, even if our budget isn't. They treated us as well as anyone coming in to drop thousands, were given a discount from a recent sale.

Shifted rugs around when we got home. The green, yardsale rug was, as we suspected, too tempting to Moby as a piss-place in the dining room. So, it's up and out of temptation. Not sure what we'll do with it. Alcohol killed the odor in the spots, but there really isn't another space for it.

Photos when the light is better. Today is grey, gray, with an undercurrent of dingy drab.

Buttered

I never met either biological grandfather, both long dead by the time I was born. My paternal grandfather died when my father was still young. My mother's father was separated from Granny (not divorced, never divorced) but still alive, when my brothers were young.

The story goes that he came to visit my parents for a holiday meal, and insisted on butter, wouldn't eat margarine. So, my mother bought real butter, and genuinely forgot to put it on the table. Grandfather ate it and didn't notice, apparently the sort that if he had noticed would certainly not have been gracious enough to pretend otherwise. This was my mother's proof that margarine was just as good, and cheaper - so, even better.

Of course, this was in Detroit, and margarine sticks looked exactly the same as butter sticks. While in Canada, margarine, or oleo, was colored orange to prevent deceptive sales. How well would an old alcoholic and (I assume) smoker notice the taste? The color would have suggested butter.

So, like many kids my age, in the lower stretches of the economy, I grew up on margarine. And now I eat butter on my bread, when I eat bread. Which is not all that often. But butter does taste better on rice or noodles, too. And fats aren't the real problem, carbs are. Not that any food is morally clean, as the more extreme religions expound. I figure everything eats everything, and we are part of the natural process, however currently unbalanced. Eventually, the microbes will eat us too. So, I try to tread lightly and act kindly.

Article about how MSG is not bad for you, and why. I did used to get ill and migraines, after eating at some Chinese restaurants. I wonder now if this is due to my reaction to garlic, not MSG. Seems likely.

Wrye

Getting dressed, wrapped tea bags fall on me from the close locker of A. I remark I'm being pelted with tea.

"It's Sweet and Spicy, like you!" she says.

I say, "I'm not really spicy, and certainly not sweet. More like Ham on Wry."

This is a better joke written than spoken.

Coat

Every year or so I would get a coat. Winter in Michigan was no place to be without one. Mine were typical of the sort available, and had to be appropriate for church, since I would only ever have one. I have vague recollections of snowsuits when I was tiny, but no recollection of being warm or cold at that age. Yearly visits to self-service dry cleaners to wash all the coats.

My biggest regret was the stylish midi-length coat in pseudo-suede with acrylic fur around the hood, hem and cuffs. In 1975 this was just the thing, and the length was useful, as well as the hood. But I was very cold for a couple of years, it got very shabby very fast, and the wind cut through it readily. But then, I was often cold, and hated being cold. Especially where the snow got in between mittens and cuffs.

I had an orange Pea Coat once, it was not as warm as I'd been lead to believe such a coat would be. I vividly remember being at Jupiter's, finding a rack of OD green parkas, with hunting orange lining for... $15? Something like that, less than $20. I was about to start high school, and really wanted a warm coat. I expect I had a Sunday appropriate one, since I'd about done growing. And I saw immediately that this coat would insulate better than anything I'd ever had. I stopped my parents, and begged for it. After all, it really was cheap, and I really did need something warm. Mom started with "It's too expensive..." so I showed her the price, which she had to admit was a great deal. So she started in on, "Would you really wear it? It's very ugly..."

Yes, yes I would. Ugly it was, but I could see the beauty. With strong reservations, they agreed, with me promising I would wear it enough.

I kept that promise, heartily. It became my absolute favorite cold weather gear for a decade. The hood zipped up into a snorkel. I had to walk to and from school a few times when the roads were too bad to drive, at least once coming right back because the school had closed. And no place the coat was got cold. Snotty tissues in the external pockets froze, but I was warrrrrmmmmmm... . It got me through my first stab at college.

My mother tended to go out and buy stuff when it was needed, with a focus on only what was needed. Many a shopping trip failed, or left me with what we could find, but nothing really useful. I tend to graze throughout the year, watching for bargains and seeing the potential. I've gotten a lot of very useful, durable items at very good prices, because I could see ahead. It's a lot less frustrating to shop this way as well. Of course, taking into account the growth rates of kids does complicate this, but mom was a seamstress, and could have made alterations. But, no.

The winter I escaped, the lovely man I briefly dated, took me to a discount coat store, and I got a big, black parka-like coat with deep pockets. Took it with me to Colorado Springs as we waited to be sent to Saudi, the husband of a woman in our unit took it back, promising to get it to my apartment. But it was in their home for a long time, and when we got it back, it reeked of cigarette. Got it cleaned, and wore it many years. On the way to Boston, we both got Land's End parkas, which kept us warm through even those weeks of sub zero weather, and being out in the wind all the time.

Here, we can get along much of the time with heavy hoodies and polartec. A parka, with lots of layering, only a short, if crucial bit of the coldest weather. Easy enough, to get ski-wear here. My even better duster stops all wind that would cut through me.

Cold is welcome, so long as I have enough coat.

Lights

Snow with abandoned shopping cart. I called the store, they say they'll come pick it up this morning. People, what is it with people?

Happy Hanukkah! Ok, a few hours early, but we will be lighting the candles next to Shiva and Buddha and the glow-in-the-dark BVM, with assorted symbols of hope, light, freedom and gratitude.



Last night, we went to a Japanese noodle place for John's birthday. An impromptu party of 18 people, ok, including four or five* brothers, but it says something about the sort of friend. Dylan knew him through the library comic book club that we started inviting here, since the library rooms became unreliable. It was lovely to be part of such a good group, the server was cheerful and efficient, and everyone was kind and patient. The food was so good that, despite being a bit outside our comfort distance, we plan to go back for more of the spring rolls. When the waitress asked if it was an event, we all said "Birthday" and pointed at John. You'd have thought it was planned, but no, just spontaneous synchronism. She brought out mochi for him. Most tuneful version of Happy Birthday I've ever heard, as well.

The gathering expressed a range of ages, inclusive. I'm sure some of his brothers are my age or so, John is 38, and there were younger folks and a two year old niece present. I love this, more folks to learn from.

Reminded us of our reception, Lebanese restaurant, 23 people, bellydancer, and the owner and every waiter there made a point to come up to us and tell us how nice our friends were. We were very touched. Which is great, but a bit sad that it's exceptional.

John's soon to be spouse is a lovely woman. I think she's a bit disappointed that I'm not a comics/gamer girl. Dylan has gotten me into a few, like Usagi Yojimbo. I loved Maus and Persepolis. And Kate Beaton. But I've never gotten the appeal of superheroes. And as a kid, I wanted my funnies to be, well... funny. Even as I got older, it was The Far Side and Calvin and Hobbs. Graphic novels are a valid, even ideal, way to tell good stories, I have nothing against the medium. But the story is what matters, and the medium is not especially appealing for its own sake. Odd, given how long it took me as a child to prefer text mostly books to picture books. I really got disappointed at books that weren't mostly images.




But, it's ok not to be taken by every interest of friends. I respect the love of comics. I appreciate some that speaks to me. And I like the people.



*I lost count of brothers.