Tandem

Sweep

It's 17˚F. Lots of snow flurries yesterday - probably lake effect. No accumulation down here, but I had to sweep the car off when I finished work yesterday. Lowest temperatures here in October on record. GCFU*.

Our diagonal neighbors started re-roofing their house this week. In gale force winds and record cold and snow. This is the house with the musicians and couch surfers, where a concert was held for friends and neighbors summer before last. Lovely folks, but I worry about the house. They use their fireplace, which is a wonderful aroma, but not really good to breathe.

Part of the roof was once held up by a large tree trunk that once grew near that corner. I don't know what the story is there, and I'm hoping it doesn't mean they are fixing it up to sell it. Maybe some funds became available? It seems to be a crew doing it as a favor, since they were working on it all day Sunday, and through the night we've heard hammering.

It's a fairly large house for this area, likely built around the same time ours was†, earlier even. These days the asking price would be considerable, despite the amount of work needed on it. Large back yard and garage/workshop as well. I sincerely hope they are fixing it up to keep it, and had a windfall to pay for it all.


I've had so many people ask when we would light our fireplace, and the answer is, never. Unless there is a complete breakdown of our power system and it's the only choice to keep from freezing. I grew up with a coal furnace, and yes the heat is nice. The lung damage is not. Until my parents got the gas furnace when I was in my teens, I didn't know that having black boogers all winter wasn't normal. When we moved in here, I swept wood ash∑ from every surface, breathing that in was not what I wanted to continue. Woodsmoke smells amazing. So did Uncle Walt's pipe tobacco.

Out of my guilt-free discretionary funds (the inheritance) I am replacing the electric kettle before it gives out completely.

Check in later, there will be photos. It's too dark to make any right now.

Eleanor listens, Zeppo eats.



Cats who trust you let you be behind them, turning only their ears to indicate attention. After this photo, I put my head on her body, and she stayed relaxed. Zeppo is not at that point yet, at least not when we are not half asleep in bed. I think he's like to be, though.




*Global Climatological Fuck Up.
†1911
∑ And there was no flue, no damper, the chimney was open to the sky, no screen on top. One of the things we got fixed the first year.

Pleased

Cats are so different. Moby would tip his head to the side, then upside down and his body would follow in a full flop of welcome.. And I would give him a vigorous Cat Massage, and he would tip his head to me in thanks.

Eleanor loves to sit on my chest, put her paws on my face, and suckle at my clothes. She's been coming by when I'm sitting in the kitchen, to be petted. The petting station, just for her.

Petting Station from Zhoen on Vimeo.

Zeppo... we're still learning what pleases him best.


I cleaned my desk area of the kitchen today.

Laden

Our tree is clear of leaves, but the next door trees are still heavy laden. Snow comes down, but likely won't stick, save on gardens and lawns. I pulled up the sunflower stalks, pruned down the rose bush and catnip. Winter is at the door, but only for a brief chat and a nice cuppa, it'll be back later to stay.

Got Dylan's suit ordered, and a suit coat for me to go with the kilt. We will be able to dress up appropriately soon, and not feel like schlubs. I've definitely got the physique of the older women in my family, as long as I can keep it moderate, I can accept the inevitable. Going for non-slinky styles, with lots of texture and structure, allows me a certain dignity.

The kitchen must be sorted, so I can photograph the new lamp and show you all what I got.

Apprehension

Hard day's work, then sleep
Cats between and cats beside
Waiting for breakfast.



Addendum: Zeppo laying there, Eleanor stopped beside him, put her paw over his neck, then... licked his head. THEN bopped him, of course. It was still very sweet.


That Eleanor and Zeppo chase and playfight and seem comfortable close to each other pleases us so. He clearly watches and learns from her, and she's been demonstrating How-to-kill-a-mouse techniques on the furry-demo-mouses. It's a sort of Woodhouse aunt/nephew relationship, with mutual affection and annoyance. Not a perfect metaphor, similarities enough. Fagin and Artful Dodger? Yeah, a bit of that too. I could see Zeppo as a pickpocket, when caught he does immediately go to "I didn't do nuffin', gov! It wasn't me! I was never there!" He really is gorgeous and sleek, with a thin, long tail quite unlike Eleanor or Moby.

Eleanor is much more active now, more confidently sociable, approaches Dylan more. Gets less food, but it doesn't seem to bother her most of the time. We don't often have to feed her in her Private Dining Room, aka the top of the dryer in the laundry room, anymore. Zeppo is learning to give her a few inches to eat before he gets what she leaves behind, even when he's already eaten his own. He's a bottomless pit some days, supporting our younger age estimate of less than two years. Teenage cat.

Woke up thinking about gifts and Santa and what parents don't get thanked for.

Parents don't get thanked for doing the bare legal minimum. They had kids so they need to feed them, shelter them, educate them, and no debt is owed. Or they expect a lifetime of gratitude, that's called Loan Sharking, and it's manipulative.

Giving unsolicited help to the chosen victim and anticipating they 'll feel obliged to extend some reciprocal openness in return.

Unsolicited, I did not ask to be born, I had no choice to be their child, But Faaaaaammmily! is not a reason. They don't get thanked for not meeting the legal definitions of abuse and neglect.

Parents get thanked for the gifts that come randomly, generously, expecting nothing in return. So, as I lay under a cat, I tried to think of what I genuinely could thank my parents for, the times they didn't give me what they wanted, but what I wanted.

Surprisingly, the first thought was when my father found a broken abandoned bicycle in the alley, and got it to the guy down the way who fixed cars and bikes out of his garage, and did it all for me with no fuss. It was kind and thoughtful and not at all about him. He was actually a bit apologetic. He was a rich man trapped in a poor man's life*. And it was the scrounger in him that I actually liked, I think he hated that part of himself, but it was then he came across as most human and genuine.

I used that bike, never beautiful, it rattled, and kids teased me about it, and I loved it all the more. Not because my father gave it to me, but because it worked and got me around and was mine without guilt.

Strangely, my mother is harder. She did a lot for me, but there was always something about her gifts that demanded more than she gave. She resented giving me what I chose, and fudged a bit to make it more what she liked. The canopy bed being the big compromise. She made the spread and cover in colors she liked, dismissing my preferences as wrong. And I had to be just as grateful, more because she corrected my bad color choices, as well as for all the effort she put in. It felt at the time like my Big Gift had been ruined, and I couldn't say a word.

The last present she sent me, when I was in the army, was a beige sweatshirt with a big teddy bear appliqué across the chest. Something that I wouldn't even have liked as a teen or as a kid. It was a present that shouted "I have no clue who you are!" An un-gift, a bill due for the wrong item.

Like cheap chocolate covered cherries that taste of wax and disappointment. Or granny's chocolate covered marshmallow cookies with the fake red goo surprize that granny bought for me especially, that I ate because I was hungry, but hated. Not real chocolate, never liked marshmallow, the cookie was cardboard, and I have no idea what was going on with the goo, but I had to thank her. The butterscotch pie I actually liked, but because it came after the meal, and was very rich, I didn't eat much of, they scoffed, I was only being polite when I said I loved it, they didn't believe me. They were just no good at reading real appreciation vs fake politeness.

Really, I am working on it, trying to remember one time my mother gave me something genuine, without an emotional bill later. Bupkus. Nada. Maybe something will float to the surface?

The inheritance, maybe?

I'll stick to cats style. They are grateful, when they are genuinely grateful. And they don't seem to ever expect anything more than food, affection and company.

Dylan had the lamp put up when I got home last night. It's very nice.


*Better that way, he never had enough financial power to be a full blown asshole.

Hours

So, since I get more PTO (vacation hours) after being there the years, I've started requesting odd available days off work. I forgot that today was one of those, until I got in and wasn't assigned anywhere. I checked the time off book, and Whoo HOoo!

I only live ten minutes away, so I left with a song in my lips. Yes, sleeping in would have been nice, but not even clocking in is a solid second best. Got chicken for catsoup on my way home, so I didn't even waste the trip.

Went downtown, ordered a thing. My Aunt Evelyn's kilt, the last time I went to wear it, had extensive moth damage. That's all I'm saying. The attempt to find a nice shirt was met with utter failure, since women's tops are all made of cheap, thin, slinky stuff that costs way too much. They were soft, but hung on me like an old dishcloth on a bollard. I need thick nubby fabric, and a collar at least. So, nope. This is one of the Things, to have a set of clothes I can wear to weddings, funerals, concerts, without feeling anxious about what I'm wearing. I'm crap at this sort of thing, a uniform is much easier.



I did go by public transportation and walked all the way home. The air was frosty, and I got rather chilled trying to wait for the initial bus. By the time I got home, walking had mostly warmed me up. It was a good walk.



Right now Zeppo is squished between us, purring and occasionally mushing his face into ours. He's very sweet and funny.

Thrift

When I started work at age 17, 1978, the minimum wage was $2.65/hour. I counted it up to the penny. No one told me it would be cut in half by social security and taxes. When I got my first check, I wept. All that was left went into the bank. I learned to save early. I scrounged, I was a skinflint. Pinched every penny twice before spending it.

Yet. When I first went to college, ATM's were on campus, and paid out $5 bills. I used a LOT of $5 bills. Until I had nothing left. An early lesson in the value of making it hard to access liquid funds. I would never make that mistake again. I feared wasting money even more than wasting food.

Thrift is useful, I took it to an extreme. Dylan coaxed me out of it, as we had more income to expend. I feel more balanced these days.



Ahem. Not saying what these photos are of, but feel free to speculate. Not exact, but representative. For House.

Windfall

Monarchs

Sexuality education done right.

Via TYWKIWDBI.com




The roof/solar panel loan is paid off, thanks to my mother's sense of family obligation, my brother's sense of honor, and Dylan and my sense of Paying Stuff Off ASAP. The inheritance grew in the telling, from my original estimation of $1 and a politely stated 'fuckyou' note, to maybe a few hundred after brother assured me there was money. Then a much higher amount that became thousands more, and the final amount meant a complete repayment of the loan, and plenty left over for, well, you gotta know I'll show you what we give the House. It's daunting. Not "oooIcanRetire" money. But we can get a few good things that will last us our lives.

When I estranged myself from my genital kin, I was fully prepared for all the consequences. No hedging, no backing out. After my last miserable attempt to reconcile with my mother, penultimate reason I dropped it all, completely gave up, was her assurance I was back in the Will. The final was when I was forgiven for not getting along with my abuser. No going back from that.

As though I could be bought. As though my love could be bought.

I can't. It's not for sale.

Of course, I did assume there was no money to inherit, but accepted that even if there was, I would get none. I fantasied about refusing it, even. In the end, that seemed... provocative.

My cousin Elizabeth gently reminded me not to make pointless gestures, accept what was given to me, for good or bad, enjoy it, and move on. Turns out instead of a final slap, I get a windfall. So, I'll take those consequences with as little comment as I would have taken the nothing I expected. At least to the people involved. You get to read my blathering on.

It is good stress, but it worries me. To do the right thing, not waste it.

So, you may well ask, where did all this dosh come from? I remember my mother saying she got so mad at her husband, early in their marriage, when they were scraping to get food on the table, for secretly spending a lot of the money on... Life Insurance. When he died, she told me she had no idea how well off he'd left her, presumably when those policies paid off.

I remember as a small child, my parents had a bank account, but no checking. My father would bring home his pay packet, not sure if that was a check cashed at the bank, or just cash in an envelope from the factory. They would lay out the bills, and the cash, on the dining room table, paired piles, a basic sort of budgeting. Income and outgo, no shyness about how much there was. Or how little. I wasn't so much included as not excluded. My mother would take me along as she paid all the bills, in cash, to the offices of utility companies. The electric co. had a place to recycle old lightbulbs that had broken or burnt out, carefully counted to be replaced for free.


It's just that in my family all gifts came with strings. Which is why I loved Santa Claus gifts, didn't even have to thank him. (It's not that I minded being grateful, not at all. I hated being forced to seem grateful, especially when the gift was unwanted in the first place.) Apparently inheritance is the same sort, no one left to thank. Like treasure found.


The rain falls upon the just and the unjust.

Heat

Cold front with wet passing through. I got the heat up and the space heater in this room. So, cats.

Heat seeking cats.

Mod Rain, Fog
45°F
7°C
Humidity 87%
Wind Speed N 9 MPH
Barometer 29.86 in
Dewpoint 41°F (5°C)
Visibility 6.00 mi
Wind Chill 40°F (4°C)

Laugh

My brother called last night to ask how I wanted the inheritance sent. SIL, and other brother were there, we were on speaker. They told me how good the funeral service was. I listened with murmuring. I could see them in my mind and felt the old discomforts magnified by the disorientation of the difference in age and experience. Like being a time traveler to my past, but as I am now, and the shoes are too tight, and I notice the stink of old cigars. I still can't really say anything, unless it's funny.

Thanked David for being honorable, that I'd expected nothing, and quoted our mother. "You never really know someone until you've shared an inheritance with them." They all laughed. My family has always been an easy audience to make laugh. And there can't be anything wrong when everyone's laughing, right?

I really value being funny, and that call made me realize how much it's a family value. A survival trait. I need to hone mine. It's gotten dull among Utahns who mostly don't get sarcasm, and miss the point a lot. Not all, of course, but I was much funnier in Boston.

I'd already signed up for the improv class, months ago. That starts next week.

Bananas

The vet figures Eleanor has a bit of an infection from her teeth irritation, no real evidence of kidney disease, so she gets a week of antibiotics. It's in a liquid and smells strongly of bananas. She does not like this process one bit, but so far I've managed two doses without excessive struggle.

Zeppo barely ate while she was at the vet all day. He clearly missed her. They kept her so long to get the fluid for the urinalysis. When we got her home, she ate without hesitation, and demanded more, and did NOT hork up anything. Zeppo ate only after she was home.

He watches her when we pet her, and she's purring and contented, as if working up his courage to let us pet him too. He rolls onto his side and back and half closes his eyes, but stays slightly out of reach. Like a Dickensian orphan with his nose against the sweetshop window, savoring the idea but not daring to hope for inclusion. He has a very sad story, only he can work through it to trust.

But then Eleanor had a sad story too. I'm thinking she got her broken tooth because someone picked her up and threw her. I'll never know, of course, but it is consistent with her behaviour over the years. She is never really good with being held, and picking her up is almost impossible unless she's anticipating food. She's very social and affectionate with people who are sitting down or better yet, lying down in bed. Zeppo has some similar preferences, comes to flop on us to be petted in the wee hours. A couple of nights ago, he had his paws on my shoulder and his chin on my chin, breathing on me, me breathing on him. Purring like a diesel. He has a hellah purr on him.


Listening to Sawbones podcast on my trips to and from work.

Watching the Name of the Rose series. With William of Baskerville as a Middle Ages Sherlock, a joke I didn't get with the Sean Connery film. I'm enjoying it so far. Add in the layer of John Turturro playing him, and (the)Jesus(rolls) in The Big Lebowski, and I'm beginning to think they're having way too much fun with this. While playing it straight, it's not slapstick. The tone is dark but not grim.

Spectacles

My Halloween decoration for work. I'd love to wear Groucho Glasses, but the moustache is always feathery stuff, which would not be ok. This is all hard surfaces, so cleanable.

And I'll mostly wear it up on my head, over my OR cap.



Eleanor is at the vet, getting her broken tooth evaluated. They won't have to extract it, they wanted to see if the cleaning would be enough, then have her back in. Also to check labs for kidney function. I think Zeppo is worried about his friend.

Kerfuffle

Friends came over, we watched half of Kwaidan. Eleanor demanded attention early, then napped on the back of the red chair behind me. Zeppo slunk through, in smaller and smaller circles. Batted a ball around, popped his head up to check on the new people, even jumped up behind Nicole, on the back of the couch, just for a moment. She put her hand up, which may not have been why he immediately jumped down. I really think he's going to be walking on them within the year. At only three months with us, he's showing a lot of curiosity and affection, working through the massive skittishness. The personality that emerges is rich and comical.

This morning we heard a kurfuffle, knew it was the Cat Exclusion Device. Zeppo was running around the edge of the basement shelf, clearly interested in it all. He is not to the point where he will just come to me, so we weren't sure how we would get him back up. There is a dirt area, and asbestos tape, which we have still not done anything about except keep the cats out of it. I waited patiently, Dylan brought down treats and the bird toy. Zeppo jumped up on the silvered vent conduit, I put a hand on either side, and nabbed him by the scruff, wiped away some of the cobwebs and dirt as I swept him upstairs. He was freaked out, but not struggling excessively.

We will reinforce the edge later today.

Cats.





Last night, Zeppo laid across my armpit, rested his face on my chin, and purred like a diesel engine, breathing on my face. When I turned, he did much the same to Dylan.

Obit

My eldest brother sent our mother's obit, and it's what you'd expect. A whitewash, clunky, inaccurate, full of dates, previous deaths and survivors. Dates and names history, the kind my mother hated, preferring funny stories. But the sort historians and genealogists will eventually love. Brother's casual misogyny shows at the edges.

Mary was born on (date redacted) 1925 in Windsor Ontario Canada to the late Frank (Francis) and Alice(she preferred Mary Alice, but her daughters thought this an affectation) K-, (nee M-). She was the youngest of eightª, five brothers and three sisters. Mary graduated high school in 1942 and worked until she married R- S- in 1949. They later moved(across the river) to Detroit, Michigan where she lived a content(contented?, hardly, but) life until R-’s passing in 2008. In 2009 Mary moved to (Texas town redacted) to be closer to her son* and daughter-in-law, David and J-. Mary was an exceptional homemaker†. She enjoyed reading, working cross-wordÓ puzzles, playing games, especially cards, and baking∏. She will be remembered for her contagious laugh, and her love for her family.

Along with her parents and her husband, Mary was also preceded in death by her siblings; and her granddaughter, H-.
She is survived by her sons, David S- and wife J-, W- S-; her daughter, J- W-(misspelled); her granddaughter, K- F-; three great-grandchildren, A-, E-, and S-; and numerous nieces, nephews, family and friends.

-In italics, edited for privacy and my editorializing.
ª Nine, three died in infancy, the eldest son drowned as a teenager, three sisters and two brothers survived into adulthood.
*Only remaining family, not including me for obvious reasons.
†She kept a clean house, but took no joy from that, hated the work.
Ó Of the TV Guide variety, at least when I lived in her house. Maybe she got into the better ones.
∏ She always apologized for how bad her baking looked. She used margarine and walnuts, and mixes. I do not bake.

So I added this, still positive, leaving out all the hurts. Focusing on her, though.

She was a devout and faithful Catholic, a voracious reader with a soft spot for real stories of adventures on the high seas or Great Lakes, a mean euchre, pinochle and 500 player, and an excellent driver who relished going just a smidge over the speed limit. She was a good neighbor, always willing to do a little extra shopping or shovel an extra stretch of snow off the sidewalk. She once took a sledge hammer to a troublesome wall in her house that her husband wasn't getting done, but had to deal with once he got home. And at least one winter, when a broken water main left foot thick ice in her parking spot, and she being only 4'11' (&3/4") got out a pick axe and chopped it into submission.

She told it with a bit of pride that she hated school, and when she got a job not long before graduation, she simply quit. She worked as a seamstress sewing trusses. She would sew most of her own clothes, and many for her family.

Born Canadian, she only took on US citizenship for legal reasons, and stayed Canadian in her heart. She loved National Parks, the sweeping vistas of the Badlands and mountains, any boat or train she could get on. She took photos with her Brownie camera, and had an excellent eye for composition.

I left off this line.

She was devoted and dutiful to her mother and sisters. She forgot anything unpleasant.

It seemed a bit too much to the point. I begin to forgive.

Algia

Gurgling, roiling past
The long dead and newly dead
float up and gabble.

Turning

Yesterday we ran two rooms, and had two nurse interns and a new hire RN. The new hire was an excellent scrub with us, then got his RN and worked at the Main Hospital ~6 years for the experience and hours, and we finally got him back with our lure of no nights, call, holidays or weekends, but All Orthopedics All The Time!

The interns are newish nurses who want to work in the OR, so they get on the job experience at the various ORs in the system, a month at a time. One of the interns will be staying with us, the other will go to the Main.


You do the math.

Ok, I'll do it. Three interns in two rooms, and our new hire gets priority in the higher technical and longer running room. And I had the trauma doc's two fractures, and the hand doc's two. So, I shepherded the pair of interns, one to do the core circulation. The (the bright one that I wish we'd hired, but she'll need the trauma skills at the Main more since she's young and high-speed) I threw stray lessons at ad hoc. Showed them how to use the big C-arm x-ray, which is a whole other skill that most places don't even allow RNs. Showed her how to scrub, don gown and gloves and had her help open. To-be-hired-intern I let fly, and just kept her up in the air. Too much me-talking for my preference, and utterly exhausting, but I wanted them both to have a good experience. They seemed pleased.

Once I got home, I was pretty much done, fell asleep on the sofa next to Dylan twice, and crawled into bed at 1930. Eleanor instantaneously hopped up on me, and was my velcro cat for the night. Got up aching, thought it was about 0200 or 0300, but it wasn't even midnight. NSAID drugs, crawled back, slept until 0730, woken with a one-two cat paws to both my eyes. It's sweet, but unnerving. Eleanor happy to have me stay in bed another twelve hours, but I nudged her off. She's been chasing with Zeppo ever since.


My niece sent me a message, wanting to get in contact. My instinctive reaction to genetic kin is to throw up every defensive wall and be ready to hurl stones. Drawing up compassion for a woman who has lost her grandmother, and is running low on other family, is also automatic. Kindness in, dump out.

Such a trait of my FOO, to say Love! before there is any connection. It's a big red button that reads "Overheat! Remove from Service!" to me. It's the stuff marked "Love" that is full of artificial ingredients, and not one drop of real love in it. But, I don't know her, except as a child, when I was myself young and troubled.

It brings up some of the worst years of my life, from the side, some of the ways I coped. My brother and his family lived close enough to my parents' house when I was in HS that I could ride my bike there. My parents objected to my necessary route, but their desire for me to be closer to my brother and nieces, cancelled their objections to mere grumbling to be careful. I just needed somewhere to be that was out of that house. My SIL was very much in the "But faaaaaaamily!" cult. She simply didn't believe my father was unkind to me in any way, that he didn't actually love me or certainly not that I actually hated him.

This era stretched into my awful relationship and wedding. They liked the ex, which contributed to my self doubt about my own muted alarm buttons.

A miserable stretch that I've worked hard at processing and forgetting.

And the two niblings were, well, children, and I've never particularly liked children, part of the reason I've never born any. There is simply no relationship there, only a distant acquaintance. Maybe if I think of her as a cousin, I can give her some of what she needs, without draining myself.

Grief is a dredge, all sorts of half rotted crap emerges, and the stench is awful. Shoes float up with detached feet inside. Lost ships may be better left lost.



My brother sent the obituary. The photo of my mother was one I'd never seen before, I don't know how old she was when it was taken. She was cute, though. And I'm definitely her daughter. It says she graduated high school, which she always told me she didn't, because she always hated school, and quit shortly before finishing because she got the job as a seamstress making trusses. My brother also spelled (Dylan and)my last name wrong. It's not that spelling is important for itself, but careless spelling suggests a certain carelessness of other detail. Especially when it comes to names, it implies that the person isn't important enough to make sure the name is correct. Once is funny, a pattern speaks volumes. Especially since his paternal family name has two I's, two L's, two E's and one R and a total of ten letters. If you can spell that one right, and know how important it is for paperwork to make sure it's right, then not spelling others' surnames properly is hard to justify.

I don't mind that he misspelled in this case, because I already know that any "love" from them is so-called, empty of nutrients, over-sweetened and leftover.

Niece/cousin? I don't know. So, I responded with neutral kindness, and sent her the link here as a sop. The younger brother read here for one or two posts, then never again. No one else of the FOO has done as much, and that will likely be the case again. I have my own family, and enough friends, real love and wonderful cats. Which also means, I have enough left to slosh over and seep where ere it shall drip.



This is the impossible task for any of them, the path to the Golden Fleece. The fleece doesn't care if anyone finds it.

Harvey

P J Harvey's 50th birthday.

Clutter

Found the real estate photos for House. It's changed a bit. More clutter, but a lot less ikkeah.

Skedaddle

In the dream, I knew I was in an afterlife. In the kitchen. A bit worn and cluttered, but clean. A good sized wooden table, mostly elderly women coming through for a snack or tea. I'd just made myself a hot mug of tea, a dash of cream. Then, I knew someone was coming in for the first time. Through the wall, sort of materializing, an ancient woman in a high backed wheelchair, holding a steel kettle. I welcomed her, and offered her tea, which she gladly accepted.

For a moment I thought of just giving her mine, I hadn't touched it yet, but that felt both too generous and too iffy since she didn't know I hadn't sipped yet. But then there was a teapot, and another cup, so I poured her one of her own. Took her kettle from her and washed it. Another person came in that I knew and who'd been there longer than me, she exclaimed. "Oh good, we finally have a kettle!" And I realized that everything in the room had been brought by someone, as their favorite object, or the one they'd grabbed on their way out. Which explained the preponderance of tchotchkes, mostly flower vases. There were lots of dishes, every one unique, odd utensils, teapots and mugs.

Last night I was thinking about a very telling story, when I was first taken to a public park to the slide, and there were lots of kids already there. Lined up on the steps up to the tall slide. I waited patiently for them to finish, so I could have a turn. Seemed a bit unfair that they were running around and getting back in the line, but nothing I could do anything about.

My family told me to go get in the line. With all those strangers. I was confused and aghast. I did as I was told.

I can still feel the press of bodies as I went step by step up, one step per child, one in front of me, one behind. Strangers telling me to hurry when I reached the top. I slid down, got off, figured I'd done my duty, and absolutely refused to repeat the exercise in obedience. I proved could do it, I did not like it.

A similar tale of my only public park Easter Egg Hunt. My brother took me. At the starting line, waiting, I spotted several eggs - excellent, when all the other kids were gone, I'd go in and pick up those and avoid the crush.

Yeah.

Nope.

One of the organizers gave my brother a couple of spare eggs so I wouldn't go away empty-handed.

I don't know which event came first.


When in Basic, we formed lots of lines, and had to stand toe to heel, the toe of my boot touching the heel of the soldier ahead of me, the boots behind me with their toe against my heel. This was never comfortable for me, but at least I wasn't supposed to see it as fun, but as practical, saving space inside with too many people. And an order.

When I first worked in the OR, scrubbed in very close to surgeons and residents, holding retractor with my arm under their arm, pressed into them. It was all very close, but impersonal. The only place on me for the circulator to silently get my attention was on my upper back. Getting inured to the touch from behind, so that I didn't flinch, took time.

Anyone suffering, I reach out my hand to them. I had to learn to put my body into my work, to keep my patients safe, sometimes by throwing myself over them if they were struggling to get off the bed coming out of anesthesia.

With those I like, people I know, I'm quite affectionate. I like hugs from friends. I give massages unasked, for those I am sure want them. Dylan and I touch each other often, although there are still times when one or both of us do not want to be touched. We don't take offense, we back off.

What I most fear and dislike in myself is that I am intrusive, or letting others intrude upon me. The other side, that no one actually likes me, they're just putting up with me. That I'm a pest, that what I think is helping is useless or worse - hindering.

The cats communicate clearly about affection, which I appreciate. This morning, Eleanor got up on Dylan's lap in his chair in the music room. This is new. "You need a cat." At one point she looked at me, standing in the doorway, as if to say "This is ok with you, right?" I gave her a slow blink and said "Yes, that's fine." She didn't completely settle, which is typical for her, but she purred and enjoyed him petting her.

Then Zeppo ran through, and seemed to want to get up there as well, or at least do whatever Eleanor was doing. She huffed off, "Fine, I was done anyway." Dylan amused. We've never seen Zeppo really asleep, he's always moving, ready to skedaddle. Eleanor was like that at first, too. As was Moby. Adult cats with trust issues find us, and we let them work through their issues in their own time. We get it.

Planted this.



The bulb looks like a big thick tarantula, a good 8" across. I got two, planted both (forgot to photograph, not digging them up now), and welcomed them home. Oh, and looked up the etymology of Eremurus.

eremurus | eremuri [plural]
Origin: Modern Latin from Greek erēmos, desolate (see "hermit") + Modern Latin -urus from Greek oura, tail: see "uro-"

Grandmothers

Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Attempt to teach your elders.

-Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, 1963, p. 322.

I'm sure my grandmother, possibly both grandmothers, knew how to suck an egg out. I have a vague recollection of my father telling me about this, possibly even demonstrating, although I can't be sure. But when I saw it done by my favorite Sicilian detective, I knew exactly what it was.




I've been searching for the expression, and coming up against wrong information. Sucking an egg is not separating out the yolk or blowing out an egg. It may well not have been commonly written down, which keeps it out of dictionaries.

I grew up with the expression, and it's been running through my mind a lot lately. As young scrubs try to tell me how to circulate, and not in a "you may have missed this thing I can see" way, but in a "you idiot, I know better, do this" way. I try to take the information and ignore the attitude, but it gets exhausting. I don't want to stifle their observations, often the scrub standing aside as we position can see details easily missed by those of us standing too close. Their interpretations and solutions are almost always wrong, because they don't have the training or experience. Ignorance just don't know what it don't know, ya know?

There does need to be a corollary, of course. Say, The young have sharper eyes, let them find the eggs.

Squirrel

Zeppo beginning to look less worried. He's eating like a teenage boy, too.

"Hey, I'm hungry. And the food is good."


Eleanor up on both our laps this morning, which is not typical.

"Both of you, pet me now."






Called off work, and it feels great. Doing research on retirement, just starting. It's still years away, but planning ahead is important.

I couldn't do it, but these nuns have my utter respect. Although, maybe if I'd started when I was ten.

Don't underestimate squirrels.

Sensei

Zeppo does have a faintly worried expression at baseline.


He's learning to express himself, not just by singing all night. He loves the head bop, nose to nose pressssss, purring like a diesel, very endearing. Sleeps on us at night, while negotiating with Eleanor for space. I dropped a grape this morning, and he batted it around for nearly twenty minutes. The leftover grape stem from last evening, he picked out of the bowl beside me. This morning it was on the floor. Apparently, he has a thing for grapes. He seems to have figured out we don't like biting, even affectionate nips, and has pretty much stopped. That took Eleanor about six months for us to completely extinguish the teeth thing. We also pay close attention when petting him, but we did with her too. He's settling down well, and we'll continue to give him all the time he needs. He's finding all the places he can be. He seems to really like us, remaining wary and skittish.

Trust takes time in filo-dough layers.

And Eleanor, she's his sensei. To her occasional annoyance. They had a running-chase-play-battle last night that kept going and going. Occasionally they ran in front of us, taking turns chasing, no one apparently upset. A disturbing amount of thumping about, though.



Took her outside today, after she let me put her harness on. She enjoyed the catnip and thyme patches. I have not sat in the garden as much this year, because, well, Moby.



We start calling Zeppo, Moby often. MoZeppo may become his name.

Thinking about retirement is fraught, money is emotional, and I need to run the numbers. I also plan to continue to work at something after. After the last few weeks, the end of full time in surgery is an eternity away, and I'm so tired. On the other hand, the time is speeding faster and faster.

Got new glasses, Rx sunglasses to fill the gap, as they re-lens the old frames, because I need to be able to drive to work.