Hoarse

Steel wool sifted sounds.
Gummed up, rubbed hoarse, deafened dumb.
Exhaustion numbed soul.

Still sick, but have to work. Everyone at work in varying stages of being sick, recovering. Even a couple of the surgeons.

Zeppo purrs beside me, accepting a firm massage, his head, his chest, belly, back, in turns, not too much at once. He puts his nose on my nose, with a short, breathy purr that feels like a response to my "I love you." He is becoming who he can be.

Eleanor is on the back of the red chair, flattened out. She knows she'll get time on us tonight, she's in no hurry. She is secure, contented. I think she enjoys having both of us as her humans.

The year goes on, as it does.

Affrontery

The old dining room table, not that old, is dismantled and under the spare bed. We got it right before our first Christmas here, $200 including the four chairs, which was a deal. There has been water damage from cats who knock over flower vases, and sweat from the post-op ice packs last April. Still, pretty solid and worthwhile. It will eventually go to a good home, but there is no rush. I wasn't in much shape to prepare, this virus has me pinned down and stuffed with goo. We got ready, though. Mostly Dylan had to dismantle and move old table out. I shifted chairs slowly.




New table is about the same area, but round, with a leaf extension. Solid wood. Weren't expecting it to be ready until mid January at the earliest. Arrived today. The slide mechanism is gloriously smooth.




I'm so pleased.


Yes, I called in sick again. Feel dreadful after a night breathing through my mouth and coughing. Got a message from work that I had to have an MD note. Thankfully we have virtual visits available, and the note procured quickly. First time in all my years as an RN that I had to do that, but times change and it is the holiday week, and we are short staffed. I set aside my affront and do the job in front of me, knowing I did not spread the virus around.

Wisdom

Seeing these two content in each other's company is the best gift of all. Zeppo was sniffing around the bottom of the dishwasher last evening, intently. Eleanor came and looked over his shoulder, with apparent interest. As if to say, "Yup, that's mouse scent. You can get this one, I'll provide an assist." Eleanor is an expert, and Zeppo a fast learner.

The mouse, wisely, did not emerge. We'd've heard the cats thumping about, it's a very particular pattern of thumps. If mouse ever appears, it won't stand a chance.

Feeling slightly better this morning, Dylan is nearly back to normal. He made the most amazing chicken chili last night. We picked up a few leftover trees from the nursery around the block, to decorate the yard, compost later. There is food in the house, we are together, nothing more is required.

Wire

Yes I did catch the cold. Or else somebody was going at my throat with a wire brush as I slept. My call off is also me calling in sick. Reading and resting and trying not to swallow hard.

You enjoy your holiday your way, I'll enjoy it my way.

Fulcrum

Air is bad, Dylan
is sick, I am tired,
Solstice nadir darkening.

So, I love when orthopedic surgery patients wear this style of underpants. The tourniquet goes over it safely for lower limb procedures, and in men - keeps scrotal skin safely away from the cuff. It doesn't bunch up on upper extremity ones. I don't have to see genitalia, which, after all these years, I've seen quite enough of. A few years ago, I got a pair for myself, in case I ever needed surgery, and yes I did remember to wear them when I did. In fact, I was thinking about them as I laid there on the floor with my broken and dislocated wrist. My mind in that moment went to the practical, getting my pouch to my locker, sending Dylan a message, letting the nurse taking over from me know that I'd already gotten the knee immobilizer for the next patient, that I'd just had lunch and would they do surgery with a block or not, and that I had the right underwear.




Mine are purple. Not all that comfy for a full day working, but very nice in this situation. No wedgies.

Knap

"He tried to get up here. This is MINE."

"It wasn't me, it was some other cat."



"Just watch it, buddy."
"Oh, look! An Outside!"



"What is she doing?"

"Adoring us, it's ok." Says Eleanor.



"I don't usually sit on this spot, it's kinda nice actually."



"Oh! There really is something interesting out there!"





The past months have been grief wracked, frustrating, tiring. Yesterday, I was a resource/lunch staff, over twelve hours of running, a little assist here, a fire out there, stocking supplies neglected by newer staff in the rush, excess chaos. One room glitched, not only for video but also the anesthesia machine. Thankfully we weren't running every room, so they moved. Another patient could not come out of anesthesia, wound up being sent to the ICU at the main. Another patient had a hyper-metabolic crisis, not MH, which sucked up resources for a while.

Two newer nurses with surgeons they weren't familiar with, I was the spackle. Another nurse who is very experienced and competent, but had three different surgeons in his room, and the last one he doesn't work with often. I have, and I know how to manage the crabby old putz. Pushed to the edges of my ability. And I'm exhausted, but with a cheerfulness and sense of accomplishment that I haven't felt for a while.

Saving the butts of staff who have treated me as stupid and incompetent is downright satisfying. I don't smear salt into the wound, but I let them sit with their own shame at having to rely on me when I catch their failure. "It's fine, I'll get it, no sweat." I am fine with earning respect the hard way.

Woke to Eleanor sitting on my chest to be petted, paw to my eye. Her coat like long satin, thin strands but lots of them, easily brushed in any direction. When she was done, and scampered off to get Breakfast from Dylan, I turned. My left hand fell on Zeppo below Dylan's pillow. So, I rubbed his chest and under his chin, and he lifted his front leg so I could reach better. His fur has a suede-like quality, his skin bunches and slides over his muscles. The fur goes one way only, short and sleek, shiny in any light. I kneaded his belly, and he purred softly, turning onto his back a little.

I thought of Moby, and his thick, double velvet coat. And his ease under my hand, his pleasure in my affection. And wept a bit, and nudged my head into Zeppo's back, so solid, in response he pressed into my face and let me cry.

I'd dreamed a white cat was on our front porch, ill or injured, dirty. Our several cats (dream cats) came out the door, and I asked them what I should do. I really did not want to take in another cat, but would take their advice. The dream shifted without an answer.

Last evening, as I sat stunned, Dylan having gotten me food despite his rather awful cold, the cats were going nuts. Prolonged zoomies, some of it sounded alarming - we couldn't see most of it, with Eleanor often taking to the highly defensible position in the base of the cat-tree to bat at Zeppo. Often the loudest noises emerge when Zeppo is chasing by himself.

Eleanor makes the most noise when she's attacking the rug. Yes, I did give her some catnip, on the rug, why do you ask? We wondered if Zeppo got into some of it as well, he usually ignores it, as far as we can tell. He's very good at being sneaky and invisible along with bilocating. Eleanor is amazing at instantaneous pivoting, and flying - she sees any line in any plane equally accessible.

As I write this morning Zeppo keeps coming to the Petting Station, I rub his tail between my fingers, he turns and slides his head, teeth side along my fist, his mouth as soft as a Retriever, he talks to me. I tell him he can come up on the table, or there is food right there, and I find him balls to chase, but none of these is what he really wants. He gets closer to us, incrementally.

Ah, Dylan's gotten the laser out.

Eleanor is asleep on the bed, on the new work-present blanket throw. It's a very soft faux fur, we had to wash it before putting it down, it had a smell and something on it came off on our hands. It's better now, and Eleanor is a little in love. We were supposed to have a White Elephant gift exchange at work, only two of us brought anything. I got rid of my scone pan, asked around and Patrick, who loves to bake, was so glad to have it. It's nice, I just don't cook like that anymore.

Good Solstice. Bon Hiver.

Plenty

Friends by last evening, Eleanor very affectionate. Zeppo did not make an appearance. Zeppo beside me when I woke up, so I petted him. Eleanor appeared, "UM..." But merely hung out and sniffed my arm and watched Zeppo purr. Plenty of love to go around, and more all the time. Zeppo woke Dylan up earlier with a paw on his face, like Eleanor does with me. This means Zeppo NEEDS his claws trimmed, which means being Picked Up, not a happy for him. Being held is ok, getting the pedicure fine, but cornering him to grab him, wow no nope.

I was tasked this week with disposing of the disliked brand, and what is more, decaffeinated coffee that had been sitting in the staff lounge taking up cupboard space. There was a lot of it. It's now outside in a bucket of water, composting. Had to open up every packet, which took a lot more time than I'd planned on, and it got all over my arms. I think that is what Eleanor has been sniffing at ever since, with evident pleasure. I will have to experiment later. There is of course no other coffee in the house, since neither of us drink it, and I dislike even the smell of coffee.

Read The Maze of Cadiz, Aly Monroe. Not sure what I just read, but I enjoyed it. And now I'm reading up on the role of Spain in WWII, which is a snarl in a knot covered in glue and grit. Knew about Operation Mincemeat and Garbo, both of which are referenced, but not the central focus of the novel. One way a book can be good for me is if I want to find out more on the era and place, to understand the context and references. That, and as soon as I finished it, I wanted to read it again. Anyway, I like her prose. The plot is perhaps not the point. I'm not sure that's a recommendation generally, but it works for me.




“I hold this to be the highest task of a bond between two people: that each should stand guard over the solitude of the other.”

-Rainer Maria Rilke

Grip

The old railings moved. They trapped water and dirt against the pillar, and on the sides of the steps. They banged and twanged and fell short at the top.



They were only going to get worse, and create more damage.



In spring, I will patch this, couldn't be reached before.

I care a lot more about grip these days.

Grapes

Good morning. Wet and cold, starting to turn into snow. Making the catsoup in the instapot, very efficient, and meets with feline approval. We still supplement it with potassium and calcium (in the form of powdered egg shells) and a dash of turmeric, like we did with Moby. Figure it can't hurt. Zeppo's coat is amazingly shiny, and Eleanor gleams. She got on me last night as I read in bed, purred and snuggled as if she'd missed me the last couple of days. Made it hard to hold the book. She was back on me this morning as I woke up, her blissful little head pressed into my throat.

Zeppo scrunched Dylan as we read, not purring, but relaxed. Until he wasn't and had to chase the sneaky demons on the other side of the house. He takes this duty very seriously. Not much else is serious about him, our comical cat.

He loves the aroma of grapes. He will nose around until I get one off for him to topple and battle. If I leave the grapeless stalks overnight, they will be on the floor in the morning. I've seen him very purposefully pick them up and cache them beneath the sofa. He doesn't seem to eat them, we find the grapes intact but a bit soft, shortly after.

Reminds me of the joke.

Duck walks into a bar, asks the bartender, "Got any grapes?"

Bartender, taken aback says, "No, of course we don't have grapes. Get out of here."

Little while later, duck comes back, goes up to the bartender and asks, "Got any grapes?"

Bartender says, "No. We don't have grapes, and we don't serve your kind in here. Get out."

Duck waddles out. Duck comes back in, goes up to the bartender and asks, "Got any grapes?"

Bartender yells, "Look, I don't serve ducks, we don't have any grapes, and if you come in here one more time I'm gonna nail your bill to the bar! GET OUT!"

Duck waddles out. An hour later the duck cautiously waddles back in, asks the bartender, "Got any nails?"

Bartender is livid, confused, screams "NO I DON'T HAVE ANY NAILS!"

"Great!" says the duck. "Got any grapes?"





Not a flat black, but a sort of mottled rusty finish.


January 1941. "Street scene in Ambridge, Pennsylvania." Medium format acetate negative by John Vachon for the Farm Security Administration.

Granny always had those shoe covers, see the woman on the far right.

via Shorpy.com

Railing

I really don't need overtime these days. However. In every last case of the day this week, aside from today but only by a small margin. Messaged Dylan that I was on my way home yesterday, and he'd sent me this photo.



The new railings are installed, and I didn't even know they were coming that day. No more rusty, banging, wobbling handrails. The banging apparently meant they were not installed according to code, so good riddance to the ugly old rails. These are solid, and very attractive. Opens up the stairs, even as they are actually closer together. I'm so pleased we were able to do this. The chickens are happily coming home to roost. Dylan picked up my kilt today, and yes, it's pretty.

Better lit photos tomorrow.

Near

There was a lime on the dining room table. I heard Zeppo bat around the TeaPot also on the table. I looked to see what he was doing. Apparently conducting a Gravity Experiment with the lime. It hit the floor, Zeppo watched it a while, then dropped down to bat it around, enjoying the irregular path. I let it run, science and all. Found it later in a drift of other balls for cats.

The reset...



Eleanor flicked her tail a bit while Zeppo settled in next to her. Once he stilled, she relaxed again. She takes teaching the young kit manners very seriously. He's apparently doing well enough to merit a near-cuddle.


I have to remind myself that I could be on call, or just straight out scheduled, on christmas and new year's day, running a liver transplant with Dr. Evil for twelve to sixteen hours. Perspective is useful. I've gotten soft.

Mesa

For longer than I care to count, the kitchen table has been my desk more than a food supporting item. Started as a place to dress and have breakfast without waking Dylan, at ungodly hours of the dark mornings. I would listen to the radio, NPR, read comics as they slowly loaded via modem. I would cook and eat a couple of fried eggs, drink some tea, wake up enough to drive, and off I'd go.

Nowadays, Dylan is almost always long awake before me.

So my desk, where my computer sat with me, was also the kitchen counter/table. Having a separate room would mean a lot more burned food and forgotten tea, so yes, in this case, this woman's place IS in the kitchen. I've considered this, and I don't think there is any way around it. It probably helps me keep the room clean, if not the table.It tends to catch everything, so keeping it mostly clear is impossible. Hair ties, nail clippers, earrings, hand lotion - the sort of stuff I need to be ready for work. Tie up the hair, trim the ragged nails, decorate in my small way, heal the dry hands. Pens, cat toys, potholders, books.


Eleanor started standing by my right hand, as I sit here reading or writing, and I must reach down and pet her. She leaves, returns for more, over and over, until she's contented. Zeppo watched her for a long time, until he got his courage up.

"That looks nice, maybe I can do it too."

At first out of reach, then only enough so that I could touch his tail, then let his long tail trail through my fingers, then the occasional head bop to my hand. Sometimes he would sit and query me, and I would invite him.

"C'mon, you can come up here." He would look, and consider, then invite a tail brush, then off he'd go.

"No, nope, not yet..."

He'd jump up to the table when I was not around, then scamper away.

This morning we talked about it again, and, after extensive calculation, he hopped up to the table. Did not want me to touch him there, but he stayed a good half minute. A triumph, a step toward courage, followed by a head-fist-bump after he was back on the ground. His head, my knuckles.


The proper place for a cat.

Garlands

The trees are cheerful. So glad I picked up the felt garlands at Trader Joe's. Part of me knew, was already worried about fragile memories. I'm thinking of offering a package of them to my brother, well padded.



Zeppo and Eleanor sit close to each other, comfortable together. They often chase and play, and it is play. No one gets upset. They eat close together, Eleanor has mostly stopped needing to eat off by herself on top of the washer/dryer. Here, Eleanor is on the heating pad.








I have Le Guin's writing exercise book, Steering the Craft, and I think I will try out the assignments here. I have no argument with her skill or command of language, only her subtle attitudes and biases, the kernels of her stories. Nanowrimo just comes at the wrong time of year, when I am least able to devote time or effort to writing.

Scrubbed for only the second time since April, and before that it had been a while since I'd scrubbed even intermittently. Rarely more like it. I'm rusty, and my vision is flabby. But it was sterile and safe, simply not speedy or sure. Dr. B is patient about that, and all was well.

Browns

EARLY MORNING IN YOUR ROOM
It's morning. The brown scoops of coffee, the wasplike
Coffee grinder, the neighbors still asleep.
The gray light as you pour gleaming water -
It seems you've traveled years to get here.

Finally you deserve a house. If not deserve
It, have it; no one can get you out. Misery
Had its way, poverty, no money at least.
Or maybe it was confusion. But that's over.

Now you have a room. Those lighthearted books:
The Anatomy of Melancholy, Kafka's Letter
to his Father, are all here. You can dance
With only one leg, and see the snowflake falling

With only one eye. Even the blind man
Can see. That's what they say. If you had
A sad childhood, so what? When Robert Burton
Said he was melancholy, he meant he was home.

- Robert Bly
Eating the Honey of Words

Via Whiskey River

Rain falling steadily, turning the dead leaves into soil for spring. I'm reading The Fifth Elephant, the much read words form groves for my mind to drop into and play the story again. And still, I laugh at a turn of phrase.

'Sometimes,' Vetinari said testily, 'it really does seem to me that the culture of cynicism in the Watch is... is...'

'Insufficient?' said Vimes.

T. Pratchett, The Fifth Elephant.

Counting up the people at work lost in the past year or so, retired, fired, resigned, dead. Susan, Greg, HP, Michelle, Nikky, Dani, Nicky, Phyllis, with Priscilla out half the year and back in reduced capacity. All people I trusted and relied upon, and gone. Moby gone, my wrist broken, my mother dead. A decoupage of griefs. Sticky stuff, hard to get it all off, it takes time.

I don't have the Blues, I have the Browns.

Thick

Thick fog this morning, almost warm in the sun later. Took the compost out to the pile, and the pile is hot and steaming. Enough water to get the chemistry going. The massage and sauna did me a lot of good, including improving the damnstye. Enough water and heat is important.

Realizing I will not get much of any kind of holiday off work, because both christmas and new years are one day, my normal scheduled day of the week, off. So, the trees are up, with minimal decoration, and I don't know if I will do anything more. Thinking of only putting up Unbreakable ornaments, in part because of Zeppo, in part because they are all newer - none that my genetic kin have ever touched.



The cats are comfy, as only cats can be.



I tell them how beautiful they are, although they know it already. Still, always nice to have one's opinions shared and confirmed.

The railing project is supposed to start in the next couple of weeks, I'm so pleased. Table and kilt are still in the works. I want nothing else for presents for a long, long time. Years maybe. Ever again, even. I need to start seriously getting rid of stuff.


Addendum: First ornament on top was a breakable one, I was putting it aside, it flipped out of my fingers hit the floor and broke. I want to sleep for the next month.

Ursula

So, for a number of reasons, I have not until now read any Ursula Le Guin. Saw a documentary about her, which was interesting, and I felt I really ought to try one of her books. Although, I found her... I don't know, of that generation of women that so often seemed rather staid, even in their feminism. So, I got Tehanu, and read it, and. I'm still not sure if I like the story. I didn't dislike it, exactly. But it didn't make me want to read more. I like her writing style, mostly. But not rapturously. There is something thin about her plots, something facile about her characters, something of the magical maternal about her attitude. Nothing terrible, but whiffs of complacency and privilege, even as she seems to want to champion women.

Maybe if I'd read her as a teen, or young woman? But, I wasn't into fantasy until my 20s, except for J.R.R. Tolkien. I liked folktales, mysteries, and any other novel that came into my hands. But not much fantasy. And I rather skipped young adult novels when I was one, and her books were thusly catalogued. My first real fantasy, other than Tolkien, was Mists of Avalon - and I was utterly swept up in the radical feminism of it all. I couldn't read a page of it today, nor even a few years after I'd read it. Smug and irrational and over the top, but it introduced me to the ideas that resonated through my life. That women are just as human, but are not treated as such.

I feel like I should like Le Guin, should have read her. And I really don't know why she simply doesn't appeal much to me. There is nothing objectionable, nothing I can put my finger on. She's not funny enough, maybe? I may try one more, just for the sake of due diligence.

Struggling to find a book that touches me, and doesn't depress me. I want to read a story with a lot of humor. And humor is so individual. I will continue to search.

Air

Air is terrible.

Well, correction, air is wonderful, this isn't air that we have available for breathing.


Yesterday hurt. Everything hurts. I have no desire for overtime. Hoping that heat and massage will loosen the spasms and let me rest. I go without jewelry (ring or earrings, not like I wear much) no electronics. I will spend a couple of hours out of clothes, not for show, no exhibitionist I. Not unlike surgery in that way. I will live in my body, in my skin, become silence to listen to the body.

I resist the urge to shower, since I will be steamed and soaked soon anyway. Nothing frou-frou, mind, no delicate facials, my nails are my own business. Just hot water and skilled hands and silences.

So often, I wish I could have just been a massage therapist, no bright lights, hard floors and loud surgeons. But then I remember a smarmy man who wanted impersonal sexual service, and I'm glad to have bright rooms and a team, and the authority to shut down anything creepy. That guy accepted my no, the massage was over, he was brusquely told to leave. Still, unnerving, and I didn't feel like ever having to deal with that again.

It was also a matter of having to run a business, where I had no interest nor talent. And now my hands have arthritis, so perhaps it's just as well. I take care of the people I'm close to, and call it my hobby. And can accept massage with attentiveness. When I was in nursing school, I would get a massage some time right before finals. Went in to exams relaxed and thinking clearly.


I'm home, steamed, soaked and kneaded. Feeling much the better for it.

Tapas

This is the week for Refrigerator Tapas. Odds and ends of, largely vegetable based, foods, thrown together. Mashed sweet potato side dish(Trader Joe's) with extra nuts, salad with grapes, Panettone for dessert. There is more of a similar variety for the week. Dried fruits, nuts, a banana, a lime, tortillas, small amounts of cheese.

I love doing this, seeing what I have and making a meal of it. It's how my brain works. What have I got? What do I want to accomplish?

Think.

Thinkthinkthink...

Bing!

Non-reproducible dish, but yum.

I don't do recipes, generally. And the few I use are always, adjusted. Adapted.

Going for a deep hot bathe and massage on Wednesday. A splurge, from the margin.

Work hurts. I need to narrow the job search, and apply my considerable (learned and honed) powers of organization. Glad to have Thanksgiving, since I'll be lucky to get a half day of the week of christmas or new year. They are both on Wednesdays, and that is my normal day off in a week. I have a full week off in February, though. We are going to see a play and the symphony then, see:margin.


Eleanor loves one of the recent cheeses. Zeppo does not recognize cheese as food, but he loves the smell of grapes, and will bat one around, doesn't seem to eat them. Chews them slightly, or maybe it's just the battering of play. There is a story there, no way of telling what it is.

Alternate

Well, Friendsgiving happened anyway! We had all that food, so we suggested Sunday brunch, and just about everyone showed, the five who we most expect for anything, really. Better than demanding anyone drive in the storm that was Friday.

I made crepes, N added grapes and nuts into hers, over the lemon curd, which I tried and love now. Dylan's chicken chili reheated well. There was salad and fruit, cheese and nuts. Panettone, too. We talked history and books and science and a great miscellany of subjects. Warm and friendly and delightful, with lots of tea and mulled cider and a dash of sake. Lots of hugs and laughter.

This is the best I've felt emotionally in a very long time. Especially welcome on the Sunday afternoon of a stretch of days off, when it so easily becomes the Long Dark Teatime of the Soul*. Not today, I think I shall sleep well tonight, and find the energy to do my job well this week. I'm well nourished, contented, easy in myself.

Zeppo on the other hand... poor cat. The cleaning up unsettled him, and all the people freaked him out, he didn't even come out for TreatTime ™, took him nearly an hour to venture out and get that. Eleanor on the other paw, was all over everyone, gleefully flirting and being stroked. Zeppo needs time, and that is what he shall have.

Bon Hiver!

*In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn't cope with, and that terrible listlessness which starts to set in at about 2:55, when you know that you've had all the baths you can usefully have that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the papers you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o'clock, and you will enter the long dark teatime of the soul.

D. Adams