Audible

Long, long ago, when I went from evening (swing) shift (3-11P) to days, (7-3P) --- in the summer(!), I had to take measures to get myself asleep early enough to get a full night in before 6A. Training myself to fall asleep before I usually got home from work was not a whole lotta fun, srsly. I closed the blinds, put up window coverings, and put on the talk radio (NPR).

As a child, I often had to go to bed to my loud family playing cards, so people chatting - even loudly, will put me right to sleep. Not that I usually had a lot of trouble once I drifted off. But I especially loved the sensation of hearing voices clearly, then soundless, then hyper-clearly but without meaning, then fading as I lost consciousness. So, the idea of listening to radio had a definite source. Eventually the stories on the radio repeated, and I roused and had to shut it off, but by then it was late enough, and I just fell back into dreams. Now, I am drowsy and wanting to get in my pjs and brush my teeth at 8PM. Fully converted to lark. Not that I ever liked staying up late. Mostly I just loved sleeping a lot.

My dear D has always had insomnia issues, so has his father- it's apparently genetic. Long ago, he decided to try my method, and to a certain extent, it helped him quiet his hamster-wheel thoughts - as well as mine. We started off with tapes of Shelby Foote reading excerpts from The Civil War, and John Le Carré reading his own books. Added in the Winnie the Pooh read by Richard Briers - which D had never been read as a child. Then Pratchett books, mostly read by Steven Briggs. Other books from Audible* have appeared. Now, it is a nightly ritual, and still works beautifully on me. To the point that it is sometimes difficult to sleep on vacation without being "told a story" first.

I used to ask D, long before the day shift issue, when I was having trouble settling my mind to "tell me a boring story." He usually came up with something so boring I wound up laughing hysterically. The recordings, the more often listened to the better, work rather more effectively. D also now takes recorded books and podcasts and radio shows to listen to while at work - which is largely a manual job so that's ok. He's shared a lot of the Mitchell & Webb, Stephen Fry, and various quiz shows with me. As well as the Welcome to Mars series. Actually, I put him on to that, from an article in the Fortean Times. Anyway...

Listening to books repeatedly in a prodromal state of mind sometimes means I know them more deeply. I've heard Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy more often than I can count. I finally figured out an essential plot point, hidden but not hidden at all.† I still laugh at the line about betrayers "Jesus Christ only had twelve, and one of them was a double." Details that I, as a fast reader, would not have paid much attention to. Listening has forced me to slow down, and take the journey with the characters, in all it's richness.

Audiobooks will never replace reading, but it has it's own charms. Like radio, which requires a particular kind of attention.




Just reading Un Lun Dun by China Mieville, and so far, I'm fascinated. I'll let you know... .




*Yes, this is a plug. Audible been very good to us.



†Spoiler Alert! Although, I knew the ending before I started, and that never subtracted from my enjoyment of the book. Bill Hayden already knew Karla - when he took Jim Prideaux to hear him lecture, on their first "date."

Accepting

Three stories.

Notice up at work, about getting the online education done by the end of June, last line I read as,

"Come talk to me if you have difficulty accepting this."

Actually, the word was, accessing.

Br. brought her one month old baby in to work. One of the most relaxed nurses I know, and so is her wee babbie. Boneless baby pose, "yeah, whatever" look on his face. I rubbed his tiny feet, and was glad.

D and I celebrating our move-in anniversary (19 years living in the same home, over 20 together - talking every single day.) So, we go for local fast food, Crown Burger. (It's appropriate.) On our way, we spot a laptop, sitting open on the sidewalk. D picks it up, and we go to eat. At the table, we open it up, and it's still working, with the owner's address book open. When we get home, we call, leave a message. Get a call back within five minutes, woman frantic, she'd apparently forgotten it on the roof as she strapped her child into carseat. She lives close, and we wait in our lobby for her. As she comes though the door, I approach and ask, "Is this yours?" She's shaking, nearly in tears, so relieved. I assured her it started right up, which was how we got the phone number, and gave it to her.

I'm guessing tomorrow, she's going to want to thank us, but not be able to reach us. Good. She really wasn't thinking properly. The look of relief on her face was just wonderful.

Good to be satisfied in a job well done.

Filthy

Zen chime alarm clock, my hand made bottle, Ida's framed photo, herhimnbryn's box with card, salvaged and repaired Boston lamp.





Filthy weather, snow rain in a "wintry" mix (as the weather boffins phrase it these days.) We went out for a short while, I have a gift card for a shop I do like, but it's an outlet store, and it's always a matter of chance if I find something I really want enough to put down actual money for. So, I kept thinking, do I want to tell my dear D's parents that this is what I spent their gift card on? And, despite feeling like I should get something soon, so I could thank them again, saying "I got this, thank you so much!" I figured it should be something worthwhile. The cashmere, mid arm length gloves, were lovely, but a bit much for a pair of gloves, for me. Or a very nice t-shirt, that might be too clingy for me to wear around them, and too much $ for my taste anyway. I enjoy the browsing there, and I have the card in my bag for whenever.

So I left, having enjoyed, magpie-like, having stared at the shiny for a while. I'm very good at walking out with nothing in my hands. Goes back to my mother telling me to look, but not touch, anything in the toy aisle. It was all mine to look at, and I put my hands behind my back, or in pockets, and the treat was to visit the toy aisle. I didn't much like the all cammo/truck/car boy's section, but no more the all pink/barbie/babydoll girl aisle. I tended toward the androgynous playthings even then. Stuffed animals, games, balls and leggos, better by far.

I retain this ability to be satisfied by perusing the goods, without having to bring anything away with me. Better, because I still have cash in my pocket. Or on my card. We don't even have checks these days. Get irritated when some old bugger in front of us in the grocery line pulls out a checkbook. Sheesh, who still uses checks anymore? We were fairly early adopters of cards, debit, credit, whatever. Paypal, even.

I have taken up the next step of the cleaning, the bookcase is smelling of lemon oil, the music books in some kind of order. Detritus discarded. Dust dismissed.

For those of you who only come for photos of Moby, here.


(I don't mind, he is beautiful*.)


Still snowing. Still going to snow. Happy skiers. Worried flood control people. If it gets very warm very fast, this could be sloppy. All that snow, nearly twice the average, is great because it's our water supply, bad because it does flood here. (D spent some time sandbagging during this, as a BS.)



*Even if he does have an old guy's predilection for peeing idiosyncratically. We're working on it, calmly. Not his fault, just a cat thing.

Pan

Last night:
Warm, windows open. Inside all day for me, another long day, but it's all income, and I can't complain too much. I was the runner, the opener, the turnoverer, the break giver, the clean upper. Got home by 1830, worn and welcomed.

That is the best part, that D always brings me home. Despite my fiddling with putting away my baggage and taking off shoes, and bitching about my day, he waits until I pause, then eagerly greets me and hugs me. It is a wonderful life, to be always wanted, embraced, welcomed. I am unspeakably grateful, to know where home is, always. I never forget it was not always so for me, that for long years I had no home. Twenty years on, and I still value this proof of being beloved.

I've been thinking about values, about what values matter. Certainly not family or religious values. I remember my mother talking about a new married couple choosing each other first. About how my brother didn't value family over friends. All about a vague kind of precedence. I never quite understood it. Loving one's father because he is one's father. Assuming love (should love ever be assumed?) due to genetic proximity. This very idea offends me. I've never been much motivated by money, only the security that sufficient money brings. I'm not a believer, not a joiner, not a fan of institutions as an ideal.

I value kindness, competence, serious attention to one's work, and great amusement at the vagaries of life. I value expressing love in any form as many ways as possible. I value art and wit and intelligence, as well as critical thought. I value care of the helpless, children, pets, the elderly. I value respect of those who have earned it, and gentleness for those who have not. I value discipline and self control, and those who know they have no control over anyone else. I value thoughtfulness and curiosity.

This morning:
Thinking about a discussion on another blog years ago, commenters getting hot under the collar about using a dishpan, the consensus that everyone uses them and they are useless. Their reasoning mostly in the negative - that their mother had one, neighbors, and they could not see why.

I use one, my mother did not. I remember having to plunge my hand into the cooling, greasy water to pull the plug, and retching as I did so. The water in the large sink lost heat very quickly, and I've broken glasses on the porcelain - a treacherous accident. So, when I got on my own, I bought a plastic pan to put in the sink, like my aunts did. Uses less water - that stays hotter longer. I've never broken anything on the softer material, and when I'm done, the dregs get poured down the disposal cleanly.

I remember a story from the infamous Reader's Digest, of a woman who cut the ends off the roast. (Yes, this was a very long time ago.) When asked why, she can only say she thought it has something to do with the flavor, because her mother always did it this way. The mother simply says her mother always did it. The grandmother is asked, and she replies "Because that was the only way to make it fit the pan I had."

I've never been any good at memorizing, it takes a huge amount of effort and time for me to get a short poem in my head, or a phone number. But if I know why something does what it does, why someone was given that name, why that number, it stays forever, clear and connected. It doesn't even have to be a big important why. Much of what I do at work is protocol, we do it that way because it works well enough, and simplifies complex tasks so as not to confuse others. The tourniquet has two hoses, one blue, one red. In this place, we always use the red one, unless both are needed for a bilateral surgery. Then we use Red Right, Blue Left. It really doesn't matter, as such, but prevents inflating the wrong one on both sided cases, and keeps the one not connected from being accidentally used - to no effect - on the rest.

Why do you do what you do?

Clouds gathering, proof that the mild day will be shoved aside for at least one more snowstorm. At least it doesn't stick around down here on the valley floor.

Spitfire

Another guest post, from D. I'm so excited to rate a guest writer!



Motto: "The Hornet Attacks When Roused" This was attached to a De Havilland Vampire, the second operational British jet fighter. The Vampire was featured in Frederick Forsyth's aeronautical ghost story The Shepherd.


Corsair. Much larger than I thought it would be. Apparently much more difficult to land on an aircraft carrier than usual.


Mustang. (Couldn't get around it to get a decent photo.) The Mustang was originally designed early in the war for the RAF. The original version made a good ground attack plane, but the engine performed badly at altitude. At the suggestion of the RAF, North American gave the Spitfire the same Rolls Royce Merlin engine as used in the Supermarine Spitfire. They made continuous improvements throughout the war, finally ending with this plane, the P-51D, which many consider the best fighter plane ever made (adjusted for inflation).


Spitfire. Another legendary plane, and justly famous for its role in the Battle of Britain, although Hawker Hurricanes actually shot down more German bombers.

Herman Goering, when once asked what he would need to win the air war over England, replied "A squadron of Spitfires." Loser.

Evergreen

Evergreen Air and Space Museum. With D writing commentary.


DC3. "Probably the most important aircraft of WWII."


Sopwith Camel. "Sans Beagle. Surprisingly small."


Messerschmitt Me262. "The first operational jet fighter. Some people believe that if the war had gone on for another year, Germany's ability to produce jet aircraft would have changed the tide of the war. These people are wrong."


MiG-17. "Hugely successful Russian fighter from Korea up to Vietnam era."



Did you spot the Spruce Goose? Took us a moment, it's almost too big to see.

Planets

When planning this trip (we always over-plan) we decided to eat meals heated in the room, bought at Trader Joe's. And fill a suitcase to bring foodstuffs unique to TJs home. This suitcase is what we chose to pack, clothes and a gym bag inside, to be later filled with food and some clothes, and carry the gym bag with us. Not overjoyed at having to check luggage, but it seems worth it this time.

The saleswoman appeared surprized at the color D chose. They came in black, silver, red, and purple. We both knew immediately we would take the purple one, and not just because I love the color. Having an unusual color makes the luggage carousel less of a torture. And D does not consider the color of his luggage* reflective of his gender. We then wanted to up the visibility, and went into the office supply store with an open mind for something sticky and identifiable. D spotted the vinyl planets sheet in the educational section. Only one way to tell for sure how much difference it will make, but I have every confidence in this idea.

When we returned from Gulf War I, and knew we would need to sift through 800 identical duffle bags to find our own. So I'd bought a remnant of obnoxious bright pink polka-dot fabric from a Riyadh shop, to tie on all the handles of mine, to find it. D thought this a great idea, and had me put more on his as well. Worked a treat. At the time, I thought this remarkably pragmatic for a 21 year old guy, in the Army, who grew up in Utah.

On another subject, I was spraying the counter, and Moby just watched with idle interest. I remarked, as I have before, that I am very glad we never "punished" Moby with spraying water at him, and apparently neither did his former owner. Mentioned this to D, glad that we'd read up on this before we'd even found Moby. That punishment doesn't work for any creature, unless it is immediate and a spontaneous reaction, not intentional retribution. But especially not with cats, who merely decide you are dangerous and crazy, and therefore to be avoided. Unlike dogs who want your approval.

D said, "Yeah, cats know your anger is all about you."






*He had no trouble carrying a friend, P's, pink, Hello Kitty! luggage from the airport to her B&B, although P's mom tried to tease him about it. He shrugged P's Mom's slur off as irrelevant, if not downright silly. This is a huge part of why I so admire him.

Stew

D is making stew* for our lunch. It is not bland, ordinary stew either. No, this has a bit of kick, with peppers and a bit of cayenne, stew with a chili undercurrent. He tends to make more than we can eat in one day, which is fine, because I have learned to take the leftovers, make some biscuits, fry the strained out solids, make gravy from the liquids, throw together, for a different meal. I called it Fried, or as of today, Refried Stew. Wouldn't work if D didn't make it so well in the first place.

Always a challenge, cooking for two. Hard enough for one, but at least there is no argument over different tastes. D and I have never completely agreed on what tastes good, finding the overlap, and adjusting our palates, has taken a while. He still has no idea how I can eat a dinner of steamed green beans, and I still have no clue why anyone would voluntarily drink milk, but we accept these oddities. And there are always leftovers. We are not the kind to clean our plates if we are full. Wrap it up, put it in the fridge until it goes green, then throw it away. Doing better about not doing the second one, and therefore not the third.

Aware that food prices around the world are escalating, only having to cook for two seems more and more a blessing. We can live on less.



*Or would you call it soup? Discussion over at Separated by a Common Language.

Imperfection

Often, I write about D, and how glad I am to be with him. Warm, easy as breathing, supportive and protective. I've been in a really nasty relationship. I know what bad looks like. Nothing about my life with D is bad. There are hard bits, for both of us, no question. No two people can live together in perfect agreement and harmony, but thorough good will and appreciation turns irritations into endearing quirks.

I once thought I loved someone who was unworthy. I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I was not in love. So much work, so much compromise of myself, a drain on my soul, but I thought, "sell while you can, you are not for all markets." He was an addict, and one never feels so overwhelmed as when one is the addiction. Extremely seductive, especially to the young, inexperienced, and already abused or deprived. It never lasts, one is doomed to be less than the addict craves, but once caught, escape is a steep, hard, contradictory climb. I knew, but I thought I deserved no more, and had no idea how to get out. My foothold was his malice, which never matched the honeyed words. I can forgive anything, but malice. That speaks to character.

D is incapable of malice. I am, or was, but never against anyone I love, and even against those I have reason to hate it takes extreme provocation. Neither of us enjoys hostility or confrontation, although I have had to learn to face it, and he can throw a punch if necessary. We never fight. Which is not to say we never disagree, or miscommunicate, or get exasperated with each other. We just refuse to hold ill opinions of each other.

We get out of step, a bit neglectful, or tired, or distracted, cranky, and have to reconnect, wake up, put our heads together. He always welcomes me when I get home (met me at the car in the parking last evening. He'd been watching for me from the window.) I always greet him when he gets home. This is the deal.

We disagree on food a lot, but we've found meals we both like. He doesn't see housework, but would never complain of my slapdash cleaning. When I'm injured, I have to remember he's not a nurse, by training nor inclination, but he does pretty well, and pays attention. And I'm sometimes too much of one when he is ill or injured. He takes care of anything that can be done online, and indulges me in my distaste for making phone calls. Children make him very anxious, but he always treats them with careful dignity. He orders in restaurants for me when I am exhausted and tongued tied.

Not perfect. Perfect for me.

Places

Boston, Massachusetts, 2004, The Charles, Harvard Bridge. Pink earrings. D took this one. We'd walked much further than planned, as usual in Boston. He carried this photo, actually a similar one taken just after, in his wallet. Still does, but it's nearly worn through.

Lava Hot Springs, Idaho, in hot spring, turning 35 just fine.

Detroit, Michigan, Wayne State gym, folk dancing meeting, the phrase "She forgot to bring the eggs, ohhhh pshaw, pshaw!" for a fast Israeli folk dance. Circles and lots of people holding hands, music, warmth.

Outside of Kalkaska, Michigan, on a small lake, in a heavy snowstorm, about midnight, finally making friends with darkness.

Colorado Springs, Colorado, Fort Carson, parade field, manhole cover, standing next to D in the only place without snow, hoping he'd kiss me, watching a huge winter moon.

Eskan Village, Saudi Arabia, walking around in the rain surrounded by beige concrete buildings, falling in love while surreptitiously holding hands.

Windsor, Ontario, a Chesterfield, falling asleep on Aunt Evelyn's arm.

Antelope Island, Buffalo Point, overwhelming winds, scurrying clouds, out in the wild.

San Diego, California, on the pier, in a diner with Moira and D, with a storm, feeling the room sway and rock, with cocoa.

Astoria, Oregon, Steven's Point, on the beach, sandblasted. Remembering Crane Beach, Massachusetts in November with cousins. Right out on the edges.







Ten places. Ten that I have a happy memory in. Not in temporal order.

Gracias

Thanksgiving was not a holiday in my childhood. It was the day mom declared she did not cook, everyone fended for themselves, after watching the parade on TV. It was her declaration of Canadian-ness, since that was not a holiday she grew up with, even the Canadian version. She cooked big meals with family over for Easter, Christmas, New Year, birthdays, even Mother's Day when we didn't spend it on the road visiting both grandmothers. Thanksgiving held no official place in the Catholic calendar, either. This was always fine with me, it was usually a mellow day. Even on the occasions when we braved the cold to see the parade in person, with cocoa in a thermos, and came home to warm up and nap. And not have to spend any of that time on hard pews.

Twenty years ago, I spent the holiday with friends, knowing I was being shipped off to Gulf War I a few days later. There is the time before then, and my life since then, neatly bisected, if not evenly. The best bits have all been since then. Because every day since has been with D. And I'll take the hardest moments with him over any good moments without him. And every Thanksgiving since has been with him, and his family.

For the last twenty years, D and I have been together, the odd day when out of town we at least spoke to each other. The actual anniversary we count as the Friday after Thanksgiving. That year, 1990, we got home in May, moved in together the next year in July '92. Thanksgiving of '93, D's parents still not happy that we'd deferred a wedding, not at all getting that we felt perfectly happy with being common-law married.

So, that Thanksgiving Day, in their living room, D's dad looked at us and said, "Ten minutes in the bishop's office, make us happy." And then, the clincher, "We'll pay for the license." D looks at me and says, "What do you think?" Since I'd already proposed to him the week we moved in together, and he was in no way ready, I was not going to take a proposal from his father. So I dragged him off to the den in his parent's basement, and we talked about marriage, and weddings, and he actually knelt in front of me, and we agreed this was a good idea. I wanted to be sure he wanted this, for himself, no pressure, a chance for him to hold at 'no,' or at least, 'not yet.' He assured me that he did want to marry me, as long as it wasn't going to be A Wedding!

Not having to worry about the cost of the license helped. I already had a plane ticket to visit my parents right after finals, so we decided on the day before, December 15. (For many years we struggled to remember that date.) We got the license, D got his suit pressed, I had my blue dress ready.

Coming off finals and the flu, still ill and feverish, we drove to his parent's house.

D's parents made his three brothers at home put on ties and sit on the couch, D's mum made an angel food cake and had balloons. We gave our formal vows, already having lived by the ones we found most meaningful for three years before, and signed the legal papers. The LDS bishop said magic words over us, off the cuff, as per. Including a lot of stuff about being faithful to each other, which confused me, and had D wanting to say "Buddy, you got something to say, just say it, or we can take this outside!" The bishop also kept trying to get us to face the family, with his back to them, rather than all of us with our sides to the sofa. He failed. We were back home within two hours.

Our friend Dusty told us, "Congratulations on your capitulation!" We took it as the perfect response. I went back to class in January and told people we'd gotten married, which shocked, I'm still not clear why. Our friends who were a bit hurt at not being invited ("No one was invited...") brought forth our apologies. We resolved to have a reception for friends when we could afford it. Three years later, we did.

This is the wedding I think of as perfect, nonpareil, a paragon to compare against all other weddings. Because I felt no qualm, not a moment's hesitation, at vowing to spend my life beside this lovely human being. I knew what wrong felt like, this was everything else.

Last night, D turned to me and says, "In two weeks, we will be at 20 years!" This feels very good indeed, textured, nuanced, joyous. We could not call any part of our relationship "rocky." The rough spots have pretty much been external, or directly attributable to D's ADD, and my behaviour exacerbating the symptoms. We just get on, always have. We pour our hearts into our lives together, and both feel beloved. Astonishing to both of us that we've done so well, created such peace together.

A whole holiday to express the overwhelming gratitude at finding each other. And the bottomless well of gratitude to each other.

I'll be making cranberry sauce to bring there this year, my usual.

Smoothie

Up before D got up this morning. He'd been awake through the night, so I'm always glad to let him sleep when he can. I wanted to take a photo of Moby on the balcony, and could not find the camera. When D got up, he had no idea either. Several hours and the begin of The Cleaning, and I finally remembered fussing with the strap ends, and putting it... well, that took a bit longer, but eventually found it hung on the coat rack. It was me. I apologized to D for thinking it was him. But then, he couldn't find the roll of velcro straps to contain the plethora of cords and cables behind the desk when it came to that. After a trip out to get more and milk and a few other things, it was in one of the places I thought it might be - after a lot more searching. It's been one of those days, but with good results.



Moby staying out of the way while the silly humans disrupt his territory.





Back having a small freak-out, stim on. This is what happens. Still, a clean bathroom floor, shredding done, vacuuming, clean kitchen. And all the dust gone from the table.

What's more, fruit smoothies. D does very nice ones.




Dinner with D's family, parents, brother and sister-in-law. Getting more comfortable over the years, and I've really warmed to my SIL. Not like we'll be bestest buddies, but she's definitely grown on me. D's dad not happy that his son is 41. That we've been together 20 years goes down better. They've backed off on the religion issue, although they still bring up church news as though we'd be interested. Not about to call them on it, simple deflection and non-commital noises seem to have worked without causing upset.

Sorting

Moby always remembers where the warm, uneven spot is.

When we met up with D's parents at their hotel in preparation for their son's wedding, D's dad commented on my packing. Made a point of explaining his own utter inability to be organized. We were in someone else's temporary lodgings, I had to keep our stuff contained just not to lose something essential. Since we pack so lightly, everything is essential, or I wouldn't have brought it. I made myself a cup of tea, my own immersion heater, mug and tea bag.

But getting everything organized is not a natural skill for me, I have to work very hard at it. Over fifteen years as an RN, especially in the OR, has honed these skills to a fine edge. I still struggle with verbal instructions if I can't write them down. So I double check and check again. For all his distractibility, D picks up where I leave off. Even he has learned to make lists and use them. And we know we will forget something, like the photo downloading device for the trip. Ahem.

On a car trip to the Grand Canyon with my parents when I was nine, I lost a lovely pair of real leather sandals. Left under the edge of the bed in the motel, noticed a few hundred miles away. No way to go back, no thought of writing to them to see if they were found. Much missed ever after.

I always broke toys, lost treasures, ruined clothes. I still have several favorite t-shirts with horrible little bleach spots that mean I don't wear them out. I can't keep a telephone number in my head long enough to call, I have to have it in front of me while I dial. Names regularly leak out of my brain, even people I've known for years, like the spouses of my brothers-in-law. I have no recollection of the full names of almost all of my friends from college or army, although I remember their faces and stories quite clearly. I remember how it felt to carry the cat around on my shoulders with it's front paws on my head, the yellow and brown pattern of the linoleum, from when I was perhaps five years old.

Why do some experiences, some details, stick, and others slide away, evaporate completely? How can I pack a bag with complete precision, but not be able to recall the number on the license plate on the car we've had over three years without checking? I'm sure I could still shelve a truck full of books, correctly, in about an hour, but not how to add a sig file to my email without D prompting me. Again.

Actually, it's less of a mystery than I imply. I remember what I understand, when I really get why. If there is no why, as in phone numbers or most people's names, I have no slot in my brain for it. When I do get why, or at least when the question is pertinent, a puzzle I'm still mulling, I can't seem to forget. Likewise the methods and groupings of tasks that all serve an end, then all the bits are all steps in the proof, and I know why I do the chores in that order.

Reuben

So glad I stayed home today, because it meant I could chat with Moira. We discussed the illogic of bad habits that we know aren't helping, among other subjects. I made her laugh, and she returned the favor. Sometimes I miss her so much more than usual.

I did not meet with my counselor today. I think I have the understanding to go on from here, to stay attentive and in the moment, and always kind and compassionate. Or at least practice getting better at it. To be both genuine and relaxed, to know what is my job and what is not. And I have not managed to connect with the prof at the university about the MS program, which is what she wanted to hear about. Summer in academia.

I did not go to the shelter either. I'm sure I will miss the cats, of course, but there are other ways to help. I spend my work life dealing with touchy surgeons, I'm paid to do this. Voluntarily getting ignored and snapped at, not quite what I need.

I did sleep in, Moby beside me to have his belly scritched. He's been in and out from under the bed and in the closet, then out and about. Rain again, and I just love it. Vacuumed and tidied up, which makes me feel better being done. Laundry, dishes, and mostly time alone today. Even got up and did my cycle time for my knee, unfortunately at exactly the same time D got home, which worried him a bit. He got home a little early, and I waited til the last moment to do this chore - still should have had at least another ten minutes, but such is life.

Poured on us while we ventured out for lunch at the Soup Kitchen (a soup and sandwich shop) and cat's food and litter, maple butter for me. All the cars in the garage were thick with dust, our plans to make a run to a car wash were abandoned after lunchtime deluge. Cashed a $13 rebate check from months ago. We never go to the bank anymore, with online transactions, and cash usually from the grocery store debits. And a quick grocery stop, too. Finally some decent peppers. Milk for D. No rye bread, and he's been yearning for a Reuben. The deli closed early, or he'd have gotten one there. He is a Puritan when it comes to Reubens.

The Orthodox Ruben According to D.
Rye bread, corned beef, sauerkraut, thousand island dressing (russian also acceptable). Toasting is also optional. One of the best he's had was in a deli at Eastern Market in Detroit, the one time I took him there. He remembers that experience fondly. Sat down fast, told to order fast, and brilliant food brought.

Procedural

D's little procedure went well and expeditiously, leaving me with a reasonable wait. Full of The Price Is Right clamour. Then, when Animal Cops came on, an episode I'd not seen, two screeching children and one person with a perpetually ringing phone, and two women right behind me in a non-stop conversation in French.I'm not mad at people with loud children. Not as such. But their volume, suddenness and pitch, are physically painful, and very startling. People who sit too close, then can't shut up in public, I'm not ok with.

But, less than an hour and a half later, the nurse brought out a loopy D for me to take home. He's feeling fine, better in some ways, though tired. We ordered Chinese, which helped both of us, even if the Fortune cookie messages were trite and boring.

Ok, it IS flurrying quite a lot, but I wouldn't call it proper snow. Pretty much melting as it hits, or shortly after.


Glad I brought the sprouting grass and still unsprouted catnip in, but it took Moby no time at all last night to find it and clamber in for a nibble. Then he got the loose potting soil all over the arm of the couch. Which I'd just vacuumed. Ah, the joys of having a cat around.

Telecaster

We have a tax refund. After he got hired, D admitted he did, in fact, want another guitar, a Telecaster. As he played in the shop, another man commented to me that I was very patient, his own wife wouldn't tolerate waiting more than two minutes in a guitar store. I always figured this was part of our deal, and I do so love seeing D happy. I stayed with him as he dithered in guitar stores in Colorado Springs as we waited to be sent off to Saudi, Gulf War I.

I'm not sure why he thought we should wait, but he expressed delighted surprize that I said "of course" to his getting the guitar he has wanted - today. I've always wanted to have a guitar for him under the christmas tree, but that's not really practical, since he'd still want to play the actual, particular instrument he chose first. This, "yes, sure, now is good" answer is the only way I can meet that ideal.

He's been playing all afternoon, telling me all about the history of guitars, including the Curt Cobain effect on cheap vs expensive guitars in the '80s. I have a good working knowledge of guitars because of 18 years with him. I have to admit, it really has a good, distinctive sound. He has not stopped thanking me, and expressing his "wow."

I also admit, it's good to still qualify as the "cool girlfriend" after all these years. The guy in the store, who D talked to more later while getting the guitar, made sure to tell him that I was "a keeper" and why. I just figure it says a lot about who D is, but, still, well. I do like to give D lots of reasons to still want me around. I know he'd love me no matter what, but my side is to always earn it, never take it for granted. He does the same for me, much better.

Noir

Funny, looks more like he's going to a funeral than a wedding. Or maybe a mob hit. D just sent me this, dressed for the wedding in San Diego, hanging out with Moira and C. So grim, so serious, which makes me laugh.

Took a bit of time and effort to get to see him properly, figure out defenses from humor from eccentricity meant teasing out meaning from non-meaning. Good we had six months away from our normal worlds. Because it's all real, all the complications and simplicities, nothing hidden, but much camouflaged. The more I watch the patterns, the more enamoured I am. After nearly eighteen years together, he still makes me laugh.

Hug

Walked in the downpour this morning. Hoping for a bit of lunch, but on a holiday the places close were closed. Came home, called ahead, went out for a second time by vehicle, had a decent meal. When we came out, the sun was back, but this was autumn sun, not so intent on baking us to crisps. We'd have the balcony door open to let in the mild air, but for our neighbor with the stinky cigs, which I am pretty sure is banned in our lease, but the office isn't open today. And all the tenants are home.

Moby will let me pick him up, will nose my face and eyes, then want to be put down, thankyouverymuch. With D, he likes to be held a while, settles in for a good hug.

Work

I was given a heartfelt and lovely tribute today, for which I am very grateful. But one aspect was not at all deserved. For it included D, and our relationship.

you really make your
relationship work, and I know you both have to work at it,

Actually, being with D is easy as breathing. Which is to say, most of the time an unthought essential, quiet and effortless. Only when interrupted or labored is it painful, frightening, a dreadful wake up. Not the being with him, but the thought of being without.

We are grateful and kind and attentive, which took some practice to get right. But practice that is more like play, like the way children throw themselves into learning the alphabet backwards, or the names of the constellations. We strive to be fair to each other, eager to be generous - just to be on the safe side.

It's true we have had to adjust to each other's oddities, but we, which is to say I, learned not to separate those weaknesses out as distinct from who we are. (D started with this assumption.) Anxiety and sensitivity are two sides of the same trait. As well as my tendency to anger and my passion for not being stupid. D's memory and intelligence are facilitated by his ability to not hear or notice anything when he is engaged. He wouldn't complain of my slack cleaning, because he wouldn't notice. He appreciates anything I cook, because he rates it compared to how difficult it would be for him to do.

Admittedly, it took some trial and error to get the mix right, to understand the mechanisms and discard assumptions. Seeing no malice, I had to reframe every apparent neglect as, well, D not being a controller, nor a user. The hard part, keeping true to myself, while minimizing the toxic reactions - like rage. For D, it seemed to be taking his distractibility seriously, eventually getting into a study, then treatment. And as we work on ourselves for each other, we become more thoroughly our best selves.

Slow to anger, easy to please, this isn't work, it's the easy way. Not work at all, but a willingness to turn it over and over until we understand, aha. To chose to struggle for comprehension, instead of react with irritation. Eyes open, hearts open, tenderly admiring each other's strength and courage. Laughing instead of shouting. Holding each other instead of shutting each other out. Strenuous play.

Hold (Photo)

Confidence returns
with the strength, as the pain ebbs.
Both miss being hugged.