Timelessness

Today is rather timeless, a deep contentment has settled in. D had a thing taken off his scalp this morning, and I stopped by work to pick up S's chickens' eggs. After, we went up the canyon to Ruth's Diner for brunch. Full and warm, despite the grey-white skies. Doing very little. Wicked sore throat yesterday, vaguely achy, so I hunkered down with the red wool blanket* and let myself heal - which seems to have worked quite well. D's head aching today, not too badly.

Talking last night about the emotional effect of having everything we have gathered over the decades on display all at one go. There is rather a lot, and despite being good, it's rather potent magic for us. Conjuring up all our ghosts at once.

As mentioned, three items from Gulf War I.

The brownish scarf, under the cat, (who has hogged all the woolyness, the red wool blanket once put on me as a child when I was ill. And the sheepskin.)


The tablecloth, now serving as a curtain.


And the earrings, that I cannot imagine wearing in my ears. But they jingle pleasantly.


Years ago, Elizabeth my cousin assured me that life begins at 50. She is happy, surrounded by love and friends, how could I not just believe her? This sense of acceptance and peace has been coming over me. It is a big number, an irrelevant one. Eternal now is a tangible idea, I can palpate it in my palm, feel it pulsing in my heart. A great turning has completed, and I move forward in all directions.



*Has anyone else ever heard of red wool to heal as a folk belief? Or did I just decide that when I was small, and this blanket was mine whenever I had a bad cold?

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."

Altogether

When people come in to have surgery, they are not at their best. They are stripped down, vulnerable, hungry, usually a bit worried, often sleep deprived. In unflattering gowns designed for easy access for medical intervention. And we strive to both safeguard their health and safety, and then their dignity and humanity. A necessary prioritization, but nonetheless distressing.

A young student visited, at the invitation of a surgeon, to observe. Not uncommon. I helped her find her way around, get scrubs, and she disappeared into a bathroom stall to change. I had to stop myself saying something, but I left her to her privacy. We nurses all just strip at our lockers, to do otherwise would be untenable, and silly.

I remember when I first had to change into a swimsuit at the public pool, how heartstoppingly naked I felt, no matter how quickly I managed to re-dress. How appalled at the bodies of women and other girls around me, so different, so raw. My own skin so exposed. But I loved to swim so much, I came to accept, to ignore. Good training, between the army and the OR, I've had to undress and dress in public almost more often than not.

And I remember when I was small, and my dear Aunt Alma marveled at my excessive modesty when changing. She set the seed, that maybe my mother's horror about nudity may, possibly, be a bit overdone.

I am, I think naturally modest. I haven't any exhibitionist tendencies. But neither does it bother me to disrobe when it's appropriate. At the Field House at the university, in the women's locker room, was a shower room, sauna and hot tub. I would go in between two early morning classes during an hour gap, to warm up and have time to relax. No one ever bothered to wear more than a towel, and it was very comfortable.

Save once, when a group of, I'm guessing related, women trooped through, all wearing bathing suits and talking the whole time. Another woman and I who had been politely, and quietly, sharing the space, caught each other's eye, bewildered. The group did quiet down a bit, but their state of dress felt intrusive, as though blaming the two of us conforming to the usual norm of being immodest. Both of us left fairly quickly, uncomfortable.

Once in a while I read a whine about how nurses used to look so professional in those crisp white dresses and caps. And I am always exasperated. I work for my living, I get all kinds of ... stains on my work clothes. I'm on the floor, crawling around, I've ripped them on equipment.

The very thought of doing this in a dress is beyond my comprehension. To be in my own, white, clothing would be insane. However clean looking, they would not be. Scrubs are cleanable, nearly disposable. Maybe the romantics want to think of us delicately wiping a brow with a cool cloth, rather than debriding a crusted wound, cleaning up fecal matter, suctioning out mucous. I put on laundered, often wrinkled, thin cotton blend scrubs of venerable vintage, every morning of work. I take them off after every shift, and they get disinfected and recycled. Every day.

I wear an ill-fitting, functional uniform, rather like my patients. We're all in this together.

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.

Soaps

Bothered by the No Soap experiment guy. Glad it worked out for him, like those who go non-shampoo on their hair. Some can, obviously. And I feel defensive about refusing to even try it. I don't use make-up, perfume, lotion only in the dry of winter - all products the vast majority of women won't even go out of the house without. And now I'm being out-naturaled by no-soapers.

Ain't gonna happen. I like soap. I like shampoo. I remember as a kid only washing my hair once a week. I have a school photo of my lank, greasy hair hanging like limp string. That was the year I started pushing for more frequent washing. I remember how common dandruff was. I remember how itchy my scalp was. I do skip washing my hair two days at a time when I'm at work, because I'm wearing a hat. Remember when everyone always wore a hat? It was on it's way to dying out when I was a kid, as the shampoos boasted of being "gentle enough to use everyday!" Oh, glory, I could have a clean head every day.

Yeah, we evolved without soap. We evolved with specific species of head and body lice. We evolved in small roaming bands of hominids. We didn't evolve to live in enclosed buildings with a lot of other people, we just made up most of our environment for the last couple of thousand years. We evolved without hats.

I keep thinking of the wedding some of our unit were invited to in Saudi. A tribal woman sat behind me with her little girl. Spiffed up for the wedding, in an elaborately embroidered dress, her hair braided and coiled. Clean, certainly, brushed and styled, but also flat against her head, dull, oily. Her best, and her hair looked like mine when I was a child and hadn't washed it. Not a criticism of her, just evidence that not all of us have the kind of hair or skin that thrives on our own body oils.

Seen the same in the Shorpy photos, a class of girls, a shop of women, and some have lush, curling hair, some have thin, uncooperative stuff, like mine. I suspect some hair, some skin, does do better with just water.

Should we all use less soap, get into the dirt more? Maybe. Some of us. Fewer chemicals, surely. Stop with all soap? Not me.


Also read an article in a waiting room, about older women who "do it right" by staying stylish - but classic, letting their hair be it's real color etc. i.e. Judi Dench, Jamie Lee Curtis, Well, cool. Then ruined it for me by declaring that for an older woman with grey hair to be appropriate, she must keep it short. Well, there you go. I should be myself, but not if I want my hair long. Loved long hair all my life, and always berated for it, never right. Buzzed it very short for a few years, that was wrong as well. Expected to get a cut and perm to be an adult, right along with stockings and skirts. All these artificial requirements having nothing to do with my own preferences and life.

I don't know why it irritates me so much sometimes. Hearing my parents' voices in my head, probably. They never go away, do they?

Prejudice

Inga, a cat at the Mt. Washington observatory in the White Mountains. Long gone by now, of course, but she's lived on here for many years, another random desktop.


D mentions a recording of Ian Fleming's Bond stories, and the racial attitudes of the time. I grew up with this sort of speech. My aunt had nothing but contempt for Italians. My father used the usual slurs. My mother called anyone not mainstream "colored." (Which confused me, as they were not particularly colorful...) Facing someone of a different ethnicity, they were kind and polite, they were prejudiced, but not actively bigoted. The slant of their times. My grandmother was born in 1890. My mother, the youngest of her siblings, in 1925. So, I was not taught to hate those of other backgrounds, merely to idly dismiss them, passively. My mother's friend in grade school was Jewish, and she hated that there were beaches that barred her friend. They would go anyway, of course.

I'm in the next generation, when "Black" was the correct term, and I saw the aftermath of the '67 riots from the backseat of the car. The era of political correctness - later on. Being accused of racism, when dealing with someone breathtakingly rude, whose daughter was my friend (unbeknownst to her.) And dealing with my own biases and irrational feelings about "other." Being myself "other" as a minority in a city where being white, and both parents Canadian, meant I never was mainstream, despite my skin. I sounded different, felt different, but looked Same. And danced on the edge.

As I get older, I am aware that my sense of ethnic identity is old fashioned. Not progressed, but flung off at a tangent. I still refuse to think less of anyone for their genetics. But I find I have prejudices, a disdain for the sexism of Islam, or old style cultural Catholicism, and bloody minded, self serving conservatism of more traditional groups. Don't get me started about the baptists who hate gays so much they intrude on grief.

I find I detest the establishment as much as the libertarian idealism. I have little patience for idealism or extremism of any stripe, or people who identify with a group rather than their own character.

It's lonely out here, but here I stand.

How many war protesters does it take to stop a war? Trick question, war protesters never accomplished anything.
(Correction, how many war protesters does it take to change a lightbulb? Trick question, war protesters never changed anything.)

A dark joke, full of cynicism, but not a lie either. How many protesters stopped tectonic plate movement?

We all have our little moments. When we decide where is Here, and where is There. Who is Us, and who Them. We draw our lines, and live within them, or outside them. Or we pull away from any group, any friend, any association, and feel the isolation.

Bar

The first word I learned to spell was BAR. My parents were not overjoyed about this, being rare drinkers, no adult I knew went to bars. But riding around Detroit, a small, bored child in the back seat, in the late 60s, I picked up on the most common word, in bright neon no less, shining all around me.

Never a big fan of bars, even after going into a few. Seemed an expensive way to drink, and when driving, not a way for me to partake. E clubs, the Army on base bars, I liked, because they were A. Cheap B. Social and most important, C. A walk from where I had to be after, no car to even consider. This is part of why I still have no taste for cocktails. Beer, shots, or the occasional simple mixed drink was all that was on offer. Starting to drink only after I was of age (ok, the day before I turned 21, but let's not quibble) meant I had no taste for fruity, disguised alcohol.

When D and I started out, I took him to the E club at Ft. Carson, along with everyone else we hung out with. The only social place. Poor guy, never a drinker, still a good Mormon - in action if not conviction, this was a Big Deal. He took it all in, worried what his parents would think - not that he was drinking anything but cola. A shabby band played with a drum machine, but provided mockable entertainment.

His experience of drinkers before that was high school friends whose aim was to get wasted and tell puking stories. He's grown comfortable with my imbibing, because I stay moderate and responsible. Rarely puking.

In Boston, we went to a lot of pubs, and both like the atmosphere. He still detests the taste, never drinks because he just can't get it past his lips.

Says he used to not drink cheap beer, now he doesn't drink a much better class of craft brew. He likes the bottles.


Removed my own stitches. Of course I did. Only two on the outside, several more inside and deep that will stay in. Counting stitches is a meaningless exercise, an irrelevant number. Although my president had his lip stitched up this week as well. Cold sores by the score, still ugly, but improving.

Pandoro

Really enjoyed the Pandoro we brought with us yesterday. Haven't had any since leaving Boston, almost forgot about it. Made it to the Italian deli last week for this one. Got thinking about Special Foods, the rare treats that one eats once a year. For ten things Friday, then.

1. Pandoro, obviously. Tre Marie. Oh, the aroma!
2. Hot cross buns.
3. Cranberry sauce.
4. Maple sugar candy. Any thoughts on where I can get some out here?
5. Cotton candy. Have not had any in >calculating< 36 years, probably not going to ever again.
6. Cadbury Creme Eggs. Well, probably not anymore, since they got bought out, and it's not Cadbury anymore.
7. Rhubarb. Used to eat this out of the back yard, only the thin stalks. Would love to have a garden just for this.
8. Mint. The fresh leaves, best out of the garden as well.
9. Gin and Tonic. Best in hot weather.
0. 7-Up and Cranberry juice. This is D's holiday thing, had to go out last evening to get some. I stuck with beer.

This list drifted a bit, but such things happen.


No progress photos, because I developed an outbreak of cold sores all over my upper lip. Anti-virals obtained, on board. Too icky to show, though. Healing up well otherwise.

Pierce

Granny had pierced ears as a girl, but one was torn out by another girl. She only wore clip ons by the time I came along. So goes the story. Having seen how girls fought in lower grades, this did not surprize me at all. So I was glad to wait until I was a little older to get my ears pierced. Fourteen? Sixteen? Funny how I honestly can't remember now, but I never doubted I wanted them done, to my mother's confused acceptance - her ears were untouched. She took me to Sears to have the "nurse" there do mine.

Older, round woman in a polyester uniform, cold but kind enough manner, she swabbed a lobe with alcohol (I assume) and used a hand held clamp-like machine to place the stud. I held myself stoic, I'd made the choice, I stood by it by being brave. Not worse than a shot from the doctor when I was tiny. I listened hard to the instructions. Of course a couple of days after one stud came out during cleaning, and after mom tried to get it back in unsuccessfully, I just shoved it back through, making a new hole in back. I could be tough, even then, when I made my mind up. While still painful, my much older brother flicked one ear, and I went down. Good to see him react with real shock, abashed to his toes, the jerk.

It was the era, and I was at an age, to wear the biggest hoops, the flashiest bobbles, feathers, bells, shiny and sparkly - all cheap earrings. I wore odd ones when I began to lose one of each pair - regularly. An affectation that lasted many years. My one indulgence while living on my own on so little money, a half dozen earrings for a dollar or two. My one area of trivial decoration. Aside from my mother's baby ring* (that she'd resized for herself as a young woman) I wore no other jewelry.

When I knew I would leave the ex, I bought myself a very pretty set of earrings, more expensive than any I'd ever gotten before, (maybe a whole $10.) I'd begun to live for myself again. D has given me many beautiful pairs over the years, none in a dozen set. Until I decided he'd given me the best ever, and I never really wanted more. Lost one, sadly, and would not get more until I found the ones I'd wear all the time for years. Not feeling like having a passel of different ones, these days.

I like how they feel, a fidget I always have close, a pretty I don't have to take off when I roll up my sleeves. A personal, durable talisman.

*Given to my niece, her granddaughter, long ago.

Scary

I'd like to wear a costume, but as usual, no place to share it. So, harummphf. Did put up this figure for the balcony. Never hang yourself in a public place near Halloween, people will just think you are a decoration. Why do I find this idea so deep, dark funny? (Another incident this year, too.)


Years ago, working at the Library. Early, took the staff elevator, to a non-public area, and as the door opened, a body lay face down on the floor. A breath-space of deep panic at the corpse, until my rational mind sent in word that it was a dummy, it was Halloween, bring down the adrenaline levels. Laughed in panicked relief. Not even hands or feet, just clothes stuffed, can't remember what the head was, if any. My favorite Halloween prank, no idea who did it. Still want to do it at work, one year. Oh, yes. Maybe next year, it'll be a Tuesday, perfect.



Unlike my young self, I have few real fears. I'm more annoyed by the challenges of aging, the degradation of my strength. How much I look like my mother, aunts and older female cousins. Still, not so bad. At least I didn't get in line for the alopecia gene. Which is about as bad as it gets among my close relations*. Not much to fear there, really.

Never a fan of horror movies, although the music scared me as a kid. (Oooo, that theremin!) Eyes and skulls freaked me out, but not anymore. I've held patients while a surgeon numbed up the eye, and it turned out not to bother me at all. Horror movies got nothing on my regular job. Movie blood doesn't act like the real thing at all, destroying the illusion. The Last Wave is the one film that could no doubt still give me the heebie jeebies, and that's all suggestion and shadows. Scary movies, are, for me, not scary at all. Annoying, silly, occasionally startling, but no longer nightmare fuel. The gore is just gross, the violence just revolting, none of it touching on my fears.



Clouds roiling in, the air still mild. We took a short walk. Out to dinner later with D's brother and parents, they didn't want to be home for the trick-or-treaters this year.

A custom long dying out. I still remember my Casper the Friendly Ghost costume, I was probably 3 or 4, old enough to pick it out, and more or less understand. Went to just a few houses in my aunt's neighborhood, then stopped at her house for the evening. I'm sure I wore it the next year as well, and the body of the costume as a nightgown for a very long time. In my neighborhood, fewer and fewer houses, and children, each year. Parties took over, and much later, school events. I feel a bit sorry that young children no longer get one night a year to run amok in the dark.




*One aunt died of breast cancer, but I always assumed it was due to the nasty chemicals she was exposed to as a beautician from the 1930s onward. A hazard that continues. (I find it horrible that these products aren't properly regulated, or banned. Talk about scary.)

Gadget

Just as there are places that can only be reached by getting lost, so there are things that can only be found by accident, out of the corner of ones eye, or dropping into one's hands.

My mother shopped like she had live Google, decades before it existed. She hated shopping, and did it at speed. She formed an idea of what she needed in her mind, and we sallied forth to find exactly that, nearly always disappointed. (Too bad my mother, as far as I know, still eschews the internet. Google would be her bestest friend.) That disappointment was especially acute as it pertained to clothes for me. I remember striding past stuff I wanted to look at, that we would go searching for months later, and it would no longer be there.

The idea formed in my mind that the better way to shop was to be open to what was there, and to get what was available then, not to be rigid in what I expected to find. My first chance to prove this idea was when they were looking for, oh, whatever they were looking for, and I spotted a parka. Hideous green with orange inside, but it looked amazingly warm, and dirt cheap. I somehow convinced her that I would really use it. (She could hardly accuse me of being fashion conscious.) She reluctantly agreed. That ugly coat saved me from many a sub-zero day for another decade, more.

I occasionally just go and dither in a likely place, and often come out with an item I will use for many years. In the long run, it takes about the same about of time, but with much better results.

We tried to find a particular gadget* this weekend, and failed utterly, because we tried it the other way. We eventually resigned ourselves to keeping an eye out, looking askance, waiting for it to appear. In the middle of the search, we happened upon a toy for Moby. It has an electronic squeak. Engaged him thoroughly for a good hour.

No idea why such small, useful, items have such a strong SEP field, can't imagine what the evolutionary advantage might be.



*One of those anodized aluminum bottle openers that usually also fit on keychains.

Phooey

Some of the professional photos are up from the wedding last month. Almost all twenty of bride & groom, a few also have other people, or just the decor. Since we gave up our lunchtime to be in said photos, and wound up at over ten hours before we got food (on our own after bailing out of the reception, where no food was in sight) we'd kinda like to see the results. After a month and change. I don't care about thank you cards that will be simply discarded (I actually left a note in our gift saying, please don't send a thank-you card, really, honestly, please save the paper and postage.) But since we thought we were going to have that time to feed our faces, and missed it for the foolishness that is the formal photo shoot, well, phooey.

I had our pictures of the event up within the week. Neenerneener.

I have come to fervently detest the whole idea of weddings as an event. The Bride's Day indeed. NO. No one but the bride really feels that way, it's an imposition, and a huge one, to make on everyone around them. As a party, or an excuse for one, sure, fine. But to put oneself up like that, to throw oneself a bash as both host and guest of honor, seems to me deeply offensive, if socially sanctioned, even expected. Even non-bridezillas are guilty of self aggrandizement and egotism. Guests should always be guests, cared for and shown a good time, to any reasonable extent possible. We had to be there, and we were. But we felt the obligation keenly. With no recompense, and no enjoyment other than family peace.

Thing is, there is nothing the Happy Couple did that was anything other than Perfectly correct. Which is what I will say to them if ever asked. "It was perfect." In my book, an insult, but they won't ever see it that way, and it is a kind of truth.

I simply hate the current fashion for making the wedding day an old fashioned Hollywood Premier/ coming-out party. We are just not their audience, both of us leery of ceremony, and viewing public display with distaste. We are both shy folks, and deeply private.

We admitted to each other, after our own tiny wedding (seven people including ourselves and the officiant) that if ours had been any bigger, there was a good chance both of us would have ditched. Certainly both of us, since I would have been the only driver in the only car between us. We'd have stayed together, but skipped the Wedding. So, good thing we did it so small, since the marriage has worked out pretty well.

I do hate weddings.

Reuben

D's parents took our dress clothes with them in their car, since they were driving to the wedding, and we were flying and packing light and tight. We'd gotten a garment sleeve to make this easier. We left them in that bag for the return trip. As I hung them up, I knew it would get forgotten, and considered leaving it across one of the beds. But I decided this might be a bit insulting, and trusted that they would look. Not only was my instinct right, but D's mum left her dress as well. Not sure if it was put in the bag as well, or hung up beside and forgotten. But D's groom/brother retrieved the items and sent them on. We drove out to their place this morning to get them.

My one, very slight, regret, is that I did not hold onto the blouse I wore, for the rest of the trip. It's very cool and comfortable, and a touch dressier than my solid T-shirts. Now that the event is over, I think it will get a lot of use. I feel rather elegant in it. Well, for me.

D making himself a sandwich of roast beef, turkey, provolone, sauerkraut on a roll, solemnly informs me that it is not a Reuben. I reply, "But it is Rubenesque." He assents. He is quite the purest on what is, and what is not, a Reuben. To wit: Corned beef, sauerkraut, rye bread, thousand island dressing (Russian dressing or mustard acceptable variants.) It can be a good sandwich, but without these elements, it should not be called a Reuben. I'm just glad I've got him eating the Claussen sauerkraut, which doesn't stink awful to me, like every other brand he's ever gotten. Personally, I can't touch the stuff. Nor rye bread, and I'm not a big fan of corned beef either.

I have been known to make him a real Reuben, including toasting the bread.

Guests

We could have, we were invited to, stay at the home of friends on this last trip. But we are neither of us comfortable with this. We once had to stay with his parents, and once with mine, episodes that cause both of us to shudder in suppressed horror. We've been invited to stay at the home of a friend's mom in Portland, and we both recoiled. We treasure our privacy and our own space, and feel profoundly intrusive on others when we ignore this urge. Rare exceptions have been made since.

Each of us individually have stayed a night or two with out of town friends, but it's almost always very uncomfortable and mostly sleepless. During a week long period of homelessness, we started one night in a friend's basement, and wound up re-packing the car, leaving an apologetic note, and driving through the night until we found a hotel during conference weekend. Unable to sleep, hungry and restless, we had to escape.

On the other hand, I'd stay with our cousins in Massachusetts anytime, and put them up anywhere, even to giving them our bed and sleeping on the floor myself. I won't speak for D, but I suspect he'd feel the same. I did just fine at Moira and C's three years ago, although I know I was a burden.

And although we have made guests comfortable when we've had the room, I didn't handle well a surprize extra visitor who wound up in our living room, to my extreme irritation since I had to get up and dressed and eat at 0600 that morning in front of a younger brother I'd never met before. We hosted D's brother, a friend, and Moira and C in our largest apartment in Boston, all of which worked out very nicely. So, it can work. We just have to have the space, and I have to get myself in the right place in my head. I like the idea of guests, just very little practice with the extra room to do it right.

The friend who wanted us in San Diego? Well, maybe now that I have met his spouse, which I hadn't before. Maybe next time, if we can't afford a hotel that time. Maybe.

Unobtrusive

We need a vacation. What we are getting is mostly a vacation, with a wedding at the start. Not our idea of a good time, especially since we have always taken our vacations in May and February, not July. But we like the couple, and are happy to show support. Somewhat randomly, I came across, and have read obsessively over the last few days, the site Etiquette Hell. Not just about weddings, although as this society's last, most traditional and formal occasion, weddings do take up a huge proportion of the stories.

The issue today was about young children being used as flower girls and ring bearers. And I remembered that I had been put in that role when I was (perhaps?) five. As the only female relative of my cousin on my father's side, perhaps it was 'expected.' A cousin from her mother's side, a little boy a year young than me, was assigned the role of ring bearer. I have no memory of being asked if I wanted the job, but I clearly remember in the car home being told I would have to have my hair cut. My mother had agreed long before to allow me to grow my hair long, and I could about put it in a little pony tail. But for some reason being in the wedding meant I had to have a "cute little pixie!" I felt betrayed and lied to, and given no options.

The only thing I recall about going down the aisle was dragging the poor little ring bearer along with me, feeling responsible for him. And later, how much my shoes, and the headband, hurt. The dress was very pink, but had a lovely fluffy shirt, that I was not allowed to twirl around in or play with. There were inflatable reindeer at the reception, and the boy was given one when he asked for one at the end. So I thought it only fair I should as well, and requested another one. Big mistake, since asking for something was a cardinal sin in my mother's eyes. The bride, my cousin, give all credit, overrode my parents' ire and said she HAD offered the toy to me, that I had not asked for it first. My parents didn't quite believe her, but could hardly say so to her face. I stuck to Cousin Bride's version, not being above lying to my parents.

This may be part of why I never had any desire for a 'fairytale' wedding. Strangely, despite my experience, I never thought about the appropriateness of children participating in weddings before.

D's brother and future SIL are lovely people, and old enough, not to indulge in the sillier excesses. Their invitation is artistic and tasteful. And they never even asked if either of us would be in the "wedding party" bless them. If they discussed the possibility among themselves, they surely came to the conclusion that we would have politely and firmly held in our hoots of laughter and said no, thank-you, no. No.

As soon as we were told the date, we booked our flight and I put in for the time off work. Found out after we'd also planned for our hotel near our friends the hour's drive away, that we were also invited to the rehearsal dinner the night before and a family reunion the day after, and that there were reserved rooms at the local hotel for wedding guests. Oh well, we will be on our vacation hanging out with our friends at that point, and I can't get that earlier day off now. BIL shrugged, no biggie, just glad we could make it for the wedding. SIL's extended family flying in from all over is the main reason for the extra events, anyway.

I'm a footnote, at best, and very happy to be so, and want to be appropriately, pleasantly, unobtrusive.

Burial

We took a walk at the high, old, cemetery. Much busier than we anticipated, even knowing tomorrow is Memorial Day. Neither of us come from families that picnicked at family graves. My father worked at a cemetery, one of the older ones in Detroit. We watched fireworks from there, because we could get in, along with other cemetery workers, on July 4ths, to my deep discomfort. I even practiced driving there. None of our ancestors moldered there, nor did we ever visit any of the places that held family remains after the funeral.

We came to appreciate burial grounds while in Boston, since one can hardly walk around without walking through a gravesite. I've only once visited the grave of anyone known to me, for Aunt Evelyn, the last time I was in Windsor. Her son took me, and I felt a great easing of grief, after so long, since I could not be there when she died. No need to go back afterwards, but the once was unexpectedly profound.

The place here teemed with SUVs and families, many familiar names in the high rent plots, no doubt related to the various doctors and families of note. We wandered alone among the less regarded stones. The skewed and half hidden, the rote concrete. A lot more Japanese stones than we expected, some very elegant and recent. A plot for Union Iron Workers. The veteran section. And although neither of us would want so much as the most anonymous marker, it is a kind of history solidified. This ground considered sacred has withstood the encroachment of building developments and businesses, leaving for all this vista across to the mountains.

Unintended consequences. It'll get you every time.

Ma'am

Dooce writes about being called Ma'am. Like her, I've found most women hate it, equate it with being called "Old woman" or even "matronly." Sad, that being a grown woman is felt to be such an insult. When the last generation fought so hard not to be called Girl. (Or honey, sweetie, dearie, chick, broad, dame, etc.) Same generation now seems to want to be Girls.

Me, I like Ma'am! I like the respect, the deference to the gathering years. Partly it is because I did the military thing, and female officers are Ma'am. Like Sir, but with a tinge of fear. I don't care for Mrs. Can't say I've ever been called Mrs.S, or Mrs. W. The title before the name has disappeared from this culture, even in written form it's very rare. And not missed, since it clearly denoted married status. I asked for Ms if there was a form requiring a title, many years ago. Can't remember the last time that was even an issue. But the Miss, Mrs. Ms. means a last name will follow. Ma'am is for short, for if the name has escaped memory. It would be useful for those of us who never could remember names well, but it causes so much unintended offense.

All in all, I'm glad to simply use my two names, or just one, either one. (In the Army, it was just my last name, and I will respond to the current last name quite well, still.) Kept my original (mostly unpronounceable) "S-Alphabet" name throughout the first "marriage." Took me seven years for me to share D's family name (W), due to being in school, military, where the change would have been an unnecessary complication. This week we had a hard time finding a patient who had to reschedule her surgery. She'd gotten married in the two week gap, and confusion ensued, because she also changed her name in the interim.

But, for me, ma'am will do.

Pollen

D suffering badly with tree pollen allergies. Another day of open windows, until it got so warm in here we put on the AC for a while. Too early, too warm already. More laundry, to lessen the dust, vacuuming, ironing the linen clothes that may soon be needed. Or it could turn cold and wet again. Read a book. Took a walk. I'm no fan of hot weather, but the light and mild air seems to have energized me. My own eyes are itchy, sneezing and coughing, but not badly, mine usually hit a week or so after D's ebb.

Brought out garbage bags, recycled ones, that have what seems to be in incidental scent, powdery and flowery, that fades by the next day. I have grown more and more intolerant of perfume smells. Like my mother, who had to be careful where she sat in church to avoid the elderly ladies all powdered and scented. I now have the same distress, and at least as badly. Not the normal human odors, nor essential oils, but any artificial chemical smell just crawls up my nose, down to my stomach and bashes about my head, obnoxious and intrusive.

Thankfully, this is normally a minimal problem at work, since anyone with direct patient care is expected not to wear strong scent, and most follow that rule. Most patients don't waste perfume on the day of their surgery, and of those few who do, I rarely have to stay close to them for more than a few minutes. Once in a great while, someone will bathe in cologne sufficiently to permeate the room, a transient botheration in the grand scheme.

In Boston, many people believed in intense olfactory adornment. Men who seemed to be from Eastern Europe and Middle East often walked in a cloud of strong perfume. Not just them, but young women in leaving their mist of fashionable eau de toilette on benches, long minutes after they'd left.

Of course, those who do immerse themselves in scent have no idea how stinky they are. They seem to think it's pretty, and if they can't smell it on themselves - which they can't because their noses have shut down - they put more on. I have heard these people also express a horror of their own normal body odor. I can take clean sweat much more easily than headache inducing, nauseating chemistry.

I think of this while I sneeze my violent sneezes from all-natural pollen.

Clean

Up early, leaving D to try and sleep after a very bad night with allergies.

Together, later this morning, we finally got the Danish Oil on the unfinished table we bought in the going-out-of business sale from the unfinished furniture store, to use as our shared desk. Turned out better than expected. Dried several hours on the sunny balcony. Brought in table, and cleaned the winter off the balcony. Many errands run, groceries, fish & chips for lunch, seed scattered to lure birdies, heavy clothes thinned and packed away, summer clothes brought out and being washed.

Tried to find shorts, picked up some in my size that were not the abomination that is capri pants. Capris should only be worn by Audrey Hepburn, a young Mary Tyler Moore, or those who look like them. Anyone else just looks short and dumpy. And it seems, again, to be the horrid fashion of the season. So, I found what looked like a nice pair of a more typical short. Went to try them on, and got them to mid thigh. I figured they were mis-sized, which I mentioned to the sales clerk, saying I usually could fit a size smaller, but this size is more comfortable, but I could not even get them on. She said "I think those are "girls". The woman behind the door of the other changing stall laughed, then apologized. I told her "It IS funny, that's quite alright." Ah, well, at least I haven't gotten THAT large quite that fast. No new shorts for me today.

Moby got in on the idea of a good clean up. Much happier after a good brushing, thinned the undercoat. But it does require a thorough bath to follow.


One of those early spring days that demands the clearing away of detritus.

Class

Moby, our household god, who keeps demons away, and does not let us sulk too long, or suffer alone.

Stunned this morning, now afternoon. The time change is hateful, throwing me off, ruffling my feathers. This is the week I always feel dreadful, even as I go to bed an hour earlier and get to sleep well enough. Awake at 0400, aching and dreaming vividly, then crashing into solid unconsciousness until a thick emergence tells me I've slept too long. I get up at 0930, earlier than I thought, but lethargic and guilty. Worse than the last two days in early to work.

Nothing done. Finished my book. Past Imperfect by Julian Fellows. An interesting story well told, but all a bit of a storm in a gilded teacup. Good perspective on modern, post war, British 'society' history, manners and expectations, but with an ending to comfort them instead of awakening. Consistent within the context of this novel, so I have no argument with it. Reminded me of Gosford Park, and that may be the point. The forms change, but the assumptions beneath do not, even today.

When D was being sent to San Francisco during the dotcom boom, working IT for an advertising agency, he got to take me once to the Pan Pacific Hotel. Very posh and shiny it was. He felt like he would be stopped and asked to leave, with his middle class background, even if some of his colonial ancestors were real toffs. I, as the child of a factory worker, simply gawked and enjoyed nosing into this other world. With me there, he was able to relax and be amused. Such delights will not come our way again, nor do I care. Fun at that moment, though.

I'd've been no good at an idle life. I don't relish work, but I do care about being useful, and I tend to drift without meaningful activity. I practice what I call enlightened laziness. Get everything done as soon, and as efficiently, as possible, so I can sit and read. The result matters, the method matters, but the amount of time it takes up does not. Nothing more lovely than a day off, to be idle and drift. A day. The odd week. I've never had a whole month, but it sounds good. Years? I'd go insane. Wouldn't know where to put myself. Not that such a life has ever been on offer.

Could really use a few weeks vacation, it's been decades since I've had more than seven days in a row without obligation, and even those are rare. A working life, thoughtfully lived.

It'll do.