And what a cute vicious predator.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Monday, January 15, 2007
Songs (List)
Airplanes are increasingly miserable places to be. The discomfort becomes nearly unbearable after a while. I lost it waiting in the airport, and had to find a place on the floor to lie on my coat, and put D's over me, and shut my eyes and slept a while. D's happened on the plane out of Denver. And I was so glad for the christmas bonus five years ago that afforded the ipod. D played the "21 songs that can make me happy, even on a plane." Here they are.
Maine -- John Linnell
I Wanted To Be Alone -- Sam Phillips
Who Do You Love? -- Bo Diddley
I Fought the Law -- The Clash
I Can't Be Satisfied -- Muddy Waters
Jeanette -- The English Beat
Ouvre ton coeur -- Cecilia Bartoli
Holly Like Ivy -- Pete Townshend
After Midnight -- J.J. Cale
Werewolves Of London -- Warren Zevon
Another Thing Goin' -- Jill Sobule & The Brian Woodbury Songbook
Save it For Later -- The English Beat
Rock the Casbah -- The Clash
Holding On To The Earth (New Version) -- Sam Phillips
She's Lost Control -- Joy Division
Hava Nagila -- Dick Dale
Dreaming From The Waist -- The Who
Pablo Picasso -- The Modern Lovers
As he shared many of them with me, tethered by podline, we danced in our tiny space, sitting down, and life got a little better. Our musical tastes are not identical, but I deeply admire his. Unlike one person on PostSecret this week ( "Sorry honey, I hate your taste in music." . ) I also did all four sudoku in the online mag. Well, I was not going to enjoy the movie with Kevin "Waterworld" Costner.
Maine -- John Linnell
I Wanted To Be Alone -- Sam Phillips
Who Do You Love? -- Bo Diddley
I Fought the Law -- The Clash
I Can't Be Satisfied -- Muddy Waters
Jeanette -- The English Beat
Ouvre ton coeur -- Cecilia Bartoli
Holly Like Ivy -- Pete Townshend
After Midnight -- J.J. Cale
Werewolves Of London -- Warren Zevon
Another Thing Goin' -- Jill Sobule & The Brian Woodbury Songbook
Save it For Later -- The English Beat
Rock the Casbah -- The Clash
Holding On To The Earth (New Version) -- Sam Phillips
She's Lost Control -- Joy Division
Hava Nagila -- Dick Dale
Dreaming From The Waist -- The Who
Pablo Picasso -- The Modern Lovers
As he shared many of them with me, tethered by podline, we danced in our tiny space, sitting down, and life got a little better. Our musical tastes are not identical, but I deeply admire his. Unlike one person on PostSecret this week ( "Sorry honey, I hate your taste in music." . ) I also did all four sudoku in the online mag. Well, I was not going to enjoy the movie with Kevin "Waterworld" Costner.
Home
We got back from our visit to Salt Lake, our old home. The place was far less strange, even with the changes, than we expected. But the point, and the need, was to see our friends. And they came through, as they have so often before, to fortify us for the coming change, and the unsweetened end of this phase of our life. Talking with such kind, amazing, smart funny people, who we love so dearly, soothed our loneliness, and gave us hope. Never has such a dry, cold place (Temps in single (F) digits) been so warm and welcoming.
If it hadn't been for Moby waiting for us, I would have wanted to stay another week. But we watched him, mostly sleeping, on the Mobycam, and worried.
Now, for the unpaid commercial message. Boston Felines, our beloved cat sitters. They came in our apartment, to feed and reassure Moby. And when we got home, there was a little decorative chinese food box with small, but really good cat toys. A note that said.
"Moby was a treat to care for. Thank you for the opportunity. We hope to have the privilege again soon."
And progress notes any nurse would be proud of (with the addition of being spelled properly) with little check boxes for Fed, Fresh water, Appetite, Litter scooped, litter changed, pooped, peed, medication given, treats, brushed, play/petting, hiding newspapers, mail, plants watered, security check, and for us Filled humidifier. Also, a printed note, urging us to call at any time, when we got in, and leave a message to say we are home. Partly, of course, so they don't come back if we got home early, but also, if they are needed for another day, they could schedule another visit. Thorough and professional and kind.
~
Thursday afternoon
Fed X, Fresh water X,
Filled humidifier X
Play/petting X
Appetite - very good.
Moby met me at the door. He was anxious to eat and then retired to the bed. There he enjoyed some pets. He's doing well today.
Friday Morning
Appetite - Very good, wet food gone.
Moby is most interested in his food and bathing on his throne (the stool with blankets where he often sits -z.) this time. He has no interest in playing or teeth brushing. He'd going alright. All's well.
Friday Evening.
Appetite - Moby enjoyed his dinner and then went under his throne to clean himself. He's not being social tonight. : (
Saturday Morning
Appetite - Good appetite.
Moby was happy to get a few pets, then his breakfast. After eating his can, he went under the chair. I tried to play with him, but he was really not in a playful mood. He is a sweet boy!
Saturday Evening.
Appetite - Good.
Moby is not too interested in our visit. He rec'd fresh can and didn't go near it during our visit. He just hung out as we tried to tempt him with toys etc. All is well.
Sunday Morning.
Appetite - Good.
Moby is in a great mood this morning. He's not into play or food, just pets. He's doing well and I'm sure he looks forward to seeing his mom & dad.
~
I'll give them the "mom & dad", although we don't think of ourselves as his parents. More like good friends, respectful roommates, despite the somewhat dependent role of his being an indoor cat. His feelings about our homecoming were a bit mixed, but he gradually settled to us again. Our coming home at midnight (a couple hours later than planned) may have added to our disorientation.
Home is not a place, but the people in it. Even if one of them is a cat people.
All is well. Or else we are working on it.
If it hadn't been for Moby waiting for us, I would have wanted to stay another week. But we watched him, mostly sleeping, on the Mobycam, and worried.
Now, for the unpaid commercial message. Boston Felines, our beloved cat sitters. They came in our apartment, to feed and reassure Moby. And when we got home, there was a little decorative chinese food box with small, but really good cat toys. A note that said.
"Moby was a treat to care for. Thank you for the opportunity. We hope to have the privilege again soon."
And progress notes any nurse would be proud of (with the addition of being spelled properly) with little check boxes for Fed, Fresh water, Appetite, Litter scooped, litter changed, pooped, peed, medication given, treats, brushed, play/petting, hiding newspapers, mail, plants watered, security check, and for us Filled humidifier. Also, a printed note, urging us to call at any time, when we got in, and leave a message to say we are home. Partly, of course, so they don't come back if we got home early, but also, if they are needed for another day, they could schedule another visit. Thorough and professional and kind.
~
Thursday afternoon
Fed X, Fresh water X,
Filled humidifier X
Play/petting X
Appetite - very good.
Moby met me at the door. He was anxious to eat and then retired to the bed. There he enjoyed some pets. He's doing well today.
Friday Morning
Appetite - Very good, wet food gone.
Moby is most interested in his food and bathing on his throne (the stool with blankets where he often sits -z.) this time. He has no interest in playing or teeth brushing. He'd going alright. All's well.
Friday Evening.
Appetite - Moby enjoyed his dinner and then went under his throne to clean himself. He's not being social tonight. : (
Saturday Morning
Appetite - Good appetite.
Moby was happy to get a few pets, then his breakfast. After eating his can, he went under the chair. I tried to play with him, but he was really not in a playful mood. He is a sweet boy!
Saturday Evening.
Appetite - Good.
Moby is not too interested in our visit. He rec'd fresh can and didn't go near it during our visit. He just hung out as we tried to tempt him with toys etc. All is well.
Sunday Morning.
Appetite - Good.
Moby is in a great mood this morning. He's not into play or food, just pets. He's doing well and I'm sure he looks forward to seeing his mom & dad.
~
I'll give them the "mom & dad", although we don't think of ourselves as his parents. More like good friends, respectful roommates, despite the somewhat dependent role of his being an indoor cat. His feelings about our homecoming were a bit mixed, but he gradually settled to us again. Our coming home at midnight (a couple hours later than planned) may have added to our disorientation.
Home is not a place, but the people in it. Even if one of them is a cat people.
All is well. Or else we are working on it.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Enroute
I sit here on the floor, more stretched out than is possible on those horrible bolted down seats, staring out at the snowy tarmacscape, the gangway, the trucks and men in winter overalls, yellow lights and white sky. My bags are within arm's reach. I just ate a large pretzel and water from a 7-Up bottle, and a bit of D's sandwich. I feel the anxiety shadows that have built up here over the last month, and add my own. I want to be home. Time has dilated, though I have taken no mind alterning substances. Just OTC pain relievers.
And why did I put myself through this?
For friends. For connection and understanding and warmth. For rolling conversations that soothed and healed my worried mind. We feared we might have gone too long, but our beloved friends welcomed us back, and let us ramble on at them, and shared themselves as generously as always. Hugs made all absolutely worth the trouble.
I still want a teleporter.
And why did I put myself through this?
For friends. For connection and understanding and warmth. For rolling conversations that soothed and healed my worried mind. We feared we might have gone too long, but our beloved friends welcomed us back, and let us ramble on at them, and shared themselves as generously as always. Hugs made all absolutely worth the trouble.
I still want a teleporter.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Nose (Photo)
Who am I?
The sum of my genetics and experience and biological development.
The resonances of souls touched or sensed.
Memories of contacts and lessons, memories of future backwashing around.
The anxieties of this society, in this moment, and the individuals within.
My inherent personality, humor, capacity for insight, intelligence, love, imagination.
This breath in, out, in.
Monday, January 08, 2007
Why
Why do I do this? Why do I bare my heart and spill it all out all over the world?
"The less said, the better." Said my mother. Often. I obediently, and prudently, closed my mouth. I listened. Closely. With intent.
I was an only child in the neighborhood, the youngest child by a decade - so, in effect, I grew up alone. I talked to myself, to entertain myself, to practice for social situations - not successfully. I lived my life inside myself, my only refuge, my only psychic safe place. But, damn, I was lonely. I had no illusions about the reality of my imaginary friends, nor my poor aptitude for making real friends. Books were a great solace, so I read a great deal, omnivorously. I daydreamed, always peopled my inner world richly.
All my life, even as a child, others have taken me aside, and told me secrets. I listened. Sometimes I judged, usually not letting them know I disapproved, because I wanted to hear more stories. Not that they sought me out for friendship, only a listening ear, a stranger to bounce their anxieties on, a safe confessional without comment, and without any need for absolution. And I kept their confidences. Even after they did not.
In my work, I know intimate details of other's lives, I know more than their own families, in one narrow view. I listen, and do not overshare my own stories. A mention, to elicit more from them, but always aware that, it is all about them, right then.
So, when I come home, I babble. Not breaking confidences, but to iron out the puzzled creases.
I started these essays to tell my stories to a friend, whom I did not wish to bore. And what you see, what she saw, was the trail of how my mind works. This is the shape of my brain, the curls and meanders, the sights I have seen, the realizations I have stumbled over.
All those who come and read are welcome, to whatever they can glean. But, I write this for Moira. And when I know she isn't reading, is "turtling", I tend to write less, here, and send her juicy emails directly, to spur her to write back. I write very much to her taste, to entertain her, to shock and amuse her. She has very good taste.
The writing has taken on a life of it's own, and beckons me on, with the promise of another tale. I cannot be silent, refuse to shut up. The more said, the better.
"The less said, the better." Said my mother. Often. I obediently, and prudently, closed my mouth. I listened. Closely. With intent.
I was an only child in the neighborhood, the youngest child by a decade - so, in effect, I grew up alone. I talked to myself, to entertain myself, to practice for social situations - not successfully. I lived my life inside myself, my only refuge, my only psychic safe place. But, damn, I was lonely. I had no illusions about the reality of my imaginary friends, nor my poor aptitude for making real friends. Books were a great solace, so I read a great deal, omnivorously. I daydreamed, always peopled my inner world richly.
All my life, even as a child, others have taken me aside, and told me secrets. I listened. Sometimes I judged, usually not letting them know I disapproved, because I wanted to hear more stories. Not that they sought me out for friendship, only a listening ear, a stranger to bounce their anxieties on, a safe confessional without comment, and without any need for absolution. And I kept their confidences. Even after they did not.
In my work, I know intimate details of other's lives, I know more than their own families, in one narrow view. I listen, and do not overshare my own stories. A mention, to elicit more from them, but always aware that, it is all about them, right then.
So, when I come home, I babble. Not breaking confidences, but to iron out the puzzled creases.
I started these essays to tell my stories to a friend, whom I did not wish to bore. And what you see, what she saw, was the trail of how my mind works. This is the shape of my brain, the curls and meanders, the sights I have seen, the realizations I have stumbled over.
All those who come and read are welcome, to whatever they can glean. But, I write this for Moira. And when I know she isn't reading, is "turtling", I tend to write less, here, and send her juicy emails directly, to spur her to write back. I write very much to her taste, to entertain her, to shock and amuse her. She has very good taste.
The writing has taken on a life of it's own, and beckons me on, with the promise of another tale. I cannot be silent, refuse to shut up. The more said, the better.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Justice
With great intended compassion, this kind comment was made on a recent post,
"please don't say that you made this mess because of bad choices etc. sometimes one does not know any better and/or things get screwed up. The stupid patriarchy is to blame for for instance not making an escape possible without any help from outside...your inattentiveness or bad choice still not gave him the right to treat you this way..."
I lose nothing by taking responsibility for my own actions. Quite the opposite, I learn. I made this mess, it's my lesson, and I will not allow kindhearted intentions to ease pain, and thereby steal my hard won knowledge.
My accountability does not take any responsibility away from the ex's actions. Justice is not a finite quality that must be divided, parceled out in due proportions. I am wholly responsible for myself, he for himself. I can only speak for myself. I made a mess. I clean it up, and I benefit from my experience, I get the exercise, the sense of accomplishment. It's not a competition, it's my one and only life, and I will not relinquish my choices for ease.
I will not be victim. Wronged, harmed, yes. Not victim. He is to be pitied, I am not. I refuse any kindness that makes me victim.
I will not blame impersonal institutions, ignorance, nor passive voiced happenstance, because then I do not derive the benefit of the lesson. How can I avoid making the same mistakes again, if it is all another person's fault, just one of those things, all because of those men? I must take the pain of it in order to wring every drop of wisdom out of it.
Yes, our social institutions need vast improvement to provide better options. But I am not in politics or law enforcement, I live a small life. I can and will only speak to my own view. "My universe is my eyes and my ears, more than that I cannot say." To quote Douglas Adams.
Character and integrity comes not from what happens to me in my life, but how I respond to it. This is all I have, all I can offer.
That, and photos of Moby.
"please don't say that you made this mess because of bad choices etc. sometimes one does not know any better and/or things get screwed up. The stupid patriarchy is to blame for for instance not making an escape possible without any help from outside...your inattentiveness or bad choice still not gave him the right to treat you this way..."
I lose nothing by taking responsibility for my own actions. Quite the opposite, I learn. I made this mess, it's my lesson, and I will not allow kindhearted intentions to ease pain, and thereby steal my hard won knowledge.
My accountability does not take any responsibility away from the ex's actions. Justice is not a finite quality that must be divided, parceled out in due proportions. I am wholly responsible for myself, he for himself. I can only speak for myself. I made a mess. I clean it up, and I benefit from my experience, I get the exercise, the sense of accomplishment. It's not a competition, it's my one and only life, and I will not relinquish my choices for ease.
I will not be victim. Wronged, harmed, yes. Not victim. He is to be pitied, I am not. I refuse any kindness that makes me victim.
I will not blame impersonal institutions, ignorance, nor passive voiced happenstance, because then I do not derive the benefit of the lesson. How can I avoid making the same mistakes again, if it is all another person's fault, just one of those things, all because of those men? I must take the pain of it in order to wring every drop of wisdom out of it.
Yes, our social institutions need vast improvement to provide better options. But I am not in politics or law enforcement, I live a small life. I can and will only speak to my own view. "My universe is my eyes and my ears, more than that I cannot say." To quote Douglas Adams.
Character and integrity comes not from what happens to me in my life, but how I respond to it. This is all I have, all I can offer.
That, and photos of Moby.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Divorce
The one description of myself I could never have imagined as a child, especially in such a Catholic family, was Divorced. And yet, I am. Have been. I was. It is a point of distress, though not shame. I know too many others who have loved, committed, and lost. No longer a huge looming shadow in my life, but a distant landmark of my past.
I have been reading Carolyn Hax of the Washington Post for years now, and find her to be wise and funny, a lovely combination. This past week, there has been discussion there about a person who did not, after a month of dating, inform the writer of his divorce. I side solidly on the side of early, full disclosure in a relationship. Anyone I consider a friend knows of my marital past. I met D before that divorce was final, of course he knew that because he was unit clerk in our National Guard Unit, and had looked up my file. First Guard weekend after I escaped, I found him out to tell him I'd left the marriage, even though we were barely friends, and only in that context, at that point. I was never anything but honest and up front with D.
At the time, though I knew I had to leave, knew the danger was escalating, it was not really escapable without help. I tried for a year. Try getting an apartment without being able to leave a home number. I was living in an alternate reality, where he would beg me to stay, plead with me that we "had something." And throw clothes angrily on the bed in the early morning, to accuse me of worse sins. I didn't just tread on eggshells, I danced on broken glass. I dared not drink, though he drank too much. I was raped, though not - because there was no such thing as rape of a wife by a husband where I lived, then. I allowed it, in lieu of a beating. Although, I had only had slaps and a few bruises at that point, and a replica black powder pistol discharged into the floor. He'd always been drinking when he'd shoved or slammed me up against a wall. And always promised that was the last time. I was crazy. I was tucked down hard, surviving, sleeping beside my worst enemy, keeping him sated and mollified, until I could find a way out.
I was ashamed. That I had not managed to free myself. That I was living with this, and hiding it, putting make-up on the bruises like any battered woman on COPS! Making excuses for him. Then. I decided to tell someone, so that I would not allow another year to go by without getting out. And I found out that I had friends. Then he threw me back onto the washing machine, leaving bruises against my back, and where his fists grabbed my shirt, dead sober. Oh.
We went for the second time to the counselor, the employee assistance one for the library where I worked, though he had been fired. The counselor took me aside, asked me what I wanted.
"I want a divorce."
"You need to tell him."
He brought him back in, and I told him, as I had told him before, but without witnesses, he had not heard, had not believed. He drove home, the scariest drive of my life. And left, telling me he was getting beer, to get drunk. I called the friend I had told.
"I'm coming to get you."
"Oh, I'll be alright." I said, in my fantasy world.
"No, I am not asking you. I am coming to get you. Pack a bag." Dear Maureen. Brave woman.
I was still packing when she arrived, and then he returned. She told him she was taking me. He said that was probably a good idea, and tucked into his beer. We left. I looked up a lawyer. He smashed everything in the apartment, and showed up drunk at my friends' house, giving his pistol to them, claiming to be afraid he would hurt himself. They approached me, and asked why I hadn't mentioned his gun. I had no clear answer. I had to call my mother, and tell her that my husband had been hitting me, the one excuse she would have found acceptable for divorce. I never went back. I grieved as for an amputated, gangrenous limb. I felt a failure, a fool, a liar. All, honestly, true. I was hopeless and bereft. I lived in my friends' basement for two weeks, in search of an affordable apartment, and disrupting their relationship. I was not malingering, I took the first place I could, in a very tight housing market.
D knew all. I hid nothing from him as we approached each other so tentatively. I dated someone else for a few months, assuming D was too young, and I only saw him once a month, anyway, knew precious little about him. I was casting about, with that divorcee appeal that draws in men. It wasn't pretty, but it temporarily shored up my shredded ego. In that last week before we were sent off to Gulf War I, another friend, W, a Vietnam era vet took me to get gear, and I invited D along. W and D talked Robert Anton Wilson, and I was warmed by their connection. The ex was to meet me at the Library, where W's wife worked, with D to provide buffer - though he hadn't realized it (I'd mentioned, but not clearly enough). D briefly met the ex, not realizing the relationship, and went off to bid adieu to friends. (He felt terrible about this, much later. ) I was trapped alone to "say good-bye" to the not quite ex. I pulled away from a kiss, if not his smarmy hug. I was ashamed that I had ever wanted to be with this mess of chaotic manipulation.
The legal divorce came later, and a friend came with me. Ex did not show, although he signed the papers, partly because I paid him some alimony, which he accepted without comment. The judge asked me why, and I said because he drank too much.
He made a note.
He'd been stealing from me.
Another note.
"And he's been hitting me,"
He signed the papers, and stopped me before I could say more. I didn't cry, then. I had chosen the most concrete reasons. The most legal reasons. The lawyer assured me everything was done. My friend, L, one of several who I didn't know would be there, took me for lunch. Then I cried. I felt strange, and relieved, and empty. I wanted to kill myself and rejoice together. A huge door slammed shut. And a million others swung open.
I am divorced. I failed. I tried again. The triumph of hope over experience. Sometimes, hope is right.
Life has to be loved fiercely. Or it will destroy all.
I have been reading Carolyn Hax of the Washington Post for years now, and find her to be wise and funny, a lovely combination. This past week, there has been discussion there about a person who did not, after a month of dating, inform the writer of his divorce. I side solidly on the side of early, full disclosure in a relationship. Anyone I consider a friend knows of my marital past. I met D before that divorce was final, of course he knew that because he was unit clerk in our National Guard Unit, and had looked up my file. First Guard weekend after I escaped, I found him out to tell him I'd left the marriage, even though we were barely friends, and only in that context, at that point. I was never anything but honest and up front with D.
At the time, though I knew I had to leave, knew the danger was escalating, it was not really escapable without help. I tried for a year. Try getting an apartment without being able to leave a home number. I was living in an alternate reality, where he would beg me to stay, plead with me that we "had something." And throw clothes angrily on the bed in the early morning, to accuse me of worse sins. I didn't just tread on eggshells, I danced on broken glass. I dared not drink, though he drank too much. I was raped, though not - because there was no such thing as rape of a wife by a husband where I lived, then. I allowed it, in lieu of a beating. Although, I had only had slaps and a few bruises at that point, and a replica black powder pistol discharged into the floor. He'd always been drinking when he'd shoved or slammed me up against a wall. And always promised that was the last time. I was crazy. I was tucked down hard, surviving, sleeping beside my worst enemy, keeping him sated and mollified, until I could find a way out.
I was ashamed. That I had not managed to free myself. That I was living with this, and hiding it, putting make-up on the bruises like any battered woman on COPS! Making excuses for him. Then. I decided to tell someone, so that I would not allow another year to go by without getting out. And I found out that I had friends. Then he threw me back onto the washing machine, leaving bruises against my back, and where his fists grabbed my shirt, dead sober. Oh.
We went for the second time to the counselor, the employee assistance one for the library where I worked, though he had been fired. The counselor took me aside, asked me what I wanted.
"I want a divorce."
"You need to tell him."
He brought him back in, and I told him, as I had told him before, but without witnesses, he had not heard, had not believed. He drove home, the scariest drive of my life. And left, telling me he was getting beer, to get drunk. I called the friend I had told.
"I'm coming to get you."
"Oh, I'll be alright." I said, in my fantasy world.
"No, I am not asking you. I am coming to get you. Pack a bag." Dear Maureen. Brave woman.
I was still packing when she arrived, and then he returned. She told him she was taking me. He said that was probably a good idea, and tucked into his beer. We left. I looked up a lawyer. He smashed everything in the apartment, and showed up drunk at my friends' house, giving his pistol to them, claiming to be afraid he would hurt himself. They approached me, and asked why I hadn't mentioned his gun. I had no clear answer. I had to call my mother, and tell her that my husband had been hitting me, the one excuse she would have found acceptable for divorce. I never went back. I grieved as for an amputated, gangrenous limb. I felt a failure, a fool, a liar. All, honestly, true. I was hopeless and bereft. I lived in my friends' basement for two weeks, in search of an affordable apartment, and disrupting their relationship. I was not malingering, I took the first place I could, in a very tight housing market.
D knew all. I hid nothing from him as we approached each other so tentatively. I dated someone else for a few months, assuming D was too young, and I only saw him once a month, anyway, knew precious little about him. I was casting about, with that divorcee appeal that draws in men. It wasn't pretty, but it temporarily shored up my shredded ego. In that last week before we were sent off to Gulf War I, another friend, W, a Vietnam era vet took me to get gear, and I invited D along. W and D talked Robert Anton Wilson, and I was warmed by their connection. The ex was to meet me at the Library, where W's wife worked, with D to provide buffer - though he hadn't realized it (I'd mentioned, but not clearly enough). D briefly met the ex, not realizing the relationship, and went off to bid adieu to friends. (He felt terrible about this, much later. ) I was trapped alone to "say good-bye" to the not quite ex. I pulled away from a kiss, if not his smarmy hug. I was ashamed that I had ever wanted to be with this mess of chaotic manipulation.
The legal divorce came later, and a friend came with me. Ex did not show, although he signed the papers, partly because I paid him some alimony, which he accepted without comment. The judge asked me why, and I said because he drank too much.
He made a note.
He'd been stealing from me.
Another note.
"And he's been hitting me,"
He signed the papers, and stopped me before I could say more. I didn't cry, then. I had chosen the most concrete reasons. The most legal reasons. The lawyer assured me everything was done. My friend, L, one of several who I didn't know would be there, took me for lunch. Then I cried. I felt strange, and relieved, and empty. I wanted to kill myself and rejoice together. A huge door slammed shut. And a million others swung open.
I am divorced. I failed. I tried again. The triumph of hope over experience. Sometimes, hope is right.
Life has to be loved fiercely. Or it will destroy all.
Friday, January 05, 2007
Movie (Meme)
1. Popcorn or sweets?
Beer and Nachos, like at Brewvies.
2. Name a movie you have been meaning to see forever.
Our Man In Havana. Not out on DVD, or VHS, as far as I know.
3. You are given the power to recall one Oscar: Who loses theirs and to whom?
That popularity contest cum Advertising bonanza award is meaningless for defining quality. The best films rarely come close.
4. Steal one costume from a movie for your wardrobe. Which will it be?
Any Garbo costume.
5. Your favorite film franchise is?
Wallace and Gromit.
6. Invite five movie people over for dinner. Who are they? Why’d you invite them?
What do you feed them?
Michael Palin, Betty Thomas, Johanna Lumley, Tony Robinson, Jon Stewart to ask them questions. Because they are funny and intelligent, and very interesting people who have done more than be actors. I'd offer whatever I had in the fridge, don't want to worry about food when there is good conversation to be had.
7. What is the appropriate punishment for people who answer cell phones in the cinema?
Cellphones should ring once, then explode. Anytime, anywhere. Sat next to a guy who talked on his phone all the way through a movie, on a Saturday night. I felt too sorry for him to object. This is why I use Netflix.
8. Choose a female bodyguard:
Michelle Yeoh.
9. What’s the scariest thing you have ever seen in a movie?
The Last Wave freaks me out. And the scene from Kurosawa's Dreams with the ghost battalion coming out of the tunnel.
10. Your favorite genre (excluding comedy and drama) is?
Japanese Samurai by Kurosawa. I don't go by genres, more by director, and quality, and a sense of humor.
11. You are given the power to greenlight movies at a major studio for one year. How do you wield this power?
Pixar, for non child centered animation, Aardman as well. John Sayles as much as he wants. Terry Gilliam - to finish his Don Quixote, or anything else. And everyone who is making a movie who is not a Spielbergian Film Student Graduate type, with a movie at Slam Dance (or other really independent fest) can have a couple of million each. With the whole studio ad/distribution apparatus behind each. May not be good, but sure would be interesting.
12. Bonnie or Clyde?
Bonnie Hunt. Who is Clyde. (As for the movie, um...no.)
Beer and Nachos, like at Brewvies.
2. Name a movie you have been meaning to see forever.
Our Man In Havana. Not out on DVD, or VHS, as far as I know.
3. You are given the power to recall one Oscar: Who loses theirs and to whom?
That popularity contest cum Advertising bonanza award is meaningless for defining quality. The best films rarely come close.
4. Steal one costume from a movie for your wardrobe. Which will it be?
Any Garbo costume.
5. Your favorite film franchise is?
Wallace and Gromit.
6. Invite five movie people over for dinner. Who are they? Why’d you invite them?
What do you feed them?
Michael Palin, Betty Thomas, Johanna Lumley, Tony Robinson, Jon Stewart to ask them questions. Because they are funny and intelligent, and very interesting people who have done more than be actors. I'd offer whatever I had in the fridge, don't want to worry about food when there is good conversation to be had.
7. What is the appropriate punishment for people who answer cell phones in the cinema?
Cellphones should ring once, then explode. Anytime, anywhere. Sat next to a guy who talked on his phone all the way through a movie, on a Saturday night. I felt too sorry for him to object. This is why I use Netflix.
8. Choose a female bodyguard:
Michelle Yeoh.
9. What’s the scariest thing you have ever seen in a movie?
The Last Wave freaks me out. And the scene from Kurosawa's Dreams with the ghost battalion coming out of the tunnel.
10. Your favorite genre (excluding comedy and drama) is?
Japanese Samurai by Kurosawa. I don't go by genres, more by director, and quality, and a sense of humor.
11. You are given the power to greenlight movies at a major studio for one year. How do you wield this power?
Pixar, for non child centered animation, Aardman as well. John Sayles as much as he wants. Terry Gilliam - to finish his Don Quixote, or anything else. And everyone who is making a movie who is not a Spielbergian Film Student Graduate type, with a movie at Slam Dance (or other really independent fest) can have a couple of million each. With the whole studio ad/distribution apparatus behind each. May not be good, but sure would be interesting.
12. Bonnie or Clyde?
Bonnie Hunt. Who is Clyde. (As for the movie, um...no.)
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Chair (Photo)
I don't usually sit in this chair, since my back issues. Nor does Moby. This evening, I sat here to read. I got up to fix dinner. When I got back... well as you can see, Moby seemed to think this was a very good idea. Hours later, he is still there, fast asleep.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Friday, December 29, 2006
Nestle (Photo)
Moby loves to have a lumpy surface to lie on, in, or around. Ankles will do, in a pinch. Best is a roll of cloth. Wool or Polartec make it oh so wonderful.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Miracles
Our christmases together have always had a strange kind of joy. Not exactly festive, but deeply, oddly happy.
My last one before was the last one with the ex, a fraught and strained season of fear and trepidation. We exchanged t-shirts with humorous mottos. Wasted, pointless and disposable.
Christmas of 1990 D and I were at Fort Carson, waiting to be sent to Gulf War I. We'd taken leave together the week before, to allow slots for those with children, and close family, to return to Salt Lake for the actual holiday.
The regular Army was not best pleased to be hosting a National Guard unit, and had been making access to their chow halls less easy. That day, they had not offered any meals. We found out there had been a brunch, but only after the hours were finished.
No cabs ran on base that day, none of the usual pizza or chinese food places that delivered were working on Christmas. The perhaps-fifty of us there were eating through the care boxes sent by families, who assumed we were not getting enough sugar or booze. By evening, the hunger, and sugar buzz, was becoming miserable. I knew better than to drink on a sugar coated empty stomach, and D didn't drink at all. Oranges appeared, as though a Christmas miracle, and D and I grabbed several, and ran off to eat them together. We kept each other's spirits up, that day. I still felt this was the best Christmas I'd had in many years, and much better than the one preceding.
Our only unbreakable tradition after was to always have food on Christmas.
One year, we soaked at Lava Hot Springs. Snow falling as we simmered outside in the steaming pools. That night at the hotel, even the staff went home. We know there was one other set of guests, but we never saw them. We stared out at the dark night, cozy and quiet. He played his guitar, and I sang a bit. We ate tunachicken (that chicken spread that comes in a can) and oranges, crackers and nuts, enough food brought in case nothing was open.
The next morning, we woke early, as we do often when we visit there, and decided to head home, to visit his parents for early Christmas afternoon. The light was grey, and the fog thick as we left the tiny town tucked into the volcanic mountains. On the freeway, the light glowed gold, and as we looked through the clouds on the horizon, the sun showed - half bitten through. Oh, yes, we'd read there would be a solar eclipse, partial. And had forgotten. But got to watch it through the scrim of cloud, that peculiar light of rolling, snow covered, southern Idaho.
Miracles all over the place, and ephemeral gifts to carry in our hearts all our lives.
My last one before was the last one with the ex, a fraught and strained season of fear and trepidation. We exchanged t-shirts with humorous mottos. Wasted, pointless and disposable.
Christmas of 1990 D and I were at Fort Carson, waiting to be sent to Gulf War I. We'd taken leave together the week before, to allow slots for those with children, and close family, to return to Salt Lake for the actual holiday.
The regular Army was not best pleased to be hosting a National Guard unit, and had been making access to their chow halls less easy. That day, they had not offered any meals. We found out there had been a brunch, but only after the hours were finished.
No cabs ran on base that day, none of the usual pizza or chinese food places that delivered were working on Christmas. The perhaps-fifty of us there were eating through the care boxes sent by families, who assumed we were not getting enough sugar or booze. By evening, the hunger, and sugar buzz, was becoming miserable. I knew better than to drink on a sugar coated empty stomach, and D didn't drink at all. Oranges appeared, as though a Christmas miracle, and D and I grabbed several, and ran off to eat them together. We kept each other's spirits up, that day. I still felt this was the best Christmas I'd had in many years, and much better than the one preceding.
Our only unbreakable tradition after was to always have food on Christmas.
One year, we soaked at Lava Hot Springs. Snow falling as we simmered outside in the steaming pools. That night at the hotel, even the staff went home. We know there was one other set of guests, but we never saw them. We stared out at the dark night, cozy and quiet. He played his guitar, and I sang a bit. We ate tunachicken (that chicken spread that comes in a can) and oranges, crackers and nuts, enough food brought in case nothing was open.
The next morning, we woke early, as we do often when we visit there, and decided to head home, to visit his parents for early Christmas afternoon. The light was grey, and the fog thick as we left the tiny town tucked into the volcanic mountains. On the freeway, the light glowed gold, and as we looked through the clouds on the horizon, the sun showed - half bitten through. Oh, yes, we'd read there would be a solar eclipse, partial. And had forgotten. But got to watch it through the scrim of cloud, that peculiar light of rolling, snow covered, southern Idaho.
Miracles all over the place, and ephemeral gifts to carry in our hearts all our lives.
Monday, December 25, 2006
Saturday, December 23, 2006
O
O Is For...
Orgasm. Obviously. From chocolate or beer, or Obviously, great sex. Or onanism.
Oranges. Take off the peels, then squish or twist into a candle flame. The volatile oils flame beautifully. A great word without rhyme in English. Are there rhymes for orange in other languages, I wonder.
Otters. Sinuous and playful, my favorite wild critter. Smart, too, I understand.
Oscar. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, Hotel, India, Juliet, Kilo, Lima, Mike, November, Oscar, Papa, Quebec, Romeo, Sierra, Tango, Uniform, Victor, Whiskey, X-ray, Yankee, Zulu. See? O is for Oscar.
Ostriches, who really don't hide their heads in the sand, but old time naturalists often did.
Opus, in his time the best comic character, who gave me the expression "Anxious pimple" - a worry wart.
Orlando. A movie I had to see a second time, years later, to finally decide if I liked it. I do. I don't often recommend it, though.
Offensive. Much of my edited humor. Mostly joking about death, or subjects considered sacred.
Orthopedic Oncology. My new favorite surgical specialty. Amazing what they can do, huge surgeries wherein I must run my ass off. Patients who are remarkably resilient, and so far, very funny. From one - "Measure once, cut twice. Damn! It's still too short!"
Onomatopoeia. A word that should be a sound, and does nicely as a description of train rattle, or finger drumming.
Oxymoron. Nurse/writer. The vast majority of the nurses I know can't spell for toffee, barely make it though charting or incidence reports, and have very shoddy taste in books. I'd still let the vast majority take care of me if I were ill or injured. There may be writers who could fluff a pillow or give a pill. Not as pointed an oxymoron as Military Intelligence.
Oast. 'A kiln; (in later use) spec. one used to dry hops or malt; a building housing this. ' One of those words used in crossword puzzles that I never remember, because it's not really in my vocabulary, but perhaps should be. (Thank you OED.)
OK. The universal word. Really, try it sometime.
Thanks to Pilgrim/heretic for the O.
Orgasm. Obviously. From chocolate or beer, or Obviously, great sex. Or onanism.
Oranges. Take off the peels, then squish or twist into a candle flame. The volatile oils flame beautifully. A great word without rhyme in English. Are there rhymes for orange in other languages, I wonder.
Otters. Sinuous and playful, my favorite wild critter. Smart, too, I understand.
Oscar. Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, Hotel, India, Juliet, Kilo, Lima, Mike, November, Oscar, Papa, Quebec, Romeo, Sierra, Tango, Uniform, Victor, Whiskey, X-ray, Yankee, Zulu. See? O is for Oscar.
Ostriches, who really don't hide their heads in the sand, but old time naturalists often did.
Opus, in his time the best comic character, who gave me the expression "Anxious pimple" - a worry wart.
Orlando. A movie I had to see a second time, years later, to finally decide if I liked it. I do. I don't often recommend it, though.
Offensive. Much of my edited humor. Mostly joking about death, or subjects considered sacred.
Orthopedic Oncology. My new favorite surgical specialty. Amazing what they can do, huge surgeries wherein I must run my ass off. Patients who are remarkably resilient, and so far, very funny. From one - "Measure once, cut twice. Damn! It's still too short!"
Onomatopoeia. A word that should be a sound, and does nicely as a description of train rattle, or finger drumming.
Oxymoron. Nurse/writer. The vast majority of the nurses I know can't spell for toffee, barely make it though charting or incidence reports, and have very shoddy taste in books. I'd still let the vast majority take care of me if I were ill or injured. There may be writers who could fluff a pillow or give a pill. Not as pointed an oxymoron as Military Intelligence.
Oast. 'A kiln; (in later use) spec. one used to dry hops or malt; a building housing this. ' One of those words used in crossword puzzles that I never remember, because it's not really in my vocabulary, but perhaps should be. (Thank you OED.)
OK. The universal word. Really, try it sometime.
Thanks to Pilgrim/heretic for the O.
Shovel
One snowy year, I was maybe four or five, I wanted a snow shovel my size. My brothers shoveled, my parents shoveled, I was stuck standing around feeling useless. I wanted to help in a fun job. I had gotten the hang of asking for gifts, and had utter faith in Santa Claus. Ok, maybe I was testing that faith, not entirely sure at this remove. So, I refused to ask for anything, and only told Santa, or rather every Santa I was taken to, that all I wanted was a snow shovel. May have had to do with me getting a "toy" ironing board, with iron that got warm, the previous year. And given the job of ironing my father's white handkerchiefs.
I'm not sure about how mom found out, she has told the story since of the year I only wanted one thing, and only told Santa. And finding a child size shovel was not easy, apparently. But sure enough, on Christmas morning, there it was. With Jack-be-nimble jumping over a candlestick on a shovel I could use. I loved it, I shoveled with it, I made snow architecture with it. I lost it.
It showed up in the spring, after the snow melted in the back yard. It had been a very snowy year. I used it for many years, and jumped imaginary candles for Jack, while admiring the gift Santa brought.
The very best part of Santa gifts were that I did not have to thank anyone for them. By being good, I'd sort of earned them. Having a coal furnace growing up, I could easily picture a stocking with a lump of coal. Unlike pretending joy at a hard plastic doll, too small flannel pjs, or Aunt Betty's homemade toys, (one - an undisguised egg carton with numbers, and some ping pong balls.) Which, I suppose, if she'd actually liked me, might have been fine. I had to thank her as effusively as for Aunt Evelyn's Bell-hop toy, which I played with until it came apart, repeatedly.
Most of the gifts I was given as a child were because it was expected, not by me. I was nearly the only child in the whole extended family at the time, I had an impressive number of packages to open. Which I am grateful for, but they all imposed an overwhelming obligation. I remember few of them. To this day, I detest obligatory gifts, given or received.
I want no gifts. Not "for Christmas." A spontaneous gift of the heart, I can accept gladly. I love to give such. I got D a Cube amp, red, last month, called it a Christmas present, but it was really just to encourage him to play guitar more. He got me Imogen, the Macbook, for practical reasons, and in a burst of generosity. For Christmas, but not really. I unwrap sterile supplies all day long, unwrapping a gift has lost it's cachet.
These days, a helping hand, food ordered in, a small grace, relief arriving a little early, a cat on my ankles at night, health obtained, a small journey, the lost found, a song remembered and shared, another breath, all seem more glorious gifts than any tangible item could be.
I'm not sure about how mom found out, she has told the story since of the year I only wanted one thing, and only told Santa. And finding a child size shovel was not easy, apparently. But sure enough, on Christmas morning, there it was. With Jack-be-nimble jumping over a candlestick on a shovel I could use. I loved it, I shoveled with it, I made snow architecture with it. I lost it.
It showed up in the spring, after the snow melted in the back yard. It had been a very snowy year. I used it for many years, and jumped imaginary candles for Jack, while admiring the gift Santa brought.
The very best part of Santa gifts were that I did not have to thank anyone for them. By being good, I'd sort of earned them. Having a coal furnace growing up, I could easily picture a stocking with a lump of coal. Unlike pretending joy at a hard plastic doll, too small flannel pjs, or Aunt Betty's homemade toys, (one - an undisguised egg carton with numbers, and some ping pong balls.) Which, I suppose, if she'd actually liked me, might have been fine. I had to thank her as effusively as for Aunt Evelyn's Bell-hop toy, which I played with until it came apart, repeatedly.
Most of the gifts I was given as a child were because it was expected, not by me. I was nearly the only child in the whole extended family at the time, I had an impressive number of packages to open. Which I am grateful for, but they all imposed an overwhelming obligation. I remember few of them. To this day, I detest obligatory gifts, given or received.
I want no gifts. Not "for Christmas." A spontaneous gift of the heart, I can accept gladly. I love to give such. I got D a Cube amp, red, last month, called it a Christmas present, but it was really just to encourage him to play guitar more. He got me Imogen, the Macbook, for practical reasons, and in a burst of generosity. For Christmas, but not really. I unwrap sterile supplies all day long, unwrapping a gift has lost it's cachet.
These days, a helping hand, food ordered in, a small grace, relief arriving a little early, a cat on my ankles at night, health obtained, a small journey, the lost found, a song remembered and shared, another breath, all seem more glorious gifts than any tangible item could be.
Yule
Yesterday, every time those around me wished me a Merry Christmas, I responded warmly, joyfully in kind. A genuine opportunity for compassion. It can be a fraught holiday, a not uncommon experience. And it lost it's magic for me when I was rather small.
I was about nine, when my father, for his own peculiar reasons, castigated me for "pretending" to believe in Santa Claus, who I "knew" didn't exist, any more that the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny. He'd been unemployed that year after the copper tubing factory closed down, and had not yet gotten work at the River Rouge Plant. (He would be laid off again, then find work at Woodmere Cemetery as a groundskeeper, from which he would retire.) I was rebellious, if only in my heart. I knew there was a Santa, and I'd seen the Tooth Fairy, though I knew the gifts and money came from them. I'd have been content had Santa only put an orange and nuts in my stocking, I was not greedy, I had not bought into the entirety of the commercialized Santa. I knew we were not rich, and there was not money to spare that year.
I put up my stocking, in my room, knowing there would be some token there, simple proof that I was remembered, and part of the mystery. Of course, there was not. My ability to believe without proof died that morning. A cruel blessing. I spent that Christmas, the last one when both my brothers made it home, angry at the world and everyone in it. What was the point? I would nurture hatred for many years, largely against my father who had judged me grasping, convicted me without my voice, and damned me.
But I needed a festival of light in the dark of northern winters. By the next year, I threw myself into putting together and decorating the tree, as I had done with my brother when he lived at home. I sang in the church choir, I became a lector, to the delight of the little old ladies who made a point of telling me how clearly I spoke, and slowly. It was, in no small part, so that I would not have to sit with my father. I sat with the choir, or in the front row, alone. I began to really listen to the scripture.
And as I listened, I grew angrier. This was holy? This was how God wished me to live? It was so contradictory, spiteful at times, irrational and tedious. By the time I left home, to live on my own, I could not believe, and was bereft. What was Christmas without faith? Where was hope without God? I struggled, and resented those who had faith, who could believe. I was pushed by my older brother, first not to believe, then as he went back to Catholicism, to believe. By their fruits shall you know them, was my mantra. I tired of being an apologist.
This year, frustrated by work, tried, worried, I felt again the resentment, the disconnect. I put up the tree to cheer myself, a bit. But then a veterinary cardiologist gave me the gift of my dear friend back. And a nurse at work generously took my nasty night shift next week. When she won the huge gift basket raffle, I was overjoyed. Had I won, I would have given it to her in easy gratitude, but life did it for me. The happiness bubbled up, a river of appreciation, a freshet of love.
I strive not for holiness, but for the integrity of wholeness, which half believed faith erodes. I live to earn the love I am given. Others made me earn "unconditional" love that was grudgingly half given. I do not hope for miracles, but am attentive to the multitude of subtle miracles happening all the time, all around. I could never have imagined the gifts I have, I would have hoped for smaller, inadequate ones. I do not wish to limit the mystery by putting it into a little box, with a bow, inside a stocking.
Merry Christmas, Good Yule, Bon Hiver, Joyous Solstice. Whatever you believe, be sure it makes you whole.
I was about nine, when my father, for his own peculiar reasons, castigated me for "pretending" to believe in Santa Claus, who I "knew" didn't exist, any more that the Tooth Fairy or the Easter Bunny. He'd been unemployed that year after the copper tubing factory closed down, and had not yet gotten work at the River Rouge Plant. (He would be laid off again, then find work at Woodmere Cemetery as a groundskeeper, from which he would retire.) I was rebellious, if only in my heart. I knew there was a Santa, and I'd seen the Tooth Fairy, though I knew the gifts and money came from them. I'd have been content had Santa only put an orange and nuts in my stocking, I was not greedy, I had not bought into the entirety of the commercialized Santa. I knew we were not rich, and there was not money to spare that year.
I put up my stocking, in my room, knowing there would be some token there, simple proof that I was remembered, and part of the mystery. Of course, there was not. My ability to believe without proof died that morning. A cruel blessing. I spent that Christmas, the last one when both my brothers made it home, angry at the world and everyone in it. What was the point? I would nurture hatred for many years, largely against my father who had judged me grasping, convicted me without my voice, and damned me.
But I needed a festival of light in the dark of northern winters. By the next year, I threw myself into putting together and decorating the tree, as I had done with my brother when he lived at home. I sang in the church choir, I became a lector, to the delight of the little old ladies who made a point of telling me how clearly I spoke, and slowly. It was, in no small part, so that I would not have to sit with my father. I sat with the choir, or in the front row, alone. I began to really listen to the scripture.
And as I listened, I grew angrier. This was holy? This was how God wished me to live? It was so contradictory, spiteful at times, irrational and tedious. By the time I left home, to live on my own, I could not believe, and was bereft. What was Christmas without faith? Where was hope without God? I struggled, and resented those who had faith, who could believe. I was pushed by my older brother, first not to believe, then as he went back to Catholicism, to believe. By their fruits shall you know them, was my mantra. I tired of being an apologist.
This year, frustrated by work, tried, worried, I felt again the resentment, the disconnect. I put up the tree to cheer myself, a bit. But then a veterinary cardiologist gave me the gift of my dear friend back. And a nurse at work generously took my nasty night shift next week. When she won the huge gift basket raffle, I was overjoyed. Had I won, I would have given it to her in easy gratitude, but life did it for me. The happiness bubbled up, a river of appreciation, a freshet of love.
I strive not for holiness, but for the integrity of wholeness, which half believed faith erodes. I live to earn the love I am given. Others made me earn "unconditional" love that was grudgingly half given. I do not hope for miracles, but am attentive to the multitude of subtle miracles happening all the time, all around. I could never have imagined the gifts I have, I would have hoped for smaller, inadequate ones. I do not wish to limit the mystery by putting it into a little box, with a bow, inside a stocking.
Merry Christmas, Good Yule, Bon Hiver, Joyous Solstice. Whatever you believe, be sure it makes you whole.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Fur
He slept all day, and all last night on D's feet.
After we left the vet, I burst into tears of relief. That I would not lose such warm love. Oh, I know it is love by feline definition. No less love for that. We are not his parents, he is not our child. We are friends, regardless of species. There is a certain dependence on us, which we have to live up to.
I can hear my mother, who was raised during the depression, with a very different attitude toward pets. With dripping contempt, "All that, for an animal!" She liked and cared for a succession of three cats when I was a child living at home. She was not unkind, would not hurt any animal, had a large dog she loved as a kid. But she believed that people were people and animals were animals, and it was important to remember the difference. Fair enough, but we are not taking food out of a child's mouth. We don't see Moby as human, merely as a individual, with personality, deserving of respect and appropriate care.
He is a living feeling creature who we took into our home, to be responsible for his wellbeing. And he keeps us company, entertains us, comforts us, distracts us, shows us affection. He loves us because he trusts us, because we respect his catness, and feed him, and are kind to him. Is our love for each other really much different? I love D for much the same reasons. I trust him, he feeds me and is kind to me, and respects my eccentricity. I suspect he loves me for many of the same reasons.
Not to mention that both of my guys are beautiful. Body and soul.
After we left the vet, I burst into tears of relief. That I would not lose such warm love. Oh, I know it is love by feline definition. No less love for that. We are not his parents, he is not our child. We are friends, regardless of species. There is a certain dependence on us, which we have to live up to.
I can hear my mother, who was raised during the depression, with a very different attitude toward pets. With dripping contempt, "All that, for an animal!" She liked and cared for a succession of three cats when I was a child living at home. She was not unkind, would not hurt any animal, had a large dog she loved as a kid. But she believed that people were people and animals were animals, and it was important to remember the difference. Fair enough, but we are not taking food out of a child's mouth. We don't see Moby as human, merely as a individual, with personality, deserving of respect and appropriate care.
He is a living feeling creature who we took into our home, to be responsible for his wellbeing. And he keeps us company, entertains us, comforts us, distracts us, shows us affection. He loves us because he trusts us, because we respect his catness, and feed him, and are kind to him. Is our love for each other really much different? I love D for much the same reasons. I trust him, he feeds me and is kind to me, and respects my eccentricity. I suspect he loves me for many of the same reasons.
Not to mention that both of my guys are beautiful. Body and soul.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Trivial (Photo)
Moby has a "Trivial" tricuspid valve regurgitation, a heart murmur. Nothing that we need worry about, not associated with subsequent heart disease. He got his front armpits shaved, his chest covered with Aquagel goo, a funny lampshade hat, and was held down much longer than he wanted to be still. But he got through it without needing sedation, and with the admiration of the cardiologist and tech. He really is a very even tempered cat. Five point three kilograms of furry blessing on our lives.
Scrub
I enjoyed work yesterday more than I have for a long, long time. Because most of the day, I got to scrub in, because I felt that wonderful flow of doing the work well. Because I loved the cases I got to see. It's that horrible flipside, the worse the problem, the more interesting for those of us working on it. And, you WANT that. Later, I will feel bad for the sufferer. But in that moment, that worst case is a knotty problem to be solved. I'm fascinated, not repelled or nauseated, all my attention is in that moment. Very zen, that.
And I got to smart off to a surgeon. R was scrubbed on a spine case with Dr.P. He complained about her stray hairs, so she walked over to me, so I could tuck. A normal part of a circulator's job, goes along with adjusting glasses, headlights, masks, for those whose hands are in sterile gloves. Nose scratching is usually done by the sterile itchee, hands free, on the edge of a door or shelf, or with a sterile intrument, then passed off the field.
So, I am tucking R's hair back in, and, it being very blonde, as soon as she turns, I see a bit more that has escaped. Dr. P askes for a curette. I order him, "Get it yourself, I'm tucking her hair." R looks at me with wide eyes, expecting the unpredictable Dr. P to react.
What he says is, "Never get between two women fussing with their hair."
"That's right." I confirm, and let her return to scrubbing. R giggles. Levity maintained.
I also got to be a comfort this week. A man not much younger than myself with an embarrassing emergency. The charge nurse felt she had to talk me into doing the case, since here I am 'ortho', not urology. "It's kinda like a bone." But I have spent my time as a penis princess, and didn't mind at all. I do know my work. It felt good to feel so competent, and then, to have the right words, the right touch. On his shoulder. Jeeze people.
"At least this happened because you were doing something normal. Not like you stuck a bottle up your bum, or a ball bearing into your bladder."
"Oh. No. Nothing like that." And although he was still embarrassed, he laughed, and trusted us to treat him with respect. We did giggle, later, but that is just one of the rare perks of the job. The stories and the jokes, far removed from the individual involved. We have to laugh, hoping we never do anything to deserve it ourselves.
It's the stories that make the agony all worthwhile.
And I got to smart off to a surgeon. R was scrubbed on a spine case with Dr.P. He complained about her stray hairs, so she walked over to me, so I could tuck. A normal part of a circulator's job, goes along with adjusting glasses, headlights, masks, for those whose hands are in sterile gloves. Nose scratching is usually done by the sterile itchee, hands free, on the edge of a door or shelf, or with a sterile intrument, then passed off the field.
So, I am tucking R's hair back in, and, it being very blonde, as soon as she turns, I see a bit more that has escaped. Dr. P askes for a curette. I order him, "Get it yourself, I'm tucking her hair." R looks at me with wide eyes, expecting the unpredictable Dr. P to react.
What he says is, "Never get between two women fussing with their hair."
"That's right." I confirm, and let her return to scrubbing. R giggles. Levity maintained.
I also got to be a comfort this week. A man not much younger than myself with an embarrassing emergency. The charge nurse felt she had to talk me into doing the case, since here I am 'ortho', not urology. "It's kinda like a bone." But I have spent my time as a penis princess, and didn't mind at all. I do know my work. It felt good to feel so competent, and then, to have the right words, the right touch. On his shoulder. Jeeze people.
"At least this happened because you were doing something normal. Not like you stuck a bottle up your bum, or a ball bearing into your bladder."
"Oh. No. Nothing like that." And although he was still embarrassed, he laughed, and trusted us to treat him with respect. We did giggle, later, but that is just one of the rare perks of the job. The stories and the jokes, far removed from the individual involved. We have to laugh, hoping we never do anything to deserve it ourselves.
It's the stories that make the agony all worthwhile.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Am
Nurse, writer. Somehow, that combination would not have entered my mind when I was most often being asked that unanswerable question "what do you want to be?" I wanted to be an actress, with my own show, like That Girl. or the Brady Bunch, or the Waltons, or Nanny and the Professor. I was going to be very funny. I watched way too much TV, as many of my generation did. I took my examples of what I could be from there. And the people in my life that I liked.
Uncle Walt was a private pilot, or he had his license I should say. He was building a small plane in a garage in his back yard. I was young, and prone to carsickness, so I was promised a flight "later." Later never came, so I wanted to be a pilot. I'd have been awful, for a very short time. Not good with distances and three dimensional space, nor did I develop an eye for detail or thoroughness until I was in my 30s. I might be a decent pilot now, but I've lost the urgency for that. And a lovely man I dated at a short but critical moment of my life who took me up in his small plane, redeemed the promise.
I wanted to be a ballet dancer, of course. Those inexpensive classes at Patton Park were more my mother's dream, but I am glad of them. Even if my hip is a bit screwy for it. My feet were already twisted, makes no difference. Never good with choreography, not quite flexible enough, nor anywhere near determined enough. I enjoyed the rhythmic movement, the sense of ease and accomplishment, the exactitude of ballet. We even had an elderly gentleman who came in to play piano for our 20 or so eight-year-old little girls plie-ing. ("Colored Gentleman" my mother would say, intended as respectful and polite. And it was, then.) Those huge mirrors in the dance room are probably why I still love gazing into a mirror. And now so enjoy these "photobooth" images.
I loved art history, and a high school art teacher put me in for a scholarship for that major. I shied away from college, a 3.8GPA, Merit Scholarship, and I didn't feel smart enough for it. I did a radio broacast course, and got a job in Northwest Lower Michigan, hated the work, isolated and wretched. I was no good at all at patter. I had no small talk, then. Still a skill I have to put a lot of energy into, and I tend to get very offensive with anyone trite, if I drop my reticence. (Chatting to comfort a patient is another set of skills, entirely. Which also took me practice. )
No, when I went to college, it was for acting. I didn't quite realize that acting and Theater are distinct. Theater programs are for plays and memorizing dialogue, and musical theater. Acting, for me, was about TV and movies, telling stories, voice acting, characters. There is certainly overlap, but not for me. It was good therapy, I needed it. But as an actor, auditioning and singin' and dancin'... I was going to starve. Not to mention I am not photogenic. Not pretty by Hollywood standards. Not interested in NY nor LA. I'd never quite realized it was a business.
I wanted to be a massage therapist. Everyone told me I should, I have a talent, what I call pain magnets on my fingers. I was most of the way through an apprenticeship (Massage colleges were just starting to be available.) Finishing my clinical hours, I was propositioned. I backpedaled furiously, and really looked at it for the business that it is. I have no talent at all for business. I was too far from the only places that would have hired me, and I was not about to go alone and start up a storefront shop.
About that time, I joined the National Guard, and decided to quit mucking about, buckle down, and do whatever was necessary to have a marketable skill, that still allowed me to touch people. I set my sights on a BSN. Army style, until I came to my senses.
Nursing seemed the perfect choice for a generalist like myself. A pragmatic decision, nothing romantic at all. I'd done a lot of the jobs that my patients would have. I could talk about anything. I could learn the rest. I'd enjoyed hearing stories, and random people always told me intimate stories. I explained concepts well, and I had good touch, I was calm in the midst of crisis. I found I liked the hard sciences I'd feared before, or was too lazy to apply my mind to after high school.
And surgery? One patient at a time, protocols so I didn't have to not only do my work, but also figure out what my work was. No ironing uniforms, work in PJs. At least two doctors responsible in the room, cool stuff to watch, toys and tech galore, very little math. No patient or family lying to me, no pile of pills to give out three times a day, no underlings who I have to supervise, I'm no more a supervisor than an entrepreneur. And when I went home at the end of the day, there was nothing left hanging over my head for the next day. When I passed off my room, I would not see that case again, and usually not see that patient again. Very freeing.
Perfect? Hardly. But a pretty good match for my abilities and deficits. I've learned more than I could have imagined.
And writer? Well, actually I always assumed I would write a book someday, when I'd lived a bit, had some stories to tell, had some perspective. When I imagined myself in my sitcom, I thought about how it hung together, motivation, consistency, continuity, retelling it over and over in my head. Not bad practice. The problem I'm still wrestling with is the heart of writing, conflict. I like boring, means nothing is going wrong. Life is quite hard enough with out badguys. I don't want to write about the nasty people in my life. They are not funny. Not yet.
I have learned to organize, streamline, listen acutely, perservere, keep working. I'm not lazy anymore. Not about the hard stuff, anyway. I know if I get the tedious and difficult done, I can sit and dither. Enlightened laziness.
Oo. There's a self help book in that phrase alone.
Uncle Walt was a private pilot, or he had his license I should say. He was building a small plane in a garage in his back yard. I was young, and prone to carsickness, so I was promised a flight "later." Later never came, so I wanted to be a pilot. I'd have been awful, for a very short time. Not good with distances and three dimensional space, nor did I develop an eye for detail or thoroughness until I was in my 30s. I might be a decent pilot now, but I've lost the urgency for that. And a lovely man I dated at a short but critical moment of my life who took me up in his small plane, redeemed the promise.
I wanted to be a ballet dancer, of course. Those inexpensive classes at Patton Park were more my mother's dream, but I am glad of them. Even if my hip is a bit screwy for it. My feet were already twisted, makes no difference. Never good with choreography, not quite flexible enough, nor anywhere near determined enough. I enjoyed the rhythmic movement, the sense of ease and accomplishment, the exactitude of ballet. We even had an elderly gentleman who came in to play piano for our 20 or so eight-year-old little girls plie-ing. ("Colored Gentleman" my mother would say, intended as respectful and polite. And it was, then.) Those huge mirrors in the dance room are probably why I still love gazing into a mirror. And now so enjoy these "photobooth" images.
I loved art history, and a high school art teacher put me in for a scholarship for that major. I shied away from college, a 3.8GPA, Merit Scholarship, and I didn't feel smart enough for it. I did a radio broacast course, and got a job in Northwest Lower Michigan, hated the work, isolated and wretched. I was no good at all at patter. I had no small talk, then. Still a skill I have to put a lot of energy into, and I tend to get very offensive with anyone trite, if I drop my reticence. (Chatting to comfort a patient is another set of skills, entirely. Which also took me practice. )
No, when I went to college, it was for acting. I didn't quite realize that acting and Theater are distinct. Theater programs are for plays and memorizing dialogue, and musical theater. Acting, for me, was about TV and movies, telling stories, voice acting, characters. There is certainly overlap, but not for me. It was good therapy, I needed it. But as an actor, auditioning and singin' and dancin'... I was going to starve. Not to mention I am not photogenic. Not pretty by Hollywood standards. Not interested in NY nor LA. I'd never quite realized it was a business.
I wanted to be a massage therapist. Everyone told me I should, I have a talent, what I call pain magnets on my fingers. I was most of the way through an apprenticeship (Massage colleges were just starting to be available.) Finishing my clinical hours, I was propositioned. I backpedaled furiously, and really looked at it for the business that it is. I have no talent at all for business. I was too far from the only places that would have hired me, and I was not about to go alone and start up a storefront shop.
About that time, I joined the National Guard, and decided to quit mucking about, buckle down, and do whatever was necessary to have a marketable skill, that still allowed me to touch people. I set my sights on a BSN. Army style, until I came to my senses.
Nursing seemed the perfect choice for a generalist like myself. A pragmatic decision, nothing romantic at all. I'd done a lot of the jobs that my patients would have. I could talk about anything. I could learn the rest. I'd enjoyed hearing stories, and random people always told me intimate stories. I explained concepts well, and I had good touch, I was calm in the midst of crisis. I found I liked the hard sciences I'd feared before, or was too lazy to apply my mind to after high school.
And surgery? One patient at a time, protocols so I didn't have to not only do my work, but also figure out what my work was. No ironing uniforms, work in PJs. At least two doctors responsible in the room, cool stuff to watch, toys and tech galore, very little math. No patient or family lying to me, no pile of pills to give out three times a day, no underlings who I have to supervise, I'm no more a supervisor than an entrepreneur. And when I went home at the end of the day, there was nothing left hanging over my head for the next day. When I passed off my room, I would not see that case again, and usually not see that patient again. Very freeing.
Perfect? Hardly. But a pretty good match for my abilities and deficits. I've learned more than I could have imagined.
And writer? Well, actually I always assumed I would write a book someday, when I'd lived a bit, had some stories to tell, had some perspective. When I imagined myself in my sitcom, I thought about how it hung together, motivation, consistency, continuity, retelling it over and over in my head. Not bad practice. The problem I'm still wrestling with is the heart of writing, conflict. I like boring, means nothing is going wrong. Life is quite hard enough with out badguys. I don't want to write about the nasty people in my life. They are not funny. Not yet.
I have learned to organize, streamline, listen acutely, perservere, keep working. I'm not lazy anymore. Not about the hard stuff, anyway. I know if I get the tedious and difficult done, I can sit and dither. Enlightened laziness.
Oo. There's a self help book in that phrase alone.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Cheer (Photo)
Lileks and his Institute of Official Cheer.
This is why I am laughing, ruefully. Go, waste a few hours, days or months here.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Imogen (Photo and Essay)
At 0550 on Tuesday morning, my crushed index finger, from a swinging door (in the OR, which is stupid beyond all belief) and an oblivious surgeon who would not take one step to allow me in, failed me. That mug of tea in my hand, slipped in my grasp, indescribably, a lapse in memory and attention, and splashed all over the new macbook, named Imogen. The old computer donated to friends already gone, the new one a gift of generosity and practicality from D, astonishingly covered in tea.
I reacted, wiped, tipped, blasted canned air, raising a cloud of tannins. D, thankfully, was up, and being an old mac IT guy, was reassuring and took over from me, as I had to run off to work. He disassembled, researched, dried, and generally reassured me. I staggered off to work, and had an awful day of being snapped at by a hyper-tense surgeon that I generally don't work with, outside my specialty, in a room I've never worked in, with a new traveling tech who needed excessive support, after being set up by the charge folks way over there far from the ortho I love. With a sore, crushed index finger.
The most paranoid advice was to allow Imogen to dry for four days. D found less conservative suggestions, and hopeful signs - dry battery, dry motherboard. I worried. D set up his old iBook, Albion, for me. I waited, Imogen dried. I worried. Other worries gushed through the gap of a technical difficulty. Moby's heart murmur, Moira's need for fortitude, long tested, D's future plans. All the young women discussing their party dresses, asking me, "Going to the Xmas party?" (Answer, no, never even considered it.) My uneasy distancing from my mother - because my cousin here has an xmas card from her for me, has me chewing on that old bone of discontent.
So, although I could technically have posted, I did not. I paid my comments on your blogs, though my heart was not much in them. Sorry. The anxiety creeps up, as I hang in limbo. I snap at D, complain, cry, lie on the couch flipping channels, drink beer, drink tea, let my joints stiffen and ignore the pain until it forces attention.
This morning, D woke up Imogen, and I made waffles in an attempt at distraction. She has a rather pretty splash of light under the LCD layer of the monitor. Everything else works, apparently. D still wants her to have a check-up. He reminded me on Wednesday of the show A Piece of Cake. A pilot who misses his grip, falls and breaks his neck, dead. Little kid on a bike comes out of nowhere, and D is left with a mangled elbow, a year of PT and two surgeries to make it functional. I try to eat a steak tip at a party, wind up unconscious, with rescue efforts that leave me bruised and frightened, with disc herniations. Life changes in a moment. Life changes in every moment.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Six
Six weird things about me, while violating of this meme's strict rules.
1. I crack my toes. Not just with my fingers, idly, while sitting on the couch. Violently hitting my toes down on the floor, pushing against the blankets in bed, whenever I take off my shoes, before I put my shoes on. A very 'dancer' thing.
2. I also pick items on the floor up with my toes. Only when I am unshod. Well, if I am scrubbed in, I use my feet to move cords and tubes on the floor, or shift the kick-bucket, but among scrubs, this is normal behaviour.
3. I talk for animals and things. Expressing their opinions, feelings, and attitudes, as best I can interpret. I learned this talent from my Aunt Alma.
4. I am very exact about details whenever I dress in what I consider a uniform. Leftover from the Army, probably. I have my pens in my left breast pocket, tuck in the ties of my scrubs, that sort of thing.
5. I love puns, especially puns on familiar song lyrics, then singing them. This is a spur of the moment phenomenon. I'll try to remember to write down the next one I do. This always makes D laugh. Confuses cow-orkers.
6. I have imagined the deaths of everyone I know, both individually and collectively, and how I would feel and react. This causes me great grief in some cases, and immense relief in others.
1. I crack my toes. Not just with my fingers, idly, while sitting on the couch. Violently hitting my toes down on the floor, pushing against the blankets in bed, whenever I take off my shoes, before I put my shoes on. A very 'dancer' thing.
2. I also pick items on the floor up with my toes. Only when I am unshod. Well, if I am scrubbed in, I use my feet to move cords and tubes on the floor, or shift the kick-bucket, but among scrubs, this is normal behaviour.
3. I talk for animals and things. Expressing their opinions, feelings, and attitudes, as best I can interpret. I learned this talent from my Aunt Alma.
4. I am very exact about details whenever I dress in what I consider a uniform. Leftover from the Army, probably. I have my pens in my left breast pocket, tuck in the ties of my scrubs, that sort of thing.
5. I love puns, especially puns on familiar song lyrics, then singing them. This is a spur of the moment phenomenon. I'll try to remember to write down the next one I do. This always makes D laugh. Confuses cow-orkers.
6. I have imagined the deaths of everyone I know, both individually and collectively, and how I would feel and react. This causes me great grief in some cases, and immense relief in others.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Friday, December 08, 2006
Morning
Every work morning, I put on the kettle while I take my shower. I only vaguely remember the shower, since I am not entirely awake right after 5AM, but my muscles remember to get me clean and deodorized, clean toothed, and dried generally.
I find my clothes laid out from the night before, and get them on without falling over. I get the hot water to boil again, spoon our the Taj Mahal loose tea from the red tin with the nifty latch- a Christmas gift that held - something. Hear the kettle click off and pour water into the white two cup pot, then into the bowl of cream of wheat fortified with wheat germ. Add a square of Trader Joe's dark chocolate to the cereal, strain the tea into my brown mug with red interior, stir cereal well to avoid lumpiness. Start the computer, and sit with nourishment and theophylline to read comics, weather on noaa.gov, Fortean Times "On this day..." and Engrish.com.
I sip, spoon, Moby may reach up to greet me, or want to play, or want me to sit by him while he eats, or may well just sleep on, ignoring me completely. At nearly six, I finish up, slide on my shoes, grab my bag with T pass, make sure I have keys, lunch if planned the night before, keys, watch, glasses, coat, and these days, hat, scarf, gloves. Then my backpack. I turn off the lights, and grope my way to the bedroom. I kiss D, with immense gratitude that I have him there. If he is anything but finally, fast asleep after a bad night of insomnia, he will murmur, "I love you." I go out, lock the door behind me, and walk the half mile or so to the train stop.
I find my clothes laid out from the night before, and get them on without falling over. I get the hot water to boil again, spoon our the Taj Mahal loose tea from the red tin with the nifty latch- a Christmas gift that held - something. Hear the kettle click off and pour water into the white two cup pot, then into the bowl of cream of wheat fortified with wheat germ. Add a square of Trader Joe's dark chocolate to the cereal, strain the tea into my brown mug with red interior, stir cereal well to avoid lumpiness. Start the computer, and sit with nourishment and theophylline to read comics, weather on noaa.gov, Fortean Times "On this day..." and Engrish.com.
I sip, spoon, Moby may reach up to greet me, or want to play, or want me to sit by him while he eats, or may well just sleep on, ignoring me completely. At nearly six, I finish up, slide on my shoes, grab my bag with T pass, make sure I have keys, lunch if planned the night before, keys, watch, glasses, coat, and these days, hat, scarf, gloves. Then my backpack. I turn off the lights, and grope my way to the bedroom. I kiss D, with immense gratitude that I have him there. If he is anything but finally, fast asleep after a bad night of insomnia, he will murmur, "I love you." I go out, lock the door behind me, and walk the half mile or so to the train stop.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
I (Photo)
Cassandras' Fish has been revamped. I have expanded and changed the not necessarily final ending. I have gone through and de-that-ed, and un-was-ified as much as I could. This is a work in progress. Comments are much appreciated.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Monday, December 04, 2006
Sunday, December 03, 2006
Friday, December 01, 2006
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