I married, this time,
Intelligence and reason
a lovely adult.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Friday, April 13, 2007
Haiku (#10)
Attention drawn small
The fissured pad of a paw
He demands my skills.
A poem about a Grackle that made me laugh. Then look up grackle on wiki. Thank you Nancy Ruth, and your dear one Bill.
The fissured pad of a paw
He demands my skills.
A poem about a Grackle that made me laugh. Then look up grackle on wiki. Thank you Nancy Ruth, and your dear one Bill.
Blood
Blood has a smell.
Moby was vocal, at 4AM, eloquent cat poems, with a note of complaint, as is usual on the occasions he choses to speak. Not meow, not howl, but the best he can do with a predator's mouth, no lips, sharp teeth. D got up, and unloaded the dishwasher in pursuit of a milk glass, as I stumbled out into the dimly lit kitchen.
Moby follows me around as I get dressed, stepping up onto my half socked foot, and pressing his teeth to my big toe, which is odd. We decide to give him some of the good canned cat food, hoarded, not replenishable until the Recall is over. As he scarfs loudly, I notice what looks like dropped corn flakes, or flower petals all over the kitchen floor.
"Did you drop something on the floor?" I ask, and turn the light up. I wonder if the now paw shaped marks are tomato sauce, and did we leave any out? The little spots are scattered onto the carpet, and Moby's blanket on the stool. I stoop, wet my finger, rub some of the stain, and sniff.
I know the tang of blood, sticky and acrid. As soon as he is done eating, to his great irritation, I pick him up, and a smear of blood from his paw crosses my thumb. I try to blot with a tissue, to see the source. Over his objections, I wrestle him, with D's help, to a position to examine his paw. The same pad that gets irritated, swollen, dry, but the vet didn't have a good treatment, and it usually doesn't bother him, aside from, perhaps 'feeling funny' or maybe itching, based on his behaviour. He does not react with a painful pull-back when I press the pad. There is a tear, though and fissures extending to his toe pads. And it's bleeding, oozing.
Mind you, it's 5AM. I'm in the middle of packing. I know I want some coban ( a magic dressing that only sticks to itself, used in vet medicine often.) Cannot find it, and don't want him running around. D holds him, while I search. What I find is an ampule of a sort of bioglue, liquid bandage, accidentally brought home in a pocket from the evening before. Used to seal small lacerations in children, or for difficult to suture areas, faces, plastic surgery. Perfect.
It ain't pretty. It does sting. I hold him tight, his back to my belly, my arm holding his paws out from under his armpits, an undignified posture, which amuses D out of the worst of his worry, until the stuff has a chance to dry properly. Moby is fairly sanguine about this part, for long enough.
I am getting short on time, hungry, still not thinking well. D encourages me to play hookey, and I don't resist. What are they going to do? Take away my raise next year? Empty threat. I stay home, and make sure Moby is ok. D would have stayed home if I had not, and he did not need that today, for unrelated reasons.
So, D mops the kitchen, I spot clean the scores of bloody paw prints on the carpet, both of us are down with brushes finally. Moby is sitting in the bedroom, ruffled, but not chewing.
Why? Cat version of nail biting? Missing his favorite smelly food? Lancing a sore? His paw actually looks much better, now, than it has for months. I'll apply glycerine frequently, as a tardy precaution, starting tomorrow.
D and Moby crashed on the bed for an hour. Well, Moby is still there, calm, apparently not much bothered. Watching my comings and goings, accepting of my comfort and affection.
The thoughts going through my head, as I searched for tiny drops of blood, all over the TV stand, were that I hoped there would never be a crime scene in this apartment, or they are going to be confused by the presence of old cat blood. And that Moby, in Cat, was telling us that he was having a spot of trouble with his paw, and could we please make it right. Now.
Moby was vocal, at 4AM, eloquent cat poems, with a note of complaint, as is usual on the occasions he choses to speak. Not meow, not howl, but the best he can do with a predator's mouth, no lips, sharp teeth. D got up, and unloaded the dishwasher in pursuit of a milk glass, as I stumbled out into the dimly lit kitchen.
Moby follows me around as I get dressed, stepping up onto my half socked foot, and pressing his teeth to my big toe, which is odd. We decide to give him some of the good canned cat food, hoarded, not replenishable until the Recall is over. As he scarfs loudly, I notice what looks like dropped corn flakes, or flower petals all over the kitchen floor.
"Did you drop something on the floor?" I ask, and turn the light up. I wonder if the now paw shaped marks are tomato sauce, and did we leave any out? The little spots are scattered onto the carpet, and Moby's blanket on the stool. I stoop, wet my finger, rub some of the stain, and sniff.
I know the tang of blood, sticky and acrid. As soon as he is done eating, to his great irritation, I pick him up, and a smear of blood from his paw crosses my thumb. I try to blot with a tissue, to see the source. Over his objections, I wrestle him, with D's help, to a position to examine his paw. The same pad that gets irritated, swollen, dry, but the vet didn't have a good treatment, and it usually doesn't bother him, aside from, perhaps 'feeling funny' or maybe itching, based on his behaviour. He does not react with a painful pull-back when I press the pad. There is a tear, though and fissures extending to his toe pads. And it's bleeding, oozing.
Mind you, it's 5AM. I'm in the middle of packing. I know I want some coban ( a magic dressing that only sticks to itself, used in vet medicine often.) Cannot find it, and don't want him running around. D holds him, while I search. What I find is an ampule of a sort of bioglue, liquid bandage, accidentally brought home in a pocket from the evening before. Used to seal small lacerations in children, or for difficult to suture areas, faces, plastic surgery. Perfect.
It ain't pretty. It does sting. I hold him tight, his back to my belly, my arm holding his paws out from under his armpits, an undignified posture, which amuses D out of the worst of his worry, until the stuff has a chance to dry properly. Moby is fairly sanguine about this part, for long enough.
I am getting short on time, hungry, still not thinking well. D encourages me to play hookey, and I don't resist. What are they going to do? Take away my raise next year? Empty threat. I stay home, and make sure Moby is ok. D would have stayed home if I had not, and he did not need that today, for unrelated reasons.
So, D mops the kitchen, I spot clean the scores of bloody paw prints on the carpet, both of us are down with brushes finally. Moby is sitting in the bedroom, ruffled, but not chewing.
Why? Cat version of nail biting? Missing his favorite smelly food? Lancing a sore? His paw actually looks much better, now, than it has for months. I'll apply glycerine frequently, as a tardy precaution, starting tomorrow.
D and Moby crashed on the bed for an hour. Well, Moby is still there, calm, apparently not much bothered. Watching my comings and goings, accepting of my comfort and affection.
The thoughts going through my head, as I searched for tiny drops of blood, all over the TV stand, were that I hoped there would never be a crime scene in this apartment, or they are going to be confused by the presence of old cat blood. And that Moby, in Cat, was telling us that he was having a spot of trouble with his paw, and could we please make it right. Now.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Haiku (#8)
Three more boxes packed
accumulation of lists
cooking for Moby.
Trader Joe's has voluntarily taken their beloved wet canned cat food off the shelves, as a precaution. Which is good, really, I suppose. But now I have to keep a hungry cat fed. Willingly, sure, but, I'm not the best cook. I will to the wings and giblets, add some of the kibble, wet it down, so that he gets his taurine.
I had a flash of inspiration, while cooking for Moby, as Aunt Alma did for her fat black poodle, Gigi. Gigi entered the family shortly after me, and was my most beloved companion, as I was hers. Aunt Alma always knew when my parents were about to stop by, because Gigi would not leave the front window. She knew when I was near. I would throw her ball for her again and again. I am told I brushed her teeth with my toothbrush when I was small. I abetted her in the theft of my steak, once. I looked at Moby, who was originally named Midnight, like the lovable and mellow black cat who tolerated rides on my shoulders when a cat was the only person I could have carried at all.
And I considered reincarnation.
Gigi, Midnight, Moby. Hopefully, the reward for many well lived lives.
accumulation of lists
cooking for Moby.
Trader Joe's has voluntarily taken their beloved wet canned cat food off the shelves, as a precaution. Which is good, really, I suppose. But now I have to keep a hungry cat fed. Willingly, sure, but, I'm not the best cook. I will to the wings and giblets, add some of the kibble, wet it down, so that he gets his taurine.
I had a flash of inspiration, while cooking for Moby, as Aunt Alma did for her fat black poodle, Gigi. Gigi entered the family shortly after me, and was my most beloved companion, as I was hers. Aunt Alma always knew when my parents were about to stop by, because Gigi would not leave the front window. She knew when I was near. I would throw her ball for her again and again. I am told I brushed her teeth with my toothbrush when I was small. I abetted her in the theft of my steak, once. I looked at Moby, who was originally named Midnight, like the lovable and mellow black cat who tolerated rides on my shoulders when a cat was the only person I could have carried at all.
And I considered reincarnation.
Gigi, Midnight, Moby. Hopefully, the reward for many well lived lives.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Haiku (#7)
Through the dark, the chime
The dream holds me close and warm
Duty swings my feet.
I spoke with an unkind person about the value of kindness today. She, of course, agreed heartily, unaware of how she is seen, how often her actions and words are cruel. I wonder how often I seem mean when I try to be of use, grateful, helpful.
The dream holds me close and warm
Duty swings my feet.
I spoke with an unkind person about the value of kindness today. She, of course, agreed heartily, unaware of how she is seen, how often her actions and words are cruel. I wonder how often I seem mean when I try to be of use, grateful, helpful.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Haiku (#6)
Cold wet wind whips knives
The sun shyly warms an arm
Gusts steal ease from knees.
I've just heard, I have been offered my old job back, anew. Different sort of place, after three years, of course. Different people, different job in many ways. But, well, home. D told me, 'of course, they'd have to be crazy not to hire you.' Which left a possible loophole. My former manager would have taken me on, but she's going to the new hospital, and a different manager had to interview me for the older place. I never want to take this sort of thing for granted.
We have a possible apartment, but not definite, not yet, still looking. Just in case.
We have a downpayment on a car (necessary there), but it may not be available until a couple weeks in, and we have little choice in the color. Will have to rent a vehicle, perhaps.
D received a letter, welcoming him to the PhD program, but as he held the envelope, we both had the momentary terror that it was to inform him of a terrible mistake.
We have movers, but a five day window for the day they will take our stuff.
I spent the weekend packing, and discarding. We have much less stuff than we did three years ago, our friends will be happy to learn. Not that we will expect moving help from them this time.
We worry. It's what we do.
The sun shyly warms an arm
Gusts steal ease from knees.
I've just heard, I have been offered my old job back, anew. Different sort of place, after three years, of course. Different people, different job in many ways. But, well, home. D told me, 'of course, they'd have to be crazy not to hire you.' Which left a possible loophole. My former manager would have taken me on, but she's going to the new hospital, and a different manager had to interview me for the older place. I never want to take this sort of thing for granted.
We have a possible apartment, but not definite, not yet, still looking. Just in case.
We have a downpayment on a car (necessary there), but it may not be available until a couple weeks in, and we have little choice in the color. Will have to rent a vehicle, perhaps.
D received a letter, welcoming him to the PhD program, but as he held the envelope, we both had the momentary terror that it was to inform him of a terrible mistake.
We have movers, but a five day window for the day they will take our stuff.
I spent the weekend packing, and discarding. We have much less stuff than we did three years ago, our friends will be happy to learn. Not that we will expect moving help from them this time.
We worry. It's what we do.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Friday, April 06, 2007
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Haiku (#1)
The rain fog mist drifts
mud wetly slurps into socks
sad grass needs to sponge.
Beware, I'm in a mood to inflict bad poetry on all and sundry. This may become a theme of the waiting.
mud wetly slurps into socks
sad grass needs to sponge.
Beware, I'm in a mood to inflict bad poetry on all and sundry. This may become a theme of the waiting.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Job
"Wow, I'm glad you can do this, I know I couldn't!"
Versions on "I don't know how you do this work." I hear it often. But I feel the same about other's jobs. I don't know how surgeons can keep going and going, then find themselves with a bit of difficult anatomy, more damage, friable vessels that require tedious repairs, a bone fixation that looks good until the x-ray shows it not, and they have to start all over again, another whole procedure that needs to happen, family called for consent, and hours more fiddly, careful process.
I don't know how school teachers manage, all those little aliens running around, uninvolved parents complaining, principles and school boards and the mass of government breathing down their necks, yet they somehow manage to teach most of the little buggers something.
I don't know how EMTs manage, underpaid and making up their job as they go along. Or police, dealing with drunks and users, criminals and violence, as well as innocent victims and ordinary citizens, amazing more are not alcoholic and or corrupt. Most are good folks doing a difficult job.
I don't know how anyone survives cubicleville, sitting all day, keeping some kind of focus on doing a job. Every day, the same schedule, the paper, the memos, the meetings. IT guys, with everyone ragging on them all day, as they deal with users who are afraid to restart the computer, don't know how to check that everything is plugged in, eat over their keyboards, and want perfection at all times, then panic to the Help Desk when it is not.
I don't know how dancers and actors and musicians cope with always having to find another gig to pay rent.
I am in my right job, I love it more than it annoys me. What seems like it would be hard from those who it would not fit, are usually not the hard bits. The gross stuff, is just like the nuts and bolts of any job, it becomes background noise very quickly. The paperwork, is my way of communicating - a small point of satisfaction. The emotional wreckage, is practiced. The worst was finding the words at first, now I have patter that comes on. Genuinely meant, but the phrases are well used, the jokes well worn in, I know what to say, because I have done it so often before. I feel that emotional connection gives back far more than it takes away, to both me and the patient and family. I pour it out, and it flows back down to me. Tales to tell, souls to cherish. The absurdity of people to laugh about.
The difficult aspects are all about being hindered in doing my work well. Having to work around the people who are supposed to be helping. Equipment or supplies not available. Petty cliques. Sharp corners and the resultant bruises. Armless anesthesiologists (Those look like arms, but they don't do anything.) The inept, the new, the clueless, the irritating. Just like in every other job, joy or misery is all about who you work with.
Think you couldn't do my job? I feel the same way about yours.
Versions on "I don't know how you do this work." I hear it often. But I feel the same about other's jobs. I don't know how surgeons can keep going and going, then find themselves with a bit of difficult anatomy, more damage, friable vessels that require tedious repairs, a bone fixation that looks good until the x-ray shows it not, and they have to start all over again, another whole procedure that needs to happen, family called for consent, and hours more fiddly, careful process.
I don't know how school teachers manage, all those little aliens running around, uninvolved parents complaining, principles and school boards and the mass of government breathing down their necks, yet they somehow manage to teach most of the little buggers something.
I don't know how EMTs manage, underpaid and making up their job as they go along. Or police, dealing with drunks and users, criminals and violence, as well as innocent victims and ordinary citizens, amazing more are not alcoholic and or corrupt. Most are good folks doing a difficult job.
I don't know how anyone survives cubicleville, sitting all day, keeping some kind of focus on doing a job. Every day, the same schedule, the paper, the memos, the meetings. IT guys, with everyone ragging on them all day, as they deal with users who are afraid to restart the computer, don't know how to check that everything is plugged in, eat over their keyboards, and want perfection at all times, then panic to the Help Desk when it is not.
I don't know how dancers and actors and musicians cope with always having to find another gig to pay rent.
I am in my right job, I love it more than it annoys me. What seems like it would be hard from those who it would not fit, are usually not the hard bits. The gross stuff, is just like the nuts and bolts of any job, it becomes background noise very quickly. The paperwork, is my way of communicating - a small point of satisfaction. The emotional wreckage, is practiced. The worst was finding the words at first, now I have patter that comes on. Genuinely meant, but the phrases are well used, the jokes well worn in, I know what to say, because I have done it so often before. I feel that emotional connection gives back far more than it takes away, to both me and the patient and family. I pour it out, and it flows back down to me. Tales to tell, souls to cherish. The absurdity of people to laugh about.
The difficult aspects are all about being hindered in doing my work well. Having to work around the people who are supposed to be helping. Equipment or supplies not available. Petty cliques. Sharp corners and the resultant bruises. Armless anesthesiologists (Those look like arms, but they don't do anything.) The inept, the new, the clueless, the irritating. Just like in every other job, joy or misery is all about who you work with.
Think you couldn't do my job? I feel the same way about yours.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Fool
I'm glad yesterday wasn't today, because if yesterday was today, I would suspect it for an April Fool.
I thought I had the day off, having misread the counterintuitive codes for an odd shift as a day off. (H should mean Holiday, not 1100-2100.) I slept in, wrote quite a lot, ate cereal, drank tea, ruffled Moby, planned a dither downtown, all the usual day off stuff. At noon, I got a call. (Yeah, they didn't notice I wasn't there for an HOUR.)
"You are scheduled to work today."
Oh. Oh crap. On my way. Gathered, ran.
But it had been slow all day, and there was plenty of staff, so I did not so much as cover a lunch, everyone got a good laugh, much of it derisive of the charge for not just letting me have the day, or just coming in at shift change. Aside from needing to take my own lunch, not having eaten, I didn't really mind just hanging out, being generally helpful. Even at 3, K wanted the room I'd been assigned to, and I, feeling contrite, agreed, and was left momentarily free, again.
I was a second set of hands for a large trauma, industrial accident. Then helped with an injured child, or rather her parents who had been very brave for their child, but fell apart once she was under and they left the room.
"I feel so foolish!" Cried mom, as she wept, outside.
Two of us assuring her this was normal, she was fine, of course she's crying, she did wonderfully, the kind pedi surgeon stopped on his way in to rest a hand on her shoulder and promise his best, that the child will be fine in no time. Of course, including dad who was staying stiffly brave as well. Let her get it out, and offering comfort and distraction, as the nurse for the child was doing her work inside the room. Yes, that little one will be fine, in good hands, will heal.
I finish up two other rooms, clean up, necessary busyness.
Then I check at the desk, and there is another trauma, that will turn out not to be the simple washout promised. I call the wife, out of town, to ease the worried patient. We talk for a long while, (as anesthesia does their prep work.) I try not to scare her, let her take in just that he's injured badly enough to need immediate surgery. I was on that side with D, when he smashed his elbow, I know. The surgeon will call later, give her a full, accurate, informed account. I order her to eat a nourishing meal, distract herself and their child, play a game, watch a movie. Try to anyway.
In the cab (I couldn't deal with the T last evening) I realized that the last big trauma I did before leaving SLC involved two men crushed by a Jeep, lower leg injuries. Last night, I was involved in a trauma where two men were crushed by a cab, both with lower leg injuries. (Both made the news, or I wouldn't mention.) We will leave Boston three years to the day that we came.
Today, I shall meditate on the number 23, and the writer Robert Anton Wilson. I will read the whole of the wikipedia article on Aquatic Ape Theory, and the May issue of the Fortean Times. I will get on the T, and let my feet wander, open my eyes to other wonders.
While wary of rogue cabs and jeeps.
I thought I had the day off, having misread the counterintuitive codes for an odd shift as a day off. (H should mean Holiday, not 1100-2100.) I slept in, wrote quite a lot, ate cereal, drank tea, ruffled Moby, planned a dither downtown, all the usual day off stuff. At noon, I got a call. (Yeah, they didn't notice I wasn't there for an HOUR.)
"You are scheduled to work today."
Oh. Oh crap. On my way. Gathered, ran.
But it had been slow all day, and there was plenty of staff, so I did not so much as cover a lunch, everyone got a good laugh, much of it derisive of the charge for not just letting me have the day, or just coming in at shift change. Aside from needing to take my own lunch, not having eaten, I didn't really mind just hanging out, being generally helpful. Even at 3, K wanted the room I'd been assigned to, and I, feeling contrite, agreed, and was left momentarily free, again.
I was a second set of hands for a large trauma, industrial accident. Then helped with an injured child, or rather her parents who had been very brave for their child, but fell apart once she was under and they left the room.
"I feel so foolish!" Cried mom, as she wept, outside.
Two of us assuring her this was normal, she was fine, of course she's crying, she did wonderfully, the kind pedi surgeon stopped on his way in to rest a hand on her shoulder and promise his best, that the child will be fine in no time. Of course, including dad who was staying stiffly brave as well. Let her get it out, and offering comfort and distraction, as the nurse for the child was doing her work inside the room. Yes, that little one will be fine, in good hands, will heal.
I finish up two other rooms, clean up, necessary busyness.
Then I check at the desk, and there is another trauma, that will turn out not to be the simple washout promised. I call the wife, out of town, to ease the worried patient. We talk for a long while, (as anesthesia does their prep work.) I try not to scare her, let her take in just that he's injured badly enough to need immediate surgery. I was on that side with D, when he smashed his elbow, I know. The surgeon will call later, give her a full, accurate, informed account. I order her to eat a nourishing meal, distract herself and their child, play a game, watch a movie. Try to anyway.
In the cab (I couldn't deal with the T last evening) I realized that the last big trauma I did before leaving SLC involved two men crushed by a Jeep, lower leg injuries. Last night, I was involved in a trauma where two men were crushed by a cab, both with lower leg injuries. (Both made the news, or I wouldn't mention.) We will leave Boston three years to the day that we came.
Today, I shall meditate on the number 23, and the writer Robert Anton Wilson. I will read the whole of the wikipedia article on Aquatic Ape Theory, and the May issue of the Fortean Times. I will get on the T, and let my feet wander, open my eyes to other wonders.
While wary of rogue cabs and jeeps.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Connections
I blame James Burke.
Got to hear him speak, in person, once. An Impressive and genial and wonderfully lively intelligence. But this was later. First, I saw him on PBS.
He presented the world, a world likely to end soon, as a complex, interconnected, inscrutable, funny old place. As a construct in constant flux. When I first saw Connections, or maybe The Day The Universe Changed, my universe changed. I had been quivering on the tipping point. I honestly cannot say which came first. But something broke free, like the ice dams on the Scablands.
What is more, that change has never stopped, because I will never make assumptions about reality and expectations ever again.
I grew up with a concrete religion of absolute right and wrong, heaven hell limbo purgatory. Inescapable abusive, hard working, bring home the paycheck father, passive and judgmental, caring cooking mother. Assumptions like, 8 am is early in the morning, and sleep at night, and privacy is necessary, and I chose my own clothes, stay warm, have the sense to come in out of the rain, leave others some space, keep clean, don't shout.
I needed work. I needed to get back to school. I had unformed unease about the marriage I had chosen in ignorance. I joined the military, the part time one, National Guard. Raised my hand, and swallowed hard, allowed myself to be transported across the continent to a different dimension.
Where 0330 can be a time to start work. Where being woken for an hour in the middle of the night to be a fire guard is normal. Where I am told not only what clothes to wear, but precisely how to wear them, from moment to moment, what part of the floor not to walk on, when to take my boots off, when to instantly hurl myself face first onto the dirt, shower naked beside thirty others, ignore frozen toes, march through puddles, stand with my toes touching the heels of the boots of the woman in front of me, and scream my throat sore all day long.
If I let myself, I can feel all too well for those caught in the altered reality in this damned prolonged stupidity. I know, although only brushed by it, how profoundly changed they are and will be. I am in speechless despair that oozes into dark rage at those who refuse to understand the cost. Who refuse to give up their artificial assumptions about how they think it should be.
I began to breathe that first dark morning of Basic. Another time was the first time I kissed D, and he said "I love you." And when we decided to come to Boston. And when we admitted we wanted to go home, and that home was where our friends are. And when we saw Moby on the Animal Rescue League website, I knew he would be our cat. D knew when he met him. The first time I heard Sacred Harp. The first time I threw a cylinder in clay on a wheel. The first time I was lifted away from the earth in a plane. The first time I heard D play guitar. Thousands more as a nurse, first injection, first time cleaning up excrement, first incision. The phone call when D told me he thought he broke his arm, and later when Brenda told me it was a bad, bad break.
Each time, I opened my mind, and changed in response.
The universe transforms with every breath.
Got to hear him speak, in person, once. An Impressive and genial and wonderfully lively intelligence. But this was later. First, I saw him on PBS.
He presented the world, a world likely to end soon, as a complex, interconnected, inscrutable, funny old place. As a construct in constant flux. When I first saw Connections, or maybe The Day The Universe Changed, my universe changed. I had been quivering on the tipping point. I honestly cannot say which came first. But something broke free, like the ice dams on the Scablands.
What is more, that change has never stopped, because I will never make assumptions about reality and expectations ever again.
I grew up with a concrete religion of absolute right and wrong, heaven hell limbo purgatory. Inescapable abusive, hard working, bring home the paycheck father, passive and judgmental, caring cooking mother. Assumptions like, 8 am is early in the morning, and sleep at night, and privacy is necessary, and I chose my own clothes, stay warm, have the sense to come in out of the rain, leave others some space, keep clean, don't shout.
I needed work. I needed to get back to school. I had unformed unease about the marriage I had chosen in ignorance. I joined the military, the part time one, National Guard. Raised my hand, and swallowed hard, allowed myself to be transported across the continent to a different dimension.
Where 0330 can be a time to start work. Where being woken for an hour in the middle of the night to be a fire guard is normal. Where I am told not only what clothes to wear, but precisely how to wear them, from moment to moment, what part of the floor not to walk on, when to take my boots off, when to instantly hurl myself face first onto the dirt, shower naked beside thirty others, ignore frozen toes, march through puddles, stand with my toes touching the heels of the boots of the woman in front of me, and scream my throat sore all day long.
If I let myself, I can feel all too well for those caught in the altered reality in this damned prolonged stupidity. I know, although only brushed by it, how profoundly changed they are and will be. I am in speechless despair that oozes into dark rage at those who refuse to understand the cost. Who refuse to give up their artificial assumptions about how they think it should be.
I began to breathe that first dark morning of Basic. Another time was the first time I kissed D, and he said "I love you." And when we decided to come to Boston. And when we admitted we wanted to go home, and that home was where our friends are. And when we saw Moby on the Animal Rescue League website, I knew he would be our cat. D knew when he met him. The first time I heard Sacred Harp. The first time I threw a cylinder in clay on a wheel. The first time I was lifted away from the earth in a plane. The first time I heard D play guitar. Thousands more as a nurse, first injection, first time cleaning up excrement, first incision. The phone call when D told me he thought he broke his arm, and later when Brenda told me it was a bad, bad break.
Each time, I opened my mind, and changed in response.
The universe transforms with every breath.
Nap
FYI, Moira's is turning into a lovely wee photo blog.
And I propose that we celebrate 3 April as Princess Caraboo Day.
Long ago, I shelved books for a meagre living, supplementing my student grants. On Saturdays, I always covered an eight hour shift at the main library, and on my half hour lunch, I would quickly eat, then shuffle into the sleep room. I almost believe this is a false memory, a dream, so antitheical to today's business practices. There it was, with four cots, shielded by screens from each other and the door, a dim table lamp. A place to rest, to elevate feet and take a nap. That short sleep always healed my mind, a reverent retreat away from my own churning worries.
The absurdity, that a library kept a place for employees to rest, but that a 24/7/365 -open hospital, with full night staff, does not even have couches. No place to lay a weary head, or raise swollen feet, save on a long quiet night, not in the lounge, but on the OR tables. Admittedly, the padding is quite good, but they are very narrow. And with the positive air pressure, and no warmers or draping, bone chilling.
The reason, I get asked this every week, that ORs are cold, is in part real, and in part perceived, and in part wind chill. The real part is that if we keep them too warm, the surgeons and scrub, in hat and impermeable gowns and gloves, or the circulator running around, get very warm if the temp is above 70, or indeed 65. Like having a heavy coat on a spring day. The perceived part, is that a patient who has not eaten, not slept well, anxious and in thin clothing, lying on a table, is likely to be cold even if it is 70. The wind chill has to do with environmental design and infection control. The OR gets the cleanest air in the hospital, which is pushed out to the rest of the place by positive air pressure, creating a breeze. So, it feels colder. Which is why we use warm blankets, warmed pads under, and warm air blankets over, leaving the room and staff cool enough not to pass out, while keeping the patient warm. Also, one of the side effects of coming out of anesthesia, as the body metabolizes the drugs, is profound shivering and shaking, usually transient, not harmful.
But I digress.
I love the Siesta idea, and I think afternoon naps should be more common. Perhaps in the North, with winter daylight so short, sleeping during the scarce light feels wasteful. But a nice five o'clock sundown snooze could substitute. Sleep should be valued, instead of disdained.
My brother, retired Air Force, all bluster and condescension, boasts that he only needs five hours sleep a night, why waste half his life sleeping? he tells me, as he mocks my love of a good nine hours a night if I can get it. (Military folks think 6 years is nearly half of the 20 to retirement, they don't add so good.) I think he lives his life half asleep, cheating himself of doing it right in the first place. Some research coming out - that chronic sleep shortage shortens life. Apparently, time spent sleeping is not deducted from a human life.
On my days off, Moby still wants to be fed at 5am, or 0430 for preference. He walks on us, checks my face to see if I am going to move. When not, he flops down on my ankles, goes to sleep, sure to wake when I do finally shift. Why waste energy walking on people? Take a cat nap.
Let's all put our heads down on our desks, and sit very quietly. Better yet, a mat on the floor, or stretch out on the sofa, put our abused feet up, close our gritty eyes, let our bodies settle and heal, let our minds make connections and our muscles unknot.
And I propose that we celebrate 3 April as Princess Caraboo Day.
Long ago, I shelved books for a meagre living, supplementing my student grants. On Saturdays, I always covered an eight hour shift at the main library, and on my half hour lunch, I would quickly eat, then shuffle into the sleep room. I almost believe this is a false memory, a dream, so antitheical to today's business practices. There it was, with four cots, shielded by screens from each other and the door, a dim table lamp. A place to rest, to elevate feet and take a nap. That short sleep always healed my mind, a reverent retreat away from my own churning worries.
The absurdity, that a library kept a place for employees to rest, but that a 24/7/365 -open hospital, with full night staff, does not even have couches. No place to lay a weary head, or raise swollen feet, save on a long quiet night, not in the lounge, but on the OR tables. Admittedly, the padding is quite good, but they are very narrow. And with the positive air pressure, and no warmers or draping, bone chilling.
The reason, I get asked this every week, that ORs are cold, is in part real, and in part perceived, and in part wind chill. The real part is that if we keep them too warm, the surgeons and scrub, in hat and impermeable gowns and gloves, or the circulator running around, get very warm if the temp is above 70, or indeed 65. Like having a heavy coat on a spring day. The perceived part, is that a patient who has not eaten, not slept well, anxious and in thin clothing, lying on a table, is likely to be cold even if it is 70. The wind chill has to do with environmental design and infection control. The OR gets the cleanest air in the hospital, which is pushed out to the rest of the place by positive air pressure, creating a breeze. So, it feels colder. Which is why we use warm blankets, warmed pads under, and warm air blankets over, leaving the room and staff cool enough not to pass out, while keeping the patient warm. Also, one of the side effects of coming out of anesthesia, as the body metabolizes the drugs, is profound shivering and shaking, usually transient, not harmful.
But I digress.
I love the Siesta idea, and I think afternoon naps should be more common. Perhaps in the North, with winter daylight so short, sleeping during the scarce light feels wasteful. But a nice five o'clock sundown snooze could substitute. Sleep should be valued, instead of disdained.
My brother, retired Air Force, all bluster and condescension, boasts that he only needs five hours sleep a night, why waste half his life sleeping? he tells me, as he mocks my love of a good nine hours a night if I can get it. (Military folks think 6 years is nearly half of the 20 to retirement, they don't add so good.) I think he lives his life half asleep, cheating himself of doing it right in the first place. Some research coming out - that chronic sleep shortage shortens life. Apparently, time spent sleeping is not deducted from a human life.
On my days off, Moby still wants to be fed at 5am, or 0430 for preference. He walks on us, checks my face to see if I am going to move. When not, he flops down on my ankles, goes to sleep, sure to wake when I do finally shift. Why waste energy walking on people? Take a cat nap.
Let's all put our heads down on our desks, and sit very quietly. Better yet, a mat on the floor, or stretch out on the sofa, put our abused feet up, close our gritty eyes, let our bodies settle and heal, let our minds make connections and our muscles unknot.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Continued
Or you can use the pre-done one, visual dna
(Why does blooger insist on reverse order?)
My revulsion
Too much stuff. Has been, and will further be, discarded.
My love
Of course.
my vice
Finding small silly things, and taking pictures.
my bedroom
Or rather ours. All three of us.
my joy
Friends gathered
Cont.
My art
Experiential and hard to put into words.
my music
Music self played is happiness self made. Even better if I can dance to it.
my treat
Finding unexpected moments, and sharing them
my freedom
Decorating my skin, for no other reason than that I want to.
Deoxyribonucleic (Acid)
There has been a visual DNA whatsit going around. But it was so much a misfit for me, the images were wrong, beside the point, misleading. So, I give you my version. A few at at time, for those without ultra fast connections.
My kind of excitement
Getting out on an ocean, or a mountain.
My kind of holiday
Hanging with Moira
My kind of drink
Tea with friends
My kind of landscape
Details and bright beauty.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Nurse
I've been told nurses are angels of mercy, or vicious harpies. Hospital administrators see us as bottom line destroyers, and doctors think of nurses often as hindrances and inconvenient beeps on their pagers, alternating with being fantasy servants, mothers and wives. Those who have suffered and been helped are effusive in their gratitude, those who have been rebuffed are bitter in their betrayal, as are those who have not found a new soft touch of indulgence. Hard to tell where the anger is justified, and when the appreciation is excessive.
The truth is, as life always is, much more complex, messier, not so easily contained. One surgeon I worked with loved to say there were two kinds of people, the ones who do and the ones who get in the way. He stopped saying it to me directly when I told him, "And then there are the people who always want to put people into two categories."
What we are, is a huge range of people who have anything from a diploma from a hospital nursing program to multiple PhDs, most have a two or four year degree, who have passed a state board license exam (usually on computer this decade), and keep up our education and hours of work as a nurse to required standards. We are men and women, young and old and between, working saving lives or selling medical crap, babysitting the abandoned in nursing homes, a shift a month, working from home or on their feet on a floor of acutely ill patients in a hospital 60 hours a week. Nursing admin, quality assurance, home health, counseling, supervisors, teaching new nurses. Paid barely above minimum wage, or solidly middle class. Married, single, with children or alone, taking care of parents or friends or pets. Practical and down to earth, or psychotic and manipulative, self important and petty, all together.
The one commonality is that we are often assumed to know everything, and are asked to translate medicalese, and care. I am glad to say, most of the nurses I know are glad to help in this. Glad to use our knowledge to improve the lives of those we touch. Most of us know our work, and do it to the best of our abilities. The vast majority of nurses are people I would trust if I were ill in need of their care. I much prefer a friend to ask me for a surgeon suggestion than find out the day of surgery that they've chosen a poor or frightening one.
Today, I got a splinter out of the finger of a fellow RN. And taped up the cut finger of one of the housekeepers. Today, I fixed boo-boos. I feel really good about that.
The truth is, as life always is, much more complex, messier, not so easily contained. One surgeon I worked with loved to say there were two kinds of people, the ones who do and the ones who get in the way. He stopped saying it to me directly when I told him, "And then there are the people who always want to put people into two categories."
What we are, is a huge range of people who have anything from a diploma from a hospital nursing program to multiple PhDs, most have a two or four year degree, who have passed a state board license exam (usually on computer this decade), and keep up our education and hours of work as a nurse to required standards. We are men and women, young and old and between, working saving lives or selling medical crap, babysitting the abandoned in nursing homes, a shift a month, working from home or on their feet on a floor of acutely ill patients in a hospital 60 hours a week. Nursing admin, quality assurance, home health, counseling, supervisors, teaching new nurses. Paid barely above minimum wage, or solidly middle class. Married, single, with children or alone, taking care of parents or friends or pets. Practical and down to earth, or psychotic and manipulative, self important and petty, all together.
The one commonality is that we are often assumed to know everything, and are asked to translate medicalese, and care. I am glad to say, most of the nurses I know are glad to help in this. Glad to use our knowledge to improve the lives of those we touch. Most of us know our work, and do it to the best of our abilities. The vast majority of nurses are people I would trust if I were ill in need of their care. I much prefer a friend to ask me for a surgeon suggestion than find out the day of surgery that they've chosen a poor or frightening one.
Today, I got a splinter out of the finger of a fellow RN. And taped up the cut finger of one of the housekeepers. Today, I fixed boo-boos. I feel really good about that.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Pants (Photos)
Disconcerting how cats stare at a person sometimes.
Moby explores a shelf, as the books gradually move out via media mail to D's parents.
And why did Moby decide to take a nap in a pair of pants on the sofa? He likes getting under beds or stools, but not blankets or other soft stuff. He slept there for over an hour, just his tail out. He doesn't even jump on the couch often, especially when one of us is already there. Who knows. The Mystery that is a Cat.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Glasses (Photo)
It's just that I don't wear them to read, so I don't think of them for the Photobooth on the 'pewter. But this is how I see myself.
Girl
This is not articulate, consider it thinking out loud.
I had a chat with a rep this week, on the subject of his preschool daughters, and schoolyard fights, and how girls fight dirty. It started as a discussion of tattoos, and I talked about getting mine when I was 35, which progressed to a debate on piercings, and then to earrings, and how I waited until age 16 to pierce my ears. I'd seen girls tug on earrings in the playground, and my own Granny had a ripped earlobe from just such a grade school girl fight, in 1898.
Girls are generally not taught to fight, or if they are it is in the context of "If a big bad man attacks you!" in which case, the only chance a small girl has is to fight dirty, bite, scratch, run, scream blue hell.
My own brother, attacked by assailants with a chain, walking home from a high school dance, spent a week in a hospital with a concussion, and became a bit obsessed with self defense. Being 11 years younger meant I soaked up his anxiety, his pupil in his version of martial arts. His directions for me were always of the, go for the 'eyes, testicles, shins' variety. Sensible, pragmatic, real life lessons. Meant I was even more terrified of getting in a fight with a girl, knowing they would fight me tooth and claw. When girls fight, there are no rules, other than to win by any means. Good survival tactic, but a debased sense of fairness bleeds into other aspects of life. As anyone who works with a large group of women, or watches COPS! Bad Girls Specials! knows.
Boys, at least at one time, were taught rules of fair play. Not that there were not plenty of bullies and that Us v Them rule for applying the rules. At least there were rules of some kind. Girls are taught not to fight, to expect kind treatment, and if that is violated, then unsheathe claws and defend. Or not. Today, girls in gangs are gaining notoriety for fighting harder and dirtier, using weapons readily, adding a special horror to the already pervasive and unrestricted male violence in poor and drug soaked urban issues. Any move is good, any lie that works.
Fighting is too important and wild an aspect of human interaction, to be left to chance. Ignoring female violence, or treating it as something aberrant or special, simply invites in further chaos. Martial arts, with the sense of individual accomplishment, controlled power applied fairly, could ease the erratically escalating brutality. Imbue in every child a moral compass of justice and fair play, in the deeply emotional atmosphere of ritualized violence. Do less, deflect, if possible, but win if attacked.
Animals apply this principle of threat and display, to avoid the damage of a maiming or mortal clash. Live to mate another day. Boys and girls need to internalize all these ideas, fairness, survival, risk assessment. A middle ground between false safety and drive by shootings.
What they have is ready access to images of violence, steeped in fear, given no handrails to steady them. All mixed up in sex and gender roles, and squeamish public education stuck in Evagelical Victorian illusions, parents absent or overwhelmed or abusive themselves, jangling against graphic video games and action movies, both boys and girls are expected to just know how to fight fair and be generous lovers, when they get their driver's license.
In our human passions, fighting and loving, we need most to be fair. Our cultures fail us when they don't bother to teach us how. Worse when we are expected to be weak, only able to survive by playing dirty. It's getting worse very fast.
I had a chat with a rep this week, on the subject of his preschool daughters, and schoolyard fights, and how girls fight dirty. It started as a discussion of tattoos, and I talked about getting mine when I was 35, which progressed to a debate on piercings, and then to earrings, and how I waited until age 16 to pierce my ears. I'd seen girls tug on earrings in the playground, and my own Granny had a ripped earlobe from just such a grade school girl fight, in 1898.
Girls are generally not taught to fight, or if they are it is in the context of "If a big bad man attacks you!" in which case, the only chance a small girl has is to fight dirty, bite, scratch, run, scream blue hell.
My own brother, attacked by assailants with a chain, walking home from a high school dance, spent a week in a hospital with a concussion, and became a bit obsessed with self defense. Being 11 years younger meant I soaked up his anxiety, his pupil in his version of martial arts. His directions for me were always of the, go for the 'eyes, testicles, shins' variety. Sensible, pragmatic, real life lessons. Meant I was even more terrified of getting in a fight with a girl, knowing they would fight me tooth and claw. When girls fight, there are no rules, other than to win by any means. Good survival tactic, but a debased sense of fairness bleeds into other aspects of life. As anyone who works with a large group of women, or watches COPS! Bad Girls Specials! knows.
Boys, at least at one time, were taught rules of fair play. Not that there were not plenty of bullies and that Us v Them rule for applying the rules. At least there were rules of some kind. Girls are taught not to fight, to expect kind treatment, and if that is violated, then unsheathe claws and defend. Or not. Today, girls in gangs are gaining notoriety for fighting harder and dirtier, using weapons readily, adding a special horror to the already pervasive and unrestricted male violence in poor and drug soaked urban issues. Any move is good, any lie that works.
Fighting is too important and wild an aspect of human interaction, to be left to chance. Ignoring female violence, or treating it as something aberrant or special, simply invites in further chaos. Martial arts, with the sense of individual accomplishment, controlled power applied fairly, could ease the erratically escalating brutality. Imbue in every child a moral compass of justice and fair play, in the deeply emotional atmosphere of ritualized violence. Do less, deflect, if possible, but win if attacked.
Animals apply this principle of threat and display, to avoid the damage of a maiming or mortal clash. Live to mate another day. Boys and girls need to internalize all these ideas, fairness, survival, risk assessment. A middle ground between false safety and drive by shootings.
What they have is ready access to images of violence, steeped in fear, given no handrails to steady them. All mixed up in sex and gender roles, and squeamish public education stuck in Evagelical Victorian illusions, parents absent or overwhelmed or abusive themselves, jangling against graphic video games and action movies, both boys and girls are expected to just know how to fight fair and be generous lovers, when they get their driver's license.
In our human passions, fighting and loving, we need most to be fair. Our cultures fail us when they don't bother to teach us how. Worse when we are expected to be weak, only able to survive by playing dirty. It's getting worse very fast.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Wikipedia
Via Spacecatrocketship. I have removed the obligatory numbers.
1. Go to wikipedia and type in your birthday, month and day only.
2. List events that occurred on that day that interest you.
1860 - Abraham Lincoln makes a speech at Cooper Union in the city of New York that was largely responsible for his election to the Presidency.
1560 - The Treaty of Berwick, which would expel the French from Scotland, is signed by England and the Congregation of Scotland.
(I am both French and Scottish.)
1864 - American Civil War: The first Northern prisoners arrive at the Confederate prison at Andersonville, Georgia.
(One of my nightmare stories from history.)
1922 - A challenge to the Nineteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution, allowing women the right to vote, is rebuffed by the Supreme Court of the United States in Leser v. Garnett.
(Not like there was, or is, anyone to vote for.)
1991 - Gulf War: U.S. President George H. W. Bush announces that "Kuwait is liberated."
(I was there, well in Saudi Arabia, this day.)
3. List a few birthdays.
1940 - Howard Hesseman, American actor
(The DOCTOR is IN!")
1899 - Charles Best, Canadian medical scientist (d. 1978)
(A real doctor.)
4. List a death.
1987 - Joan Greenwood, English actress and director (b. 1921)
(Amazing voice.)
5. List a holiday or observance. (if any)
Roman Empire - Equirria, horse races in honor of the war god Mars were held.
(Pagans. Horsies.)
Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows
(My High School was St. Gabriel's. St. Gabe's)
5. Tag some other bloggers.
If you are in Blogistan, consider yourself tagged. Moira, if you like it, it is a low effort blog post.
1. Go to wikipedia and type in your birthday, month and day only.
2. List events that occurred on that day that interest you.
1860 - Abraham Lincoln makes a speech at Cooper Union in the city of New York that was largely responsible for his election to the Presidency.
1560 - The Treaty of Berwick, which would expel the French from Scotland, is signed by England and the Congregation of Scotland.
(I am both French and Scottish.)
1864 - American Civil War: The first Northern prisoners arrive at the Confederate prison at Andersonville, Georgia.
(One of my nightmare stories from history.)
1922 - A challenge to the Nineteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution, allowing women the right to vote, is rebuffed by the Supreme Court of the United States in Leser v. Garnett.
(Not like there was, or is, anyone to vote for.)
1991 - Gulf War: U.S. President George H. W. Bush announces that "Kuwait is liberated."
(I was there, well in Saudi Arabia, this day.)
3. List a few birthdays.
1940 - Howard Hesseman, American actor
(The DOCTOR is IN!")
1899 - Charles Best, Canadian medical scientist (d. 1978)
(A real doctor.)
4. List a death.
1987 - Joan Greenwood, English actress and director (b. 1921)
(Amazing voice.)
5. List a holiday or observance. (if any)
Roman Empire - Equirria, horse races in honor of the war god Mars were held.
(Pagans. Horsies.)
Saint Gabriel of Our Lady of Sorrows
(My High School was St. Gabriel's. St. Gabe's)
5. Tag some other bloggers.
If you are in Blogistan, consider yourself tagged. Moira, if you like it, it is a low effort blog post.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Burlesque
I took D to see women dancing mostly naked last night.
One of those things-we-have-to-do-in-Boston-because-it'll-never-happen-in Salt-Lake. A group that performs burlesque, dances, removes clothing, winds up in thong/bikini and pasties right at the last, one at a time to some very good music. Themes and gimmicks abound, of course. Only a couple of these young women caused me to cringe, and only for a moment. Brash, confident, funny, over the top all. I give them credit. D admitted pure enjoyment. I hooted and laughed, while reflexively critiquing.
Problem, for me, was that only one was a real, obviously trained dancer. That, newest, performer was sexier with street appropriate, though short, trench coat on than most of the rest in nearly just skin. And I wanted the rest smoother, more practiced, taking belly dance classes at very least. The two who pretended coyness and the amateurish playing with prop flasks and beads grated slightly. "I'm hot-better-take-off some-clothes-porn-miming." The one dancer presented herself as I'm-going-to-dance-with-a-pool-stick-and-flirt-with-you. Oh, most of the others were grand, a deeply funny and disturbing Lizzie Bordan wet t-shirt bit, and another who did very alluring motions with long gloves.
All in all, it was a fun, tame, appealing evening. Not strippers as conceived today, no crotch focus, more on movement, breast flash and covered ass presentation. And an MC in a bright red zoot suit who encouraged hoots and catcalls, tips at the end of each act as each dancer walked amongst us, she now in robe, or long t-shirt, with a top hat as collection plate. Mr. Scratch kept the proceeding light, and oddly safe, admiring and only just so off color. Sensual titillating delight instead of raw sexuality. Room for imagination.
D has never been to see strippers, he seems satisfied that this is better. D has a sufficient imagination. I enjoyed watching him.
One of those things-we-have-to-do-in-Boston-because-it'll-never-happen-in Salt-Lake. A group that performs burlesque, dances, removes clothing, winds up in thong/bikini and pasties right at the last, one at a time to some very good music. Themes and gimmicks abound, of course. Only a couple of these young women caused me to cringe, and only for a moment. Brash, confident, funny, over the top all. I give them credit. D admitted pure enjoyment. I hooted and laughed, while reflexively critiquing.
Problem, for me, was that only one was a real, obviously trained dancer. That, newest, performer was sexier with street appropriate, though short, trench coat on than most of the rest in nearly just skin. And I wanted the rest smoother, more practiced, taking belly dance classes at very least. The two who pretended coyness and the amateurish playing with prop flasks and beads grated slightly. "I'm hot-better-take-off some-clothes-porn-miming." The one dancer presented herself as I'm-going-to-dance-with-a-pool-stick-and-flirt-with-you. Oh, most of the others were grand, a deeply funny and disturbing Lizzie Bordan wet t-shirt bit, and another who did very alluring motions with long gloves.
All in all, it was a fun, tame, appealing evening. Not strippers as conceived today, no crotch focus, more on movement, breast flash and covered ass presentation. And an MC in a bright red zoot suit who encouraged hoots and catcalls, tips at the end of each act as each dancer walked amongst us, she now in robe, or long t-shirt, with a top hat as collection plate. Mr. Scratch kept the proceeding light, and oddly safe, admiring and only just so off color. Sensual titillating delight instead of raw sexuality. Room for imagination.
D has never been to see strippers, he seems satisfied that this is better. D has a sufficient imagination. I enjoyed watching him.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Dressed
When I was small, I dressed very slowly. Not that I moved slowly, but I changed clothes to allow for as little skin as possible to be exposed. This elaborate ritual was an overreaction to my mother's modesty lessons. Largely, though, it was fear, induced by my father's lurid warnings of men who might be looking in my window, and not seeing just a little girl. I didn't completely understand his meaning, but I knew to be afraid, even if I was alone, with the door closed, the blinds shut, the drapes pulled tight and the lights off. How much more so when I was trying on clothes in a store dressing room. Which irritated my mother to no end, not because I was being modest, but because I dawdled so long.
For my mother, the only time I could remove underwear, save to put fresh on, was taking a bath, and sometimes for a doctor in his office. I slept in long nightgowns, and underpants. Always. As a toddler, in a bubble bath, with a wig of foam, my brothers were allowed in to see only if I left my underpants on in the tub.
All a bit paranoid, if erring on the right side, I suppose. But I have to wonder if there was some history, some transgression, there. One that brushed past me, as I felt the heat of the beast, hot breath on my belly, a near shame that, perhaps, protected me.
The skills, eventually brought up to speed, stood me in good stead when I had to dress instantly in the Army. In the morning, we were woken by speakers, "Wake up Charlie Company!" since we had to be decent by the time the angrily respectful male Drill Sergeants hit the floor. Shortcuts and efficient choreography long ingrained meant I was never caught out, always the first done, the most dressed, no threat. (We heard tales of Drill Sergeants losing their careers for indiscretions with recruits, the attitudes of the Drills indicated these were true, and the temptation much guarded against, by aggressively wide margins, by our Drills.)
Which also meant, when modeling for art classes, I went from nude:posed to clothed:observer in tiny seconds, much to the ease of myself and the art students. They expressed gratitude, telling me of other models who, on breaks, walked around the room, looking at their work, stark naked, which was very disconcerting to them. I went from object, to person-to-talk-with by joining their clothed state, restoring the balance after leaving the pedestal.
Much the same in the locker room at work. Nothing irritates more than that one girl who gets completely naked to change into scrubs in the morning. It's gauche, awkward, inexplicable, that breaking of the mutual illusion of privacy. Many of the other women complain their contempt and confusion at the exhibitionist - "Why does she DO that!?" My very thoughts. Why? And why does it feel so intrusive? I don't mind so much, I roll my eyes and focus on my own quick change, done with no nudity involved. I think less of them, avoid them later, wonder what kinks in their road led them to there.
I know which ones lead me to my flexible, cautious sense of modesty.
Aunt Alma poo poo'd my hiding as a small child on vacation, in her care. Her dismissal of my shame didn't work then, but it sprouted later. One never knows what a child will remember, will take into their heart, save for spring.
For my mother, the only time I could remove underwear, save to put fresh on, was taking a bath, and sometimes for a doctor in his office. I slept in long nightgowns, and underpants. Always. As a toddler, in a bubble bath, with a wig of foam, my brothers were allowed in to see only if I left my underpants on in the tub.
All a bit paranoid, if erring on the right side, I suppose. But I have to wonder if there was some history, some transgression, there. One that brushed past me, as I felt the heat of the beast, hot breath on my belly, a near shame that, perhaps, protected me.
The skills, eventually brought up to speed, stood me in good stead when I had to dress instantly in the Army. In the morning, we were woken by speakers, "Wake up Charlie Company!" since we had to be decent by the time the angrily respectful male Drill Sergeants hit the floor. Shortcuts and efficient choreography long ingrained meant I was never caught out, always the first done, the most dressed, no threat. (We heard tales of Drill Sergeants losing their careers for indiscretions with recruits, the attitudes of the Drills indicated these were true, and the temptation much guarded against, by aggressively wide margins, by our Drills.)
Which also meant, when modeling for art classes, I went from nude:posed to clothed:observer in tiny seconds, much to the ease of myself and the art students. They expressed gratitude, telling me of other models who, on breaks, walked around the room, looking at their work, stark naked, which was very disconcerting to them. I went from object, to person-to-talk-with by joining their clothed state, restoring the balance after leaving the pedestal.
Much the same in the locker room at work. Nothing irritates more than that one girl who gets completely naked to change into scrubs in the morning. It's gauche, awkward, inexplicable, that breaking of the mutual illusion of privacy. Many of the other women complain their contempt and confusion at the exhibitionist - "Why does she DO that!?" My very thoughts. Why? And why does it feel so intrusive? I don't mind so much, I roll my eyes and focus on my own quick change, done with no nudity involved. I think less of them, avoid them later, wonder what kinks in their road led them to there.
I know which ones lead me to my flexible, cautious sense of modesty.
Aunt Alma poo poo'd my hiding as a small child on vacation, in her care. Her dismissal of my shame didn't work then, but it sprouted later. One never knows what a child will remember, will take into their heart, save for spring.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Brushing
D just went in to brush Moby's teeth.
"Hey, kitty! Howya doin'?" I hear in a casual covering slight anxiety tone. More, "Ok, there you go. Now the other side... gooooood." He kisses Moby on the head, I just know this, and he comes out to exclaim, "We have such a good cat!"
Moby takes this rather better than either of us would have guessed when the vet told us to brush a ~cat's~ teeth a couple of years ago. If not busy (with, you know, cat things) he seems to sort of enjoy the process. It's seafood flavored, and he spends time afterward licking his chops. (Cats don't have lips, do they? We were discussing this last night.) I pretty much did the job for a long time, until I found myself forgetting, tried, late home from work - the usual excuses. And I suggested that Moby was sufficiently used to this bit of grooming, that I could use a hand.
Ahem.
No, no, he cleans the litter boxes as often as I do. Not to mention keeping food dish and water bowl (and water teapot) full. D's a good guy, no complaints. Even if he didn't read this.
Anyway.
D asked a number of questions, and found a better technique. He's rather proud of this unD-esque accomplishment. I'm rather proud of him too. He also got accepted into a PhD History program. Which is nice.
"Hey, kitty! Howya doin'?" I hear in a casual covering slight anxiety tone. More, "Ok, there you go. Now the other side... gooooood." He kisses Moby on the head, I just know this, and he comes out to exclaim, "We have such a good cat!"
Moby takes this rather better than either of us would have guessed when the vet told us to brush a ~cat's~ teeth a couple of years ago. If not busy (with, you know, cat things) he seems to sort of enjoy the process. It's seafood flavored, and he spends time afterward licking his chops. (Cats don't have lips, do they? We were discussing this last night.) I pretty much did the job for a long time, until I found myself forgetting, tried, late home from work - the usual excuses. And I suggested that Moby was sufficiently used to this bit of grooming, that I could use a hand.
Ahem.
No, no, he cleans the litter boxes as often as I do. Not to mention keeping food dish and water bowl (and water teapot) full. D's a good guy, no complaints. Even if he didn't read this.
Anyway.
D asked a number of questions, and found a better technique. He's rather proud of this unD-esque accomplishment. I'm rather proud of him too. He also got accepted into a PhD History program. Which is nice.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Bath
I once went to a bath house in San Francisco. Where else? A Victorian painted lady, converted. The cold dip - the sealed former stairwell to the cellar. A friend took me, and we got naked and soaked in hot baths, sat outside in the cool fog, and chatted amiably. Discussed nudity in this culture, and the joys of being outside wearing only skin, talked about our plans and schemes. A peaceful, small, sensory experience I treasure.
I have long remembered those women, comfortable with their various bodies, stretch marks, bulges, scars and tattoos. I have seen many bodies in my work, all shapes and sizes, desperately ill, or generally healthy, painfully thin or floppy obese, a 100 lb. pannis that had to be suspended over the OR table to keep it from pulling her body off the table. Boob jobs denied, and tummy tucks exposed, or begged for by the normal sized, the lies congregate. I have had lifelong opportunities to reorient my assumptions, that only the thin and pretty find love, that beauty is immutable and measurable. That bath drew it all together for me, brought me to the same level, included me. Not just reassurance for others, I could take my own advice, and be fine.
Among my insights: not all women have had abdominal surgery. I was amazed at the health of the bathers, the lack of scars, even in a population with an median age of about 35. I had to re-imagine the world. Many of the women there were apparently gay, as my friend would turn out to be a year later. Not a surprize to me, I'd assumed it when we first met years ago, until I was told she was married to D's friend. I thought "Really? She's not? Oh. Well." Left it there, not my business.
When those two divorced, amidst orientation confusion and embracing reality, I left the friendship behind for subtle reasons. I found I had nothing to talk to her about without that relationship to sharpen her. D lost interest in his friend, without her to soften him. They were the only other happy marrieds I knew at that time, and for both D and I, that break-up was painful and frightening. Neither of those friends were who we wanted as friends individually, despite their appeal for us, of them as a couple. Not flattering for any of us, but bitter truth. More proof, if any was needed, that getting married in high school is a bad, bad idea.
I still love that she took me into that place, so vulnerable, so safe, so warm. For me, so devoid of sexuality. I cannot speak for her. To live for a few hours in my skin, exposed completely to the outside, was about proof of my comfort with my body, with myself.
Not an exhibitionist, I would gladly pose for Spencer Tunick . Not pretty, not perfect, peasant stock Irish and French, I am at ease with a body no LA clothes designer wants. Not fashionable, but appealing, at least to the kind of person I wanted to appeal to. Enough.
I have long remembered those women, comfortable with their various bodies, stretch marks, bulges, scars and tattoos. I have seen many bodies in my work, all shapes and sizes, desperately ill, or generally healthy, painfully thin or floppy obese, a 100 lb. pannis that had to be suspended over the OR table to keep it from pulling her body off the table. Boob jobs denied, and tummy tucks exposed, or begged for by the normal sized, the lies congregate. I have had lifelong opportunities to reorient my assumptions, that only the thin and pretty find love, that beauty is immutable and measurable. That bath drew it all together for me, brought me to the same level, included me. Not just reassurance for others, I could take my own advice, and be fine.
Among my insights: not all women have had abdominal surgery. I was amazed at the health of the bathers, the lack of scars, even in a population with an median age of about 35. I had to re-imagine the world. Many of the women there were apparently gay, as my friend would turn out to be a year later. Not a surprize to me, I'd assumed it when we first met years ago, until I was told she was married to D's friend. I thought "Really? She's not? Oh. Well." Left it there, not my business.
When those two divorced, amidst orientation confusion and embracing reality, I left the friendship behind for subtle reasons. I found I had nothing to talk to her about without that relationship to sharpen her. D lost interest in his friend, without her to soften him. They were the only other happy marrieds I knew at that time, and for both D and I, that break-up was painful and frightening. Neither of those friends were who we wanted as friends individually, despite their appeal for us, of them as a couple. Not flattering for any of us, but bitter truth. More proof, if any was needed, that getting married in high school is a bad, bad idea.
I still love that she took me into that place, so vulnerable, so safe, so warm. For me, so devoid of sexuality. I cannot speak for her. To live for a few hours in my skin, exposed completely to the outside, was about proof of my comfort with my body, with myself.
Not an exhibitionist, I would gladly pose for Spencer Tunick . Not pretty, not perfect, peasant stock Irish and French, I am at ease with a body no LA clothes designer wants. Not fashionable, but appealing, at least to the kind of person I wanted to appeal to. Enough.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Bella (Photo)
For Mella. My view of 45.
Everyone else may want to shield their eyes.
Anyone else want to take up the challenge? Let those young women know how lovely they are, and to cherish it while they may? And know they can be happy and bulgy?
List
I should be doing stuff. But what I did was finally make a decent list of the blogs I read, love, and/or recommend. Down, under Moby. (Really shouldn't have put that list under the cat.)
It starts off alphabetical, for the RSS feed sites, then falters in the ones that don't, then does a full meander when I get to the ones I forget to read because they post irregularly, or so often I can't keep up on the feed, or whose writing is so intense I only dip in occasionally.
In short, the list is in generally random order.
It starts off alphabetical, for the RSS feed sites, then falters in the ones that don't, then does a full meander when I get to the ones I forget to read because they post irregularly, or so often I can't keep up on the feed, or whose writing is so intense I only dip in occasionally.
In short, the list is in generally random order.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Decisions
The decision has been made, by us, taking it out of the hands of the Unknowns Who Decide These Things. We confessed to each other our homesick dread of another new city, relieved that it was a mutual guilty urge. We looked each other in the eye, agreed, it's time.
If this city has taught us anything, it is that the city doesn't give a damn what we think of it, it's not personal. Whatever the nasty, inbred, small minded politics of the Theocracy of Utah, we can find a niche. The Big Dig City politics of moribund theftocracy is it's own special flavor of awfulness. Neither of us weirdos can change it one strawsweight. Not for not caring, but for our own survival.
Our old friends, even those who moved off to the Land of Eternal Summer, are within a day or so driving of Old Home. So, we are going back, wiser, more cosmopolitan, experienced and scarred. With stories to tell, photos to show, and with some regret. We will miss this place, but not for another few months. (Read as: this is a three month process.)
The plans are set, my old job - much changed - awaits, to my mutual expectation and heartfelt relief. I knew, but I hid the knowledge from myself, not daring to assume. Enjoying the delight of being welcomed back.
We look for movers and check Craigslist there for apartments, here to divest ourselves of excess baggage and boxxage. We have one way plane tickets for the three of us. We dread putting Moby in a bag for six or more hours, but we can hardly leave him behind.
I bite my tongue hard at work. I find myself as bad at keeping my own confidences as I am good at keeping those of others. If you work with me, and read this, please, let me give my notice myself. (I don't think any of them do, but I have to cover myself. I am, after all, a *Professional* paranoid.)
More to come.
If this city has taught us anything, it is that the city doesn't give a damn what we think of it, it's not personal. Whatever the nasty, inbred, small minded politics of the Theocracy of Utah, we can find a niche. The Big Dig City politics of moribund theftocracy is it's own special flavor of awfulness. Neither of us weirdos can change it one strawsweight. Not for not caring, but for our own survival.
Our old friends, even those who moved off to the Land of Eternal Summer, are within a day or so driving of Old Home. So, we are going back, wiser, more cosmopolitan, experienced and scarred. With stories to tell, photos to show, and with some regret. We will miss this place, but not for another few months. (Read as: this is a three month process.)
The plans are set, my old job - much changed - awaits, to my mutual expectation and heartfelt relief. I knew, but I hid the knowledge from myself, not daring to assume. Enjoying the delight of being welcomed back.
We look for movers and check Craigslist there for apartments, here to divest ourselves of excess baggage and boxxage. We have one way plane tickets for the three of us. We dread putting Moby in a bag for six or more hours, but we can hardly leave him behind.
I bite my tongue hard at work. I find myself as bad at keeping my own confidences as I am good at keeping those of others. If you work with me, and read this, please, let me give my notice myself. (I don't think any of them do, but I have to cover myself. I am, after all, a *Professional* paranoid.)
More to come.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Bagpipes
Another damn bunch of questions. Via Pacian.
1. Do you like cheese?
Not so much. Good mozzarella or very extra sharp cheddar, yes, at times.
2. Have you ever smoked heroin?
Never used heroin in any form. Smoked clove cigarettes one year, but stopped.
3. Do you own a gun?
I was once responsible for an M16A1, but it was not mine. I'm a good shot, but will not own a gun.
5. Do you get nervous before doctor appointments?
No. I do plan out what I will say.
6. What do you think of hot dogs?
Eh. Good sausages, all beef Kosher spicy ones, make good hot dog soup.
7. What's your favourite Christmas song?
Coventry Carol. Minor key.
8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning?
Tea. Plain hot black tea.
9. Can you do push ups?
Yeah, but not as many as I once could.
10. Is your bathroom clean?
On most days. Having to have the litter boxes in there makes it less clean that I would like.
11. What's your favourite piece of jewellery?
Iridescent pink glass earrings.
Where's 12?
Twice past six.
13. What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex?
Simple oddity, I assume. Shock and confusion.
14. Do you have friends?
Quite a few more than I often assume. To my delighted amazement.
15. Do you miss someone?
I miss all my friends very deeply.
16. Middle Name?
Evelyn. Not given at birth, adopted when I took on D's last name after we'd been married seven years. My aunt's name, with permission of her son my cousin.
17. Name 3 thoughts at this exact moment?
My feet hurt
Gods that chicken madras leftover from India Quality was wonderful.
I should go to bed.
19. Name 3 drinks you regularly drink:
Tea
beer
orange juice
20. Current worry?:
D's grad school prospects.
21. Current hate?
A woman at work who hates everything, and I am chum to her sharkiness.
22. Favourite place to be?
Beside D, with Moby on our feet.
23. How did you bring in the New Year?
I was asleep.
24. Where would you like to go?
Sailing for a week.
27. Do you own slippers?
Red terry ones. I never wear them.
28. What shirt are you wearing?
Night knits, blue.
29. Do you burn or tan?
Both. Neither since the last burn.
30. Favourite colour?
Purple, darkest bluest possible.
31. Would you be a pirate?
No, nor a mass murderer, nor a drug dealer, nor a torturer. I don't get the romanticism of pirates at all.
32. What songs do you sing in the shower?
Sacred Harp tunes, They Might Be Giants songs.
35. What's in your pocket right now?
I haven't got any pockets right now. Oh, wait, yes I do, and.... Tiger Balm.
36. Last thing that made you laugh?
30 Rock. Moby. D.
37. Best bed sheets as a child?
Had crappy sheets as a kid, the pilled up flannel ones that sparked in particular. Got good high thread count, and colored sheets only as an adult.
38. Worst injury you've ever had?
Herniated discs.
39. What is your biggest pet peeve?
I don't think about peeves anymore. People with lots of pet peeves.
40. How many TVs do you have in your house?
One. But three computers, not counting the ones in other appliances.
41. Who is your loudest friend?
Matt. No shit, there he was.
42. Who is your most silent friend?
K the potter.
43. Does someone have a crush on you?
D. If there is anyone else, I don't really care.
44. Do you wish on shooting stars?
Did as a kid, when I saw them often. And sang "Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket..."
45. What is your favourite book?
Tao Te Ching, perhaps. No, not fair to have a favorite, it depends.
46. What is your favourite sweet?
Aside from good chocolate, I love maple sugar candy.
47. What song do/did you want played at your wedding?
We didn't have a song, but we had a bellydancer. Our Song is It's The End of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine).
48. What song do you want played at your funeral?
Lady of Spain on bagpipes. Or Scotland the Brave on accordion, either one.
49. What were you doing at 12 AM last night?
Sleeping.
50. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up?
Ow. I really should be doing my back PT.
1. Do you like cheese?
Not so much. Good mozzarella or very extra sharp cheddar, yes, at times.
2. Have you ever smoked heroin?
Never used heroin in any form. Smoked clove cigarettes one year, but stopped.
3. Do you own a gun?
I was once responsible for an M16A1, but it was not mine. I'm a good shot, but will not own a gun.
5. Do you get nervous before doctor appointments?
No. I do plan out what I will say.
6. What do you think of hot dogs?
Eh. Good sausages, all beef Kosher spicy ones, make good hot dog soup.
7. What's your favourite Christmas song?
Coventry Carol. Minor key.
8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning?
Tea. Plain hot black tea.
9. Can you do push ups?
Yeah, but not as many as I once could.
10. Is your bathroom clean?
On most days. Having to have the litter boxes in there makes it less clean that I would like.
11. What's your favourite piece of jewellery?
Iridescent pink glass earrings.
Where's 12?
Twice past six.
13. What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex?
Simple oddity, I assume. Shock and confusion.
14. Do you have friends?
Quite a few more than I often assume. To my delighted amazement.
15. Do you miss someone?
I miss all my friends very deeply.
16. Middle Name?
Evelyn. Not given at birth, adopted when I took on D's last name after we'd been married seven years. My aunt's name, with permission of her son my cousin.
17. Name 3 thoughts at this exact moment?
My feet hurt
Gods that chicken madras leftover from India Quality was wonderful.
I should go to bed.
19. Name 3 drinks you regularly drink:
Tea
beer
orange juice
20. Current worry?:
D's grad school prospects.
21. Current hate?
A woman at work who hates everything, and I am chum to her sharkiness.
22. Favourite place to be?
Beside D, with Moby on our feet.
23. How did you bring in the New Year?
I was asleep.
24. Where would you like to go?
Sailing for a week.
27. Do you own slippers?
Red terry ones. I never wear them.
28. What shirt are you wearing?
Night knits, blue.
29. Do you burn or tan?
Both. Neither since the last burn.
30. Favourite colour?
Purple, darkest bluest possible.
31. Would you be a pirate?
No, nor a mass murderer, nor a drug dealer, nor a torturer. I don't get the romanticism of pirates at all.
32. What songs do you sing in the shower?
Sacred Harp tunes, They Might Be Giants songs.
35. What's in your pocket right now?
I haven't got any pockets right now. Oh, wait, yes I do, and.... Tiger Balm.
36. Last thing that made you laugh?
30 Rock. Moby. D.
37. Best bed sheets as a child?
Had crappy sheets as a kid, the pilled up flannel ones that sparked in particular. Got good high thread count, and colored sheets only as an adult.
38. Worst injury you've ever had?
Herniated discs.
39. What is your biggest pet peeve?
I don't think about peeves anymore. People with lots of pet peeves.
40. How many TVs do you have in your house?
One. But three computers, not counting the ones in other appliances.
41. Who is your loudest friend?
Matt. No shit, there he was.
42. Who is your most silent friend?
K the potter.
43. Does someone have a crush on you?
D. If there is anyone else, I don't really care.
44. Do you wish on shooting stars?
Did as a kid, when I saw them often. And sang "Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket..."
45. What is your favourite book?
Tao Te Ching, perhaps. No, not fair to have a favorite, it depends.
46. What is your favourite sweet?
Aside from good chocolate, I love maple sugar candy.
47. What song do/did you want played at your wedding?
We didn't have a song, but we had a bellydancer. Our Song is It's The End of The World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine).
48. What song do you want played at your funeral?
Lady of Spain on bagpipes. Or Scotland the Brave on accordion, either one.
49. What were you doing at 12 AM last night?
Sleeping.
50. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up?
Ow. I really should be doing my back PT.
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