Peek

Funny

We wonder, sometimes, on days when we have made each other laugh so hard we can't breathe, or right after a stranger comments on how cute and funny we are together, or when we see other couples who seem so serious or cross or vaguely distant, are we that odd? Yeah, we are odd, no question there, plenty odd.

We can come up with examples from our coupled friends who are funny and affectionate, Dave and K, and my cousins E & E - who have been together for a couple of decades and are still amused and delighted with each other. All have been through strange beginnings and hard times, and proven themselves to each other.

But, it seems unusual, aside from the people we most know. Perhaps other couples hide their humor in public. Or don't have a joint wit account. I certainly was not so funny before I got with D. A fellow Guard member, and RN at work, who I think is one of the funniest people I have ever known, once told me he thought D and I must make each other laugh a lot at home, because we were both so funny. I took this as high praise from an expert. Dear Beezer, I so miss working with a man who wears flowered nurse jackets and his kids sunglasses, just to see how others will react. He told me that his wife didn't think he was that amusing, which didn't seem to be a joke.

We speculate it has something to do, in our case, with having been close friends through difficult times, the love affair only being a discrete part of our relationship. All those hours and days and months with little to do but complain, chat, and simply spend time together quietly. Catching each other's eye in formation, letting an eloquent eye-roll suffice for swearing. Humor buoyed us up, our saving grace, and not just then. When I got to D at the instacare when he'd shattered his elbow, I readily got him laughing - to the bemusement of his nurse. There would be tears later, but at that moment...

And we wonder if happy dates aren't the culprit, jokes at a nice restaurant to show how funny one is, cannot be the same as grim mutual amusement at exhaustion and hunger and grief, pain and extremis. Or maybe just people marrying when they are still so young that they eschew childish things. We have no difficulty with appearing silly, to each other or anyone else.

So, tell me, are you in a coupled pair, and are funny? Or, are most of your married (sic) friends funny? And, why, do you think? Feel free to answer here, or link to your own blog. Your choice. This has been a conundrum to both of us for many years, how any couple could survive without big dollops of laughter applied liberally.

Gazpacho

I had just finished my last final, one of those pre-nursing school semesters, when home held a dangerous edge. I watched every penny closely, knowing how little I had, how much I would need it as soon as I could get out. I stopped at the Roasting Co. for lunch. Got a day old croissant and gazpacho, with tea, savoring my time alone, in peace, the luxury of being served, indulging deeply in my selfish sin. My brain buzzed, my heart ached, I dared not dream of freedom, so I immersed myself in the pure pleasure.

Strange now, how that seemed so expensive, so luxurious. How much I needed that solitude, required that hour of quiet. I decided, without actually deciding, to tell all the people I knew what I lived with, at whatever cost. If only to shame myself into doing whatever I needed to stop it. Without hope of help, for I never considered them helping me, only being unable to meet their eyes if I didn't act, and quickly.

The tears of gratitude still well, when I think of all the generosity that made my escape possible, all unexpected, a very human miracle. People who stepped in because they were needed. Even though I have since lost touch with most of them, I remember, and wish them all kinds of blessings.

I still enjoy a meal alone, to not think exactly, just to be, while chewing.

Mistakes

I laugh, I do my job with energy and thoughtful intent, I smile and join in. I don't feed the anger, or indulge in gossip or dwell on mistakes, my own or others.

Yesterday at work beat me the hell up. Everyone got out alive, I could still laugh at the end. But I made some doozie mistakes, sins of omission, that I had to run - not being metaphorical here, to correct, several times. I wasn't the only one, we were all dominoes falling about. Not to worry, patient is fine as far as the surgery goes. No one died, no one really hurt. Except for C who will probably lose his toenail, but that wasn't my mistake.

As I write up the most important error - also not my mistake - that fell on me, only 20 minutes after my shift ended, D called to say he and N were going to Desert Edge, did I want to meet them there? I was tired, and distracted, didn't want to say no, so I said sure, Desert Edge. I finish writing up the incident, get changed, gather boxes obtained from the dock earlier, wrangle them to the car.

It took more than a bit of jockeying to get them in, because they are different sizes, and they are boxes. Twice I dropped my keys into the trunk, and had to take all the boxes out to get the keys back. Finally, I am on my way, don't try to park in the Red Rock parking lot, but around the block by the Greek church. My legs are rubbery, I am not thinking well. As I walk back through, I realize there were open spots in their lot. It's crowded, I walk around looking for the guys, no luck, I put our name on the list and take the pager, thinking they just hadn't left immediately, and would be by soon. I wait. I go back in and check just in case, I wait more, and start to worry they have been in an accident. Enough time goes by that they can't possibly have just be a little late. Then I realized, he said Desert Edge, not Red Rock. SHIT.

I walk all the way back to the car, drive to the other crowded parking lot, cut through the stores, and D is in the walkway of the mall, looking for me. I can't deal with a touch, certainly not with food, nor his worried, then greatly relieved face. I can't stay, I have to go home I tell him.

"We'll bring you food," he offers.

"I don't give a shit." I say, and escape, a long, annoying drive home with crappy jazz, bad news, or prickly silence to chose from. I alternate among the three. When I get in, Moby gives me the Flop Of Welcome, and allows a bit of catherapy. D calls to make sure I am safe. Bless him for not taking it personally when I say, "I need to stop talking," because I do. I have learned to be explicit with what I need from him, and he takes it as simple information. By the time they get home, I have applied alcohol, food, and read some blogs. D nurtures, and gives me space to settle. We all talk and talk, and I come down and calm down.

Woke at 0730, more rested, but drained, convalescent. I have few reserves these days, always feeling on the edge of despair. I kick a few pebbles over.

Bent

When the RSS shows that nifty little "1" next to the blog Bent Objects, I grin and squirm in my seat with third grader excitement. He always makes me smile, the humor is, on the surface, simple and brightly lit. Underneath, or in the edges, there is usually a dark twist. As with his Circus Peanuts Circus series, and the horrific accidents they suffered. Such a simple idea, done to perfection. Bits of disregarded drawer litter, twirls of wire, an eye for subtle attitude, an amazing talent, and, well, um, wow. Oh, wow.

Treat yourself. Get hooked.

Bones

When a bone breaks, it heals, reforms, remodels for years after. But it's never as strong again. Surgery shows- in the way the connective tissue reforms. It's never as smooth and orderly as they way it was originally laid down. The pain will ease, function will return, but the disruption is permanent.

My own little irrational belief, and a theory to explain some elements of stigmata, is that of any wound that heals, can at any age reopen. As can all our life's wounds, given enough distress. If you tell me this is not supported by evidence, nonsensical, I will concede you are right, but, I still nurse the idea as seeming right. I don't mind being wrong. But come here and let me know you think me stupid, or mock me, here, in my home, on this odd theory, and you get the boot.

My father broke me emotionally. Wild, illogical accusations, baffling feats of incorrect mind reading, all escape routes blocked. Then I went and married a smart version of him, thinking it was just the stupidity causing all that misery. I had no defenses against an abusive manipulator who could talk sensibly. After he hit me, he would always apologize, and say all the right, insightful phrases to keep me strung along, leaving the implication that it was all my fault, really.

I have grown and healed, but any kind of irrational challenge is far more painful than it should be. So condescending, accusing assertions, in this, my safe place to speak my own mind, rattle me far more than seems appropriate.

The troll who struck me three times, did, after I packed my bags to leave, offer a sweet apology, which I believe as much as I do those of the ex after he slapped me.

I will never be any kind of a manager because of this deficit. I can be extremely accommodating with people, even if they are upset, up to a point. But when the nudge becomes a shove, I simply have to stop myself from killing them. I have no middle ground, no place from which to gauge a reasoned response. I tried to write several posts to warn, to set rules. When that didn't work, I fell apart rather than finding those people, and torching their homes. I hate confrontation, so I prefer people to see me as dangerous. Deep beneath is a well of rage, which horrifies and reassures me.

Have I ever mentioned I know how to shoot an M16? And, I'm a good shot? Had to for the Army. Just, you know, stray thought.

I have learned real calm with D, and with Moby. The pain is less, it is not gone.

Thank you with all my heart for all those who comforted me, and kept me from throwing away the work of five years. I could have just gone to the new blog, but I would have deeply grieved this one. I am not ready to leave here.

I won't be chased off.

I will be far less cautious in deleting posts, without explanation. I will consider the invite only blog option, but that seems so cold. It's just that I had three trolls in rapid succession, one of them a personal acquaintance that I need to stay on some kind of civil terms with, on top of the Inspection at work, and impending move. Skin thinner than usual.

I will never go to anyone else's blog to question their beliefs in gods, astrology, makeup, Disney, creationism, Republicans or ferrets. I may well rake them over the coals, in general, here. They are free to rebut on their own blog, but not here. Unless they offer a kind, reasonable, respectful, response. Maybe not even that, this week, please.

Enough

I want to cry and give up and throw all this away because of a third idiot this week. After having gone through this twice earlier. The last one made sure I knew he had the last word by sending an even more insulting email by leaving it on the comments and then deleting it, knowing I would get it, but you wouldn't hear that he called me "crass" for shining the light on his attitude. And of course, it's all my fault, for being "petty".

Yup, defending my own patch is petty and crass. Expecting mere silence from a stranger who just shows up, uncritically reads the bits he understands, then attacks me, is silly. Not letting him hide his persistent defense of his mean words... ah, well, shame on me.

This makes me crazy. This has to stop.

Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone....

This blog will either be moving, or going away. I can't do this, my stomach hurts, I'm crying. I don't need readers, I don't make money here, there are other patches. This one smells bad.

Cozy

We count the days, and snuggle down.

We are watching the second season of Black Books, and laughing aloud, with Moby taking over most of the stool, but he's willing to share.

Roll

I had a desk in my room by the time I was about nine, a leftover from my brothers, as I inherited their larger bedroom. But when I got home from school, I would take my usual place at the dining room table to do my homework, math usually - get the hardest work done with mom nearby to help. And be in a well lit room while she went to pick up my father from work.

As soon as he got home, or right after he had his nap, he would start in on me. Not having a conversation with me, but talking at me, criticizing me in some way. Or he would have the television on full blast, or talk with one of his brothers on the phone at full volume (they were all half deaf from working in factories.) So, with work still to do, I would pack up and head upstairs to my fiberboard desk under the slope of the roof, he would stop me.

"You don't have to leave. You're not bothering me."

He would say this every time. I'm not exaggerating here, every time.

Moby lies in the hallway as we repeatedly step over him, blandly looking up at us as if to say, "You're not in my way." Which is fine, we love that he so trusts us. And he is, after all, a cat.

My usual scrub and surgeon gave me a hard time today, to which I roll my eyes and say "Yeah, well, just can't get good help these days." Or, "Oh, you just want Everything!" Dr. H. tells me he read a study that men create an average of seven hours of work a week for women, and do about an hour of work a week to help out. I don't respond except to laugh. It takes me a few minutes to say, "You men cause me about forty hours of work a week, I know that for sure, but at least I get paid for it." I love when I get them to chuckle. Today was a Good Day, despite every patient being, um, short for her weight. I berated the surgeon for this, and he hung his head dutifully. Aw.

Really, context is almost everything. Sarcasm is the rest.


Moby slept on D all night, and came to sit on him twice this evening, atypical behaviour. Moby knows we are moving, he's seen the brown boxes, smelled the roll of tape.

Rude

Why, oh why do so many women insist that being female is more important than being simply human? Why is femininity so bound up with surface glamour, decoration and display? Why do women make such a big, fat, hairy deal that other women have to participate in the petty cattiness of female politics?

I could as easily ask why men are so wrapped up in the rigid trappings of being male, with a terror of anything with a whiff of the feminine. But men don't make a big deal of putting me in my place, at least not these days. The graces that come with middle age, not that society has really changed so much. And, I have a much more masculine style, I cultivate an androgyny that embraces all that I am.

But women still want me to conform. As I strive to live as honest and authentic a life as I can, eschewing the surfaces, the illusions, rejecting the arbitrary trappings, I am pulled back and examined by other women. For telling a funny story about a woman acting in a flighty manner that is identical to parody of the worst excesses of girly behavior, I am called judgmental. Should hear what is said of the women who, against instructions, wear heavy makeup to have surgery, when it all smears off during intubation. I was being very, very mild.

One reader in particular took me to task today. I deleted her comment on No, wrote to her directly. I know her personally, but we are not friends. We have mutual friends, she and our spouses have been friends since childhood. She seems unable to separate her own interpretation of my words, from my real intentions. She made counterfactual accusations against me, while calling me "sweetie," and I corrected her, held my ground. She brought out the big gun, and a personal hot button for me, and called me ~rude~.

Now, rude is what my father always accused me of for not being the fluffy pink little doll daddy's girl he wanted me to be, for not being sweet and compliant and friendly in all situations. I was dark and moody, too smart, too stubborn. His intrusive rage was fine, my defense of myself was rude.

I suspect she means exactly the same. I could be wrong.

I have had to swallow so much of myself this week. I let out the real, raw me here, a stream of pure, unfiltered, undiluted opinion. Most of you who come here regularly seemed to be amused and entertained, as you should be. Two decided to take offense. Their comments could be interpreted as being against your opinions as well. (I am much more sensitive about the treatment of my guests than of myself.)

They have been addressed.

No One. Was Talking. To Them.

Was I rude? I was blunt. Not rude by masculine standards. I told the truth as kindly as I could. I was not friendly, but I don't consider that any more of a virtue than pretty. Great if you have it but I don't, so I make do with what I have. I could have been rude. I could have told each of these people exactly what I really think of them. I did not. I couched my terms, I did not indulge in contempt. I tried to stay factual and reasonable. I may not have succeeded. They are free to think I am rude. I would not presume to tell them what to think, or assume I knew what they felt.

I only wish they had accorded me the same courtesy.

We've had another one. One who thinks their own opinion isn't like an asshole. (We all got one, and they all stink.)

But this is my blog, like my home. I can say whatever I want, I can challenge any opinion, and you can disagree quietly or leave. If you chose to take personal offense and speak up, I will expect you to leave and not return. In no small part because most of the people who come read here agree with me, and when you insult me, you also insult them. I feel so pressured by the society around me to keep silence, this is my only place to really speak my mind. I will not be told I am being judgmental here. Especially not without being offered reasoned discussion, but only reactive emotionalism that I have already addressed in the essay.

I can even quote myself. Thusly.

"If that still offends you, then maybe you have come to the wrong blog. You cannot silence me here. I will not tolerate being insulted here. I spend most of my life around people who disagree with me. I do want yes commenters here, actually. Civil folks who are not going to come into my little corner and tell me I'm pushing my opinions on others. Rebut on your own blog to your hearts content. Call me whatever you like there."

Territories

Last, before the...


Fenway basement, preceded by the...


Brookline studio, which followed the...


First Boston high rise.

(No photo of Boston Animal Rescue League.)

Business

I'm sure I was in kindergarten, walking home. I stood waiting at the corner, as two older girls talked. I told them what I thought. There was a pause, a glare from them, and the bigger one said. "No one. Was Talking. To you."

Hot anger and shame hit me, silenced me. And shocked me out of my baby-egotism. Resentfully, I still felt I had done nothing wrong. That short, sharp shock nevertheless impressed on me that my view of the matter didn't matter.

I thought about the guy from the barber shop, a decade ago, who approached me when he recognized me in the grocery store the next day, and demanded to know why I had my hair shaved like a boy. Apparently, he never had a second grader look down her nose at him and tell him to mind his own business.

Today, I know how to withhold my opinion in public. As I can ignore an intrusive question. I still think about it. I hear stupid and wrong statements in the lounge, and I want to correct them, but I don't. I come here, often writing in response. Anyone here comes voluntarily, can read or not read, leave or stay.

I feel a little posh about getting a place with so many amenities, even if it is small. Then I think of the woman at work who complains about decorating her new-built 3000 sq ft house, and the difficulty of getting to the country club, in a loud and constant chatter during her lunch. I tend to avoid her, lest I say something snide. My opinion of her is none of her business.

D spoke with our ISP to-be today, a local company we have had email from for fifteen years, the owner used to post on a BBS run by D's friend before there was an internet. The tech asked D if he was from Boston, because of the way he said apartment. No, he'd only been there three years, but so often imitated the accent, it stuck to him. (Ah PAHT m'nt). So much better to have local support, not Crapcast's helpline that gets us to Indian call centers, where I can't understand every third word. We are going cable tv free for a while, maybe to read more, write more, walk more certainly.

Moby knows, it's that time of year when we change where we live. This is all he had known living with us.

Circles

We heard back for certain on the apartment. Not that we were really afraid, but after so long worrying, we worried. We are worriers. Which, I believe, is largely why we are not afflicted by a lot of self inflicted chaos in our lives. We have an enviable credit rating, despite never having more than living wages, and early on, not even that. We are not people to simply let bad and uncomfortable stuff slide, we err on the safe side. Not exciting, but we prefer that to social and financial surprizes. As I love boring at work, means nothing is going wrong. I'll take my thrills elsewhere, thank you very much.

I misread my schedule, but my manager didn't check either when she wanted me in to clarify the notorious Timeout with the pedantic inspectors, and went in this morning. A rare change, I work Saturday, not today. But since I'd shown up, and wound up much needed, I will instead have tomorrow off, and got to leave today by 2PM. Worked out that I did NOT have to chat with the Officials. Breaks my heart, hurt my feelings, I actually shed a tear.

Well, no.

This morning, I'd gone to sit in the lounge for a few minutes before running around helping out. Since the Timeout, and being called in to explain same yesterday - then let off the hook until today, then off the hook completely, there has been an irregular squeaking of the hamster wheel spinning in my head. Not obvious ruffling, but deep down riling. My stomach hurt, my head ached, the thoughts ran and ran. So, anyway, I sat there, and the charge calls on the intercom for me to "help out in 12." Sure, I go immediately, should have been walking around helping, properly.

"What can I do for you?"

"We need a circulator."

Yeah, if they don't have one, by 0730, when the case is supposed to start, they need an RN in the room. Everything needs to be set up, and I pull it more or less together in nine minutes flat, with the surgeon being helpful and patient. Make the bed, get stirrups, clamps for stirrups, open the program, interview patient, get scope monitors in the room. Nothing much. Sheesh. By the second case, we are running smoothly, and we get on schedule. I've been doing this a long time, serves me well in the crunch. Even with a nursing student present. Well, she proved helpful, bright young woman.

The thought of not getting the apartment haunted me. Having to look for another place, after finding the perfect one for us, just seemed too much to bear. Knowing we are in, ahhhh... We will give notice tomorrow to our current landlord. I dream of a deep, hot bath. And being able to do laundry without leaving our door. Lists are being listed.

Moby is more affectionate than usual, lately. A great comfort. Ever since D's hand got strong enough after surgery to hold him again after a month unable to, Moby seems to appreciate being held more. He holds on to the shoulder of the sweater with gentle claws, purrs, and touches his nose to our cheeks, eyes, nose.

Funny how love continues to grow and deepen, over years, through experience and trial. As trust develops, as we all know each other more.






Really got the dry skin, acne, and dark circles going this week. So be it.

Lipstick

My mother did not allow makeup on me at all until high school, and then only for dress up occasions. She only ever wore face powder and lipstick, for church or parties. The first time I wore any was for a ballet recital, and I looked like a doll - red circles for cheeks, the whole deal. Felt weird.

I've always had dark circles under my eyes, and short eyelashes, so when I chose makeup, I went for mascara and liner, shadow and concealer, lipstick lasted about ten minutes as I wiped it off immediately, unintentionally. I got my only positive comments from other girls, so I spent my tiny allowance on cosmetics. When I was the prettiest of my life, I felt so ugly I had to wear paint on my face. To cover my horrible dark circles.

As a theater major, I only needed the one makeup class, but I did the full year, and really enjoyed it. This meant my basic inability to do mild makeup turned into complete incompetence, since I only knew how to layer it on, make myself look older, or wear a crepe beard. Spent many an hour that year in front of a mirror, examining my features. The real break through came from seeing the most glamorous actress grad student, a truly stunning woman, always dressed to the nines and made up for a photo-shoot, with a bare face. She looked perfectly ordinary, but more interesting, then. And when I did full on glamour makeup on myself, I looked like her - an image, perfect, but the same as every other model. Well. Huh.

I lost my interest in the stuff, not wanting to try for typical glamour anymore. I would have stopped wearing any at all, but the ex preferred me made-up. And I had a job teaching, excuse me... selling - dance lessons, and the boss expected me in makeup. I continued to put it on, but with growing resentment.

D, of course, got to know me bare faced, as the Army bans soldiers wearing any makeup. When we got back, I put some on to visit his family, and he gently let me know he preferred me plain. Didn't take much convincing, I admit. Aside from a bellydance performance, I've been my own naked face ever since.

I honestly cannot understand the women who feel they "can't" go out, not even to the store, without the mask of makeup. Nothing wrong with masks, as long as it's acknowledged as such. Speaks to a certain lack of confidence in one's own self, though. And for those struggling to pay for rent and groceries, to buy into the cosmetic industry's pervasive advertising, is just dumb. So, why? Why the compulsive element? The sense of MUST, of not having a face, and having to put one one. How self effacing, to feel like a blank canvas without pigments.

Wearing mascara as a decorative exercise, like jewelry or nice clothing, simply for oneself, is a comfort for some. As a hobby, of sorts, sure. But when not wearing it means being ashamed and not fit to walk out the door, or be seen by spouse or family, something is terribly wrong.

And why the mixed message? Men don't have to change the way their faces look. General cleanliness and a shave, and they are good. Women have to "enhance" features, and cover up "flaws" in order to be presentable in public. It's a huge lie that we NEED this crap, and huge corporations are pushing that message. Every TV makeover show, every 'beauty" pageant, every fashion magazine exploits this thoughtless assumption. And here in the US, much of what women put around their eyes, on their faces, is not much regulated. Europe has much higher standards of safety.

It's part of the Cinderella/Princess/Bride story girls are force fed. Pretty as a virtue that brings love and fulfillment, and for that one needs makeup - just to not be hideous and lonely. I have never heard a thoroughly reasoned argument for constant makeup, only a knee-jerk reaction, peer pressure societal expectation. Unchallenged assumption of what is normal.

So, I have to wonder if this is a kind of anxiety disorder, this inability to see one's own face without so much revulsion that it must be covered. To be so worried at what strangers might think if they saw them without it. Or to feel so peered at to necessitate a sort of veil. And I wonder if this is a female trait, to hide one's face behind whatever that society allows, less to attract - although that is often the stated reason - so much as to divert the public gaze.

No, I really don't get it. But it bothers me when women see themselves only as this weird illusion that must be maintained at all costs. So threatened they must always hide.

Primp

Yesterday, relieved for lunch, I dropped down to my locker to get my lunch and tea mug. A pretty woman in scrubs is primping - no other word for it - in the mirror. I see her teal suede style purse on the bench, and roll my eyes out of her line of sight. Not that she looked anywhere but her own reflection. I open the lock, get my stuff together, she is still fussing at her hair and hat in the mirror.

"I look so silly in this hat," she simpers at me, clearly expecting sympathy, perhaps a bit of girl-talk. I have a brightly colored fabric hat because they are more comfortable, hold my hair back better, don't have elastic leaving a mark across my forehead, and at forty hours a week, don't dry my hair so much as the blue paper bouffants. I don't wear them for fashion. "You know what I mean."

"No, I don't," and, afraid she will explain, "I really don't," and rush out before she can make another attempt at engagement. All the time I am thinking, I thought you were silly right off, and that ain't got nothin' to do with the hat, honey. Only then do I wonder if she is one of the inspectors.

One of the Post Secret cards this past weekend was from a woman afraid to go out without make-up. The feedback page is likewise full of woman fixated on make-up as a necessity in their lives. It's all so emotionally illogical, no reasonable rationale is given. Make-up is simply what is done, like corsets of a century ago. To such an extent that I wonder if there is not some kind of anxiety disorder beneath it.

Later, more on this later.

Fooled

Fooled me, today. At least I had good company, good people to work with.

The hospital accrediting inspectors came through, to the ditherment of our managers, and everyone else caught up in their chaotic whirl. And guess which room they wanted to witness a Time-out in.

Yeah.

So, in addition to the announcements and botherers whispering "Jahco is coming! Jacho is coming!" I also got numerous calls and visits about what to do, what to say, forcing their anxieties on me. I was pretty impervious, until I got to a certain point, then I got deeply riled, because all the warnings had to be addressed, and began to affect my ability to care for that patient. Ancillary staff, terrified of making mistakes, insisted on all kinds of unnecessary tidying up that took needed supplies away from where they were needed.

Mind, this was on a heavy day, our surgeon running two total joint rooms - which works because he has a PA to do much of the paperwork, sew skin, and put on dressings, and on the other end, the spinal and block take sufficient anesthesia time, in addition to positioning, that he can do the actual surgery in the other room. And, this surgeon ain't slow. Which is good, he does good work. Today, he had five cases in my room, four in the other. I don't lollygag on these days. It takes planning, attentiveness, and staying on top of everything.

So, the inspector comes in, and I'm tripping over him, trying to stay polite. But this is a smallish OR, with a lot of equipment, and a long way to go before the Time-out. Time-out is a process, of double and triple checking that we have the right patient, and are doing the right procedure, the legal one is the last before incision, with a form I must fill out and sign. Fair enough, we are gradually getting the surgeons to take this seriously, and, once is too often to do it wrong. I look at the consent, check the name out loud with the surgeon and everyone else in the room, including the stupidly obvious "correct position", like pointing out the sky is blue, the grass is green and I still have my feet on. But I do it. Inspector guy hangs around and talks with the anesthesiologist for a while.

Then we hear back, we missed checking that we had the proper implants. I want to hit something. The implant rep had been working with the surgeon templating the correct components, before the patient came in the room.

If there had been any doubt, the surgeon would not have let us bring the patient in the room, his scrub would have stopped us if he didn't have what he needed, would have told me, and I wouldn't have even brought the patient over from the pre-op area. Saying it again is simply insultingly foolish, to all concerned. It's been enough of an uphill battle getting surgeons to stop a moment and confirm the right patient, right surgery, right side, to add several obvious statements is to invite righteous ridicule, and have them resist any kind of final check.

I missed a few other things, specifically because of having to deal with so much meddling attention. Nothing really critical to care, but the kind of marginal detail inspectors so often focus on, while missing the important functions. I am upset with myself that I let all the turkeys get me wrapped up in their bent reality. I stayed calm a long time, but once stirred, I could never quite regain my peace today.

My scrub, a Harley riding, sushi-loving, military guy, who I rarely just talk with, just because we have no common interests, was, I think, rather pleased when I swore*, sitting by him in the lounge, just after. I wonder if he thought perhaps I didn't have it in me. Oh, honey, I do know how to put words to obscene situations. I don't think we will ever come to like each other as friends, but we surely do love to work together. It took a while, but we have grown to trust and admire each other, there, in that place. Well, made him giggle today, at any rate.

Patient is fine, which is all that counts at this point.


*"Fuck" & "Christ on a Cracker!"

English

A few years ago, we had access to BBC America. For a short while, we got to see Goodness Gracious Me, Indian comedy in Britain. Ever the lovers of alien comedy, since mainstream American humor is so bland, mean, and obvious, we were hooked. This video of one of their sketches, Going Out for an English has been making the links round. And I have been indulging in many of their bits on the U-tyube. I don't get all the references, but worked with enough residents from Indian, and India via Britain, that it appeals even more than before. Some of it is simply silly enough.

Humor is such an ephemeral human sense, like taste, hard to pin down or explain, impossible to generalize across a population. American humor has been denigrated since the first colonial cartoonist's first dialogue balloon. British writers are always a little shocked that they have a strong, loyal American audience. There is a difference between what a group eats, and what an individual likes, what a crowd will laugh at, and what tickles an individual. When I saw movies in Army theaters, in a crowd of soldiers, I laughed at crap I would roll my eyes at seen alone. I ENJOYED Child's Play, surrounded by a raucous audience out to have a good time. Rather like a joke in a sermon, a priestly jest get laughs in church that would get a groan at any other time, in any other place, told by anybody else. And it's genuinely funny there. Just as a good MRE tastes pretty good when the alternative is a pork patty, or a tray pack. I loved white bread and margarine as a kid, especially squished into a tight wad. Just as I loved the BBC and Granada TV shows on the CBC, even if I didn't get all the subtleties, I caught the wit and intelligence, and it was different. I loved The Kids In the Hall, but that might just be a deeply Canadian sensibilities. Expectation, contrast, availability of choices.

So, Monty Python became the humor equivalent to Americans as curry to British cuisine. Not everyone likes it hot, but there are a lot of takers. A lot of folks don't appreciate having the tables turned on them, but enough do, and have the grace to be amused. The US is not a monolith, and even a small minority, now linked by the internet, can be a huge number. There is a love of the underdog that runs under the arrogance, enough of an underclass, a society of minorities and rebels laughing at the majority. And do we love to mock the smugness. Including the over-comfortable in ourselves.

We went out for Indian last night, and laughed at our own love of the "exotic," bunch of liberal snobs that we are.


It's snowing. Well, starting to rain, now. Moby is curled in his fleecy bed.

Dances

Hemp Fandango
Eggshell Shuffle
Caffeine Jitterbug
Problem-evading Polka
Worrying Waltz
Bilious Ballet
Bored Beguine
Brilliance Bolero
Buggered-up Bunny Hop
Cachexia Cakewalk
Peer Pressure Conga
Freaked out Flamenco
Clock-watching Minuet
Irony Horah
Bunched-sock Jig
Hot Coffee Lap Dance
Quitting Quadrille
Argument Reel
Crowded Train Rhumba
Short Skirt Samba
Pissed Schottische
Scratchy Tag Shimmy
Trouble Tarantella
Hot Wings Watusi
Flustered Foxtrot

No point, just playing around.

Bathtub

Moving five times within four years is a painful fact of our lives. Being called "so cute!" by the manager showing us the place is gratifying.

We will be closer in, a part of the city with sidewalks and public transportation, a hard but doable walk to work, an easy stroll to the main library, grocery store nearby. Parking. Moby welcomed. And a lot of little luxuries providing immense comfort to me. A deep, lovely bath tub. A on-site gym. Dishwasher. Better yet, washer and dryer inside the apartment. Not to mention no ice-covered outside stairs, and all the plugs will be properly grounded, unlike this place. Sun coming in from the south.

The building feels solid. We've walked enough crappy apartment buildings, we know not-solid. Not a great view, but we will look south down the valley, and be able to watch the storms approach.

A bone of comfort. Gnaw.

Hm?

Moby loves helping. And leaning.

Memoir

Six word memoir, with photo. Tag as appropriate.

Blue Light made me do it.

"Pulling loose paper off the wall."




Udge, Pacian, Moira, Mark, Jean, wanna give it six words worth?

Perfection

I laid awake with a bad song twining and snarling through my brain, and thought about an article, half read, about how quantum is only understandable through numbers, putting it in words is only a poetic interpretation. And suddenly, I imagined all those perfect atoms, as taught in chemistry classes, having dents and scratches, as all life does. And I began to wonder if those molecules and protons and electrons, quarks and sour little smidgens, were really acting as a wave or a particle when we look at them, or if the perfection is simply a matter of looking at them as a mass, but that each, in itself, is just as flawed and unique as individual flowers in a field, and as soon as we get one pinned down, we see the difference.

This is probably wrong, but what do you expect from a middle-of-the-night insight? I love the idea that perfection is not just boring, it's utterly, right down to the smallest detail, impossible and against all that we are. Rather like π, any attempt to simplify our existence into a perfect three, a perfect god, any ideal at all, is doomed to be more wrong than if we just roll with what we see at any given moment.

I had a very hard day, with too many idiots - each of whom thought themselves my boss, all telling me what to do. And I juggled fast and furious to keep it all in the air, not for their sakes, but for the sake of the patients, whose welfare I take very seriously. An armless anesthesiologist (they look like arms, but they don't do nothin'), supply carts massively mis-pulled, complicated clinical-study cases. The study folks were fine, but they added three people to an already overcrowded room. I had a great scrub tech, who sailed through in good humor, and I made sure she felt appreciated. Such a difference from the day before, when- well, I cannot remember laughing so much at work, all day long, in a very long time. Evens out.

I got a note from my Massachusetts cousin. She asked me once if I would consider writing her family story, and it's a good one. I think she should get blogging herself. A sample from her email.

"Retirement is good! Busy - doing what I don't know - but many plans. To string pearls, to mat pictures, to ship a trumpet, to microwave dirt, to rake the yard, to chase the fox, to feed the bluebirds, to ski some more, to wash the paint out of my hair  and on and on..."

Been (Photos)

Detroit, Detroit, Saudi Arabia.

Shadows (Photos)

Everyone who has a camera does it. We stand there, looking around for an image to suggest itself, and, inevitably, we look down at the most ancient fascination of our childhood. The proof that we stand between the sun and earth, and make a difference, however transitory.

When I neared high school graduation, my mother wanted to know what graduation gift I wanted. This was a surprize, since I'd never known that graduating high school merited a present. Despite the fact that my father never made it to sixth grade, and my mother quit a month before graduation to take a job as a seamstress in a truss-making company, my graduation was never held to be in doubt for me. I would graduate, or I would face certain, painful death. No question really, especially since they were paying for catholic school tuition, still barely affordable for the working poor - as we certainly were. I understood the sacrifices being made, and made them myself. I was a teenager with perhaps three music records, most of them from birthday or Christmas, not my non-existant pocket change.

The choice of special but affordable was pretty obvious, I wanted a real camera. So far, I'd only used my mother's Brownie, then the family insta-matic. I wanted to be able to play with the images more, not need a flash inside. My Obviously-I'm-Much-Smarter, and 12 year older, brother asked me what I wanted to take pictures OF. This seemed a particularly stupid question, but I tended not to assume he was wrong at that point. It wasn't that I wanted to take photos of flowers, or just architecture, or any other single thing. I wanted to take better photos, like what my eye saw when I clicked, not the washed out, over dark, glaring glossies that came back from the drug store. He loaded the first roll of film in wrong, so that it all came out black, at my expense.

I never really got good, because I hadn't considered how much film and processing would be. I made each exposure carefully, stingily, afraid to make mistakes.

When we got the digital camera, that long ago gift arrived. I played, for the first time really let go and tried anything. I adjusted photos after, the more I used it, the less each individual image cost.

Still, took pictures of my shadow. Proof enough that I am here now, ephemeral, distorted, intangible, but there, see there? For the last year or so, having a wee camera on the laptop, and taking numerous self portraits, is the other evidence, that light reflected off me bounces back to my eyes, a photograph of a mirror. This is all I have, and I find it reassuring, and amusing, a image of a reflection of a shadow streaming through my confused and bothered brain, and I call it real, and smile.

A friend sent an interview with our beloved Terry Pratchett.

Closely (Photos)

Drama

Sorry to say, I watched Untold Stories of the ER! this morning. I keep hoping it will be a better show, but it only makes me laugh aloud in derisive tones, and shout sarcasm.

The surgeon called, dramatically for a "BOOKWALTER RETRACTOR!" I know exactly what this looks like. There is a notched flat steel ring, and a series of hand sized, smooth, curved segments that will hold back the abdominal wall, usually padded with lap sponges, thick gauze with radio-opaque strips. What was shown was a square, bent, elbow sized hunk of metal that may be used as a brace to hold a truck engine, but looks like no surgical retractor I've ever seen. Not even close.

Then, another case, the ER doc shouts at the (undefined - probably nurse) to "Watch those monitors CLOSELY!" She replies meekly, "Yes, doctor!" Firstly, the request would have been stated as a request, "Keep an eye on those monitors for me, would you?" Had it been ordered dramatically, the response would have been more along the lines of, "Really? Ya THINK? No shit!" followed by a muttered "idiot." Such DRAMA. Actors, sheesh. No, folks who work with life and death, breathing and blood, get calmer the worse it gets. That's how we do it. As soon as the crisis is over, one way or the other, we make a joke, in relief or release.

D has been watching Dogfight - (about airplane battles, not dogs.) The over the top narration and music is comical, especially compared to the thoughtful, measured insouciance of the fighter pilots interviewed. I remember a British show about fighter pilots, who also spoke of their experiences without ego or bravado.

And, funny as Mike Rowe is on Dirty Jobs, his revulsion - which he does overcome, is in marked contrast to the folks who work hard, dirty jobs every day.

This was a week about odor, blood I barely notice anymore. Electrocautery of hormonal tissue is quite potent, another smell that hardly registers. Old, sick shit still smells bad, but normal healthy poop is just an odor - neither good nor bad. The surgeons were complaining of a sebaceous cyst stink, and a dermoid induced a suppressed urge to retch. But not much really gets to me. A young resident stopped by at the front desk while I was answering the phones, chatting with another nurse, and I wanted to hold my nose and run away - because he had some strong cologne that made me nauseated. Another surgeon brings his coffee into the OR (against policy), and I cannot stand the stench.

I have a weird job, and it's done weird things to my perceptions.

Curl

He's been chasing around like mad all morning, not eating, strenuously resisting any attempt at being picked up, beating the stuffing out of the wooly mice. I checked for earthquakes, and there were a few off in Wells, Nevada. Close enough to occasionally be felt here, particularly - I'm guessing, for a cat. Then he curled up next to D, and slept.

See wooly mice, chewed, and new.

Pat

Some of the distress is just newhaircutshock. When it settles down, it won't be so bothersome.

Buds

I got to stay late at work last night. No, I am not being sarcastic, I'm just glad we've been a little busier. Plus, it timed out so that I could meet the guys for dinner. D ordered for me, and I got there before the food arrived. Mind, this is a great little Chinese restaurant, none of the staff has English as a first language, and the service is not American overfast. The food itself is wonderful, well spiced, complex, fresh, genuine. I don't know how traditional, since I've never been to China, but I suspect it's closer than most. A fresh, cut up orange for dessert. Almost a dozen different teas. Shared food, lively conversation, and hope all around.

D's interview went well. N looking at new opportunities, Dave in negotiations for a job, I worked an extra half hour. Nothing sure, but the first thaw in a long, hard winter. Ok, R skipped, apparently sleeping. Damn time change.

My brain has been mushy, as I try to write about movies, and fail. Well, fail to produce enough coherent text to launch a commercial site, certainly. Holding on to the idea, pulling at the loose threads.

So, I'll plug.

Pepper has a wonderful video up of Roxy on her printer, appropriately called Cat Jam.

I once did a lot of survey work, to pay for luxuries like rent and food when I was a poor student. As a result, I will always respond to non-commercial surveys, as karmic recompense. And Kleman* left a request, politely in the comments, to respond to his survey. When I asked him if he'd like other bloggers, he gave an enthusiastic yes. It's not bad, and I'd love for the thoughtful, intelligent bloggers who come here to skew his data away from the teen/facebook bloggers. If you can take the 5-10 minutes, please do. I may well tag you for a meme about it, some of the questions provoke thought.

*I am a doctoral student in Communication Studies at Kent State University. For my doctoral dissertation, I am studying bloggers. Would you be willing to participate in my survey?

This online survey should only take about 15 minutes to complete, and it would mean the world to me. If you participate, you will be entered in a drawing to win one of 10, $20 Amazon.com gift cards. 

To participate in this study, you must be at least 18 years old, and you must currently maintain a blog that is primarily about your personal musings about your life, internal states, opinions, thoughts, or attitudes. Finally, you must write in your blog at least once a month.

If you would like to participate, please visit the following website: Survey 

Thanks so much for your help!

Sincerely,
Erin E. Kleman
Doctoral Candidate
School of Communication Studies
Kent State University
eekleman@kent.edu

Cuttings

Long ago, I took scissors to my own hair, and got berated for it. I thought I'd been clever and considerate, since I wanted to cut something, and my hair was my own.

It would not be the last time I cut my own hair, but found out that others considered this wrong, as, apparently, my hair was not, in their opinion, my own to do with as I wished.

My mother had my hair cut in a Pixie, while I wanted to grow it out, because I was to be a flower girl for my cousin's wedding. I remember distinctly, in the back seat of the car, on the way home that night, when my allowance to grow it long had been rescinded. Well, couldn't have it looking like THAT, could we?

I had my hair buzzed, during those years when hair itself seemed too stressful, stopped in the grocery store after, a stranger who had been in the barber shop approached me, asking me - as though he had a right to an answer, why I had my hair cut like a boy? I countered that he didn't know me, had no right to even ask, none of his business, and, in addition, bugger off.

One of my National Guard officers, made a point, every drill, to comment on the length of my hair, as though it mattered to her in some way. I got so that I replied with non-commital grunts.

Hair, to me, is about self determination.

I wanted, now, in my life, to have long hair. I screwed it up, and now I have to deal. Not about being bad or good, just not what I'd chosen, save by my ill-considered choices. Chose the action, chose the consequences. I am getting very irritated at how many people seem to think their opinion is more right than my own taste about how I would prefer to look, and can't. Good friends, those of you who allow that I am right - but are just assuring me it's not so bad, fine, appreciated. Those who tell me I am wrong, it's much better this way, read Carolyn Hax.

Waiting

We sat at the DMV for over 90 minutes today. After D had a bare few hours sleep last night. The time change is evil for those with insomnia. And the rest of us as well. But the ID issue had to be taken care of today, long delayed, the crunch is on. We waited, and reminisced. Because, for very few people is waiting in lines, or in concrete floored rooms, a romantic experience. And yet, for a couple who fell in love while in the military, such experiences remind us of early days in each other's company.

We have sat together on such hard floors, or inhuman metal folding chairs, waiting for our names to be called, filling out paperwork, passing time, complaining, making each other laugh. The morning after we were notified of our activation to Gulf War I, after my sleepless night and being dumped (fairly, and honorably I have to add) by the guy I'd been dating for a month, back at the armory doing all the pointlessly annoying shit the Army made us do, I grew an awful migraine. D stood in line with me, and at one point, snagged me a chair, and let me rest my throbbing head on his gas mask carrier strapped to his waist. He says he was happy to have me near, and guiltily relieved that I was available. I loved being near him, and am still grateful for a place to rest my head.

These early waits often necessitated silence together. We simply loved each other's company. And over the course of our sojourn to Saudi Arabia, we always found we preferred to be together, hungry, exhausted, cranky, in pain, annoyed or amused, dirty - at our worst, we still liked each other.

Upon arrival in that country, not knowing what our billets would be like (out in the dirt, or what), we availed ourselves of the army of Filipino barbers to shear us. I came out with a short bowl cut, and a line going around my head, buzzed below, from just above my ear to just above my ear. I have always known that D fell in love with me when I had the worst haircut of my life, I had no fears of superficial judgements. He grins at me, gazes at my hair. It's not as bad as then, I know, he tells me he loves it. Well, it is all me, no dye, no fuss.

We chatted today about mismatched couples, who seem to want the other person to complete them. We have often wondered at the trope of Horace Rumpole, of a funny guy married to She Who Must Be Obeyed - hostile to his sense of humor. Or the couple in Juno, who had no appreciation for the stability of the wife, or the 'coolness' of the husband. We still can't figure out why such people get together in the first place, blaming the artificiality of the dating procedure. Send a pair off for a year to do hard dirty work, grieve together, fix a sink, pay bills, see each other through sickness BEFORE making them vow to stay together through thick and thin. How can anyone know ahead of experience? Good couples bring their whole selves, and the partner provides a safe place for continued growth. I was in a mess when D and I got together, but I never thought he would fill my deficits. I grew around him, sheltered by him, but I wanted to bring the best of myself to us, not use him as spackle.

He thinks I'm funny. He makes me laugh. Even while waiting with children snorting and playing obnoxious electronic games behind us. Tired, cranky, we still giggle.

Sheepish

FINALLY managed to get Blooger to put up a photo. I've been trying, it kept choking.

My meagre attempts at shearing myself. Moby happy after his de-furring. My "new look" (gods, I look dowdy.) It'll grow, it'll grow.

Cut

My hair grows grey, but the old stuff, dyed and mistreated, hangs on the end. I tried to salvage, but it turns a sickly orange that glares brassily at me through the mirror, in my peripheral vision, weighing me down.

I have embraced my greying, aging hair, evidence of middle age and mortality, but I was enjoying the pension of long, neglectable tresses. My inept attempts to hurry along the process frustrate me, and I chop, and chop, and chop it away, pruning clumsily.

Now I must break my vow to never attend another salon or barbershop. I must allow a short, neat, haircut, to endure. I would buzz it all away, like a sheep on a lawn, nearly pulling it all up by the roots. But I have lived that before, knowing the shaggy awkwardness of middling growths, menopausal adolescence. And I don't want it, in the midst of financial difficulty and personal distresses.

There is no choice, though. I must tolerate a professional cut.

"Cut off all the orange, and make it neat, and I will be content. Make it fast, and I will be ecstatic." I will say to the barber, and hand over my eight dollars. I will not complain, only sigh. Long hair comforted me, but I did this to myself, screwed up, fucked up, muddled and fumbled. Now, I must correct, and endure the consequences. I've been here before, a kind of jail, or probation, I must simply accept and move on.

Like a muddy spring, a cool season of discomforts, daylight savings time too early, allergies and snowmelt dirt. I molt and itch.

Clown

Drag shows have always bothered me, insulted me as a woman being caricatured. A man showily "doing it better." Having made myself more aware of the transgendered issues and realities, I have come to accept that this is not intentional. Or at least not intended as an insult. And I connected it today to several other cultural phenomenon, a countercultural fad that has mushroomed into industrial toxicity.

There is a book called Body Drama reviewed in a 'zine left in the lounge at work, with two photos, one of a woman, the other a copy - photoshopped to create a size-one bottom. Seen alone, the second would seem normal in a women's fashion spread, next to the real one, it looks freakish, and boyish. And I began to think about uber thin models, and the prevalence of gay men in fashion. Men who would prefer girls to look more like boys, slim hipped, small busted, not a conscious choice. (Female designers, for the most part, prefer boys too.) Curvy, maternal women dressed flatteringly will never be their aim. The other side of fashion, couture - is about art, and the models are hangers for the art, so having to create livable clothes is again, not the point.

Drag queens are all about women writ large, on stage, the female that most brassily appeals to, yes, men. Not all men, certainly, but the kind of man who likes strippers and prostitutes, the obvious, for sale woman, the surface of sexual woman, and is amused and aroused by the exaggeration.

Which suddenly struck me as being akin to clowns. Clowns elicit nervous laughter, a fearful pleasure, an indulgence in stereotypes, obvious humor. Most folks these days don't like clowns, finding them creepy. Which is closer to what I have always felt about drag queens, the appeal completely lost on me. It's all about masks and surfaces, adoring the glamour and the flash, selling the sizzle, painting on a face.

I'll take my own, unadorned.

Muddy

Low water draining.
Left in sticky muddy ooze.
Spring ain't all flowers.



Called off work today. Looking for supplemental income source. Will write for cash.

Thinking about creating a commercial site, to review older movies. Separate from One Word, distinctly. Middle aged woman reviewing those films you always meant to see. What do you think?

Calm

It's been since we have lived with Moby. I have cultivated a studied quiet, to give him reason to trust us, not to be startled or fearful. Where once I would have screamed and thumped around the place because I felt frustrated, especially when alone, I now express this in a more controlled flow of calmer words or rueful laughter. Seeing my dear cat freaked and hiding - echoing my out of control fits, motivated me to change.

I'd already moved toward less rageful expressions, because D retreated at my outbursts, and expressed distress at my screaming at other drivers. As I restrained my fury, the anger itself ebbed. Venting, I came to realize, is feeding the anger monster. Anger is a choice, and a toxic one, in no small part because it spreads and splashes back from others. Frustration and worry, those are feelings. My response is always a choice.

Gentleness and polite responses, laughter, deflect anger, but take conscious effort, practice. Yesterday, I had a lot of practice, turning it into a good day.

We have orderlies that work in surgery, some are trained to be unit assistants, who do a bit more. They open supplies with the scrub, they set up the bed, help me position, run for equipment, hold the leg for me to prep. Experienced ones are a great help with total joint cases. Setting up a total hip replacement is a lot of jobs all at once, especially for a surgeon who may do eight to ten between two rooms in a day (with the assistance of a Physician's Assistant - PA). The turnover has to be fast for this to work. Delays are inevitable. The good UAs usually go on to med school, or to be PAs, which has happened recently. So when new ones train, a lot of work falls back on me. Some UAs are quicker off the mark than others.

I said please, and thank you, and what can I do for you, and that's fine, I can take care of that, many many times yesterday. In a calm and pleasant voice. To keep everyone around me calmly thinking, not add any chaos in. Which keeps my patient safe. Which allows me to laugh as I dismantle and clean the OR table after the last case.

That's when my scrub tech yesterday told me the story of two of the ortho guys, on a ski-lift, one telling the other he hoped to do five hundred joints this year. A snowboarder on the seat beside them goggled, "That's a lot! You have to have a good job to do that much."

D calls our current situation a "Perfect Storm of anxiety." In our first year back, after four yearly moves, an apartment with electrical (it's not grounded) issues necessitating another move, his overwhelming difficulties finding work (I know when he does get hired, they will love him, but getting hired is a high, spiky hurdle), health problems for both of us - his requiring surgery and ongoing therapy, resultant financial stresses (this insurance is barely adequate), my own work hours reduced due to low census - related to the slow economy. We know, if we could, that buying a house now would be a great idea. But we can't, not without having the house take us under.

So.

We hold each other, and laugh, immediately to keep Moby happy. He is our barometer, and he depends on us to be good, trustworthy people, whatever our worries. He purrs back calm.

Previously

Old meme, retagged. Well, fine.

Page 123,

Fifth sentence through eighth.

So they sat in the shade and sweated, while, about once a day, the mad smoking woman who smoked all the time came and laid ... things on a crude trestle table in front of them. The things had this in common: they were dull.

There was nothing to mine here, everyone knew. It was barren silt and sand all the way down.

And since I'm doing it again,

Page 246

Tenth through sixteenth.

"Do I detect a note of peevishmess?" said Adora Belle.

"Well, my plans for today did not include dropping in to chat with a three-hundred-year-old letch."

"I think you mean lych, and anyway he was a ghost, not a corpse."

"He was letching!"

"All in his mind," said Adora Belle. "Your mind, too."

"Normally you go crazy if people try to patronize you!"

"True. But most people aren't able to translate a language so old that even golems can hardly understand a tenth of it. Get a talent like that and it could be you getting the girls when you are three centuries dead."

(Ok, I went over, but I couldn't leave you hanging like that.)

Making Money, Terry Pratchett.

Mizithra

There is a regional chain restaurant that once served as default gathering place with food, for our circle of friends. Relatively cheap, they never batted an eye at seating five or nine or eleven people, though many of the chairs were uncomfortable in the name of quaintness. The service could be slow and difficult, water glasses were filled obsessively and over objections, other diners often broke out in the singing of Happy Birthday, abetted by the waitstaff, flash photography was common, children scampered unchecked. The menu had few real choices, spaghetti with a selection of tomato sauces, and a chicken breast entree. The Italian sodas priced beyond my meager budget at the time, although once in a while I would have a chocolate soda instead of a meal. Rich desserts that I never tried. Spumoni was included, so why would I?

And there was spaghetti with browned butter mizithra. Comfort food, the most reliable choice, since the other sauces varied in quality. Not a pretty, showy meal, but simply wonderful, warm and good.

The evening that D had his four hour surgery for the shattered elbow, kept in the hospital overnight, all those years ago, his friends gathered me up and took me there to eat, ordered this dish, and beer, for me. Refused to take no, I'm fine, really, for an answer. I loved them for their kindness. I still do. Because that was not isolated generosity, but the first glimpse into their characters.

Lately, mizithra cheese has been showing up at the local grocery store. I have not yet gathered the wherewithal to try to make it at home.

Exposed

Winds blow heavy hard small rain
earth tips away, there.
shy grey depressed grass exposed.