Animated

We finally watched Coraline last evening, a movie I've wanted to see from the beginning. It's the only Gaiman book I've read, or will read. I respect his work, but I don't enjoy it. This book is the exception, read only because I trusted the friend who urged me to try it. Quite a story, with nicely ambiguous themes and messages.

The movie felt very true to the original story. Complaints about the boy helping her instead of letting the girl take care of herself are, I think, off point. A novel can allow a character to think to the reader. Very hard to accomplish in a film. And in the film, she is allowed a friend - like any hero on a quest. I could argue the feminist reading on it, but I think there are wider readings, more useful ones. About choosing the real over the ideal, not being fooled by flattering tales, accepting help, being courageous, a corner for anyone. The animation caught the prose beautifully, and added richly.

I was disappointed when I'd heard they'd not used the many They Might Be Giant's songs written for it, (only one) - but I think it was the right decision. TMBG is creepy in a cheerful sort of way. Coraline needed music to be full on creepy, with the animation of the main characters providing the humor.

Wonderful voices as well. Terri Hatcher is an actor I generally avoid, but she was perfection as the Other Mother. Keith David such an appropriate cat voice. And I'll buy John Linnell's singing voice to John Hodgman's speaking voice as Other Father.

My only real concern is that too many children were taken to see this, and are still having nightmares. This is genuinely frightening, intense - and it builds and builds. The attitude here that all animation is for children. Means that animation isn't used for anything but children's movies, and children get exposed to the rare exception. And that if I want to see an animated film, I have to wait for dvd, or hope it shows up at Brewvies. Kids here are not kept quiet in a theater. Especially not by the kinds of parents who take their kids to see a scary, adult oriented animated film just because "it's a cartoon."

Moby is still hiding. He wanted to play "chase me!" - a game he's trained me to play. He reaches up his paws to my butt, or mrrks or just takes ninjakitty stance, and I have to chase after him, until he flops on the bed or stool, and then I have to pet him. But he ran into the bedroom, then full speed out - and into my shin. Probably has a bit of a headache, if my own bruise is anything to go by. He's let me pet him in the closet, but he's not coming out.

Poor kitty.

Speed

Had to start a big case with little warning or help yesterday, about 9 hours into the 12 I would work. Always fun. Then wound up with my manager/supervisor watching, as well as several visiting surgeons. Lots of equipment, two surgeons working - with attached residents. And a gap as the scrub who'd been there all day disappeared, and a scrub nurse flitted in and out for a while during the set up, with the attending anesthesiologist bringing in the patient despite pleas for a few more minutes. Two reps for two products.

I shrugged, and did what I needed to do, moving and smarting off as applicable. Kinda fun, actually. And the scrub nurse, who is often the charge nurse, told me she was impressed. Yes, well, those are the times when I shine. Everything worked out fine, despite a great deal of initial mess, and the foot control for the C-arm did not get a cover, and took way too much effort to remove the "bioburden" at the end of the evening. I had everything tucked up about an hour in, charting done, room as tidy as possible. That with the help of Sue, who came in when she could, and gave me a break at the right moment, and took care of the specimens.

A nice little schottische.

Manager stood back, shivering. I put my warm hands on her arm, she was surprized. Room isn't cold to me. I don't know if she could tell I was holding it all together.

Quilted

(See previous two posts first.)

Be sure to click for full size, details count on these photos.


And just a few more, since even in such comfort, we got tired and walked home. The Greek Souvlaki place, surprisingly, was open, lunch to be had. We left just as the BYU float was going by. No expense was expended. Like a few others, the theme seemed to be - 'Putting in an Appearance.'

"Eh, just stick a few new flowers on it and some chicks in evening gowns, dust off the astroturf from last year, looks fine, roll 'em out." I didn't even waste camera battery on those.

But a few gave it a really good try, if somewhat missing the point. Or maybe it was just because the sun had crept up, and the west side of the street thinned out as they began to cook in the 90° heat. Quilts?

Quilts.

Quilts, carrots and a book of "Values" what else do you need?



Quilts and an attic, apparently.




Or, really, just some Fry Sauce. Ah, that's better.



Some folks here do get the joke. A lot, actually. Just not a lot who make the floats.

Mission

(See previous post first.)

Be sure to click for full size, details count on these photos.


The reason for the season.



(Wait, I'd better explain that these young men are Mormon missionaries, at a 24th of July/Pioneer Day parade. You can tell by the black suit pants, white shirts, and backpacks. Closer to, you'd see their name-tags and earnest expressions.)

Ultimately, it's all about the missionaries. Elders. A concept that always sends me into fits of laughter, that 19 year old boys are called Elder. Really. I'm not making this up. Several floats had "Sharing the Vision" themes. Which means sharing the LDS faith, oh so generously. One had an Israeli flag on it, which is wrong, because Israel won't let LDS missionaries in, nohow, noway. Especially not after all those sneaky, post mortem baptisms.



This one didn't get the Animation award, although it certainly moved the most. It looked like a movement, certainly. One guy is pulling the mule out of a hole, and the guy in back is getting butted, apparently. All looks a bit unsavory, but in a funny and, well, brown way.



Now, now, this, this, this... sigh. I'm not sure why the buildings are being crushed with ice cream mountains, even though this is an area with a fair amount of seismic activity. Nor why there is a huge orange volcano on the back. We think they may have meant it to be Delicate Arch and red rock country. But there are no palm trees in Utah, not even in the southern edges. None. Except potted ones in office buildings. Which don't count. All I know is, if this were made of cake, it would be on Cakewrecks.




No comment needed. Except that Brigham Young surely meant the State of Deseret. And putting enormous, blocky, ugly temples all over. But no US flag. You know, ideally.

Parade

Be sure to click for full size, details count on these photos.


I'm not sure where to start. It's Pioneer Day, which in this state means Mormon Pioneers, with all the subsequent proselytizing and socio-political meddling for which they are justly famous. In this area, the more arcane stories, the local mythologies, are well known. In places where only their sappily wholesome ads go, perhaps less so. I will explain as well as I can.

We went to the Library, up to the fifth floor staff areas, and watched out the windows in cool comfort, on real chairs. Best way ever to see a parade on a hot day, better than on TV, since we didn't have to listen to TV commentators or watch ads. Granted, we couldn't hear the bands, other than the drummers, but that is often just as well. But we did get to share snide comments and irreverent remarks with other library staff.

We have a Theme! It's Vision! Either that or "That was my stop!" When the new trollies were put in a few years ago, they followed some of the same old trolly routes that had been demolished in the 50s.



This one is a bit hard to explain, because it's a bit of a muddle to start with. Why a soldier is pulling a mormon handcart I'm not sure. Nor do I quite know why a Book of Mormon neo-biblical figure is gigantic, kneeling, with his head down. Could be Nephi or Moroni, maybe Waldo. Why the golden path? Got me, but it winds up with a couple presumably about to be married in the Temple. Why Vision of Liberty? Um. more like Limited Visions of Strictly Regulated Liberty, coming off the pen of, um, Joseph Smith?


LOTS of horses. Which is nice, but the photos from above aren't interesting, meaning I'll just post the one. Horses about every third group. These had shaved butts. Maybe groomed into checkerboards, not sure which. Looks pretty though.



This caused much hilarity. Why a pig? Why is the chicken on a column of water surrounded by toilet paper rolls? Why is there a float dedicated to bidet hygiene? We tried to assume it meant something about food storage, which is a practice all good Mormons... practice. But it just looked weirdass, even when it turned out the pig was a piggyBANK.




That's enough for now. More later. I'm so glad the eyes of the world are no longer upon us, and the financially strapped locals can let their freak flags unintentionally fly.

Zuka

Once upon a time a little place opened that called itself Zuka Juice. They blended ice and fruit into cups of happiness. When D had his second surgery, and a couple of days on antibiotics that precluded his eating anything but a couple of Lifesavers®, we stopped there. And they gave him ambrosia in the form of a smoothie. A real life saver. A great little place, locally owned, utterly granola and happy, creative names for their offerings, good music, the real deal.

Then they got bought out by a big chain. We've been since, but the new stuff is too acidic. The charm is gone, the prices are up, and it's just no damn fun. Not to mention they play the music way too loud.

So, this week we did our research, got a good, simple blender. Decided we wanted gazpacho. And maybe make a few smoothies. It's been hot around here. Got a great sale. The soup was good. The ice/banana/pineapple/lime/orange-tangerine juice concoction was so good, we've decided to always call them zukajuices, in memoriam.

D asked me if I wanted to go out this evening. I said, "It's 100°." (38C)

"So, you don't want to go out?"

"If you can think of something worth going out in that heat for, sure."

Neither of us could.

Distractions

Dismay and distractions this week. All a bit too much. Steps toward changes subverted by a flaky academic (is there any other kind? a cynical person might ask.)

So, nothing thoughtful or meaningful, or full in any way whatsoever. Just cranky and sore and tired and so in the mood for a Friday off.

Which I get. Yup, it's Pioneer Day in Utah, and we get to sneak into the Library to watch the Parade. The last time I saw it in full, the Gay Pride parade only wished it was so kitschy. Gold lamè pioneer outfits for everyone, missionaries riding rainbows, a glory to behold. But that was a good ten years or more ago, and when I went for a short while a few years later, it was much tamer and more professional, sadly. Because then it was rather boring. Still, watching a parade from a high window, and air conditioned, seems like the only way to go. A good walk, then up out of the crowds and heat, and most importantly, a day off work. Much needed.

Right now, since I have to go in tomorrow, a nap.

Got up and got dressed nicely, to take a train, then a long uphill walk, to wait in a warm office, only to be blown off, and told I could do it again at noon. I declined for today. Trying to let the crankiness flow away.

Emergence

Most people wake up from general anesthesia with blearily opened eyes, the irresistible urge to rub their nose, and that's about it. Many will flail their arms a bit, but without strength, and the moment quickly passes. Occasionally someone will rouse combative, which is why staff stay nearby as they emerge, to keep them safe, and on the bed.

Much more rarely, they wake up fighting and uncontrollable, and strong. So that the nurse and tech, sometimes the resident, are using their body weight to keep them from running all the way to the floor. I've seen a few bad wake-ups, the worst* still has to be the Tongan woman just coming out of heart surgery, swatting away orderlies. I got her to focus on me, sat her up, and slowly she came around to post-anesthesia version of oriented.

This week, the second worst wake-up. Strong guy, went down oddly, taking a lot of drugs to get any effect during induction, more to get him out. This is often a sign of recreational drug use (or chronic pain narcotic tolerance), and long term smoking. It also meant that he metabolized the hell out of the propofol at the end of surgery, and woke up before the dressing and knee immobilizer were on, swinging and kicking. Nothing could calm him down, although the worst passed off after a few minutes. When we turned him up to get the roller under him, he snatched at me. This is dangerous, a grab so strong and he could wind up on the floor. I held my place, but rolling him over scared me. I took the time to get him to grip tight to his own elbows, made him promise to hold, and we rolled FAST. It worked, to my deep relief.

I've found I've lost my taste for the adrenaline high. I've had a headache, intermittently, ever since. This is why I like boring, nothing going wrong.

That this is the weather does not help me, although it's exactly what to expect this time of year, here.
18 Jul 3:53 pm 101(f) 41(dew point) (winds) 13 N 10G20 FEW080 SCT120

D's brother, who lives about 40 minutes away from them, agreed to help C and Moira move tomorrow. C seems to think they may not need him. He's not moved as many times as D and I have, but you never know, sometimes cockeyed optimism is right. I've never seen it happen relative to a move, but one never knows.



*Not counting post anesthetic psychosis, I've seen that twice. Can't find anything online to describe it, it's pretty rare. I'll see if I can get some data from our Director of Anesthesia for next week.

Summer

... And put in 23 hours in two days.

The building management put on a "Summer Party" last evening, (6-8pm) flyers appeared this week, with little add-ons for activities penned in as the week wore on. After work, Friday, on the patio over the parking, and then cinched it with "a band." Well, how can we turn up our noses at live music so close? So we figured we'd at least go listen a while. I didn't get home until 1800, six pm, sore and in need of a shower and food. Usually, this would mean I'd hunker down. But something about the low-keyedness still appealed to two non-social people (us), and we never lost the impulse to try.

Not that I knew about it, but the temp hung out around 100° (37C) most of the day, and cooked the concrete up there until the building shaded it from the west. Now clean, damp, and with an avocado, chips and a beer inside, and my They Might Be Giants t-shirt on, we wandered out to see what was going on. It was Warm on that patio, but not in bright sun, lovely searing hot dog smell, some groups of young people together, a few well behaved children, a dog, other couples, the maintenance staff and managers (it's a fairly large place) being pleasantly unprofessionally making cotton candy, handing out ice cream bars, running a home putting green game for prizes. (Beer, "Provided by a vendor to be given out as prizes, we are not serving alcohol!") A volleyball game started behind us. The band set up, just a couple of guitars, harmonica, all three sang, and did really good Bob Marley covers, and an ecclectic scattering of other songs we know and like, such as Man Down Under, with a few blues riffs of their own. We were nearly the only ones really sitting paying attention. So when we felt too cooked ourselves (D already burnt from his bus journey to get a cable earlier in the day) and stiff perched on the concrete surround for one of the potted trees, we had to leave. The band called out to us, "No! Don't go..." We smiled and apologized, but retreated to soft seats and cool air.

A good final to a strange week.


My dear Moira is moving this week, rather suddenly because they found a great place, less rent, nearer the beach. But the short notice also means no assistance. She's just started PT for her back, and Plum is willing, but only three years old. C is optimistic though, and creative and capable. I really want a transporter right now. So I sent her the link to the song D and I sang to each other so often during our various moves in friend-distant lands. A bit raw, but I still love it. Help is Coming (One Day Late.)

Enjoy Sam Phillips.

Habit

.... And got called off yesterday. Today being my usual day off. Applied for an opening in a different department, might mean less physical labor and possibly more hours, but we shall see.

The idleness is an unlooked for blessing, as all blessings are. NB took us to Beervana last evening. Both D and he are non-drinkers, because they can't stand the taste, being supertasters, (Like Alan Alda.) I am the only beer drinker among our friends here- with the exception of Dave, who can't anymore because of the anti-neoplastic drugs he's on that would turn alcohol into formaldehyde inside.

Recent changes in the odd liquor laws here means this restaurant with a huge beer menu is open to us. (Huge for Salt Lake. There are at least three places in Boston with much more extensive selections.) Still, it's pretty good, and although torn for a moment, I just couldn't resist Old Rasputin Imperial Stout. Told D if he so much as touched his tongue to it, he'd be spitting for ten minutes. He took up the unintentional dare and dipped a fork into it, and tasted the drop. Sure enough, it was what ND referred to as "Black Liquid Death!" Indeed, yum. We were all in full agreement that the food was amazing, though.

The Private Club laws used to mean that one needed to buy a membership to enter a restaurant or bar that served anything but 3.2 beer. Don't ask me why. We kept meaning to find a place to get a membership, but how do you become a regular somewhere when you have to pay upfront before you can tell if you even ever want to come back? But the law changed on 1 July, and I finally got to go to The Bayou after having heard of it's amazing beerness for many years. It ain't the Publick House, but it'll do.

No, I have nothing to write about. Doing this post for practice and habit.

Hiding

Hiding out today. Should be at work. Called in instead. Can't really claim actual illness, just general ickiness. And being quietly at home helps. TMI PMS symptoms, but no progress toward the end of that process. Can't pretend I'm saying the pledge of allegiance all day long, just to protect from accidental bumps to a painful area, even for one as flat chested as myself. Which is part of why I'm so sure this is all hormonal wackiness. I did warn D about the potential moodiness, and I do fess up to emotional fraying. I try so hard not to dump on him, but sometimes it sloshes.

Just read Lucky Man, the Michael J. Fox memoir. Not ideal writing, but very amusing in so many places, worth the read. Now on to a biography of Charles Fort. Hey, I was in that part of the library. Watching The Adventures of Buckaroo Bonzai Across the Eighth Dimension, a movie I fell utterly in love with when it first came out, and it still draws me in. Christopher Lloyd and Jeff Goldblum especially. Because, no matter where you go, there you are.

Groggy

Nothing like a much needed, two hour nap, to leave one feeling groggy. Unless one is a cat, and D's very old silk/linen shirt got left on the sofa. Actually, put there until I got to ironing it, which in the end, I didn't, because there was a cat on it. He does like nice fabric.

Weird, hot, cloudy day. Wispy promises of rain that I knew would be foresworn. Still, 90° (32C), has an oppressive quality.

Science!

One of the advantages of my degree is that occasionally I can help out my friends, with the right word, translation, a bit of practical advice. I used to give post-op instructions for a lot of shoulder surgeries. So when a fellow nurse had to schedule herself for a rotator cuff repair, I asked if she had a recliner at home. Because those were in my instructions - that a good Laz-e-boy would make life much more comfortable post-op. So she picked up a decent used one the week before, and was given the same instruction from the recovery room - when it would have been a little late to do much about it. She assures me the chair is wonderful, except that the lever to lift the foot is on the right, same as her repaired shoulder. Ah, well, next time. I wonder if there even are any left handed recliners.

I don't think I'm the only one with a little pocket of experience who is glad to share. I have a sneaking suspicion that wikipedia medical articles are written by med students and residents as a way to get their research into people's hands, just based on the level of quality I've seen so far. A great place to start researching, get the vocabulary. Doctors are still struggling with patients who speak the same language, if haltingly. Because it used to be a red flag that this one was either "hypochondriac" (a term, if not an idea, no longer used) or an addict looking for drugs. Still, I think it's good to challenge them, and I think some of the younger ones agree with this, because it is impossible to keep up with everything in every specialty.

This week, I reshuffled bookmarks to include a batch I've called Science! More puzzle pieces to put together The Reason for This Thusness. Jonah Lehrer over at The Frontal Cortex offers some wonderfully explained examples of human behavior, like why schizophrenics have such high rates of cigarette smoking, how trust works in this economy, and the danger of a particular online auction site.

Much in the same vein is Predictably Irrational, explaining why we so often make such bad choices, repeatedly, and why stupidity ain't going away anytime soon. Which goes right along with The Straight Dope "Fighting Ignorance since 1973. (It's taking longer than we thought.)" A more wide ranging and practical site, still thoughtful and inquisitive.

Then there are the creations of Evil Mad Scientists. Who just look at life a little differently. And Atlas Obscura for the traveler who wants real oddity.

My ongoing theme is one of, "Dunno, let's find out." I have always liked hanging out with people smarter than myself, and I find them all over the place.

Fallow

Two hard, long days, and all I want to do is sleep. Still, work done well leaves me with a small wrapped chocolate of satisfaction.

I have a couple of subjects brewing, but can't gather my thoughts enough for coherence. Moby wanted food and attention at 0500, and I wanted D to finally get some sleep, so thoughts are going to have to remain to be gleaned later.

MRI

Had the MRI today, r/o anything but benign positional vestibulitis. I'm sure it will. Had my head examined, determined to keep serious thoughts out of my head, so that nothing serious will be found.

I had one when I busted my back, or realized I'd busted it to be accurate. Strangely enjoyable. Close my eyes, be still for twenty minutes or so, listen to very odd music and let my imagination poke around, like art modeling, but much more comfortable. I imagined a light show with some of the sounds, others were magic fingers and washing machines. A series of boops made me think of Beaker's vocalizations, but a bit fast, so he became a Beakeresque Max Headroom, with large muppets shaking the bed. Some of the low vibrations put me on the C-130 we were crammed in from Khobar to Eskan Village. The sound overwhelmed, our knees were slotted betwixt each other facing, and everyone fell asleep, after the long journey from Colorado. I dozed today as well.

And I got a free pair of earplugs. Good for Roller Derby.

Laundry

Yeah, I can't help it some days. Moby usually doesn't get in the laundry basket, but I had the clean, dry stuff in there, and didn't feel like putting it all away, so it wound up on the floor in the main room, and well...

Company

A constant source of amazement, how much Moby seems to enjoy our company. Sleeps on us at night, sits beside us in the evening, comes out whenever friends are over to just hang out. Not to be petted, not to sit upon, just socializing.

Slow day at work, hard times for everyone. Worrisome.

Stiff neck and sore ear and face all weekend, just a vague sense of lousiness, nothing serious. Got new glasses, with a weaker prescription - my sight is better this time. I'm told this can happen at my age. My near vision will probably stay intact, one of the benefits of being near sighted.

Really needed to do a shopping, but the heat is hitting both of us, so we are making do with the refrigerator tapas option. Hunkering in the cooled apartment.

Nada

Incredibly quiet weekend, mostly because everything closes on the 4th, but in this town, the real celebration is the 24th. Pioneer Day. Well, Independence Day happened long before this statehood. D gets very cranky on holidays, since although it's a day off work, there is nowhere to go that doesn't involve crowds. We got a few fireworks and set them off in the parking lot behind the apartment, called it good, came back in, only slightly bitten. We wanted to go to a favorite restaurant for flan, but they were apparently closed. Going today instead.

Today the Library was open, so we walked down. I found a copy of Nation by Terry Pratchett, as well as the I Can Has Cheezburger book. D got dvds of The Equalizer. An inspiration for Burn Notice - our current favorite series. It's better than we'd feared of a series from the 80s. The Stewart Copeland soundtrack hasn't dated, at least. Having fun actor spotting, with the assistance of the IMDB. Moby being social, as he often does when a friend is here. Yes, ND is joining us, always welcome. He's got an in with the waitstaff there.

Like waiting for the other shoe to drop, it has. At 33C, 91F, the summer has asserted it's dominance. Not my idea, just normal for here. We plan to watch the Pioneer Day parade from the air conditioned Library, since D has access.

Wife

"Any allergies to medication? And this is your...?" I ask so openly, because I prefer to let people define their own roles and relationships.

"My partner."

The two women are in their forties, comfortable in their relationship, undefensive. I assure the partner that we will take good care of her. And I miss the Massachusetts laws, where they most likely would have referred to each other as wife. Such a clear term, unambiguous in a hospital setting. The first time I heard it used in Boston it took me a moment's adjustment, then the sense of rightness settled in for good.

I always remember my four hours waiting for D's first elbow surgery, an eternity of worry, talking myself down. The loved one waiting is always in my mind for any procedure over an hour. That hour has to be toughed out, after that, we all need encouragement. I had other staff, as I couldn't stand the family waiting room full of wriggly kids and noise. So I sat in mufti in the staff lounge, familiar, eating too many oreos, near the phone.


Being the wife made that easier. No question about my role, my rights, considerations given. A damn convenient label in official circumstances.

Wife was never an aspiration for me, never a term of affection. I never refer to D as my husband around those I know personally, nor does he call me wife. We've never been pet-namers or pigeon-holers, especially not with each other. We don't honey nor dear each other, either. Never referred to each other as girlfriend/boyfriend when we were not married, mostly because neither of us saw ourselves as 'boy' or 'girl' past the age of, well, dunno. Maybe 15, less? One of the perks of legal marriage, we didn't have to fish for a term for ourselves when dealing with relative strangers or officialdom.

The marital terms do ease social communication. I had to call him at work today, and he does not have his own phone in the department, since his job doesn't involve making calls (I'm so envious.) So I called, after practicing the phrase, "May I speak to D(...) W(...) this's his wife." Ambiguity is fine in it's place, not when calling to a place of work.

English needs better words for social relationships. Spouse is good, but a bit hard to say and hear properly. We have to go to French for fiance. Leman is a sadly abandoned term for a sweetheart which I rather like. Lover is a tad graphic, and partner too business related. The language lags behind the reality.

Favorite

Moby likes lumpy stuff to sleep on.

And the dryer. He's pretty much taken over the dryer, probably until the weather stops storming.


What art, what books, what movies we chose speak volumes about who we are, what we care about, what we aspire to. Not quite as much when we are young and easily swayed by what our friends like, what marketing shoves at us, when we are still deciding what we are. Much more when our characters are formed and buttressed, and we want those we love to share them.

The ex's favorite movie was The Graduate. I didn't see the film until the year I escaped. I like to think if I'd seen it early on, I'd have looked much harder at the question of marrying that guy. It's a classic, sure, well made, strong cast. A teen finding it entrancing, even an upper middle class young man, understandable. But a 37 year old, to choose it consistently, unqualified, as his favorite? A selfish and utterly self absorbed main character should not be that appealing to a grown man. Liking and respecting the movie, one thing. Identifying with it so completely, not so much. Much depends upon why, his reasons should have sent up all kinds of red flags.

D's favorite has long been Casablanca. With a few dated moments, the characters eventually give up personal indulgence for unselfish goals. It's witty and smart, and in many ways, very kind. I'd already written a paper about it when I met D, and we watched it together, explaining what we liked about it. And both of us, over the years and repeated viewings, have come to appreciate the rightness of the ending, even as walking away from real love stays painful and sad.

A couple of friends are reading the Laura Ingalls Wilder books with me. We're all finding that our childhood taste is better than we suspected, as the stories still charm us. Strong, loving, capable characters all.


My own favorites have changed many times over the years, in any media. I'm looking at our copy of Lone Star, a perennial favorite. I re-read Hogfather most years around December.

Exclamation

It's not because I'm not enthusiastic in many circumstances. It's that I agree with Pratchett that five exclamation marks are a sure sign of an unhinged mind. Even if they are spread out over an entire paragraph. Or like dealing with someone getting worked up or shouting, that I should be more calm and quiet, in the vain hope they will regain composure, I use only commas and periods. In short, I am wary around exclamation marks, and use them only ironically or in quotation marks. I find them alarming, especially in official use. I have been known to avoid blogs where the author uses them more than rarely. All caps seem more acceptable, because that implies only volume and emphasis, not excitability. Or juvenile loss of control. "OMG!"

Screeching, screaming, whining high pitched squeals hurt my ears and sensibilities. The gaggles of teens at the recent crowded festival unsettled me, as have the squeaks in MJ songs played at me while I helped fill in putting sets together at work. (The Sterile Processing department is away from patient care areas, and the music always runs, and I keep leaving my shuffle at home.) I really prefer deep voices and placid people.

Speaking of recent events, the circus surrounding the King of Pop is like watching a train wreck. I feel guilty with my fascination with the wretched details and feeding frenzy, but I just can't look away. The same part of my character that will run toward an injured person and try to help, ignoring the gore and pain, won't let me leave this alone either.

Happy Canada day.

Faces

Not-exactly-friends
electric netting
messages half remembered.



(This is about high school classmates contacting me via fecesbook, which has been, at times, a strange experience.)

Roma

We did make it to the Arts Festival, D went to listen to a band, I wandered the artist booths, but both of us were too scattered to plan a fallback, and wound up spending the better part of an hour just finding each other as our chosen ditherments took much less time than expected. The crush overwhelmed, and we wound up worn and then went out, got D some dinner.

I'm finding I really don't want anything. There were a few pretty pieces, but nothing to take home and admire everyday, no place to put it if I did. Mostly, both of us wanted to start shoving and yelling at people on cell phones being oblivious, the profusion of strollers taking up scant space, beer cups in hands - causing more problems, and knots of teenaged girls screeching "Ohmygod!" in my ear. This last happened three times, with different girls. At least we didn't have to pay to get in. I will not return today, when the heat will bake it all into a misery cake. Enough.

I brought the camera, but never felt any desire to bring it out. For visual appeal, I'll take the average Bostonian over the most artsy-trying-hard Saltlaker.

But I am thinking of an art project for myself, a long term and meaningful assemblage still to be determined. A sacred space, an altar, a nicho retablo. My only rule is I can't buy any of the items, except for maybe glue or hardware. A slow accumulation. My own personal creativity means more to me than the vision of professional artists these days. I'm most connected to my own journey right now.

On the way home last night, noticed a large branch, torn from the tree during the storm yesterday. I considered it as decoration for the balcony, rejected that idea, then realized it did have a place - in part. So I began breaking it up, while D watched trying to figure out what I had planned, and gradually did. I love how he just trusts me to be doing something smart, and waits to find out what.

I now have a stake for the tomatoes. There may be a lot from those two plants before the summer is over.

Claim

Question:

How long does it take a cat to lay claim to a new chair?





Answer:

As long as it takes to put a comfy blanket on it, finally.






Yes, I had been sitting there with a cup of tea. Got up, came back, had to sit elsewhere.

Flood

I just found this on youtube, and was mesmerized.

Valor

And I finally manage something that qualifies for Skywatch Friday! As always, click for full size.



Ok, so most people would look at a cloud like this, see the lightening, and think, "maybe it's not the best night to go to the Arts Festival to see Brazilian fire dancers."


But it looked much better to the south, where the storms have been coming from this past month. And we were not the only ones.


But as we got to the Library Square block, the rain began pattering down, and we thought better of the original plan.



By the time we got to our own block, the wind and rain were hard and blinding. Soaked through, but nearly there, we figured we'd chosen discretion over valor. It's a drenching downpour, and I'm sure the rest of the evening's events have been cancelled. We'll go tomorrow instead. Since D got free tickets from work, one of the perks of working for The Library.

Still, it's good to get caught in a storm once in a while, as long as Warm and Dry aren't too far away.


And a little while later, the most spectacular rainbow I've ever seen, although the camera got baffled. Very intense, a double, full arc. Lasted the better part of an hour in varying levels of intensity. Several neighbors out gazing, shared amazement.

Pop

Rejoicing over any death is crass. But neither will I pretend to be sad that a strange pop singer, whose music I have disliked all my life, is dead. Or a pop actress. Or a talk show sidekick. Come to that, I expect all I will feel when I finally hear of my father's death is a sense of relief. For the last, I have a vague plan in mind of a forgiveness ritual. Their gods may judge them, I will not. Neither will I mourn, not for them.


For every death I have witnessed, I have shed a tear, uncalledfor, unintended, but it arises from somewhere deep. Every organ procurement, every trauma that came in, not to come out, every hospice patient from long ago. If I was there, Death levied a tear or so from me, willingly paid. For people I did not know, save as Witness, Washer, Hand Holder.

My personal griefs are of the same flavor, but more than a taste, meals upon meals, diet for a year of tears and emptiness. Not more real, just more personal, full of daily loss.

And I really can't stand the Loved One's music, much played today at work. But I held my tongue, not knowing how others mourn, or what he meant to them.

Sitting

Work review today. Issues resolved. It was in my hands the whole time. Even though I was not the whole cause, I was the whole solution. The universe changed, because I looked at it differently.

Chair

A new consignment/thrift store opened just down the street a couple of weeks ago. I wandered over today, and found it to be clean, well chosen, and most remarkably, properly priced. Reasonable without being either ridiculously cheap (indicating imminent business failure) nor inflated. Fair, in short. And two small, but friendly little poodles that welcomed me with doggy enthusiasm. I rather like poodles, if they are raised like dogs. Nice breed, well treated. They tend to be, "Dude, whatever, just pet me then throw the damn ball." These were like that. Nice chat with the owner. Rainbow sticker up, we talked about the Art Crawl and the Arts Festival, living on the East Coast, small apartments, and of course, poodles.

Saw what looked like a very comfortable chair on the way in, and after a look around the shop, went back out to sit on the one on the sidewalk. Comfortable, solid, went back in to ask the price, reasonable. So, well, I have a new chair. I think it's very stylish, nice to sit in, which is the point of a chair. Much needed, in here. Eventually, I may refinish it, re-glue all the joints, but it's good as is right now.

x-ray

Long day yesterday, again. Starting with a 30 bag shoulder arthroscopy. (Three liter bags of Lactated Ringers. Fluid pumped through the joint to allow for retraction and work to be done.) Not a record, but not far off. A good twelve hours on my feet, everything aching last night. Better after sleeping, despite dreaming of work most of the night with a bad song going through my head.

The last case required me to run the c-arm for x-ray, and when the doc wanted a shot, he indicated this by saying "Spot." One of several generally understood terms. I prefer two syllables, works better for the brain, but spot is fine. When I got set up for the lateral x-ray, and the last one expected, I told him, "I'm expecting a box of Milk Bones after being called 'Spot' all evening." I think he grinned behind his mask. He is theoretically capable of a sense of humor.

A number of low-stress errands to run today. Just glad work is picking up, at least for now. So many hours lost lately, I'm not about to complain of being busy this week. Which doesn't stop it all from hurting, of course.

Misty

Another front blew through, but left no rain this time. Just an impressive cloud that soon after dissipated.


Then I noticed this brilliant vehicular configuration.

We're listening to Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me. Just finished the MS3K cast and writer interviews on three dvds from the Library. If there are any non-'mericans out there who think this is a completely witless country, Mystery Science Theater is the best proof to the contrary. Of course what they are doing is insulting the worst movies made in this same country, so it's also evidence that the detractors are at least half right. I'll admit to half-witless.

Threes

So, some more people whose blogs I read whenever they post.

Pacian, over at Spacecat Rocket Ship, and his cat, Spacecat, have a cozy corner to themselves. He writes about cool stuff from space, computer games - that he also creates, an eclectic mix of erudite subjects, and a serialized scientifical fictional novel. All in all, one of those gee whiz guys that you wanted your own nerdy-teen-girl self to have found, or hope your favorite geeky-chick meets, because she'll adore him utterly. And his little cat too. I'm just happy he still comes to visit here.

Herhimnbryn, ah, another long time friend of great encouragement. She used to write more, but at least once in a while she shares a peek into her mosaic studio, and her Australian shepherd Bryn, her loving spouse and family visits, with a little poem or two. Now, if only I could take up her offer of a visit.

And now a newcomer, Tristan who seems to have a frighteningly named blog The New Emotional Blackmailer's Handbook, the title nearly scared me off, until the photos drew me in. I spent one afternoon going through the collection on the entire site of the old emotional blackmailer's handbook. Colorful and detailed, intense and varied, an excellent photoblog, well worth the exploration.

Feral

I just read the Post Secret site for Father's Day, and felt none of the old rage, not even sadness. I learned a word to describe him just this past year, and it healed up the last hole.

This quote from Carolyn Hax, whose advice column at the Washington Post provides consistent good sense. And the word Feral.

The most despicably selfish people are often, upon close inspection, feral--they're consumed by self-preservation, and don't have the courage to take the emotional risks that are the hallmark of civilized behavior.

This isn't to say that you should handle the feral without gloves. Sometimes the best thing to do is to have nothing to do with them.

Raised on a farm, mostly by his brothers, he survived. Yet he tried to look civilized: wife, children, house, job, church going - fearing Hell if not exactly believing in God. As a wild cat brought inside, well fed, clean, long lived - but always fearful, and not to be trusted. So like my friend Dave's cat Chance, brought in from behind a Taco Bell,who became Dave's cat. But not exactly tame, and certainly not domesticated. Not Chance's fault, just not in him to be a gentle, sociable lap cat.

It's a matter of chance, what kind of father any child gets, and whether he stays or goes - and which is better. Natural selection in humans favored an attentive mother, but the sort of father conferred no particular evolutionary advantage on us as a species. Kind uncles and brothers, and teachers, filled that role just as well.

Uncle Walt was one of my fathers, who I found out much later was not much of a father to his own children. I adored him, but never got to be around him for long, because my father was intensely jealous of his wife's beloved brother. And I had a flash of insight related to dog behaviour - resource guarding. I was my father's proof of status, belonged to him, owned by him, in his control. Stepping out of that circle meant barking, growling and biting from him. Not out of sheer meanness, but out of possession, fear of loss.

He didn't love me, as such. But neither was he capable of hating me, as such. A sire, not a father, but that's more usual than not.

I worked with KB, who grew up in Kurdistan. He says his father hit him, but he felt it was to teach him to survive in a dangerous situation, and he bore him no resentment, though he could not feel great affection for him either.

So, thanks Uncle Walt, Uncle Ernie, Bill, Mr. Esper, Mr. Novak, Mr. Shirkey, Ed, for fathering those around you, sometimes including this female child. Most are long gone, none will read here, but they laid the knowledge in me that character is not defined by gender. That men and women are equally capable of full humanity. That we can all protect and love each other, without needing to be biological relations.

We just have to be given half a chance when we are young, and we remember.

Field

So we took D's parents to the Red Iguana, then to the British Field Day. In this state, unlike in Britain I'm sure, a little rain did discourage. I thought it rather pleasant, but because so many had already left by the time we got there, at least they didn't ask us for the entrance donation. FIL fell for the Rolls. MIL for the Triumph. This was the alternate for Father's Day. We like seeing them, but not for the formal holidays. So, we make other arrangements. Been working much better since our three year sojourn to Boston.

Counting

I admit I did not get the xkcd today at all. But after a quick visit to the only encyclopedia I have available, not only did I get the joke, but I found out about an eccentric - Paul Erdős, I'd never heard of before. I've sent an email to the editor at the Fortean Times, in the hopes they will want to do an article about him. Maybe they have, and I missed it. Still, I think I'd've remembered him.


Did the round robin at work, which was indeed very much like army training days when no learning occurred. Drowsy and tired of sitting all day long. Annoyed that the people whose sole job is to handle education, including writing tests for the staff, can't keep the sheets organized or write questions without typos, bad grammar or spelling mistakes, that actually make sense. Or are at all to the point of what we need to know. Inventory occurred as well, which I'd've preferred to do, but the processing staff were mostly done before we were. I did the bone freezer, which was painful and awkward, even with the insulated gloves. When I got help, it went a little faster. Not a simple task, since the freezer can't be left open, nor can the frozen bone be taken out and sorted slowly. Nor is it well organized, largely because icy plastic vacuum sealed bags are about impossible to keep in good order. Still, I enjoyed getting it done, one task of actual accomplishment today.

Oh, and the lunch. They provided a barbeque lunch. Sort of, not really a BBQ, but food outside, pale lettuce cut up in a bowl, potato salad and cole slaw - to me mayonnaise and hot sun do not mix. The hot dogs were larger than the buns provided, but at least there were jalapeño peppers. And a band, one of the staff's band. They were loud. Not terribly on key nor on time, but quite loud. Still, free food.

And the fire safety class actually had some new and useful information.

Treasures

We used to do this thing, we bloggers. Me least of all. To take a day, and praise those we read, and point others in their direction. Maybe it's like having a bunch of old friends, we just assume everyone knows everyone else. Those who drift in and out, welcome as they are, are not much mourned when they only come to one gathering, then drift off again.

But I feel the need to take a moment and make some formal introductions, say some reluctant good-byes, send out some invitations while expecting to be ignored. Today, just the praise and invitations.

And clean through my links at the same time.

The longest remaining reader here, among the first to visit once I started getting a regular score of visitors, is of course Dale. His Mole is full of poetry and insight and sly humorous sensuality, intellectual rigor and esoterica. His deep humanity draws me back over and over. And I remain moved by his gentle and unwavering loyalty. He's kept me writing long past my initial intentions, over many a hump of dismay. It's from his corner of the blogosphere that the idea of the (o) stone came. A token of presence, a way to remember the dead, a gift, a pebble of grace.

Pete of the Pohangina Valley, another long term friend here, is one of the few sites I visit first thing every morning. The Ruins of the Moment frames his amazing photos of his remote corner of the earth. Birds of character, water meeting shore with elegant grace, the land rolling out before us through his lens, all of it strangely familiarly strange.

The Crow has only flitted by recently, but her comments stand out and steal my attention. Her blog is much the same, a nest of glittering observations and ideas, photos and stories. Like most of us, a mish-mash of what's going through our heads, that she shares generously. Funny and lovely and curious.


That will do for today, more perhaps next week.

Sweetness

On Monday, I noticed a familiar name on the schedule, in my own room. I added up the age. It took me a while to put it in context, and it came only slowly, probably, perhaps, maybe. Surgeon got ahead of schedule, so I took the delay to check and gather my memories. Mike the pre-op nurse preempted my ponderings,

"Your last patient used to be a nursing instructor, didja know her?"

"Yes, I knew it, I'd pretty much worked it out. She must've been on the verge of retirement then."

Once I saw her, I thoroughly remembered her. Although not precisely what classes or clinicals I had from her. Still, she said she remembered me as well, and we hugged and chatted, and I got to tell her she'd made a difference. Maybe we exaggerated a little for each other, but kindness doesn't mind at all. I do remember her humor and gentleness. I'm very happy that her procedure qualified as ditzel. Needed doing, but a very small problem and solution, with a very good surgeon.

She impressed the recovery room nurse, too.

So much of that time is a blur of anxiety and sleep deprivation. To have a moment recalled of a certain sweetness warmed my remembrance.

Then, I covered a requested shift today, and took yesterday off - rather than get called off. So, that worked out pretty well.

Humming

Seeing a hummingbird on the way back from the library, I pointed it out too late for D to see. And carefully mentioned that hummingbirds hum with their wings. Only possibly because they don't know the words. And began a rather protracted rant on people trying to bust a commonly held belief with dubious rebuttal. I had a woman cutting my hair who objected when I told her my hair tended to be greasy.

"It's not the hair that's greasy, it's the scalp!" She corrected me with absolute certainty.

Well, actually, I know that it's the oil from my scalp that gets onto my hair, but I didn't SAY my hair produced the oil. Any more than if there is grease on a table that I think it came from the table, instead of the fries. After all these years, this still sticks in my mind.

I had one of those enthusiastic science teachers in grade 8, never looked at the book, lots of stories and animation. Well, I'd gone on a tour of a nuclear power plant with Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Ernie on a trip through Ontario, and learned about heavy water, and the isotope deuterium. And what it is used for. So when I got back to class, hoping for more information, she confidently told me that heavy water was water with a lot of minerals in it. Disillusioned, I lost a lot of my trust in showy teaching. My high school science teacher gave me the right answer the next year, after double checking his answer - to my admiration. I was one of the few who didn't defend Mrs. Z's data when it conflicted with his.

My older brother, a science geek in his last year in high school, refuted my statement that the water was getting hotter as it boiled longer. "Water gets to the boiling point, then it turns to steam, it can't get hotter than that." Perhaps only nine, I remained deeply suspicious. It took a long time for me to figure out that I was right - sort of - after all. Water can certainly superheat, water under pressure gets hotter, and it does not instantly turn to steam in all cases when it hits the magical 100C. There can be complicating factors.

Many commonly held beliefs are not strictly correct, but simply refuting them often leads to the error of simplification to the point of inaccuracy. Got any others?

Puddles

Great storm yesterday. Puddled up the balcony, which is unprecedented since we've been here. Thunder became a constant roar, microburst winds all over the place. Moby hid deep in the closet. Today when it just rained, he wandered the kitchen, looking for something. Unfortunately, we had to use the dryer, so we put Moby's bed in the kitchen nearby in the hopes he'd find that a suitable alternative. He did.

Doggies

R came by this morning, to take us out to breakfast. A HUGE breakfast, which will keep me most of the day. Looking forward to him getting his new house in livable condition, and we can have a waffle breakfast there. We got talking about bunnies and cats and dogs, and he'd heard about Spanish war dogs, used by the Conquistadores against the American natives - mostly Spanish Mastiffs and Great Danes. Being me, I did a little research, especially after having seen a "Dogs 101" episode last night on Great Danes -after having seen three of those huge animals yesterday at the market. And I learned incidentally about dog carts, which literally were for dogs to pull carts.




The shelter's volunteer coordinator - G, is supportive of my decision to withdraw, but still included me on the email calling for assistance at the booth they'd set up at the farmer's market on Saturday. I got it on Friday, after a solid ten hour work shift, and did not respond. But I have this core ethic, starting during my early years in the OR. If someone asks for a shift change, and I can cover them, I do. Unless I have a formal appointment or commitment, inconvenience be damned. And I felt the same rule applying here, G had to leave to set up another program at 1100, and Laura would be at the table herself, and have to pack it up herself. I didn't want to make a promise, so I just waited - with the request weighing down my pocket.

Woke very early Saturday, so we went to the rummage sale to support our local NPR station. I picked up a few small dishes and a little box perfect for incense, and generally enjoyed junking. Home, and snuggled down, and watched the clock. At 1030, I realized I had no real reason not to go, decided to drive down, and if I got a parking spot (a real challenge) I would help out. A car pulled out of a free spot just as I got where I'd intended to look. Ok, fine, I guess I'm stuck. I ran into G on my way in, got a hug and sympathy, which choked me up. After a bit of fruitless search, I found someone to ask at the information booth, I found Laura and the shelter booth in sore need of a banner. (Salt Lakers are supposed to be so friendly, but I'd have gotten much more help in Boston looking lost than I did here.)

Knowing how near invisible we, as a stall, were, having walked past twice - intentionally looking for her, I appropriated the stuffed dog just sitting there as a prop, and got him dancing as The Huckleberries played some damn fine blues right behind us. I have this thing about turning just about anything into a puppet... wanted to be a Muppeteer growing up. Caught more than a few people, this silly woman making a stuffed dog dance to the blues and wave at them. (Couldn't bring a shelter dog with us, due to how they do rabies shots, and the profusion of dogs brought to the market.) I like Laura, and I liked meeting all those lovely, healthy, happy dogs and good folks they brought with them. Many had spent time in shelters, and found themselves well adopted. A significant accumulation of donations, a few t-shirts sold, possibly a few volunteers recruited. My smile muscles hurt by the end, but that's alright too.

I'm very glad I did go, because the person who HAD volunteered to help out didn't show. Reminds me of a parable.

Which all means, I will stay on the volunteer mailing list, help out at off-site events as I can, and maybe go back to the shelter in the fall, when the toxicity may have settled down. I know G will use my problem as a political stick, and welcome to it. Wasn't feeling good about my lack of courage and fortitude, but I deal with difficult people every day for pay. My volunteering can't be the same ole same ole.




Feeling better and better about my decision to let the grey in, after a last attempt to dye, then strip it to orange, then cut it all off, then let head material get long. The tie-back-ableness of styleless length suits. I look forward to never cutting the damn stuff again.