Tailings

sittgin by Food Dude getttign scritcched its godood but my tails bugggging me tonight you eever have thattt whhen you tail just buggggs? and you just ggooota chase it make itt be still and itt stillll just buugggs



(Moby blogs)

Pizza

Yesterday was exceptionally long. Medical student helping move a very large patient, out of ignorance or misunderstanding, left me pulling a whole lot of weight in a bad way. After a moment to assess how much my back hurt, I taught him how it needed to be done in future. Home late. But D made dinner, (wonderful soul) and D, Moby, and broiled chicken and sauteed peppers greeted me as I dragged in. I soaked in a hot bath, then slept. Today felt like swimming through tar. Only ran a half hour over, mostly because the last room was just finishing, and it means a lot when the second-to-last-room's staff helps clean up the last-room. Really a lot. So, we did. Only fair, really.

Pizza tonight, both of us worn by the short week gone mad at the end. Cheese with pesto, excellent choice, I thought.

General

Generalized ickiness, nothing of any importance. Read an entertaining book of no importance. As well as The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder, which left it's mark on my soul in the same place it did when I first read it as a girl. With the additional medical knowledge of nutrient deficiencies. And as I ate my angel hair pasta with marinara from a jar, I felt something hard grate on my tooth. And it turned out to be my tooth. I've broken another one. This is generally disturbing, my old nightmare of my teeth crumbling in my head coming true. Is this age? Disease? My own ill nutrition, or lack of childhood dental care?

I went in today, my normal day off, for but three hours, to cover lunches. Much needed, as there were two people missing, one for a funeral, another an injury. I'm not the only one having a difficult week.

Cleared out the shower head with vinegar. Vacuumed up the tissue shreds all over the floor, from the laundry. There is always at least one tissue that goes through any load.

Downpour

Moby relaxed intermittently, as the storms gathered. Then he took to the closet or dryer, until the next bit of scary rain or thunder.

Watched it approach from the south.



Got some heavy rain, pouring down. While Moby cowered in the closet, a few small birds found the seed. I thought about bringing him out. But we leave him in there when he's hiding.


About the same time, before the next storm, a woman walked her rat. Aw.

Frump

I'm feeling a bit guilty, mostly about feeling smug and superior. I really need to leave fecesbook alone. I really do. Especially the search feature. Which, really, is about all I actually use. Not my kind of site, but since next year will be 30 years since high school graduation, and I missed the 10th and 20th through no fault of my own, it's my way of leaving the door open. And I'd have liked to, not reminisce, I hate nostalgia, but acknowledge, allow for contact. That was the whole point for the account there. I post pitiably rarely, according to at least one "friend."

So, I searched. Found my sister-in-law. As a gawky and sturdy child and teen, next to her pretty blonde willowyness, I felt a frump. She married my oldest brother when I was seven, and she represented all the fragile beauties that seemed to attract such admiration, including mine. Took me a good number of years to come into myself, to know glamour for what it was. And a few more years to appreciate the value of strong bones.

I don't know what has gone on with her the last fifteen, twenty years, being out of the loop. I know she was dealing with some hip fractures a while back. But in her photo, one she chose, presumably thought flattering, she looks a lot more than nine years older than I am. And there is an eleven year old inside of me feeling vilely satisfied.

On the other hand, I also found my nieces, one with a photo. (I'm not about to contact any of them.) She wound up with her mother's white rose endurance, the genetics that gave me a powerful nose, and the roundness of my mother's Irish peasant stock. And the tender hearted seven year old feels bad, wants to give her a hug and sit next to her so she won't feel alone. As far as I know, she has all the friends she wants, but seven year olds have a limited view on this.

Sometime next year, after the 'Reunion', if there is one, I will delete the account completely. It's only feeding some of my worst prurient impulses. Which usually just run to nosiness, and in my job that's an asset. I do try to keep it at work. I don't think my friends would call me nosy, precisely because I channel it into professional use. As for the residual vanity... ah, well, we all have to accept certain flaws.

Serene

Sometimes, he just has to attack the rug. Lest it get uppity. Doesn't seem to have done any real damage, yet.





Other times, he just gazes out serenely.

Overnighter

Both of our pairs of feet itched. We got in the car, and went. Just overnight, because we are deep-down-homebodies, and we don't like to leave Moby longer. He pines. (Which is both true, and an excuse.)

We once did this fairly often, in lieu of a real vacation. If we looked to have margin in the savings at the end of the month, we took off to whatever overnight spot we could reach, often midweek, since I usually worked weekends. In Boston, we'd take the train up to visit our cousins in Rowley. The past few years, we just haven't gone. Tired, in pain, feeling more financially fragile than when we felt rich to have leftover money at the end of the month. Well, and our own bed is more comfortable, our own apartment better than the motels we can afford.

The real reason was the urge to take out D's little telescope and get away from the light pollution and see stars. This worked out moderately well, sky clear and moonless. The Milky Way was discernible, and D could resolve Jupiter to a disk with two satellites. Heber is still a smallish city, but since it's role in the Olympics* (that I referred to as The Troubles) it's grown, as has the whole valley. People and their lights are everywhere, spreading across mountains, spilling into every crevice. Which is why, despite taking the camera, I got no photos. Every mountain vista scarred by ski resorts and condos.

We got home this morning, and Moby greeted us calmly, no complaints or mrrks. I take this as a good sign that he knew we'd be back. Wasn't going to worry for another day yet. His food dudes do this once in a while, but not to worry. He even ate while we were out. The past is fading for him, it's ok to eat, even if we are gone, there will be more food. There has been for the last five years, and he's finally beginning to trust that.

Good to go, better to come home. We are not natural travelers. I loved to visit aunts and uncles as a kid, and the family said of me "Have suitcase, will travel." Mostly, that was a matter of not feeling safe at home. A change meant peace, usually better food, and a peek at something closer to normal. Now that I'm most loved, here is home, I have no other impetus to wander, looking for better.

My back took it all very well, which I also take as a sign of stability regained.



*2002, winter. We lived midway on the line between the opening ceremonies and medal ceremonies venues, and could see both. On the other hand, we had a magnificent view of the closing fireworks. Waves of white explosions over the snow covered mountains. And a very bad semester for D, whose college was closed to serve as headquarters for security. But I digress badly.

Ok, ok, and we made a video of the Torch run. Well, our view of it. Right in front of our apartment. D gets full credit. I got called in to work, and was a bit disappointed I would miss the one event we could really see. Turned out, I wasn't missing much. But he got out the camera. Once I saw it, couldn't stop laughing. Reminded us both of Bambi vs Godzilla.

Hamster

Completely disoriented, disturbed sleep, knowing I had to get up for a mandatory meeting at 0700. Not like I went to sleep at my usual time, having friends over is more important. Good to talk with friends and not worry about when to go to bed. Just as well, since nothing would've have stopped the hamster-wheel thoughts spinning and squeaking in my brain at 0400.

After the training, I stopped for groceries, and tried to take a less traveled route the rest of the way home. Which put me right into a school zone at 0830. Through that, and I turned off onto a construction zone with one lane open. Took me ten minutes to get to work, and over a half hour to get back. At least I had food as proof of effort. And an hour and a half of pay. Probably a wash, in that case, as I spent what I earned on comestibles.

That and the joy of watching Moby's joy at the wheatgrass. Living to make a cat happy. A purpose in my life.

1. Take care of and give D reason to be happy.

2. Give Moby reason to be happy and trust us.

There are worse reasons. Not going to insult everyone in the Universe. Alphabetically. Although it's a tempting idea some days.

Elements

Can't help it. I'm just amused by the Giants. Well, they might be giants.

Suizas

Woken in moments through the night by the aftereffects of a powerful meal. Really strong Mexican cuisine is not to be trifled with, and I expected the side effects, took precautions. Clearing out the summer doldrums, and smoke induced sinus slowness. Most of the California fire backwash blown further east, deposited on the Wasatch and other Rocky Mountains. Everything needed cleaning out.

Hot food is good for the soul. I suspect it releases loads of happy little endorphins. Enchiladas suizas as made at the infamous Red Iguana, is a potent and amazing meal. Makes living here worthwhile.

Whenever I go there, and see their large menu, I think about Kitchen Nightmares, the Gordon Ramsey show that I rather like. One of the first things (after cleaning up) that he pushes for failing restaurants, is a concise menu. And RI has this page turner, and everything is wonderful, as well as the service. They've been around a long while, in a much less than ideal location (the other side of the freeway, a block away from a plasma center, right beside a third rate motel.) And there is almost always a wait for a table, at any time of day. They have to do everything right just to survive. They do.

We've often been asked by tenderfeet what we are having. Once by a couple who might have been happier with food much more mainstream. We directed them to the milder dishes, which they found quite overwhelming. I give them credit for courage, and they might get their palates up to the challenge yet. Even I don't do the salsa verde. I'm not suicidal.

Enjoying my day off. I don't really think of it as a holiday, not as a celebration. Still, a day off work. Probably just as well, considering.

Good enough.

Rainfogmist

The season hasn't changed, but it's bunching up, tensing to pounce. Like a cat, it may well just get bored, or distracted, and wander off again, leaving us the heat and dry air for another while. The light is backing away, not so insistent in the early morning, turning in earlier in the evening, but still fiercely hot in the afternoon. Very hard to get used to this big, long, stomping summer after the obnoxious, but lackadaisical summers of my Michigan childhood. Green and oppressive, miserable and heavy, but usually damply tardy, and often left early in a huff.

These desert summers always feel too strong, tyrannical and lingering. A boring relative who won't stop shouting, and won't shut up. Autumn will be most welcome. A good rain would be wonderful. What I wouldn't do for some good east coast rain/fog/mist.

The year I spent without a winter, having been sent to Saudi Arabia at the behest of the US government, threw me off balance until the next winter. Some of my disorientation simply explained by the disruption in my location and possible lack of future, but I could feel that the lack of a few months of cold with low light unlinked me from my sense of time. Like jet lag, only on a larger scale.

In Boston, the winters seemed long enough. Some deep part of my soul craved those kinds of winters. Proofing, challenging, a climate to push against. In a way searing heat doesn't, not for this northerner.

Moby seems brighter, more engaged, odder, as the light changes. He was a velcro cat last night, staying on my ankles despite my movements. He's been staring out the windows this morning. Saw a dog walking by, all tense and wary, slunk inside as the dog passed, then curled back around, stared out from the balcony, and made sure dog had kept going.

Maybe he's just waiting for the boxes to come out, and they keep not appearing. No, not moving this year.

Furniture

We've never had good places to stuff clothing. Apartments with scant or unusable closets. Northern climates requiring winter clothes and summer clothes. Two people who are lackadaisical about folding, hanging up, or otherwise being very tidy about laundry means a constant, low level, if clean, mess. (We're pretty good about putting dirty in a basket.)

No doubt having to go to laundromats or laundry rooms means putting away is an irritating chore on the heels of a big, heavy chore, that then doesn't get done. No laundry fairies. Sadly. And worn once, still clean, articles, wind up thrown wherever. Well, don't want to put it completely away with the clean, right?

The closets here are both tiny, and largely unusable day-to-day. Having washer and dryer right here, inside, not far away from the bedroom, reduces the efficacy of the excuse, and shows we are essentially lazy on this subject. But even when we take on the piles, we find ourselves just shifting them around, since there is so little place to put anything.

So, we dug into the budget, and shopped around, and around, and around. We have a tall, narrow chest of drawers, a lingerie chest to be technical, that we got many years ago, at a local place that makes all-wood furniture.


Specialty Furniture is not posh, and has a good range of affordable, to 'Oh, if only I were rich' furniture. Looked at some really affordable chests at a regular furniture store, particle board, no slides, and decided that cheap meant cheap, inadequate, breakable, useless in a few years and in need of replacing. So, we went back to the "All-Wood, All-The-Time!" place, where we'd looked before, but didn't quite want to spend that much. Until we starting seeing what else was available.

And, well, it's Labor Day Weekend. This one was 50% off, and just at the edge of what we were going to wince at, but pay. If it was worth it. Maple, solid, drawers that will glide easily for decades, more finishing and detail than we would have chosen, a bonus, a treat for the eyes and hands. We looked at a pine one, that we'd have had to finish, would have held up just fine. In twenty years, when these both still quietly do their jobs, that extra bit we paid, will not even be remembered. Ah, well, it really is well made.




D talked to me about the relative merits of wood on the way home, generally in relation to their use in guitars, but extrapolating. Maple being used mostly for necks, because it's smooth and solid, but for the body, it makes the sound too bright and brittle. The older chest of ours is probably alder, also a guitar wood, with a much better sound, apparently.

I've never seen the bedroom so organized. We decided this is the nicest bit of furniture we've ever owned. A good flat surface for Sebastian, a lamp, and my pottery.



Oh, and it fit beautifully in our car. (Which may be a Tardis in disguise, being larger on the inside than the outside.) The guys who brought it out seemed dubious, but I was pretty sure. And it slid in perfectly. D only had to give up his leg room on the passenger side.

Sometimes, maybe usually, going cheapest winds up much more expensive. When we were poor, there often wasn't a choice, since getting that lump sum couldn't happen. Once we could manage it, we learned to get the best, preferably on sale, that we could eke out. Better to do without than waste resources on the chintzy, and ultimately, disposed of. We're watching the money carefully, but we are not what I would call poor anymore. Not rich, not even well-to-do, but we know the rent is going to be there.


Oh, and relative to the last post

Some research on cat's purrs. And another about the same study.


Closing comments, because I keep getting spam comments, trying to sell us furniture.

Red

So, last night, maybe two am, who knows, and eleven pound mass of cat bounded onto and off of my lower abdomen. He'd launched from D's tum. Hard not to feel a certain hostility at that moment of rude awakening. Even when it's followed by loud, happy purring. But while that drowsy, no chance of acting on that emotion.

A few months ago, we put in a red light in the front entryway. Red light allows illumination, without degrading night vision. D has terrible insomnia, and although sound doesn't bother me at night, light does. Likewise, when I'm up at 0600, I really don't want to wake D, in case he's had a short night. We already have a night-light with motion sensor in the bathroom, made red with nail polish, that works beautifully. The hall light hadn't been used much through the summer, but as the days shorten, it's paying off now.

So, when I got up, I didn't hear Moby anywhere, didn't see him at all. Until I went to put my lunch in my bag hanging on the front door. I'd done laundry the night before, and his towel (and my army sweatshirt) that we leave in there for him as padding, I'd tossed here. Partly because he's been known to content himself lying on it when the dryer is being used for other-than-the-cat. Smushed up against the closet door, he watched me, not moving at all, snuggled into his towel (and my army sweatshirt.) Looking very cute, so I had to giggle. I did gently admonish him for gut punching me.

I wrote to D about this, and he wrote back that two hours later "I checked, and he's still there. I was wondering where he was." He's been an odd cat this week. Talked at me when I came in today. Not unheard of, but so rare, especially during the day. Just not that vocal a cat.

So, yes, that's the right color in the photo.

Bed

Who's bed?

The bed does not get made if Moby is on it first.

That's my excuse, and I'm sticking with it.

He's been staring at us more than usual. Not sure what he wants. Maybe the pall of smoke from the western fires is bothering him, and he wants us to make it go away. We would if we could.

Puzzle

The video below is a construct. A bit of a joke. D had some music and a wild hair, and that's what happens. I think it very stylish. There are anagrams of Eric Ambler and Graham Greene in the credits. Alexi Sayle is the giveaway, of course. Would have been quite a show, though.



He has a wonderfully odd sense of humor, that still startles and amuses me.

Espiocrats

Friend

I met an old friend. We first got to know each other twenty three years ago. We chatted at the work picnic, (her sister and D work in the same place.) She dropped the friendship years ago, casually, unofficially, but quite clearly. It ached, but I respected her decision, even if I didn't quite know the reason. Perhaps I bored her, or vaguely offended her, or just rubbed her the wrong way over the years.

I wish I was a better friend, I have no real long term friends, other than Moira, and friends shared with D. Maybe I've figured it out, but can't apply it retroactively. I can only be where I am right now, and do what I can now.

Or maybe, as we get older, we settle to people.

D still seems happy with me, knowing me utterly. And Moby, when deeply asleep, barely stirs when I put my hand on him.

City

Civilization, cities, are a good idea. Human natural habitat. Of course, when they get too large, they become a black hole, sucking in the surrounding countryside and destroying both. But the idea, of gathering all our ideas together, mixing it all up, mashing us all together, works. Not pleasantly, not easily, often loudly and uncomfortably, but that jostle and thrum throws up all our best solutions and ideas. And food.

Talking with one of the residents about what rural Utah is like, he says it sounds just like the rural South, and that perhaps all such areas are alike. Insular, resistant to change, and not to put to fine a point here, dumb. "Conservative" meaning backward and willfully ignorant. Mean, bigoted and smug. NOT everyone, it's all a matter of concentrations, but the majority that sets the tone, and the rules. Big places, with lots of interactions, weed out those who want a small, neat little world where they can make others do what they want. Not that large, corrupt police forces and political machines don't try mightily, but they know they have to hide those manipulative tendencies under the guise of Service and Protection and Embracing Divertingly.... um Diversity.

Which is why, in the reality imagined for my fiction (long neglected), the City, is the online community. Physically, the city is the whole of a remnant of the human species who protected and salvaged the idea of Technology, as well as the means of production. But they live in small chains of towns, indistinguishable from farmland and orchard and ranches. All connected intellectually and creatively, with every other human on the planet. Raised one place, most people will get their higher education in another part of the world, raise children another area yet, and age someplace else, all the while staying in the same, diverse, city of ideas through the network.

We ate at a new Asian fusion restaurant (Rice) today. Thai curry with tamarind, with potatoes cooked to that razor edge between being still hard, and being mushy. I've never had anything quite like it, and it took me a while to definitely decide how I felt about it. A step outside my comfort zone.

We would all do better standing out there, every day. Just a step or two, just for a few moments, every day. Bravely. Curious and... tasting.

Chimes

Thursdays seem to be shaping up into long, long days. I could barely wake up this morning, D having to get me up when I didn't even hear my chime. Three times. Not unheard of, but unusual.

And I've been reading. A lot. Finding the stories comforting. Report to follow. I don't want to recommend a book until I know the ending. I've been known to permanently boycott authors for ending a novel badly.

My leg muscles are feeling worked over, lest anyone think tai chi is easy. Tomorrow, I will take time to practice.

Today, we stopped by the library employee picnic. Good folks, all in all. And I knew a lot, from my years there from my previous life. Glad to be with my genuine hair, felt right to look my age, evidence of the time lived. And although I thought about mentioning this blog undertaking, and a few other realities, I found myself asking others about their lives, and not wanting to talk about my own at all.

"Still doing the nursing thing." That being the extent of my sharing. Seemed enough.

Odd insight. Woman who once proved a staunch friend in my time of distress, politely kept her distance. And I realized, she doesn't really know how to talk about anything but chaos and troubles. When I returned from Gulf War I with D, and got stable and happy, she ceased to be a friend. I never quite knew why she pulled away, although I absented myself because I got very tired of her litany of the sorrows of people in her life - that I'd never even met - recited to me relentlessly. I think, now, that she lost interest in me due to my lack of personal drama. Fair enough, for both I suppose.

We got a good walk through the park, as we didn't know which area had been reserved. Worth the effort just for an evening stroll, got us out of the house.

Chi

Went to my tai chi class. It's been twenty years since the last time, and my body remembers, though all the details have been long lost to time. My back eased and enjoyed the movements.

Twenty years ago. A lifetime ago, when living a different life. I didn't feel young, then. I could not see a way out of my own bad decisions and misjudgments. I don't know how much tai chi helped me escape under the fence and out, but those lessons played a part. Time to learn a new set, heal myself sustainably. As I am sure many of you will think, I am still young. Ish, at least.

I didn't expect to feel old yet. Growing up with elderly neighbors and family, then working with a geriatric population, I always saw old as starting in the seventh decade. And even that is readily adjustable according to health and habits. Smoking causes much faster aging, as does illness and injury, obesity and alcohol use. A meth addict is ancient at twenty five.

So, I must find my flexibility and wisdom, regain my health and strength. Begin anew.

Flop

Nothing quite as heartening as being greeted upon arriving home. In our case, by a cat doing the Large Flop Of Welcome.

And later, when he comes to sit nearby, because he wants to.

Ascendence

Our Sunday walk to the Library, on the most gorgeous of days. Rain in the morning, dramatic clouds and a breeze and mild warmth, more rain promising. So, we ascended to the Library roof garden, full of swaying grasses and little trees, to take in the geography of this city in a former lake bed.


If you cared about the 2002 Olympics, the stadium is visible in this one. If you don't care, it's still there.



Any idea what species of bird this is? Pretty, in a very plain way.

Blend

Growing up fairly poor, I so wanted so much. Decent, stylish clothes, for one. I never minded hand-me-downs, and cherished what mom sewed for me. I just wanted some really good classic pieces, wool coat, fine skirt, silk blouses, that sort of thing. Or a bit of nice, real, arty jewelry, to wear every day. A canopy bed, but instead of sky blue cotton, with lace and velvet drapery. What I had, but in lush fabric and in the colors I would choose. Nothing packed away, nothing in excess, just durable, day to day richness.

When I lived on my own income, I lavished myself with very cheap earrings and the better drug store lotions. I dreamed of having a huge wad of cash to buy out Pier I Imports. Back when they were much less commercial, more unique, and I bought a lot of dollar paper folding fans there. I still love dithering in consignment shops and new agey bookstores, crusty giftshops and handcrafted clothes stores. I even acknowledge that the prices on some of what most attracts me is probably fair. And I am unmoved to reach for my wallet. Where would I put it, wear it, use it? What I have is enough.

I had the first hint that I had no future as a shopper the year both D and I were working full time, and although we bought a very good futon mattress and threw a (seven year) delayed wedding reception, mostly the money just got socked away. When I could spend what I wanted, mostly, I didn't really want. Not enough to spend that much on it.

With my hours down, and student loans to repay, we are watching the pennies again. Not really hard, although the itch to buy things is there, until I actually go to have a little splurge. Then I discover, there is really not much I want. Earrings are pretty, but not really important. Scrubs at work mean I don't need daily outfits. A slightly larger apartment would be good, eventually, if our circumstances improve long term. I'd like a place for a desk, and maybe a big comfy chair.


Maybe. Nice. Not must, not necessary.

Oh, yes, we did get a blender. We had a place for it, and have used it quite a lot already. It was hugely on sale.

Leaning

Moby loves to lean. He stretches out, claims the bed as his own, squashes up against my pillow.

My back is crackling with ease today, much of what I began to think of as permanent pain has dissolved. Knots and adhesions evicted. Not everything, scars are not replaced with original tissue, but they can debulk. And depart in part.

Hips

Called off for today, disappointing when work seemed to have been picking up. On the other hand, I found my way to a very good, and fairly inexpensive, massage, and my hips and lower back feel better, if rather worked over. It's difficult to convince therapists to actually work where I have my pain, in those socially unacceptable areas of the body. She started there, with my permission, got the hard bits sorted first. The numb places, the ignored damage, woken before the rest emerged. I thought one side hurt more, but really I'd just been better at denying the messages from the left. Pain like a huge toothache, hot tense and searing deep in the pit of my hip.

Hormones running about like obnoxious teenagers. Very glad to not have to take care of patients. Only myself.

Just read Groucho Marx, Private Eye, by Ron Goulart. A fairly standard mystery, but witty and breezy, with Groucho himself as a character, with quite appropriately Marxian dialogue. An easy read, started it last evening and finished this morning. Fluff, but quite good fluff. I will find more of them. Also got the new Fortean Times today, so I am contentedly en-couched, tea-ed, and reading.

Watched Mad Men as well. Not often I really get involved in series with such unlikable characters. Perhaps because so much of what seems miserable about them is externally imposed, by the times, by the social expectations. But this really doesn't explain it for me. Not fully. Archeology? History? Just the lurid fascination of a well presented train wreck? I honestly can't completely justify my abiding interest in this story.

Photophilia

Flop

When we first saw Moby on the shelter website, he was in the now familiar, flop-of-welcome, "I'm cute and furry" posture. Named Midnight, as the black cat of my early childhood was. We wanted a black cat, partly for simple esthetics, partly because we'd heard that black cats were generally smarter, and definitely because black animals have a harder time getting adopted. The coincidental name just added to it, if in part because it was such a stereotypical name for a black cat, and we knew he'd need a new one. We also wanted an adult cat, and a neutered male, just general ease, for the odds of getting a more mellow animal.

So, we got on the T, walked a few more blocks, and found the shelter. Smelled the many rabbits, heard the dogs barking, and saw a quiet, all black cat, hunched in the bottom cage as we walked in. Midnight, the same one, we were a bit afraid he'd be gone when we got there. We looked at all the other cats, a few kittens, and came back. The staff brought us to a meeting enclosure, and brought Midnight. I held him, as he wriggled, then escaped to the floor. Using no claws or teeth, just an insistent writhe.

"Look, can you get me outta here? I'm not going to suck up to you, but I really want out."

We were both charmed. We liked that we were going to have to earn this one. And that even in his urgency, he had no interest in hurting us.

We filled in their forms, they counseled us on what to expect, expenses, damage, time commitment. Thoughtful, but sure we could be a good home for him, left, with an appointment to retrieve him in a few days, after they'd approved us, and called our landlord. They put a chip in, continued his worming meds, and we waited for the call.

D had to go back by himself, because I was working every day, long days. He says Midnight crawled over his back in a bid for freedom, as he spent some time in the meeting cage as well, with him. Carrying the box, with an unhappily mewling cat, on the T, all the way back, strained his arms and his heart. For the next week, we only were sure we had a cat because of the jingling of his tags, disappearing food and used litter box. We'd find him under the couch, under the cabinet in the sink (6" of clearance), under the bed, and gently put a hand to him. He'd purr VERY LOUDLY, and no doubt anxiously, and we would leave him be. We had time, no rush.

Gradually, he came out, deciding we probably weren't going to hurt him, and that this beat being around all those barking, mewing things. During this week, based on fleeting meetings, we pondered what to call him. A real name, not a trite descriptor, a response to his personality. Much as I liked Socrates, it didn't quite fit him. By a roundabout series of free associations, the name Moby emerged, and we both thought it quite perfect. In part because of his preference for under, but that's just rationalization. He does know when we call out Moby, that we mean him, and his tail goes up in recognition.

We have had a few rough spots. He likes him a clean litter box, or he will find another place to go, preferably the tub, given the chance. Took us a while to figure that out. I learned not to shout around him. We are both quieter, calmer people because we feel this responsibility not to scare Moby. We make sure he has an Under to hide under. We've grown used to each other.

Five years ago, on 11 August, Moby came home with us. He seems to like us.

Distractions

Words slither away
Loss of electricity
No tea for breakfast.

Hopped

Hard week, happily hopped home early when the schedule petered out. Moby being very cute, but not keen on being petted, preferring to be adored from over there. That kind of cat. Friendly, but not intrusive, likes to sleep on us, IF we are sleeping.




Sometimes, I still want to dye my hair black again. Or maybe purple or blue, if only I didn't have to grow it out. But I am content with being myself, it's all I have a right to. And that includes my hair and skin, as is, without concealment or distortion. I have also considered buzzing my head again, and again, I think I will just let my hair be what it is, for now. No more tattoos, although I'm open to the idea at some point. Just me, clean and tidy, but otherwise utterly as-is.


Three Years Ago.


Now.

Longer

Took in my staff tuition reduction form (for the tai chi class) today, and on the way back stopped in the shopping center with the Other Grocery Store - because they have wheat grass. Which always elicits from Moby the most beautiful double take of "OH! For ME?"

The other stores there are largely expensive and froufrou in the extreme, but I had a ditherment upon me, so I poked my nose in to a few. And found t-shirts with longer sleeves. Now, see, I took away from the (British) What Not To Wear a few principles, one of which being that very few grown women look good in very short sleeves. Unless very slim, and young, or very muscular and toned, most women would do better with longer, even 3/4 sleeves. But it's hard to find these days, as clothing stores are only interested in selling to stylish young girls, and only make larger versions because there is money to be made. Scaled up, but not properly designed to be flattering. No concessions made to maturity. Or women who prefer not to display an unshaved armpit. So, little capped sleeves, very cute on little girls, flirty on slim young women, make fatter, older women look like mutton dressed as lamb, and there is not much else out there.

So, I'm glad, I'm getting three t-shirts - on sale no less, dressier than the men's t-shirts I usually wear (because they are sturdier, and cheaper.) And I'm burbling this to the sales rep, who is probably about 23, and a good hundred pounds overweight - although she carries it well, and wearing, yes, well, a very tiny sleeved shirt. I think I managed to stop myself before implying insult. And it's not like I'm anything like well dressed myself here. The other woman in the store has even shorter sleeves, although she is my age, she does carry it better than I would.

I really don't like hurting anyone's feelings. Especially on a subject as frivolous as clothing. And my own status as not-at-all-fashionable puts me in the position of "who thehelldoes she think she is?"

Ah, well. Needed a few shirts. Most of what I have is old, stained, or both.

For some reason, this tattoo is not to be found on this site. So, in response to Trouser, the last, and possibly friendliest of mine, on the back of my calf.

Believe

There is a blog theme going around, about what I once believed that I don't believe anymore. And I found a great antipathy to the word Belief. I tried to write an essay for the NPR What I Believe, and came out with an awkward anti-belief rant. Needless to say, they never expressed any interest.

I don't think I ever quite got my head around God, although I was taught to believe without question. But when I lost a ring at age seven, and dared God to prove the existence of deity, and the ring wasn't found until nearly a year later, I'd spent all that time not believing - quite on purpose. Once the ring was found, I lingered in the ambivalence - until no longer required to believe by my mother.

Santa Claus I at least had physical proof for. Once I was told Santa didn't exist, and they couldn't afford to fill the stocking that year, I put up one on Christmas Eve, quite sure they were wrong, and there would at least be an orange in the toe. When there wasn't, bitterness filled the place where most people keep their faith. "You can't fool me, there ain't no sanity clause!"

Guardian Angels were more my speed, and that was more hope and comfort than actual belief. Like engineers' belief in ghosts in the machine. It's more a matter of, well, not literal belief, but something's going on beyond our ken, so gotta call it something, and no harm in propitiating whatever it is. I know something happens when people die, as well as when babies are born, I've experienced both as witness. It's powerful and utterly real, but I detest the idea of putting it in a box and defining it to tatters.

Oh, I've had a lot of thoughts, ideas that have been disproven or discredited, fears found to be misguided or ungrounded. I behave superstitiously, especially in the OR, not out of belief, but to back up preparations to be ready for worst case scenarios, or trusting my instincts - because I may have non-consciously sensed something that just hasn't made it up to the logical part of my brain yet. I don't rely on it, it's more of a comfort. Often enough I have averted, or lessened, problems because I got that extra battery, or second suture, or stood by during emergence for no obvious reason.

I used to think that the rage I'd been fed would always be who I was. That no one would ever be a long time friend, because when they knew the real me, they would know I wasn't worth having as a friend. I thought "sell while you can, you are not for all markets" when I married a man I had no passion for. I dreamed of acting for a living. I used to be afraid of the dark. I used to think all I needed to be happy was to live near the mountains or by the ocean. I thought 'smart' was my only quality, and would be all I'd need.

But I always dropped these thoughts and fears, in the presence of evidence to the contrary. Belief isn't like that. Belief hunkers down and plows through.

I stand alone without belief. I suspect I see more clearly, but then, I would think that.

Trades

Looking at Moby looking outside.

More dust abatement today, the accumulation and the recent heavy addition - which also brought the non-August weather for the energy to accomplish the tasks. Cat would prefer we never moved anything, dusted anything, nor brought out the vacuum. But he gets out of the way during. After, he looks at us like we are some crazy humans, but we are prompt with the chicken so he'll forgive us.

Took a walk up Memory Grove this morning. The last time we did that walk, the old trees stood, or lay tumbled, damaged by the tornado, and the whole place had a seedy air of neglect. The City had started to fight it's use as a prime gay cruising spot, but without making it attractive to anyone else. After the storm, locals have spent the last decade making it a well groomed garden, and in the upper reaches, an off leash dog area. We enjoyed watching all the dogs, and the bride with her wedding photographer, and a shady stroll along a stream.

There is a neighborhood adjacent, the first part of the park is, essentially, the verge in the middle of the street amidst this historic area. Full of modest, but old, historic houses. Many with Plaques. No doubt stringently managed by a community counsel, so that painting one's house there would involve several years of paperwork and wrangling. So while we admired the Quaintness, we also figured there would be little "bang for your buck" here. No double glazing, mostly small, cramped rooms, no central air, old plumbing, ancient wiring. Paying a lot for a very attractive avenue, but forfeiting comfort, safety and autonomy. Then we noticed the few apartment buildings, of the Ugly and Styleless variety, corrugated steel sides, probably built in the worst taste of the 60s and 70s, and cheaply. Those people would be paying a lot just for the area, not even the appeal of a charming old home.

We all do what we can, and make the choices available to us. Many people would think with our apartment, dealing the noise, unattractive view, and long hall walk, would be deal breakers. Covered parking, electrical grounding, professional management, a deep tub and a washer/dryer in the unit more than make up for that, for us. That, and they allow pets. That was a huge limiting factor for us, one that we gladly accommodate.

Moby will never live in a little cage again. He's home, he's our home.

Cool

The air cleared, the heat cooled, rain came in the night while I slept. An August respite, which I much appreciate.

Less so the loud party-ers in the hall at 0300, galloping and shouting - drunken hilarity and spilled drinks. Hall noises come right in, and there are at least two families with young children in this part of the building who must've been disturbed as well. Self-centered, useless people. Utter lack of empathy.


D never managed to get back to sleep, and it took me quite a long time. When I got up, I found myself in Tired But Must Do mode, which serves me well for Moving, and at work - when the last patient of the day needs just as clean and organized a room, and just as much energy from me as the first of the day did.

So I made waffles. After which D crawled to bed, and got to sleep for a few hours, and I got in laundry, ironed shirts, (they are cooler that way, the processing areas of the Library are not kept cool enough) got dishes washed, walked over to get more starch. Later, both awake, we got lunch, de-dusted the car, including a zip tie repair on the plastic bit beneath the bumper that always catches on the curb/stop thing in parking lots. Pulled out the sofa to vacuum behind (did I mention we had a dust storm?) and cleaned the windows, did more laundry, and a few other small tasks. D got me to stop after I got back from the grocery store with... oh, who cares? I finally gave in to the lack of sleep, despite this urgent impulse to do one more thing.

I don't know quite where this impulse came from, other than the whiff of September. Or my body kicking in to having a bit of actual, rarely seen, overtime, for the first time in many, many months.


But on the way (to get tomatoes and cheese) three men came toward me on the sidewalk. Average guys, late twenties, early thirties, middle America types, and one stares at me, finally catches my eye, smiles, says "Hi there!" and puts up his hand for a high five. I have given him minimal eye contact, from the beginning an expression of "leave me alone" yet he seems to expect me to touch his upraised hand. As soon as I am past, I quietly say "Who thehellare you?"

A full grown man, especially in the company of two other men, who accosts a middle aged woman, alone, on the street, with no kind of a hint of invitation, is a complete asshat moron. I'm sure if asked he would defend himself by saying "I was ONLY being Friendly!" When his actions were actually intrusive and threatening. Unsettling, always, when men on the street feel they have a right to my attention, to a response from me just because they want one, unearned, unbidden. Like being in Riyadh, and all the little touches on my hips, in crowds. Crowds not thick enough to justify real accidental bumps. Much more dense packing on Boston train stations and such brushes happened very rarely. They did it because they could, because I had no recourse, to put me in my place.


Partly Cloudy

60°F
(16°C)
Humidity: 51 %
Wind Speed: N 5 MPH
Barometer: 30.17 in (1018.30 mb)
Dewpoint: 42°F (6°C)
Wind Chill: 60°F (16°C)
Visibility: 10.00 Miles

Dustiness

A good day, although I felt as though I could have taken a nap at anytime. Dark, dramatic clouds all morning, burned away in hot winds from Nevada. Driving home, my little car was rocked by gusts, and dust hides the mountains like dehydrated mist. No rain will get down through air this dry, so there is little chance of a decent storm. Cooler tomorrow, though.

Breathing scratches, thick stuff to extract oxygen from.

Fair

91°F
(33°C)
Humidity: 7 %
Wind Speed: SSW 31 G 47 MPH
Barometer: 29.64 in (N/A mb)
Dewpoint: 18°F (-8°C)
Heat Index: 87°F (31°C)
Visibility: 7.00 Mile

Bottle

I guess I will have to stay now. Since the state liquor stores have this now. Never say die.






No, the colored bottles were not intentional. They just looked rather pretty with the light coming through. Using my homemade mixes for most cleaning, vinegar and water for shiny surfaces, alcohol and water with a drop of dishwashing liquid for the pseudo granite counters. Salt to scrub with. Figuring it's healthier for all of us, especially the smallest member of the family. Borax and baking soda does a crap job in the dishwasher, but we've switched to a phosphate free product. Makes us feel a bit better about our impact.

Also shows I've been watching How Clean Is Your House. I'm happy to say, as much as I'm no fan of housework, I do keep it cleaner, much cleaner, than anyone who has ever been on that show. But I know people like them.

Really

Last night I got home about 7:20, worn out, and D made me eggs, and sat with me while I soaked in a hot bath, and we did the crossword. This is love.

A headache woke me at 3, and I got up for water, realizing that all the time scrubbed in did not involve imbibing fluids. Nearly threw up, but the urge passed. D got up with me, claiming I had not woken him. I tried to open the balcony door for cool fresh air, but there wasn't any. Brain fried and half asleep I heard, but did not realize, he was letting Moby back in. Cat'd slipped out in that moment, and I only remembered this much later. D saw no point in bringing it up. He got little more sleep that night. I would give him some of mine, if I could. This is also love.


We saw (500) Days of Summer, and it pissed both of us off. Yes, we know that heady rush of early lust, of wanting to be adored, the overwhelming impulse to connect. But the characters were so essentially dishonest. She tells him she does not want to be part of a couple, but treats him as though she does. He wants a permanent relationship, but gives lip service to her preference, agreeing to no ties. It's all very shallow and wrong headed and drunken. So many little twists annoyed, not least of which is the fact that it's well shot, well acted but poorly conceived at it's heart. Overthought, and underfelt.

We have made a promise to each other, one in a series. No more Rom-coms. They always get it wrong. They never get the pouring out of words, the ease of jumbled stories filling up the space like puddles reforming to include each other. They never get the difficult times, when you see how brave the other person is, how they handle a crisis, how they comfort you in grief, how they gaze at you in deepest joy when you say you finally feel better after that food poisoning episode. How sweet to watch a grown man tell a cat good-night and good-bye and ask if cat has had enough sleep. Telling her you love her, as you come out of anesthesia.


Maybe we have a different view of this, because we fell in love in a war zone. Everything had meaning, there were no "party manners" as my aunts and mum would say. Start getting to know someone cold, hot, hungry, underslept, overstressed, undershowered, and still like them, you pretty much know what you're getting. Laying bedrock, rather than relying on the fluffiness of date-dreams. I have found more in D to admire over the years. We began treating each other as capable adults from the very beginning. We value strength and courage and maturity. And being able to make each other laugh, still. Even more so.

Tomorrow, I'm going to wrap his guitar stand, because the foam is disintegrating and getting on his guitars. Shhhh, don't tell him, it's going to be a surprize. I've already done it badly, but I'm going to do it neatly, and more long term, tomorrow.

Hell

Such a sleepy weekend, much needed by both of us.

Once, I thought a lot about what heaven would be, given that the traditional version would be static and dull and a kind of hell. It would satisfy my curiosity about all of life's mysteries, allow me to do all the stuff I never had the time or money or aptitude to do in life. But as I got older, well, I realized life was the opportunity for life. And once I knew everything, boredom would set in for the remainder of eternity. So I added in reincarnation, since that would offer more understanding and experience. And came to the understanding even that would not be all that simple, what is the point if there is no continued memory. Only long after did I come to the appreciation of the concept of nirvana, loss of self completely, my life poured out cell by molecule by photon back onto the world, into the universe.

Strange how I never thought of hell, save as 'what heaven would be as taught in christianity.' Hell as idleness and excess, the attainment of desire to completion. Perfection in all. No death, no rot, no losses, because out of those comes the fresh new, the space for change and trying it all again. Heaven and hell are imbalances, all good, all bad, all dark or light. Like those decorative dolls I was occasionally given as a child, to be put up, for looking at, not playing with. Prison? But for those whose lives spiral out of control, maybe not so much as the terror of gang life. Extreme poverty? Certainly, but I've heard people from such backgrounds speak of the great love of their family during hard times. Torture? No question - this is the source surely - the Inquisition's torments, of hell. But worse than bone cancer, global skin disease, psychosis?

A good vet center therapist told me not to compare pain.

Gods give me the mess and the means to keep it in some order then mess it up again. All a matter of which way I hold my life, how I chose to interpret each lesson.

Picked up an Andy Goldsworthy book at the library, and am drawn in and enchanted all over. The natural put into a definite order, then allowed to disintegrate again. Forms and lines of wonderment and meaning, then collapse and decay and another day to form again, in a different way.


Moby's doing better today. He's had a hard week, what with the head bonk, tail squash, then the aural assault of the fire alarm yesterday, during which he hid in the dryer. When I got up this morning, he slept curled on his favorite pillow on the couch, stretching out as I stroked him.



Addendum:
Hell is (500) Days of Summer. Hated it more and more as we walked home. Dumb, romantic (in a bad way), deceitful, mean, overwrought, misapplied, crap, crap, crap.

Class

A lifetime ago I took several Tai Chi classes. This was before I knew D, so yes, a lifetime. Always wanted to continue the practice, but in a very short period of time, the movements leaked from my memory. Yesterday the continuing ed catalogue appeared at work, as an employee I get a discount, so I combed through for a physical class I could attend. Many of them, the vast majority, were day classes, which is hopeless for me. But one worked, one evening one day a week, tai chi. With the added advantage that it's not entirely new. Movement to improve my worsening balance, strengthen my center without stressing my back. A gift of grace not to be overlooked.

I don't really need a class for mental stimulation. I do need this encouragement for exercise. Some days, this is going to be a difficult choice, to go to class rather than come home immediately. Some days, when work runs long on that evening, I will be late. But I will go, I will be there.

D made us breakfast this morning. He really is lovely.

Tail

I'm not most graceful when I get dressed in the mornings. So as I balanced, and lost balance, I dropped my foot... right onto Moby's tail. He's really not most happy with me these days. He recovered from that today, better than the head bonk. D sent me photos, including the one above, via email while I was at work, which cheered me considerably.

The balcony tomatoes are a loss. Small, but nevertheless totally tasteless. Will have to make different plans for next year. Something that likes heat, maybe chilies of some sort. Better part of a year to learn more, plan again.

Watching the birds flying, hoping a few stop by, as is the cat.

Bam

Last night, bliss together as I read Language Hat's Uglier Than A Monkey's Armpit.




In Escher style, no less.



Finally coaxed him out today for grass.


He even ate a little.




Now he's back to hiding. He must be in pain, he's not usually one to nurse a scare. My shin definitely has a dent from where his head hit. Maybe he knocked a tooth, no way to tell. I feel terrible, poor little guy.