Arb

Bad night's sleep. The room too warm, the blanket too heavy, the cat too hot curled on my knee, my thoughts bitter, sticky dregs. Over and over again, remembering my mother's issue about my underwear. I didn't need the top bit, because I was, and am, way to small to need any. She measured me, bought me a couple of conical, concentric circle ones, and an over-lacy, beribboned, rosetted one. I put them on in great embarrassment, then in painful discomfort. I couldn't breathe, the were so tight, and my mother wouldn't believe me because she" knew how to measure properly." In 1975, to wear these 1950's garments was not the only choice. There was begrudging relenting, and softer, less structured items were exchanged for. Still didn't have enough mass to keep them in place, and a raised hand in school meant my newly forming tissue was painfully bisected by the bottom seam.

It felt oppressive at the time, my mother's authority, her power over me, since there wasn't any real logic to it. All right and proper, however irrelevant. I knew better than to express outright defiance. I needed to be in the school I was in. I had no income, no other resources, no transportation outside of them. She was my only real parent, whatever her faults. When, at 19, I had a job and scholarship and got my own apartment, she accused me of moving out to be "with a boy." Oh, and if I lived "that kind of life, you are not a part of this family." I still needed a mother, at that age, having so little emotional center myself. So, I closed off anything of myself she might not approve of, disowned half of myself from her. For the last eight years, there has been no contact at all, by my hand. The anger has dwindled into the odd gouts of irritation. Invading my sleep.

Really, a decent camisole would have been plenty for decency, and I felt far more exposed with my chest wrapped, far more aware of the rest of my skin. As soon as I moved out, I cut up the remaining scraps, and never bought more. Good undershirts/camisoles for under scrub shirts, the odd sports-arbs (I'm avoiding the word, to avoid lost googlers. It's happened before...) so that I don't flash anyone at work. I'm fine with the idea of covered. I don't need "foundation." If she could have managed a "well, that battle of the bras was a bad idea, wasn't it?" Once it was clear I wasn't "going to need to wear them later." But we never talked about those kinds of things. And so many things got put there, there is nothing more to talk about.

Delete

I've deleted the fecesbook account, and will never go back there. I'd noticed such an increase in ad email, most with "unsubscribe" functions that it seems unfair to label them spam, ever since opening it. I don't think I'll miss anything about it at all. I posted a note saying I was deleting it, and that was it. Complete waste of time and effort. Well, I ascertained that old school friends were fine, and that other old friends wanted nothing to do with me at all. So, good to know. But I don't need to keep hitting myself over the head with that particular stick. Anyone else I know has my email, or comes here to read, or I talk with them in person.


Two of the "popular" people who have complained so of me at work, have been calling in sick over the past few weeks. While we've been so busy. Using it up until they quit, apparently. Two employees who were believed and liked, who I always distrusted and who irritated me badly. But that's largely about the supervisor, and just a few complainers. The whiners are a constant, the problem is when the management buys into their view of the world.

I have to remind myself that I have a job in nursing that is days, no nights, weekends, holidays, or call. And most importantly of all, I have a job. Not many out there. And that most of the folks I work with are decent, and come to work to work. Count blessings, hope for better, focus on what is important.

Needed

I'd been asked what six things I couldn't do without. (One of those forum lists, nevermind.) A very difficult question for someone who knows how little she needs. Of course, I took it literally, "things" not being people. Stuff, in short. And what I've considered to be a Good Day.

When I was going to basic, October, November and into December, in New Jersey, I had very clear criteria for a Good Day, and what I needed. Warm, fed, out of the wind. Having a plastic, covered cup to keep water in (as advised) was very helpful. To have a bit of water in my locker at night, so that in the dry heated air I didn't have to walk down the hall to the water cooler. And, although I learned to down Motrin (800 mg) with just two swallows from the spout, it was easier with a gulp from a cup. KP was a long, hard day, but then they all were. Still, starting at 0330, it was longer than most. The compensation was that I was warm all day, ate well, and pretty much when I wanted to, and got to the toilet whenever I felt the need. Those three conditions made for a version of easy, compared to most other days out in the cold wind, often hungry, and holding it in until allowed.

I lived out of my locker, very little of it my own. Clothes not adequate to the weather. Although I did have boots that fit, thanks to my Drill telling us to make sure they fit when they were issued. So, I took the sizing of the boots with all the seriousness I did if I were buying them. And I have had to be careful of my shoes since before I remember being fitted for shoes. I know I was irritating the woman at the boot station, but my Drill allowed it, and I stayed politely insistent. They weren't warm, and the green wool socks itched, but neither did they pinch or rub.

Hidden in my locker from the last private, a copy of a Tarzan novel. I longed to read, but I never could choke that one down.

When I left the ex, I left with a suitcase and my Army issue, knowing I escaped with my life in hand. That I would be able to salvage one carload later was not in my mind at the time. I could live with a few clothes, and the items that weren't mine to keep. Funny, the stuff I missed later were some of the photos, recipes, and a record that wasn't mine, (but only I listened to it) that I could never find again. A Carmina Burana on period instruments, played as it probably was during the Crusades, from a French group. Not the Orf version. Very raucous and genuine.

When D and I spent a christmas unable to get to a meal, the necessity of a meal on holidays became very important.

When I worked in a trauma hospital OR, a Good Day was when everyone got out alive. A death in surgery is unexpected, and bitterly unwelcome. A patient with a traumatic injury requiring immediate transport up to the OR is not a good bet. OR nurses are usually not trained in hospice, and get very irrational about death in their department. The cardiac team got a few a year. The transplant team lost one every time we had a procurement, but that got rationalized as happening, technically, before they got to us. Still, the moment when the heart is taken, and the anesthesiologist turns off his machine and leaves, is jolting. I always wanted to ask them to just stay there to make us feel better. There isn't anything else for them to do, but it always felt wrong. Two of mine were lost to septic shock, also not unexpected. I cried a little for each one, and those were bad days.

These days, a Good Day means enough time with D, little pain, and some periods without pain at all, getting lunch relief, a few moments of quiet.

So, this is the list I came to.


Good solid shoes.
Clean, working toilet and some privacy.
A good meal and time to eat it.
A hot shower.
Something to read.
Hot tea.

Wooly

Not easy to photograph a black cat on dark green in winter light. Not well, anyway. Moby loves the wool, any wool. He doesn't suck on it, as some cats do. He just snuggles in on it, and looks peaceful and contented. Much easier when he's on the red wool blanket from my childhood.

Both D and I kept our green wool army blankets. No one asked for them back after we got home. Good wool, even if they do have US printed on them. When C and Moira visited us in Boston, I knew, despite it not being winter, that the two tall Californians would be cold at night. That's when the two single blankets became one huge cover, stitched together with purple embroidery thread, very heavy and warm.

We like our blankets to go sufficiently over the sides so that the chill doesn't come rushing in when the other person turns over. Over the years, I'd looked for a full size wool blanket for us. Never could afford one worth having. The doubled army blankets became our good winter cover. I get queen size top sheets, and happened to get that larger bedspread (so, so long ago), and the edges go over and around far enough. The black bedspread was a huge indulgence, to fit the new futon in my new tiny apartment, right after my escape from the ex. Just before my sojourn to Saudi Arabia at the bequest of the Army. Which is when I was issued the green blanket.

Futon and frame are gone, but that spread still looks good, if you don't untuck some of the frayed ends. Reminds me of Aunt Evelyn's white chanille patterned bedspread, smooth and tidy on their bed. My version is more casual, more workable for someone whose idea of neat is far less time consuming than my house proud aunt. Hers came off, neatly folded and into the chest at night. Ours stays on all the time. The bed often doesn't get made, unless there are visitors coming. I try, but it just doesn't seem that important. We turn the electric bedpad on for Moby, he settles in for the day.

Tiko

How a good marriage feels. Laughter especially.

Long, hard week, with another to follow.

Down

One wouldn't think surgery would have a christmas rush... but I don't want to even consider the politics and financial disincentives, barely staying awake as it is. Two longer than usual days, with what one charge calls NFL day. No Fucking Lunch. I had 15 minutes Monday, and 30 yesterday, for a ten then twelve hour day. We're scheduled with enough staff, but when two call in sick, and other ancillary staff are on parental leave, and everyone's trying to get their patients in before their insurance runs out, not much to do but the work at hand. And be grateful for the hours and having a job. So, I'm going in for a couple of hours to make sure people get at least a full lunch today.

Oh, and the new computer charting started Monday. 'Nuf said.

It got down to 1˚F last night. Lower wind chill numbers. When D left for work this morning - walking, he told me it was "Six of a possible 19." Thankfully, he has coat and accoutrements to survive Boston winters, so he'll be more or less warm. After all, there we got at least two weeks every winter where the high wasn't above 0˚F, and the wind off the ocean would beat the tears out of our eyes. We walked through it every day, trains, busses, no car at all. The odd day of bitter cold here really doesn't compare.

I want to write about Moira and C and their little girl Plum who drove in from Sunny San Diego, spent Sunday recuperating from the drive here, napping and noshing. Plum got to see, and step in snow for the first time, delightedly. After they stopped to get her boots, an item not to be found in southern CA. Maybe I will tomorrow.

Origins

Purest Green explains how she named her blog and url, at the invitation of another blog (follow links/crumbs on her page.)

One day I switched from the dotmac site, which was good for photos (at the time) but awkward for the idea of a blog, not to mention restrictive, and I needed D to help me with every post, to blooger. At the urging of Moira. At that point my essays were often titled with colors, a jumping off point for stream of consciousness stories and memories. Rambling associations, that would find their way back around to the beginning. Single word titles. Not an intentional form, it just sorta worked out that way at the beginning. So when I set up this blog, that was in my mind, along with the Police song, One World (Not Three.) Just the earworm of the week, but it fit with what I'd done so far. Rather surprized me that I got my first tries on title and url and name. The nom de bloog of Zhoen being an exoticism on my own given name, one I'd used for a bellydance festival for the program. Among the sheherezahdzahiras, my plain J-onesyllable stood out like a pugnacious sore thumb. So, I twisted and respelled and frenchified (fair enough, I'm largely French Canadian, among my mutt heritage.)

The structure helps me, gives me starting points and maps, from which I can jump off wherever I like, and come back to when I'm done. One word at a time, I have learned to write, and express. This is my outlet, the pretty thing in my life.

So, no big story. One Word. Onewordiseough. Simplicity sort of thing.

Awake

Why I try to be kind to all the stressed surgical residents that I work with. It's not always easy.

With music by They Might Be Giants.

Only wish I'd seen the show. I know one of the residents, although she may have only been on the NPR version of this. It's an old show.

But I've recently fallen back in love with the song, which evokes sleep deprivation better than any other creative output I've ever come across. I imagine musicians on tour know the experience intimately, as well.




Am I awake? What time is it?
When I get through this day
Can someone tell me how
And how much longer now
Am I awake?

The coffee's cold, did I forget to drink it yet?
Did I forget?
My clothes are wet I don't remember drinking it
When I get through this part
Will the next one be the same?
Will I be wondering If I'm awake?

These are not the clothes I had on when I went to bed
And something else besides my hair is growing from my head
And when I close my eyes it looks the same as when I open them again
Am I awake? What time is it? Is it that time again?
Wasn't it already then? So does it have to be
The time it was again?
When I get through the day
Can't someone tell me how
And how much longer now
Am I awake?

Notice

Ok, now, I love you, so I go through with it, and leave a comment. But if you are on Blooger, and you have your comments on the same page, it takes alt least three times to make a comment go through. I write, I ask it to post comment, it reloads and says it can't process my comment. I post it again, it reloads and has the comment verification. As long as I get that right (and don't just hit "enter" - no, I have to click in the little "post" button) it works. If I get a letter wrong, and it reloads a forth time, then I usually just give up. Probably a lot of people who might leave a kind or observant note never bother past the first try.

So, it's blooger's fault, but when the comments are at the bottom of the page, not in a new window, not in a pop up box, it just doesn't work properly. So, if you have one of those, and you have seen comments from me before, you won't hear from me again. I'm just tired of it, not you.

I'll still come and read and think good thoughts of you, but I'm just worn out with the hoops I must jump through. I'm sorry, I really am. You'll see me in your stats.

Last straw just got me.

Punctuation

I care about the main punctuation marks. But I've never really learned how to use the colon nor the semi-colon. I like dashes and commas and periods, very useful scratches. I've never been a fan of the exclamation point, though. I am one of those people who get very irritated with misplaced apostrophes. Your is possessive, you're is a contraction, and the two are simply not interchangeable. To misuse them is to expose a willful ignorance. Likewise misapplied quotation marks, although I'm hardly the most irritated.

Granted, these conventions change over time. But at this moment, to use the wrong ones exposes linguistic stupidity. And I see willful ignorance as one of the main human sins, next to malice, and thinking of other people as things, not people with their own soul's choices. Not the usual set, certainly. More the sources of them. Bigotry and other irrational justifications for disregard, are based in a well nurtured, self important turning away from thought and curiosity. Malice is any kind of joy in another's suffering, distancing oneself from other's struggles. So too is when we see others as in our way, opposing us, as though we have a right of way, and they don't.

So, we need to keep learning, and asking, never assuming we are right, or have a right. I have no right to my next breath. But no one else has any right to take it from me.

Numerical

I have issues with numerals. The idea of numbers, algebra, geometry, proofs, I can see, and with study, I get. Numerals squirm under my eyes and in my brain, refusing to add up properly, refusing to take anything away. Never any good at any kind of rote memorization, I slipped back a half grade when I was about nine, because I hadn't memorized the times tables. I got them in my head, but they remain elusive - when I'm tired, when they include 3s 5s and 8s. Those are the bad numbers, the ones that twist into each other, giving me the finger.

Still, I count. I count when a job is taking too long and annoying me, so that I have some sense of control and to keep myself patient. Measuring to keep aware. It's not near the level of a compulsion, but I can see it from here. Counting how long it takes the elevator, how long to fill the kettle with water, but the resultant number is quickly forgotten.

The combination for my locker at work sometimes foxes me, and old combinations flow through my fingers, from the two lockers I had at MGH, or at the earlier hospital, occasionally my high school locker combination. I couldn't remember any of them intentionally, but they extrude unbidden when most inconvenient.

Which is why I am in surgery, as opposed to other areas of nursing where dosages are so critical. Where every calculation has to be checked by another nurse for each medication given. Where lab values and vital signs are all in numbers. Yes, I got to know the normals, could see the patterns, and I did well enough for clinicals. But I always worried. In the OR, critical numbers just never come up. Marcaine, 10ccs. I can handle that just fine. Even PACU, Recovery Room, the dosages are very straightforward, for pain and nausea almost exclusively, and are often a range based on immediate effectiveness.

So, I keep letters close, but my numbers closer...

Alphabetical

I have organized my thoughts and lists alphabetically as long as I can remember. I find myself wanting to memorize lists as exercise, and going through the letters is a standard method. I used to doodle the alphabet, using different ways of writing the letters, bubbled letters, long narrow lines illegible until the pad is angled up, cursives and angles and blocks, shadowed and scribbled, and later in the army phonetic alphabet. Very useful when I began to work at the library. Mis-shelving I called "creative alphabetization" with great derision. It's a random ordering, ultimately, but one that is grooved into my brain. I even taught myself to recite it backwards, and know it in finger spelling, when I was small.

I've been pondering generosity lately. Because I'm not. Oh, with my time, my heart, yes. But with food, or something made, products of effort, no. I remember having to bring cupcakes to school, using as little frosting as possible, because I wanted it myself. Didn't mind about the cupcakes, but hated the idea of giving all that wonderful frosting to children who bullied and taunted me. I don't mind sharing food at my home, but I don't want to bring food for cow-orkers who actually enjoy cooking, when I don't. As a result, I eat little when I visit family, not at all at pot-lucks when I don't bring food. Seems only fair. I like free stuff, but not when I feel I should reciprocate. So, I dislike gift giving occasions, because I have almost never gotten anything I would want, and I don't like giving random gifts that will not be the right things.

Trades need to be more or less even, and if I don't trust others to please me, or me to please them, then I'd rather skip it.

On the other side, I'd like to be generous, not count so much. I think I'd be a happier person. But I also think that although I can live better, my basic character, my core mood, is what I have to work with. And I will never be optimistic and chipper consistently. This grim cynicism is such a large part of my natural resource, that to be otherwise is to try to build a grass shack when all I have are bricks. I have choices, I can learn to cope better, I can be more happy, but I will still be dark and sarcastic and sad me. I can oscillate around that core, but I must be myself.

Zippers

Z is for Zipper. Or just a zip for those of you across the pond the other way.

This is for closure, a very satisfying sound and feel in a well made zipper. A simple marvel of engineering and design, although it has taken a while for the materials and manufacture, and sewing, to be consistently reliable. It's been a few years since I've had a zipper come apart, grind it's teeth, and stick half open, half closed, caught in fabric or misaligned. Once, that was more normal than not, and I never did well with zippers as a child, seeming to have insufficient hands for the task of zipping up. I don't think I've gotten that much better at it, so I must assume that state of the art zippers are much improved.

Watching old episodes of Rockford Files, the difficulty of cars starting reminded me just how unreliable cars once were. There was a 50/50 chance of it starting first time, stalling at a light, and the constant risk of needing a jump or a tow. But we've had our car for over three years, and have had no such issue. None. When I think about it, it seems unreal. My worst problem has been that a couple of times a year, the radio goes dark, including the clock, only to resume normal service the next morning. I wonder if I simply caught it in the middle of a backup.

Funny, how it's so often the details. We don't notice the gradual improvements, or degradations, until we look back with clear eyes.

Yams

Y is for Yam.

An ugly root vegetable that turns the most lovely orange when cooked. One of those traditional Thanksgiving foods. Not that I have deep traditions on this holiday. My mother said it was not a Canadian holiday, so she never cooked that day. Often we never got dressed until noon, watching the parades on the tv (black and white) from Macy's and Hudson's, eating toast or leftovers or peanut butter and jam sandwiches. A lazy day, and as I remember, without drama or rage.

It became a meaningful day for me the year we were sent to Saudi. The Saturday before we got the call, and the Sunday after we got on the busses to Ft. Carson. And the Thursday I spent with friends at their Thanksgiving, D with his family. We've counted the Friday as the beginning of our life together. Handy, since when friends come back to town to visit family, it's pretty easy to get them around the day after. We had our (seven years delayed) wedding reception on Thanksgiving Friday, just for friends, which was a smashing success that spawned at least one marriage.

Two traditional foods I make on the day, cranberry sauce from berries, and yams. Cranberry sauce because I picked up a bag of the berries, read the directions for the sauce, which was so brain-dead easy, I figured I could do it - and get credit for being posh. Yams because my mother made candied yams, canned yams with sliced pineapple, brown sugar cinnamon, a walnut in the center of each pineapple slice, baked in a round pyrex pan. I've adjusted. Real yams, microwaved to done, mashed with pineapple juice, cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, brown sugar, into an iron skillet, covered with pineapple slices or chunks, rebaked. No measurements, just what looks right.

All we care about these days is making sure we have food on any holiday.

Skipping

Skipping today. Here's a photo of Moby.

Xerography

X is for xerography. Couldn't manage an x-ray, thought XL a bit of a cheat, no xylophone around. Xerox becoming outdated.

X is a rather sad letter, a negation in English, an ex-whatever. As an initial, it holds so little space in the dictionary. A leftover from Greek, now homeless. Used to cross out, or admit illiteracy, or shorten longer words, a redundant letter now that K and S have reconciled. Or said like Z when it makes it to the front of a word, afraid of losing it's place.

Cross your fingers and wait for Xmas.

Watches

W is for Watch.

I've worn a watch since I was about 12, always liked knowing what time it was. Rather like having a map, keeping myself oriented to time and space, at least approximately. If I had no say in where I was or how long, at least I could strive to collect data and try to comprehend.

I did think digital watches were a pretty neat idea. Had a very cheap one, easy to read at a glance, in Basic a necessity and requirement. Durable thing on a plastic band that lasted me years, until I left it in the sun one day. Still worked, but reading the half burned out LED numbers was a bit of a puzzle. D and I had identical ones, bought at the PX at the same time, on the way to Gulf War I, which could be made to beep on the hour. So we synchronized watches, and while away from each other on our duties, the hour chime would remind us that the other would be chiming too and we'd think of each other. Together, we'd beep the hour, and giggle.

Aunt Evelyn, being a very independent soul, kept her watch wound (before the era of battery run watches) after she shattered her elbow, by using her teeth. Worked pretty well for a while, until the watch stopped, and she had to have a jeweler take it all apart and clean it to get it working again. Uncle Ernie had given it to her a lifetime before.

Never got how a cell phone could replace a clock on my wrist. Don't need a pocket for a watch, just turn my hand and I can always check the time. Besides, I no longer carry a phone, not for years. (Never really used it enough.) But a good, sturdy watch, with a date, ah, a constant companion. I stick to analogue these days. I've been through a few, I'm hard on 'em.

D tried to discuss something with me this morning, and couldn't figure out why I kept laughing and getting distracted. Well, when both of them are looking at me so intently, the sense of being watched got to me.

Violet

V is for violet.

One of my scarves, from when I bellydanced. Just a great excuse to indulge in lovely fabrics and bangles, appealing to the seven year old in myself. Always including the variations on purple, indigo, violet, grape. Dark jewel tones that pull in the light and reflect back a tinged dark, shimmering and shadowy. This makes me want to put on my coin belt and every scarf, crank up 3Mustafas3 or Gogol Bordello, to roll and swivel and swing to. I don't want to lose this inherent rhythm, the one that moves to violet.

Umbrellas

U is for Umbrella.

I've long had a soft spot for plaid umbrellas. I had an old one that I found in the Unitarian Church annual rummage sale, a necessary item in Detroit, where the rain is cold and heavy. It eventually wore out, but I kept it for it's intrinsic beauty long past it's function. This is one of several we accumulated living in Boston, where they are sometimes less that helpful, when the rain is horizontal, or the rainfogmist comes up from the ground. Still, much used. Here in high desert, I rarely get to walk under a steady rain with an umbrella.

Umbrellas hold an otherworldly feel for me, as though I could carry around my own reality surrounded by the patter or roar of rain.

U nearly got to me, and I regretted using the Ukulele already. I thought of uniform, but how to picture that? Uvula would have been disgusting, and this camera might not have been able to show mine. Umbilicus? No, I've shown that before, and I don't want to show any more body parts. While musing in the shower, the obvious came to me, and I shouted out "Umbrella!" Which confused D.

Teapots

T is for Teapot.

My lovely cobalt blue version developed a serious handle crack, and is now a water dish for Moby. I could only get white in the 2cup pot with strainer type that I've used every day for years and years. Well, white is a good color as well. I turned my nose up at yellow and brown, although I've had brown teapots. One had a lovely side handle, a sort of grey brown matte finish, but it was a bit small.

I consider a teapot to be an essential, like a kettle. Although I've done without when only teabags and immersion heaters are available. But to have a home and kitchen, and not be able to make loose tea, a sad - and in my case temporary - state of affairs. Still, I have friends who have neither. That's when I bring my own bags and find out where they keep their smallest saucepan, possibly my own mug as well.

Seem to be coming down with the sniffles, so I'm more interested in drinking hot tea than writing about the pot.

Snaps

S is for Snap.
There really is something satisfying in a snap. I had a cloth book full of fasteners, zipper and laces, buttons and snaps, that I enjoyed to shreds. The only point to hard dolls for me, was to take the clothes off and on and off. I learned how to sew on buttons and snaps probably before any other needle tasks. Snaps used to always come loose, shoddily sewn on at best, so a very necessary bit of knowledge. They make a nicely firm sound to confirm their effectiveness, as well as a subtle notice of giving way. Unlike velcro, which silently closes, but announces it's failure loudly. Buttons give way without notice, and wander off never to be found. Laces untie themselves and try to trip one up. No, snaps have a certain prim polite propriety.

This particular snap is on the pocket of my lovely wool jacket, found at an outlet store at the proverbial "steal*" price. Got me warmly through a February trip to the Oregon coast. Can't really credit the snap, but it's a good one all the same.






*No, I didn't shoplift. It was $15.

Rings

R is for Ring.

Both ting and chime, as well as circle around the finger. Eternity in a bit of silver.

Very early on, D and I discussed marriage. Well, we both knew, even then. And one of the first issues D brought up was not being able, or really willing, to buy a ring. I was confused, this is a problem? Never had any interest in the standard ceremonies, never even liked diamonds, knew from experience that function does not follow form. A good wedding in no way makes a good marriage, and I suspect there may be an inverse effect. And diamonds are a scam, they are not rare, should not be expensive, and all involve exploitation. Carbon, coal with attitude.

D found a pretty silver ring at the PX in Ft Carson, and I wore that for years. Lost, sadly. We took a trip to Green River right before the legal wedding, and he found a kokopelli ring, and I found a set of silver rolling rings, for the ceremony - knowing D would never wear them any other time. He liked fidgeting with them, though. I lost that wedding ring, in the OR. Got scrubbed in quickly, put it in my scrub pocket, got nauseated and had to scrub out, went home, then realized the ring was gone. Never found it. A couple of years ago, we found a near match at a Lava Hot Springs souvenir shop, and I've worn that ever since. Mostly, this is just because I rather like wearing a ring, and D plays with it when he holds my hand. All these rings together never cost more than $50.

All of these were, for me, just decoration, a sort of durable toy, a gift too, of course. The idea of it being intrinsically expensive would just worry me. To lose the equivalent of a month's pay, just lose it off my finger, would be a nightmare. Anything I can't wear every day would be even more of a waste, since I so rarely do anything dressy.

Rings do not a marriage make, nor diamonds eternity.

Queens

Q is for Queen.

Pretty good hand, depending on the game. Not so good in 500 or Euchre, but great for Rummy. Card games were the focus of my family's sociability. I can't actually remember first learning to play, although it was a process to teach me how to hold my cards properly and get good enough to be expected to play. I liked a fast game of Euchre, and got to be a pretty good 500 player. Some evenings, especially when it was just Granny and my parents, and I was the mandatory fourth, I would intentionally throw the game in sheer irritation and obstinacy. Which brought on later retaliation from both. But with a lot of aunts and uncles and cousins around, and not having to play, I enjoyed the games and relished my competence - as well as being treated as an equal.

When my oldest brother married a suburban girl, my parents and brother attended a barbeque at the in-laws house. Lots of people, and a game of cards. So, I wanted to play. What I didn't know was that it was a betting game - like rummy, but with real money. So when I was given the 50¢ ante, I figured at the end of the game, it would be returned, just like the rubber counters and pennies we used at home. When the quarters were lost, and would not be given back, I felt cheated, a victim of theft. Probably a very cheap way to poison my mind against gambling, at the age of seven, a lesson not to be forgotten. I also deeply resented that I was so easily given that money for such a stupid reason, but couldn't just have been given it for my own use, as I saw fit. All seemed terribly wrong.

Solitaire, several versions that I know, kept me calm and occupied through much of my time in the Army. Soothing and meditative. I love the feel of the cards. One of the packs sent To Any Soldier was from a casino, with a neat hole in the middle. Great pack of cards, like it was made of cotton, a pleasure just to shuffle. I can sometimes tell when I'm very stressed, because I will play solitaire almost compulsively.

Seems a shame that my group of friends doesn't play card games like that. Sometimes I miss the almost ceremonial sense of the game, the structure around the randomness, the speed of a fast game with good players spooling out the odds for the fun of it.

Picks

P is for Pick.

Guitar picks in this case. All belonging to D, who loves to go into guitar shops and ogle fittings, identify pick-ups, and fondle necks. Always has. Downtown Colorado Springs had a couple of guitar stores in 1990, when we were obliged to be at adjacent Fort Carson. And I would be introduced to the finer aspects of the electric luthier's art, part of a series over 19 years. As an act of loving attention, I carried a pick with me in my wallet, so that he could play if we found ourselves in the company of an irresistible instrument.

I've likened living with D to having a Christmas tree around, good to look at, smells nice, very pleasant, but you keep finding shed picks/needles all over, all year long. Rarely have I taken out a load of laundry and not found a pick or two. This is not a complaint, merely an observation.

Getting ahead of myself here, but that's alright. So good to need a sweater and wool coat to walk to the library today.

Extra

Sunday extra.

Escape from the Alphabet!

Oranges

O is for Orange.

One of my attachments to the Little House books had to do with the Christmas stocking, simple candy, maybe a toy. Those little items in my stocking were my favorites - in no small part because that was the stuff from Santa which required no weighty, mandatory gratitude. And in the toe, always, at least, even in the thinnest years, an orange. And I most loved that sweet/sour bit of fruit.

Nineteen years ago, D and I spent our first Christmas together in the barracks at Ft. Carson. The regular army, not too pleased to have National Guard folks there, even if we were on our way to the gulf, didn't tell us when the mess halls would be open for the holiday, until after they were done. So the two score or so of us who had not gone home for the holiday, having taken our leave the weekends before, were left hungry. The cabs didn't run on base, no pizza or Chinese delivery that day. Only the care packages sent by family, and the liquor brought out by the Irish chaplain. All the food was heavily sugared. I was not drinking at all, and wouldn't without real food anyway, D never drank, and we were both miserably hungry and sick of sweets. Sometime in the afternoon, oranges appeared like a Christmas miracle, and we each snagged several, and scurried away to feast together.

Our only requirement for holidays is that we have enough solid food that day. This week I got a bag of Clementines, sweet and easy to peel. One of our anesthesiologists at the Former Hospital would fill one wall of the lounge with cases of them, each year, this time of year. And the staff gobbled them joyously, gratefully. His generosity, especially in contrast with all the candy, seemed to me always so nurturing.


Off subject, I want to lead you off to a librarian blogger that deserves more readers - Shushie. I think of her as the punk librarian, because she once stated that libraries are punk, and for reasons I cannot articulate, I utterly agree with her.

Nickels

N is for Nickel.

Even Big Ones, and I have seen the Big Nickel in Sudbury, one of those family day car trips to large tourist traps. Despite motion sickness, I loved those outings, a chance to run around and see new stuff, as well as the particularly pleasant sleep - lying down on the back seat, or leaning against an older brother, as the night rolled me back home.

Often, being a border town, Canadian change leaked through. Nickels and pennies were not a problem, easily passed off. But quarters, even dimes, would incur rejection, at least when the Canadian dollar was down from the American one. And they never worked in any coin-op machines.

Never liked nickels, clunky and ugly metal slugs. They have a smell, too. They've done some commemorative ones lately, like for the unique state quarters, but it doesn't help.

Still 5¢ is 5¢.

Music

M is for Music.

They Might Be Giants once had a T-shirt that said Music Self Played is Happiness Self Made. I can sing, in time, in tune - a good enough choir voice, it mixes well. I dance pretty well, as long as I don't have to obey choreography. But I have never gotten more than a simple melody out of an instrument. Violin, flute, penny whistle, organ keyboard, ukulele, all tried, none accomplished. D is the musician in this home. I love hearing him play. So does Moby.

They Might Be Giants are always worth the effort, although I tend to forget until the moment they start playing. They came to town last Friday, at a club with a dance floor and balcony around. Earnest folk singing duo for an opening band, sadly dull. But TMBG, after all these years being the tallest midgets... excuse me - the biggest independent band, still tear it up with gusto. I like to think they make a good living. Their music is still fresh and raw and full of humor and energy. To the point that I still have to listen to the new stuff for a while to decide I like it, and after a little longer, it's another favorite.

Just listening to their recordings, it's a bit hard to tell that They are a great dance band, rock 'n roll, joyously odd. Memorizing the lyrics appeals strongly to those of us who always go to hear them, making their shows a bit of a sing-a-long. The two Johns have such an easy camaraderie after these couple of decades touring and recording together. Great melodies, still experimental, musically interesting, not just loud. But loud too. With a confetti cannon.

They are geeks who've found a way to keep themselves in gear. High quality sound system, lighting, video screens, especially for a venue that is just a club. They sing about elements and obscure painters and presidents, Mesopotamians, - and the lyrics matter. They put on a puppet show. Avatars of They sock puppets, to a camera, projected large. Educated silliness.

They played all the songs off Flood, their only BIG album, from 25 years ago, each with a fresh approach. Frequently announcing "Escape from Flood!" and playing another song they liked. Real advantage to having just a handful of "hits" and an enormous repertoire. Or a complete inability to Stop Writing Songs. (One tour, they wrote Venue Songs, one per stop.)

Their audience has both aged with them, and picked up stragglers from every year along the way. They do children's shows, since they do excellent kid's albums that do not nauseate adults. Apparently, Utah is They Might Be Giants country, no doubt in part because there is little offensive in their shows, allowing a way in for many. The shows here have always been more intense than the one we saw in Boston. But we stay involved because of the quality, our appreciation brings them back. D and I will always find the time to see They when they come to town.

And they keep current. When they found out that the old song about the sun that they've covered is not up to date with scientific thought, they wrote an addendum. The Sun (Is a Mass of Incandescent Gas), followed by The Sun is a Miasma of Incandescent Plasma. These are cool, smart guys.

They shot off the confetti cannon a second time, making it all the way up to the balcony where we watched. I saved some, they assured us it was biodegradable, if poisonous. (A worry, since some got in their coffee cups.) Threw it in the air for Moby. He seemed to like it. Probably not, actually, poisonous.

Libraries

L is for Library.

Which has more words than I can muster this evening.

Added on Friday:

My story goes that I have been going to libraries from before I was born. My mother loved to read, and libraries were her refuge as much as mine. She read sea stories, Great Lake's shipwrecks, polar explorers, preferring factual stories over fiction, and classic fiction over pure fantasy. She never made a point of directing what I read. Although I knew if I brought anything home of a lascivious nature there would be trouble, so I read those books at the library. She read the books I brought home quite often. Which was good, but carried the implication of censure. So I knew any book that gave me a hot burn in my stomach, I needed to memorize the Dewey number, and read it on subsequent visits.

Shelved for many intermittent years at local libraries, while going to school, making ends meet. Campbell Branch, Burton Hysterical Collection, Salt Lake City Main Library, gathering bookdust and papercuts along the way. Reading anything that caught my eye. Nursing school wore away my ability to read with such pleasure, but it's slowly growing back.

We have a library of our own now. It's largely come with us, over the last five years of too many moves, dropping leaves along the way, mostly intact.

Keys

K is for keys.

One of those symbolic words, archetypical. Especially for an item in one's pocket. The secret, the magic word, the trick, authority, keys to the kingdom, holder of the keys. And the item in this modern word most readily mislaid.

"Where are my keys?"

I've been trying to remember when I first had keys, since someone was always home. My mother had been a latchkey kid, and tried to keep that from me. Sadly, because I'd have loved more time alone, more independence and autonomy. I do remember the key ring, with a leather tab with Woodstock, a broken egg, and the motto "You crack me up." Not exactly the height of wit, but maybe it helps with the dating. Not younger than eight, probably more like 12, maybe later than that. The image wore off quickly, leaving me with a leather fidget that fit my hand perfectly. I was terrible with unlocking doors, always struggled with making them work. May have had to do with old doors and old locks therein.

I loved having a lot of keys when I was young. Keys to apartment, work, car, mailbox, made me feel responsible, adult. Later, I only wanted to thin down the keys I had to carry. I've had various keyrings over the years. The knotwork bob I currently carry came to me on Breed's (Bunker) HIll on Bunker Hill Day in Cambridge. We'd gone to see the USS Constitution, only as we started seeing way too many uniforms did we find out about the holiday. Stayed for the parade.

Three keys. Seems plenty.

Jam

J is for Jam.

And jelly and lime curd and marmalade and maple butter and hazelnut spread (aka Nutella.) Ok, yes, gotten away from any kind of alliteration, but the principle is that they are all versions of jam. Sweet spread for bread or toast or just a spoon, in a pinch. Grape jam on peanut butter, my perfect childhood sandwich. Especially on Aunt Alma's homemade bread- although then it would be her homemade raspberry or strawberry from the patch in her garden. Could have lived on that, and occasionally did.

Cleaned out the barely-dipped-into jars gone old in the fridge, save for this one. We just don't eat like that anymore. I read the ingredients on a jar of Nutella, and decided not to buy it. The one source of edible comfort in Saudi during GWI, with Pringles. Still get a jar of maple butter, it lasts me a very long time, should at that price. Still.

This lime curd is just lovely on toast.

Ice

I is for ice.

Ice is your friend. One of those difficult friends who will always tell you the truth if you ask, and you always know where you stand with them, but will also always help you move and the first one you call if you need a trip to the hospital.

Not for frostbite, but aches and swellings, burns and bruises. Snow rubbed on frostbite still held some credibility when I was small, but was largely a debunked home remedy. The belief that ice was only for the first 24 hours, and after that heat, for bruises and injuries, still had a decade or so to run. Certainly contrast baths, and alternating heat with ice, or heat then therapy then ice, still has applications. But for swelling, it's all about ice. Have to be careful with burns, but if kept dry, sure takes the heat down. Works well for itching as well. Icing pads with coolers are standard for orthopedic post op applications. Keeps down post dental surgery swelling, too. There are various clotting and circulatory diseases that don't go with ice, but they are relatively rare.

Shown is a gel ice pack. I've heard of people using bags of frozen peas. But then they can't be eaten, will go bad - so they don't last as long. I figure the cost of a gel pack is far cheaper over it's lifespan. Plus it's not wasting food. And I use icepacks often. I go to bed with one at my back, and just throw it on the floor when it's warmed off. Would not do that with peas. Frozen water cubes in bags ALWAYS leak. So, if that's not a problem, go for it. I've jammed fingers at work, and snagged a cup of ice to keep said finger from swelling. I ice bruises, sometimes with ice massage - paper cup of water frozen, rubbed rapidly on the area until it goes numb. Iced my tattoos when they were fresh and itchy, to immense ease.

D became a convert to my Ice Reverence when he smushed his elbow.

Plus it's pretty.

Can't say I like ice cubes in beverages, though. Every friendship has it's limits.

Hats

H is for hat.

I've worn many over the years, both literal and figurative. Oddly blessed that my head and face like hats. Some people, I know, just don't tolerate head covering with dignity. My mother put me in the frilliest bonnets she could find, in pink and white, for a simple reason. This last baby, her only and much wanted girl, was one bald babe. And she got mightily tired of everyone commenting on what a beautiful BOY she had. Not that the bonnets helped, mind. People are stupid, especially the ones who make those sorts of observations.

Never have been able to walk past a hat display without trying a few on. I had a very stylish black cowboy hat once, left it for a moment in the student union, and it was gone. The army gave me a few hats to wear, which were actually pretty good at keeping the sun out of my eyes. Which is why I don't wear sunglasses, only brimmed hats to keep the glare away. Learned in the army that a baseball hat works just as well. Slightly disappointed that nurses no longer wore crisp starched hats by the time I became one. Impractical and with the symbolism of servitude, but also snappy looking. So, I got into the OR, where we all wear hats.

My ears ache in the wind, so I make sure to always have a good knitted cap to cover them in the winter. Have worn straw and paper hats through the hot sunny summers here, saving my face and neck from burns.

Grasses

G is for Grass.

Moby loves his wheat/catgrass. Always has. A low reactor to catnip, seems to think it smells alright, he brightens up for fresh grass. On the day we moved from Boston, Moby in his bag at my feet throughout the flight, a long hard day for a small furry creature, the only thing that got him out of the closet was fresh catgrass. And he was all, like, DUDE! I SO needed that!

All the stuff on the balcony is dormant and dry this time of year. Even the wheatgrass from the grocery store goes moldy quickly. But I keep getting some, intermittently. And Moby always gives the most amusing double take, sees me, sees the grass, AH! runs toward, faceplant into grass.

Grass when I was small was never a smooth lawn of green blades, but a patchy covering for dirt, spread liberally with dandelions and what was called plantain, and clover. I would look deeply into this jungle, and imagine myself as a tiny explorer, among the maple helicopters, twigs, half buried stones in the cool mud, ants and pillbugs and earthworms.

Feet

F is for Foot.

Born with squished feet, I spent a lot of time manipulating the toes into a more normal position. Which largely worked. Although ballet as a child may have turned my feet out a bit, it also caused me to pronate forward, and flattened my arches. I do wear orthotics to keep my arch up. A torment until I got used to them, but my feet, and back, are better for it. I stand on these poor things a lot, and they've done me proud. I always wear flat, wide, comfortable shoes. Even my dress shoes are round toed maryjanes, that are pretty good to walk in, if necessary.

I see so many feet long abused in the name of fashion. Tight shoes, high heels mostly, cause incredible deformity and pain. Corns and bunions especially. I look at these (mostly) women, see what they have done to what were probably normal feet, and am aghast. Because they "Had!" to wear high heels. Now they "Have" to have surgery.

We are much more plastic than we think, clay in our own hands, in the choices we make in our lives.

Eggs

E is for Egg. Sorry, all out of elephants to photograph.

Mom had an aluminum poacher, four egg cups of rounded wedges, in a brace, fitting into a pan to boil water beneath them and a lid. I thought them the most disgusting bits of alleged food ever, all congealed white goo, and the yolk hidden and watery when revealed. I could about stand the yolk of a hard boiled egg, and could even manage the white, if cold, of deviled eggs. I mostly avoided any egg not made of chocolate.

Until I moved away from home, and an acquaintance made fried eggs. I took her lesson, and found a quite edible protein source. The ex mangled eggs into grainy denatured messes, and I drew away again. In the Army, they only cook one thing well, and that's breakfast. Lots of eggs with hot sauce and salsa, and I remembered how much I liked how I used to cook them. On my own again, I lived on ramen noodles, frozen green beans and fried eggs through the lean years.

These days, I pay the little bit more for free range eggs, and I can taste the difference, and sooth my conscience a little. D makes lovely eggs, especially virtuous since he doesn't eat them usually. It's for when I get home late and I can't imagine what to eat, and I don't feel like eating, but I can manage eggs with salsa or a little Cholula sauce, since I will otherwise wake up an hour after bedtime, miserable and hungry.

I have never been able to make an omelette. I fry them. Even when out at a diner, I order them Slap in the Face†.

Red Rock makes Eggs In Purgatory. Fried in slices of french bread with spicy marinara sauce and some cheese, hash browns, bacon... I'm getting hungry.

Which came first? The egg. Because the mutation* happened in the egg of the proto-chicken hen - which was not quite a chicken yet. Likewise, there were all kinds of eggs long before there were chickens.




† Which means over hard, but does not appear in the wiki article. Which is interesting in it's own right.
* Unless you don't buy the idea of evolution, in which case you are seriously at the wrong blog.

Dog

D is for Dog. Make no mistake, we like dogs too. Enough that we know they take more time and attention than a cat. They have to be trained and walked and groomed, in ways that Moby will never need. If we ever find ourselves in a house, or an apartment with enough room for a dog, them we may well find a dog to share our lives with. We have both developed a soft spot for the greyhound rescue dogs that are shown at street festivals here. We suspect, although we aren't prepared to test the theory, that Moby would be tolerant of a large, docile dog. In the same way he is fine with the pleasant small children belonging to or friends.

He's certainly fine with Gromit.


I've written of Gigi, my aunt's black poodle, that never thought herself a dog, but only loved chasing her ball. Which I would throw for her almost as much as she wanted.

So for all you who have lovely dog friends, you are most fortunate. As are they. Bryn, Mol, Porridge, Jess' Dog.

Those are the regular dogs here. I'll gladly add anydog else.

Like Harry. Quite the charmer.

Oh, and Chuck and Coco, over at Dooce. She doesn't read here, but I visit her hysterical site every day.

Cat

C is for cat, of course, how else could it possibly be in this house?

I have mentioned numerous cuts on my hands at work, and had people say, well, yes, you have a cat. And I show them my arms. There are no cat scratches. Cuts from work, fissures in my thumb, scrapes, but not claw marks. Moby does not do skin attacks on humans, whether out of personal dislike of the feeling, innate gentleness, or early experiences. He's scratched us accidentally, once got D good while being put in the bag in the general flailing of not bloody well going into the baggedness. And once while I was holding him, he startled very badly at a very loud noise, and I got a nice scratch across my shoulder. Twice in the five years he's been with us. Neither intentional.

Likewise, he's never bitten either of us. Once put his teeth on my big toe, just to get my attention, when his paw was bleeding.

And the black cat of my childhood was the same way. The odd accidental claw scratch, but never an attack.

We like to think it's in some part because we never give him reason. But it's more than that. He's just a gentle soul, a personality without malice.

Ball

B is for Ball, in my case this nice spiky rubber massage ball. I will roll it over D's shoulders, or lie on it, moving it to various spots on my back. It helps. Problem is, it gets lost much more easily that one would expect from something so red, and not THAT small. Finding it when I need it is a recurrent issue. But it does keep showing back up, in it's own good time. Perhaps when it returns from the alien dimension it arrived from, and occasionally goes back to visit.

Treasured the balls I had as a kid. The big, air filled armfulls that were easy to catch, the beach balls - I had one of a jack-o-lantern that (half deflated) I used as a pillow in the car, and the hard, high bouncing superballs - good to throw around the basement and all it's hard surfaces. I had a giveaway from a cereal promoting Flintstones, of a superball material, but unevenly formed - to look like a rock. It bounced weirdly, and I played with that for years. I had clackers, two purple lucite balls attached to cords and a handle, that one clacked together rhythmically, while giving oneself livid arm bruises.

They really were the best toys, the ones I used the most. Hard to say I loved them, since that was reserved for more anthropomorphic playthings, the ones who kept me safe from night shadows. But the spheres taught me competence, challenged me, and were the first hint that I needed to contain my anger. Throw a ball down hard to get back at it, and you either lose it, or it hits you right back. Quite impersonally, simply obeying it's own physics.

Full of π.

Apples

Since I still haven't figured out how to plot the story in the world of my "novel" I'm not doing nanowrimo. And not doing nanowrimo again, since there is no way to get off their site. No way to delete my contact there. A worthwhile charity goal, but it becomes sort of mandatory after awhile. I've had to block all email from them to avoid them.

Need to keep writing, though. So, unofficially nablowrimo, I will post daily. And to start it off, since this is my earliest way to organize thoughts, going alphabetical. An item as a jumping off point, letter by letter. Forged in my years shelving at libraries.

And if I'm going for conventional and organized, then A is for Apple.

I've bobbed for apples, at least once successfully. Rather a disgusting party game, and probably no longer allowed at church halloween parties. The Catholic church more accepting than evangelical or even protestant churches, of folk belief. Like the people, keep their beliefs and convert them at least nominally. Bite the apple, take on the knowledge of sin, then they are hooked and in need of forgiveness. Enough rope, or alcohol, to give them something to regret and need absolution from the only shop in town that guarantees redemption. Nice racket.

I do like caramel apples, although I won't eat anything sticky enough to pull out my crowns, not these days. Never cared for candy apples, too difficult to get both textures together, so why bother coating one with the other? Used to like biting into apples, but even as a kid, preferred to eat one with a knife, slicing off irregular wedges to eat one by one. Never liked "Delicious" apples, and resented that their very name was deceptive advertising. Galas and Romes are the most consistently good varieties around here, ironically. Since neither are grown here. I grew up with Macintoshes, tart and hard. But I haven't seen any good ones in decades.

Made apple-stuff last night, turned out very well. Apples, graham crackers, oatmeal, brown sugar, cinnamon, butter in a bowl, microwave 15 minutes, eat.