Between

Quiet this week. Cooler air, but not quite autumn. Life in abeyance. Indeterminate time. After so long, as though I should be getting ready for classes. Moby spending a lot of time on the balcony. We have gone to a couple of open houses, knowing full well we are in no place to actually make that kind of outlay. Just looking, being nosy.

Replaced our aging camera, it having suffered a few too many drops (some onto concrete) with a shiny new one. Moby already thinking we take waaaaaaay too many photos of him. Sheesh.

Fozzie

Dog reminds me of Fozzie Bear.

"Ah, wacka, wacka! We are great!"

Fraught

Haunted, as I periodically am, by thoughts of the genetic family. Two women at working dealing with their mothers deaths, one over, one approaching, and until today, for some reason, I never connected my current repetitive thoughts about my mother, and their concerns over their own. Seems so utterly obvious now, hard to understand why it was invisible to me before. Spent time sorting through old photos, and I will be doing my exorcism writing about them, as soon as I get the scanner out, and D gets it connected. This could get a little fraught. Apologies in advance.

Squeak

We got a cat toy. It has an electronic squeak. It squeaked all the way home in the car as we hit bumps and turned. We kept laughing and saying "Oh, we are so going to regret getting this."




We put it up at night.

Gadget

Just as there are places that can only be reached by getting lost, so there are things that can only be found by accident, out of the corner of ones eye, or dropping into one's hands.

My mother shopped like she had live Google, decades before it existed. She hated shopping, and did it at speed. She formed an idea of what she needed in her mind, and we sallied forth to find exactly that, nearly always disappointed. (Too bad my mother, as far as I know, still eschews the internet. Google would be her bestest friend.) That disappointment was especially acute as it pertained to clothes for me. I remember striding past stuff I wanted to look at, that we would go searching for months later, and it would no longer be there.

The idea formed in my mind that the better way to shop was to be open to what was there, and to get what was available then, not to be rigid in what I expected to find. My first chance to prove this idea was when they were looking for, oh, whatever they were looking for, and I spotted a parka. Hideous green with orange inside, but it looked amazingly warm, and dirt cheap. I somehow convinced her that I would really use it. (She could hardly accuse me of being fashion conscious.) She reluctantly agreed. That ugly coat saved me from many a sub-zero day for another decade, more.

I occasionally just go and dither in a likely place, and often come out with an item I will use for many years. In the long run, it takes about the same about of time, but with much better results.

We tried to find a particular gadget* this weekend, and failed utterly, because we tried it the other way. We eventually resigned ourselves to keeping an eye out, looking askance, waiting for it to appear. In the middle of the search, we happened upon a toy for Moby. It has an electronic squeak. Engaged him thoroughly for a good hour.

No idea why such small, useful, items have such a strong SEP field, can't imagine what the evolutionary advantage might be.



*One of those anodized aluminum bottle openers that usually also fit on keychains.

Series

Envy

I always worry about seemingly good people who have trouble envying other people's joy and good fortune. A friend who avoids K and Dave, and their children because he so wants a family and children of his own. Instead of camping out there every weekend, babysitting, and getting the best of both worlds, he denies himself a version of what he loves. Instead of taking the bitter with the sweet, and relishing what he can have that would benefit his friends and their children. He's a very good person, but seems to have gotten a bit lost lately.

What we wish for others is what so often comes to us, in some form, in time, if done with no expectation that we will get a direct one-to-one reward. Life doesn't work like that. But when we want love and comfort and happiness for others, with all our hearts, we open ourselves up to love and comfort and happiness - it's easier for us to see it around us, and it grows better.

The ex, when that relationship deteriorated, hated seeing couples in public, had to turn away, sickened. I gazed at them in awe and pleasure. Maybe I would never find it, but such sweet love existed, and that seemed enough. Just knowing beauty exists in the world, even if I don't own it, lifts me up. I don't have to own the ocean to be glad at how gorgeous it is.

Bitter resentment and jealously only breeds more isolation and pain.

So, although I indulge in whining about my angry, judgmental parents here, I adore hearing about others with warm, friendly families. Mine were a bit of bad luck, and not the worst by any means, but that's all they were. Loving families can happen, I just didn't get that to start out with. Gives me the right to not love the ones I got, because they could have been good, but weren't. Fair deal. And I got better family when I got to chose for myself. Once I was a better person, better people joined in.

We have a friend, with his wife and children, and million dollar home and yearly income, and we are so tickled to see him enjoy his well earned wealth. It suits him, he indulges in toys and gathers in friends, nothing fake or boastful about him. We'd have fun if we came into a fortune, of course.

A common enough speculation, what would we do with a cool million, or ten? Cut back on work, but not stop. Live in a somewhat larger place, that we would own. With ten million, start a non-profit foundation to benefit friends, and friends of friends, who want to try out strange ideas. And build a house on the Northwest coast with lots of guest rooms, and be the vacation spot for everyone we know.

Grunt

There are bad days, and there are hard days. The two forces are not dependent on each other. Today was a very hard day, but in no way bad. No one crabby or angry, no long delays between cases, no huge failures or intractable messes - the bits that make for bad. Just a lot of work, having to make major changes in bed configurations, a lot of supplies needing opening, a lot of floor fluid to mop, for every single turnover in every single room. And being the resource/lunch person, I got to do them all. No one happier than me when the last case came down at precisely 1600, and I could come home.

This place is not like a trauma hospital OR, when a good day is when everyone gets out alive, and we've all had bad days. In an orthopedic hospital, there is a somewhat higher bar for a good day. This one got over, but with a grunt.

Understanding

Read about college "helicopter parents" in the paper this week, parents of college age kids who can't let go. Remembered my first day of kindergarten. My mother walked me there, and I learned the way. The teacher asked me for my name, and I stood and spelled out the ten-letter French-Canadian last name, as I'd seen my parents doing on the phone, at the bank. I was aware that this was unusual when I looked at the teacher's face when I was done, but with no real idea of why. The smallest girl in class felt ill, and rested her head in my lap as we sat on the floor in the circle.

I loved school, always did, even though there were bullies who tormented me. Because there was no father there, and it was the one place where smart counted, and smart was the one thing I knew I was good at. I dove in and reveled in knowing.

On my second day, I walked myself, and never looked back. I got driven, later, for other schools too far to easily walk to, but I left my parent's home at the car door. Whatever the mean girls did to me was easier to deal with that what my parents dished out, and school, I knew, was my ticket out, to freedom and the wild world.

I think my mother would have preferred me to hate school, as she so often told me she did. As imperfect a refuge as one could settle for, but I was passionate about understanding it all, knowing it all, so that I could escape. And so that I could understand. A trial to prove myself.

Raw

One of those weird phenomena of my work came up today. I suspect I've been seeing more male patients, older female patients, or those having merely hand surgery where this does not become an issue.

Which is to say, women of an age to have periods, will be having a period on the day of surgery. This should be about one of four, or one of five, but tends to run more like three of four. Women having gyn or colo-rectal surgery always tell their nurse, or we find out anyway. No big deal, either way, of course. Not for the OR staff. But I can well imagine having to deal with that inconvenience as a patient, as well as having surgery, and I try to convey both that I sympathize, and that it makes no real difference to us. Just one of those things. To the point that I expect it.

"Yeah, I think it's a *rule*, if you're having surgery, your period is going to start that day," is my go-to joke. It gets a resigned huffed smile, usually. Ah, well, what can you do? In general surgery, we had mesh undergarments that would hold a pad. In ortho, we generally don't need to remove underwear, so whatever they have from home will work fine.

I suspect it has to do with stress, which holds the hormones off, then, when the day for the procedure comes, things, well, relax, and stuff starts happening.

When I think of the shame surrounding this process, in my own early life in particular, I want to make this something normal for my female patients to tell me. To make light of it, to reassure. To convey the attitude of "Oh, pshaw, we're nurses, this is what we do, you're safe here."

When I was in nursing school, my mother once told me the story of her first experience of childbirth, before being given the drugs so she wouldn't remember. That she'd lost control of her bladder, and the nurse berated her for wetting herself and making a mess. Well, this is a completely normal occurrence, and any nurse worthy of the name should have told her that, and made her feel nurtured and comforted, not shamed. Then cleaned it up matter-of-factly. It's my job to clean up whatever comes out, and return to each patient their dignity and humanity, washed and dried and covered in a clean sheet or tidy dressings. Made whole, not left gaping and raw. Not left to fester for decades.

When people are most vulnerable and runny, someone has to. Just like parents clean up their children's shit and vomit and spit. But for adults there is a matter of showing that that substance may be disgusting, but you, you are fine and human and touchable. Not judging a job, only doing the job in front of me without weighing it down with emotions and baggage, means that I honestly don't mind. Don't mind the smells or the risk, I just do what has to be done.

Makes the awkward and unpleasant work just, work. A task. A chore. No big deal, best done quickly and first.

Glossary

Lucy metablogging, mentions a blogger's a Glossary On this shall I write, since my brain is in late summer mush.

Not exactly Blogathy, since I really want to write, more like Blogstipation, since nothing is coming out. As a Journal blogger, possibly a kittyblogger, I still find myself stuck for the moment, with only dribs and drabs, and I'm tired of them. Even Dale, our favorite example of the Blognoscenti in this corner of the blogosphere, which I prefer to call Blogistan (even if it doesn't jibe with the definition there) seems to be writing less in this fallow season. I probably have a lot of Link rot, and should go and check at least the ones on the sidebar to make sure they work.

I got a lot of splog comments in Chinese, and constantly following the links to report them seemed to do no good, until the last week when blooger started their spam reporting on comments. Yes, I followed them up, enough to find their url, and whack-a-mole them. But I haven't had one in the last week, so I must've been doing something right. Their splogs seemed so empty, newly formed.

I tried to get the newest blooger templates working, but I couldn't keep the current look. One that Moira designed and executed for me, and that I absolutely adore. So I reverted, and not being able to see my "followers" (like I don't know who my friends are by now) or "friend" people who aren't, or get enmeshed with the whole fiasco that is fecesbook, seems a good thing.

I love the Linguablogs, like Languagehat.

I love that the authentication is a Turing test.

Air

Moby spent the morning wedged between the AC unit and the railing out on the balcony, basking. Or lurking. Could be both. So welcome, weather to keep the windows open and the fans off. Oh, and sunspots for a cat. Places to lean and stretch out and curl. Feline version of photosynthesis, turning light into cute.

Scattered ideas about what to write, nothing enough to be coherent, not jelling. Needs a bit more incubation time.

Perhaps I need to wash the windows.

Confession

I... I have a confession to make. I've not been reading the very interesting book about the Cold War. I've not been doing my exercises every day, more like every third day. No, I've been reading a terribly addictive site called Not Always Right. And no, I'm not providing you a link, not being a pusher.

I'm justifying it as a way to understand stupidity. Oh, not all of it is. Mostly, but some is obviously drug use or brain damage or organic brain diseases, or age. Mostly it's a hugely inflated sense of entitlement and complete obliviousness. But none of the characters in my neglected but unforgotten novel are smart. I like smart people. I understand smart people. But there are a lot more of the other sort, and I need to write about them, especially when they are good hearted and doing the best they can. Even more when they are bigoted and isolated and terrified and hostile.

But that's not why I'm reading through the over 300 pages of this site. Not really. Not when I look at myself with clear eyes and tell the truth unvarnished. No, it's because I'm laughing at them, not with them.

Tension

Lovely thunderstorm when I got up this morning. Moby sitting in the kitchen, getting a little panicked, slinking back and forth, not sure where to go, afraid the closet was too far away. So I picked up this small furry bundle of tension, and put him in the dryer with towels, and he hunkered down there. More storms through the morning, heavy rain. Moby still there, apparently, when D got home, bounding out to meet, greet, 'n eat.

He's much better now, got to watch some birds. Jumped up on the sofa, then down, then up, across the back to nose D's face, then back to sit on the arm beside me. Hard day, but good to sit close to dear friends and chill out in the evening.

Cool and wet today, entirely welcome. Not heating up too much this week, and only slowly climbing up through the week.

Antelope

We got a wild hair, and took off.

Antelope Island is only an hour away, but it feels like it's at the end of the earth. No civilization in any direction, save the empty causeway. Winds were high here. There, it hit up on Buffalo Point with muscles. Probably 30-50 MPH. We put on shirts, because with wind and lake and elevation, it's ridiculously easy to get burned, even on a cool day. A short mile trail, but it beat us both, and cleared out the cobwebs vigorously. The journey there (and back) was much more difficult than it needed to be, but we persisted. As we approached the entrance we realized how little cash we had. Had to search the car for change, and still came up a nickel short for the entry fee, but the ranger merely grinned, and waved us in with what we had, including pennies.

Shush

Long ago, in another lifetime, I worked as an aide at a nursing home. Often, I would be on the floor, fastening a shoe, locking a wheelchair, just getting down to speak face to face with someone sitting in a chair. Never minded, all part of the job, and one of the more human aspects. One day, I felt a hand on my head, stroking my hair, and I lifted my eyes to see one of my elderly ladies entranced. "Such pretty hair," she said. I felt blessed, and that I was allowing her her own moment of grace, a memory of a daughter, or a sister long gone. That would not be the last time I would be touched so, and it always had the sense of pure affection.

The other day, walking down the sidewalk outside our building, I watched a woman in a large, electric wheelchair struggling. I hesitate to offer help when someone seems so independent, but the genuine distress allowed me to at least ask. She'd forgotten to put on her seatbelt, and it was caught near the wheel, her hands full of her grocery shopping. So with her permission, I got down and sorted it out, helped her get clicked in, and after a quick "anything else?" I left. Trying to be as matter of fact, and anonymous, as possible.

Some strange part of me wanted to blather on about how I used to do this all the time, oh, I'm a nurse, this is easy, I'm used to it. But I shushed it easily. Part of all of us is still seven, narrating our meagre accomplishments, hoping for praise, or preventing it out of shyness. I can smile at that overeager chatty child, listen to her, without letting her run wild. I stroke her hair, and she quiets down.

She gets to write here, as do I.

Swivel

Why I didn't get a damn thing done all morning.


Every time I went to move my hand he held with his paws, or rubbed his face with my knuckles. So I browsed left handed, send D uncapitalized emails, and this photo. Yes, I have a lot still to do, there must be vacuuming, and picking up, and the dishes ain't gonna wash themselves. But I chose the way of the cat today, and so it is.


Yearning for September's cool.

D and I shopped for a larger piece of luggage for the winter trip, since all we have are a couple of small gym bags. Not quite enough for an extra coat or boots. Or to bring back stuff from Trader Joe's.

Salesclerk in the luggage shop showed us around knowledgeably. One brand that was in our price range had various colors red, black, silver, the nearest on the end being purple. She made a mild joke that we could have it in purple, and when we looked around a bit more and decided not only on that brand, but that color, she seemed both delighted and a bit surprized. We seem to look conservative, and we just aren't. I have to put that down to the fact that we are boring dressers, without extravagant hair colors or styles (grey, and close shaved) or visible tattoos. Stealth liberals.

I remember when D's friend Pepper (& her mom) visited Boston, with her pink Hello Kitty suitcase, D carried it without hesitation. Pepper's mom made a comment about D needing to be secure in his masculinity to do so, he shrugged it off. On our way back from Saudi, I'd found some truly obnoxious pink ribbon to tie to my duffle bags, so I would have an easier time finding them among the other 800 OD green duffles. D never hesitated to use it on his. Worked a treat.

We're just concerned about having something that looks different to pick it off the carousel. The new suitcase has lovely swively wheels.

Key

D came in to find me on the bed. I said, "I was just walking by... and... " He started laughing. Good thing, I didn't have a line further. Slipped into a solid half hour of vividly forgettable dreams. Woke up with crease marks all over. A Good Nap.

Work finished up early, which is how I had time to nap. Fast surgeon, our fast turn-overs, patients all in on time, we wound up with our last surgery done before it was scheduled to begin. Which is very good for the patients, since they really didn't have to wait at all. Dithered as long as I could after, then just had to clock out. Feast or famine. Cases in other rooms such that breaking them out into ours would not have made anything better. So the scrub and I ate lunch. The pre-op nurses had a cake, we asked who's birthday, and it was Mike. A good guy, and a very good nurse, so we, and another handful of OR staff, followed them over and sang Happy Birthday at him. He was a bit impressed that we sounded so good, and we did. More or less in the same key and generally in tune. I've heard many, many far, far worse renditions of that song. Helped that we wound up with so many people.

Finally saw the photos from the wedding. A half dozen with D or I in, and I almost wish I hadn't seen them. Not flattering, I look as old as I am, D looks as stressed as he tried so hard look gracious. Ah, well, must cope. It had been a hard day. A bit galling that we missed our lunch to be in bad photos. No more weddings for us, unless we know it won't be like that one. No mandatory weddings, put it that way.

Details

My brother once referred to me as "chinless" and an actor in my theater make-up class once told me I had no lips. Well, fuck 'em, I'm not too bad for 48 and change. D gave me lovely, iconic earrings to go with my lovely, iconic necklace, today. Put out more prayer flags (as effective as any other prayers, I'm sure. Which is to say, great for filling in the gaps of what can't be done by effort.) Made it to the local, historic, mall (used to be trolley terminus) for their re-opening. Which is to say, support for the few stores that have managed to hang on through all the construction and financial doldrums. Pretty sad, all in all, but we will watch for the fireworks (!) this evening.


Hot winds blowing across the desert, which should be followed by rain and coolness.

Made D laugh by saying I would "ensmallify" the chicken in preparation for cooking. My purpose in life, to make him laugh. And make Moby feel safe and loved.

Box

The box came, and Moby rubbed his chin on it, circled it, inspected it. So D emptied it of contents, and set it out, as Moby jumped in. Stayed there a long time, mostly just sitting. Apparently, it is a Good Box.





Then he claimed the chair with the new cushion from last week. He has not taken over D's chair like that for a long time. But the fact that D couldn't get to his computer, and sat on Moby's usual perch to put on his shoes so as not to disturb the cat - is not atypical at all. Although after we got back with groceries, and Moby'd been sitting there five hours, D did gently move the cushion to the stool with the cat on it. His ears rotating in curiosity at the change of location, he stayed on the seat pad, which seemed to be the point.

We figure it's good for everyone to be respectful, regardless of species.

Moby tends to hang close while D plays guitar. I would have thought the volume would put him off, especially with the electrics, but it never has. D is pretty moderate with volume, having the same distaste for blare as I do, thankfully. Even so, cat seems to be cool with music.

Piranas

When I was little, I was terrified of piranas. Used to visit Aunt Alma's brother, who lived in a house on a canal/lake network. I loved the water, and swimming and fishing for catfish, throwing the ball for Gigi. A truly lovely break from being a city girl. But there were these little minnows that schooled on the beach/boat ramp where I liked to dip my toes. Until I saw the National Geographic (probably, could have been any of a number of nature shows) about piranas. Eating people. Didn't stop me getting in the water, but not without a great deal of trepidation.

For years after, I had recurrent dreams about fish eating my toes off.

The effect has worn off over the (many) years. Until I ran across a National Geographic article today, about giving a little love to the piranas. Or Piranhas if you prefer.

Big (living) animals aren’t the usual target. Unless they are starving, as is sometimes the case during the dry season in the Amazon when water levels drop, piranhas rarely attack a much larger animal (such as you), though bites and lost toes do occur, and blood in the water does get them riled up.

Strangely enough, I did not find this particularly reassuring.

Phooey

Some of the professional photos are up from the wedding last month. Almost all twenty of bride & groom, a few also have other people, or just the decor. Since we gave up our lunchtime to be in said photos, and wound up at over ten hours before we got food (on our own after bailing out of the reception, where no food was in sight) we'd kinda like to see the results. After a month and change. I don't care about thank you cards that will be simply discarded (I actually left a note in our gift saying, please don't send a thank-you card, really, honestly, please save the paper and postage.) But since we thought we were going to have that time to feed our faces, and missed it for the foolishness that is the formal photo shoot, well, phooey.

I had our pictures of the event up within the week. Neenerneener.

I have come to fervently detest the whole idea of weddings as an event. The Bride's Day indeed. NO. No one but the bride really feels that way, it's an imposition, and a huge one, to make on everyone around them. As a party, or an excuse for one, sure, fine. But to put oneself up like that, to throw oneself a bash as both host and guest of honor, seems to me deeply offensive, if socially sanctioned, even expected. Even non-bridezillas are guilty of self aggrandizement and egotism. Guests should always be guests, cared for and shown a good time, to any reasonable extent possible. We had to be there, and we were. But we felt the obligation keenly. With no recompense, and no enjoyment other than family peace.

Thing is, there is nothing the Happy Couple did that was anything other than Perfectly correct. Which is what I will say to them if ever asked. "It was perfect." In my book, an insult, but they won't ever see it that way, and it is a kind of truth.

I simply hate the current fashion for making the wedding day an old fashioned Hollywood Premier/ coming-out party. We are just not their audience, both of us leery of ceremony, and viewing public display with distaste. We are both shy folks, and deeply private.

We admitted to each other, after our own tiny wedding (seven people including ourselves and the officiant) that if ours had been any bigger, there was a good chance both of us would have ditched. Certainly both of us, since I would have been the only driver in the only car between us. We'd have stayed together, but skipped the Wedding. So, good thing we did it so small, since the marriage has worked out pretty well.

I do hate weddings.

Barometer

Moby is our barometric cat. He can tell it's going to storm, and he doesn't like it. So he hides. While out having lunch, there was a lovely, heavy downpour. So we knew he'd be under and in somewhere when we got home. Deep in the closet, as it turned out. So when the clouds gathered again, and we couldn't find him, we figured it would be raining any moment.





Apparently not. He'd found a sunbeam, and was not about to give it up for the mere possibility of rain. He'll slink off later, if need be.

I think the thing about August sun is the angle, as it intrudes, batters from the side, more surface area hit with glaring rays scattering everywhere.

Lovely big raindrops, though. Even if it hasn't cooled off much. The dark promise of more.

Turtle

One factor in the decision of what type of anesthesia is used is personality. The procedure - how painful, how much nerve manipulation, how long, location, is the most important. Then comes health issues, general surgery for a minor surgery for a patient with heart problems is dangerous, and avoidable. There are various kinds of regional anesthesia, from a spinal block, to a regional block that may make the whole arm insensate, to a bier block that works on the hand, to a digital block for a toe or finger. Local anesthetic injected around a nerve or nerve plexus. Patient preference is another big one, from the ones who hated the idea of being out of control and want as little sedation as possible, to the ones who "want to be knocked out!" On one day, a patient only wanted a block, and no sedation at all, for a surgery that would have warranted a general anesthetic. Once in the OR, we found out her father died under general anesthetic. She did very well, even watching the surgery on the monitor, very cooperative and pleasant throughout. Even with a tourniquet, which is often the limiting factor, even with complete numbness, the limb starts to ache intolerably.


Finally, there are those who may not want to be intubated, but wind up too anxious and unable to tolerate being still or unable to follow directions once surgery starts, who become a danger to themselves. One should not thrash about when a surgeon is wielding a scalpel around delicate tissues. It's always an option to ramp up the level of anesthesia.

The word we use for them is Squirrely. Not a factor of age or gender, but core personality. Once spotted, it's a sure sign of propofol shortage.

Having had a few minor surgeries on myself, I'm pretty sure I'd want, and be able to tolerate, the least anesthesia possible. I just hope I never need any ever again. But I am, at center, not at all squirrely.

More turtley.

Gratitude

All about doing the job in front of me today. Got off a little early, and got groceries. Moby very appreciative of fresh batch of wheatgrass. Mrrked and sat up, ate, and sat beside the green for a good hour, looking grateful. I suppose it's odd, but I have always gotten the sense that, in his cat way, Moby is grateful for the extra treats. Like the gifts of wheatgrass, the kittymassage, the better wet food. He seems to make a point of seeing the good stuff put out for him, then coming back to hang around with us, as if to say, "thanks, and I like you, so you're more important than food."

Maybe we're reading more into it, of course. We don't know what's going through his little catbrain. But seeing this behaviour so often over the years, it certainly reads as gratitude. What is more, it feels like it. Just as when I have come home upset, and Moby lets me hold him a long time, and noses my face and eyes with what feels just like concern. And so why not call it concern? It's certainly kind, and calming.

And so we do hope, and think, that he knows he is loved. He knows he can trust us. He once hated a head anywhere near him, and would bolt. Now, I can rest my face in his belly, and he purrs. This took time.

Trust is always best when it is well earned, on both sides.

August

Summer tiring out.
Dusty thoughts skittering through
Desiccated skull.

Grilled

How do two days of work turn into such a hard week? No, don't answer that, I don't want to whine. Adjusting to the bifocals for scrubbing is working, but it is challenging, and my neck aches. Home tired and hungry, neither of us interested in actually cooking as such. Earlier in the week, we'd gathered potential ingredients, really good bread, havarti and gouda, and Kettle chips. So, we did grilled cheese and chips.

"Now all we need is tomato soup."

"And Fritos."

Talk about childhood comfort foods. Hit the spot, although I did want to watch Mr. Rogers. Instead, we watched Rockford Files.


Best grilled cheese ever. Better than pre-sliced, plastic-packaged-cheese on wonder-bread-flavored nostalgia. We've upgraded.

Chili

New bowl with chili. Cayenne. Made D's chili more potent, as well as the salsa rice. More growing. New bowl more lovely than my poor photography shows, but it is exquisite, subtle colors, perfectly made, sensuous glazes, satisfying lip. Impeccable bit of pottery. Safe place for these fruits to dry. Cat in background, not happy with heat and strong winds these two days. He retreated inside very quickly.

Bifocal

Cheap bifocals. My experiment, delivered this afternoon. I think I'm right that wearing these walking about will cause nausea and or headaches. But I think worn only to scrub, I will be just fine, and I know I will be able to read the little numbers on screws and plates and drill bits, even in the modular hand set with the 1.8 mm bits. My distance prescription was interfering with my close vision, and I need to wear eye protection. They aren't pretty, but they aren't bad either, I certainly won't mind wearing them while scrubbed in. I look forward to being able to see both up and down, near and far.


They look like this.

(Click for actual size. I hope.)

Now, I just have to be able to keep hold of these tiny things. Seeing them properly won't hurt, I figure.

Taste

I wonder, sometimes, if I am an intellectual coward. I have tried to read James Joyce, and Dickens, and have abandoned the attempts. It took me a long time to read books without a lot of pictures when I was a kid, although once I started I became a ravenous reader. But I never much went for the classics. My first sister-in-law gave me a pile of books, which I spent a summer reading. Ayn Rand, George Orwell, H. Rider Haggard, I suspect books she'd had to read for senior year of high school. None of it really stays with me. Big ideas, very literary, but I closed them, undrawn. I had to memorize poems in school, and managed a few, only to forget them in disinterest. I did like Robinson Crusoe, and other children's classics, although I found them long past childhood.

Honestly, though, almost any book given to me as Literature, has left me a bit cold. Nor do I like the Best Sellers, and hated the last few I've read because they were popular, recommended. I read anything when I was young, nowadays I'm much more likely to re-read an author who speaks to me. I struggled through the twists of my first Le Carre novel, with the help of D. And felt very proud of myself for the effort. I prefer the stories that suck me in and never let me go. So, maybe just lazy when it comes to books. Maybe secondary to nursing school, years where I read nothing but Douglas Adams and Robert Aspirin. Now, I'm reading light mysteries with Groucho Marx as a character.

Read a book with a lovely little love story, but which, in the end, left a bitter taste. A Sudanese woman in Edinburgh, grieving, widowed, lost, falls for a Arabic scholar who nevertheless does not convert to Islam. They slowly, warmly fall in love. Until he asserts that he cannot convert, she leaves to live with her family. He does convert, and they reunite. She would never accept him because of her religious obedience. He would have accepted her no matter what. And I can't help but feel he got the raw end of the deal. That a real love story would have had her accepting him without faith, as he accepted her with her faith.

She bases her faith on the miracle of the koran, that it is the word of God, Allah. Well, Joseph Smith says the same thing of the Book of Mormon. Most of the big prophets claim it's not them, but GOD who speaks. Having that faith is beyond my comprehension, but I accept that it is a real phenomenon. That people of faith are sincere and devoted, and that they find comfort in that well defined spirituality. When love has to pass through that filter, it shouldn't change. It shouldn't be a condition on love. Real love has to be wholly accepting, transcendent. Not that it ever has to settle or compromise, but once it becomes love, then neither should change to make it fit.


So, I consider my other tastes. Musically, I like classical pretty well, and hate pop, but what I take into my heart is the offbeat, the world stuff that hides in the corners, raw vital with complex rhythms and a sly humor. I do like great art, but I have a preference for the somewhat inexplicable. Jan Van Eyke more than Reubens, Oldenberg more than Picasso, the ones I would have in my home (as if) are not the most famous or respected.

Swirl

Saturday we went for soft serve ice cream at the Arctic Circle. Which I have not done since we got back to SLC, and the only ice cream I actually like.

Used to have an ice cream truck that came around the neighborhood when I was very small that served soft-serve. I only got vanilla, on the rare occasions when "We HAVE ice cream in the freezer!" wasn't the case, and it was too hot for mom to object. I never much liked store bought ice cream, and was never adventurous about the flavor. Seemed to me a hazard to the (favorite) frosting on cake when it was scooped onto the same plate, and made the (not-my-favorite, frosting-delivery-system) cake soggy and disgusting.

But the soft serve swirl, now that was completely different, especially on a hot summer night sitting on the porch swatting mosquitos. One evening, Les Nelson bought ice cream from the truck for his own tribe of kids, and extended the generosity (as he often did) to the few other children on the block. Usually my mother did not let me accept this gift, but he got around her this one evening, and handed me a chocolate swirl with a wink. (I'd touched it, could hardly give it back.) I could also hardly say, "but I only like vanilla." Well, maybe I did, and he convinced me to try anyway. A detail missing in my memory. Either way, I fell in love at first lick, and never went back. Well, they do say...

Found a blog from a comment on a site I will not admit here to reading daily and commenting on frequently. And on that blog, the question, What is your theme song? Weird thing was, reading hers, I would have to say mine were the same. Goody Two Shoes and Dead were songs that I loved when they came out, and I still sing, and sing along with when they play. And for much the same reasons.

Now, I have to find a few others, since, really, I've never had one. More like a string of songs beading the years.

Conditioned

We talked about the AC last night. This is the best we've ever had, and this summer the staleness is starting to drive me nuts. Especially since I work in cold, filtered air all day. Cool enough to sleep at night, but the fan goes and goes. I wouldn't choose overheated nights again, been there done that. I remember hot Michigan summers with only fans blowing the sweaty air around, dampened sleep. These past two summers have been our only ones with modern central air in the apartment, and although it's been good, I've started to get cabin fever. So when D was up early this morning, he turned it off, and opened all the windows, and I woke to the quiet noises of the city in early morning, and fresh air to breathe. With the commercial parking lot right beside us, and the apartment driveway below, we get too much motorcycle, neighbors loud talking, and delivery truck backing up beeping racket to leave the windows open at night. During the day, the construction din from heavy machinery across the street funnels up the driveway.

The poor kid I was would be horrified that I'd now be complaining about living so posh. And I know I have it good. But every solution carries with it a new set of problems.

My poor-self really does see this as luxurious, with a washer and dryer inside the apartment, humidity control, a dish with a DVR! OMG! And I USE the DVR. Being able to pause a tv show is USEFUL. I decide I want to take my shower, start a load of laundry, I don't wait for a commercial, I pause, then come back when I'm done, and skip the ads. Brilliant. My younger self would have no sympathy at my whining about it being only a one-bedroom, with limited closet space, a long hallway or having to go through the bathroom to the bedroom. Oh, poor me, wah.

Watched Igor this week, in bits, which is probably the best way. It's a clever little movie without a center. Reminds me of Romeo + Juliet, another film with a ton of great moments and ideas, that just never gels as a story. Scamper's constant suicide attempts - all unsuccessful because he's been made an immortal rabbit, gets into the deepest, darkest pit of my sense of humor. Bug Bunny via Dave & Max Fleischer meets Harold and Maude. It ends sappily, and I kept wanting to switch it off, but then a line or a look would make me laugh.





I think Moby was enjoying the change of air as well, without storms yet today. That, and getting his tum rubbed.

Independent

Still stormy, Moby still hiding, if less deeply. Not on the bed at all, but at least on the floor in the doorway, or in his bed in the kitchen. We aren't sure what it is that so bothers him, the pressure, the noise of thunder, an early experience caught out in a storm? We suspect the latter, but it can only be a suspicion. Like the way he gets anxious when there is no food out, that he was left too long alone, and the food ran out. That was the only part of the story we heard, that the former owner brought him to the shelter because he didn't have time for a cat. This fits with our experience of a slightly standoffish creature, who pines for us when we are not there, took a long time to trust us, and has gradually become more secure over the years. At least the first guy took enough responsibility to bring him to a good shelter, and obviously never abused him, evidenced by Moby's enduring gentleness.








As for the ruling on Prop 8, an unadulterated huzzah for the triumph of reason and justice and fairness, over small minded bigotry and irrational fears. That it's even an issue sometimes pisses me the fuck off. I take care of gay couples often in my work, and they are no different, no more frightening, no more offensive than any other patient with their support person. Usually rather less so.

If only we could separate the religious "marriage" from the legal union. Completely independent issues, one having nothing to do with the other, unless the adult couple decided to do both. No legal advantage to a religious marriage, the civil paperwork not done in any church.

Bunched

Sleep is lovely, even waking up to aching legs, and a cat on them. As soon as I was awake enough, I picked up the book, as is my wont. Finish up just after D gets home, and we run off to have lunch, get groceries.

And the day, forecast just yesterday morning as Fair, no stormage, 92˚ turned into 20% chance of thunderstorms last night, and upped to 40% this morning. Dark clouds all bunched up, thunder, lightning, a few gouts of rain, and waves of cooler air. Every time the sun got a chance, it hotted up immediately, but didn't get that many opportunities. Moby hates it, edgy all morning, hiding most of the day since, meandered out to greet D, then back in the closet, under the bed.

I love it, especially since there's obviously more in the churn. Could do without all the heat, storms I would miss.

Midnight

Yesterday was a good dozen hours with a surgeon who, um, put it this way, I wouldn't let him work on me. Add to that he is very difficult to work with. The last three hours I was scrubbed in with him, while he asked for items, then ignored when the instrument was proffered, then he worked on my table while the fellow and resident asked for things, which I couldn't get to because of him, and he would ask for an item not used in the case before, that I had to find, and he kept asking for it, over and over without giving me enough time to get it. Or having used an item, threw it back on the back table randomly, and then asked for it, which took me some time to find, since I was not the one who put it there.

Oh, and there was a med student keeping me from passing sharps safely, so I had to keep asking him to move so I would pass the blade or suture. And it's not like this surgeon wasn't making it up as he went along anyway. The resident, after surgeon left as they closed, made a point of thanking and assuring me I kept up very well, which I did not feel I did, but I appreciated his thoughtfulness. The fellow who was on her second day of the fellowship, treated me politely throughout. Shall I mention that it was a very sad, rather difficult, and unusual case? And that I didn't set it up initially, which made it just that touch more awkward? My legs hurt a bit more than every other part of me.

So, when I got home I found this waiting for me.



An advanced reader's copy. Because I have this "book" connection, ahem. I finished reading it by noon today. There are a few editing blips, and Pratchett's brain issues show a bit, a few details that disturb the flow, a certain repetitiousness not typical of his writing of years ago. But, given these minor roughnesses, it's delightful and potent and funny, a worthy story. I also got the feeling that perhaps he writes each book as the one he could feel proud of to be his last. As such, this absolutely qualifies, with some unexpected tying up of very old threads.

I suspect he is also rather glad he has a well established motif of time travel, and the issue of which leg of the Trousers of Time one ends up in changing the circumstances to some degree. Covers a multitude of, oh, call it variation. His themes are there, it's full of love and courage and Nac Mac Feegles. What else could I ask for?

Par

Some of the miniature golf art was more art than miniature golf. But it was all funny, whimsical and very, very interesting. D and I once played Glow-in-the Dark miniature golf. This was sillier.



Erin & Nick Potter, Untitled.
This one is very hard to see properly, but reminds me of a strange house on Halloween. A monster tree instead of a front door, with three gaps at the bottom that were almost impossible to get the ball through even by hand. Nicely spooky, not so successful as a course for a ball to traverse. We both just took a 6 on this.


Take it Easy, Kisslan Chan.
My favorite. Par 1, once you take a good look at it. All slopes lead to the hole. Getting the ball back out requires clambering over it. There was another with this basic idea, but hidden behind plywood walls. An angled ramp into a conical housing, hole in the center. That one has a handrail to get in and out with. But it was completely unphotogenic.


Pissing in the Wind, John Bell.
Yeah, good luck. We both tried once, just in case we got lucky, then gave ourselves a 6. Well, on this one, we were warned.


Three Graces, Nathan Florence.
This one was strangely photogenic, fairly straightforwardly playable, probably the best balance of any.


The hole was directly underneath her feet. As I just noticed, where she is pointing.


And Whiskey River, as so often happens, churned up the best quote for this post.

"Zen's greatest contribution is to give you an alternative to the serious man. The serious man has made the world, the serious man has made all the religions. He has created all the philosophies, all the cultures, all the moralities; everything that exists around you is a creation of the serious man. Zen has dropped out of the serious world. It has created a world of its own which is very playful, full of laughter, where even great masters behave like children."
- Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh

Golf

Pi Hole, Andrew Callis.

The apartment building has a notice board, outdated events for the most part. But one, well, I had to follow up, because it seemed so unlikely. But there really is an art exhibit of miniature golf courses, and they are playable. With a loose enough definition of "playable." Real little clubs, gold balls, booties to protect the artwork, and a hole to aim for.

We liked π hole, with the blocks it was harder than it looked, but actually quite playable as these things go.


Putting to the Center of the Earth, Davina Pallone

This one was very soft, all knitted, with felt hazards, very warm little course.



The balls rolled over it better than expected.

It's a trap!
"Two Stroke Penalty for landing in the salt trap! Please remove your ball from the trap (by hand) and place on the red dot located on the green... Please do not play from, or step, in the salt trap. Thank you!"

The Fortuitous Sequel to Mean Means Value, John Preus and Sara Black.



We both did this, but D's green ball hit in a more pleasing spot on the salt pile.


More to follow.

Buddies

D and Moby are buddies. Definitely his cat, although both demonstratively love me. Moby hops up on this stool and D lays his hand on him, or scritches the cat's belly, and both just enjoy the hell out of each other's company. I got Moby used to being picked up, but even today, only with D does Moby snuggle in and lay a chin on D's shoulder. D was the one who brought him home from the shelter, by himself, in a box, on the train, cat mewing all the way. That was six years ago.

Wouldn't have it any other way.