That

Ten Things Friday.

Yes, I am doing a post every day of November. Sometimes putting it up the evening before, of course, with two on that day. But 30 posts.

Today, ten things I would like to believe, but I don't know, because the evidence is not there, or a bit thin or contradictory. Or it's just impossible, but I want the world to work that way, and I know it won't.

1. That Homo floresiensis is a hominid species that has existed along side our species, and not some deformed humans. And that they may not be the only ones, with wild men and yeti and Sasquatch being much the same. Probably gone now, but maybe still there a few hundred years ago, and still part of our collective memory.

2. That we are descended from aquatic apes. I love that theory, and I suspect getting solid evidence is pretty much impossible. Or maybe a semi-aquatic species and a closely related terrestrial species, and both traits still live on.

3. That we are part Neanderthal. There is some genetic evidence, but a lot of close-minded "scientists" refuse to see it, and other real scientists are waiting and seeing. I'll hang with the latter group, but I really would like it to be real. It would explain a lot about how weirdly different we can be, and how little we can sometimes talk to other ostensible humans.

4. That there are local angels, or kami, or small gods. Not one big omniscient, omnipotent god who doesn't fucking bother, but minor, sometimes helpful, sometimes cranky ones, who occasionally hand out justice or hints or minor punishments or small coins. Just because it would make more sense.

5. That DEATH really does come with his scythe and Binky, offers a few words, then we are gone. I think this idea is so comforting, especially since I really no longer even want to have an afterlife. I'm perfectly happy with the idea of obliteration. I'd just like someone to say good bye to.

6. That we are alone. No ETs, no intelligent, reachable life. Maybe beyond any possibly crossable distances, for any of us or them, but for all practical purposes, this is it. We get one life, one planet, best deal with it. There is nowhere else to go, we have to make it good right here right now.

7. That there is a way to reach the closed minded, the ultra-conservative, bigoted, sexist, religious nutjobs, to break through the fear, and they will say "Ah, I understand now."

8. Teleportation. I really, really want safe, reliable teleportation. I want to go spend a day with my friend Moira, and be back in my own bed tonight. Or go have dinner at India Quality in Boston, and be back home in time for The Soup.

9. That there is a way out of the mess we're in.

10. That there was a sure way to tell a lie from truth.

Why

Bad dreams, woke crying at 0430, feeling abandoned and alone. Unemployed, I had to take a room in a convent, other elements. Got back to sleep, and dream of bathroom stalls and men in work boots and a surgeon complaining to me of not ordering blood for a case. An orthopedic surgeon doing a major general case.

Never quite got out of that mood all day, although I tried very hard to stay cheerful all day.

Why, oh why, do rental apartments in this place always, always, always have crappy beige carpeting? Never hardwood floors?

Abiding

Still getting to 75-77˚F (up to 25) in here during the day, due to the sun. I refuse utterly to put on any AC in November. Moby is happily soaking up all the sun he can get. And sometimes, he needs his nose scritched.

Just finished reading Two Gentlemen of Lebowski, amazing. The Knave abideth.

Solutions

It's been a long process. Moby has always had moments of peeing outside the box. Even when they are kept perfectly clean. We have always assumed it was an artifact of his early experiences before we found him. Bathtub peeing is pretty normal for cats. And Moby has always loved a throw rug on the floor. A few months ago, he started to use the carpet right near the door, probably because the door into the bathroom, and the litter boxes, was closed, and he didn't feel like bothering to scratch at it for me to open it for him. The presence of dogs, and possibly another cat, along this hallway, may have caused him to want to mark. No way to know for sure. But a trial for us, and a lot of cleaning up and vigilance. Moved his food nearer to where he was going, which contracted the area that smelled like a perfectly good alternative, now.

Three things seem to have finally solved the issue. First was the deodorizer that denatures the urine, really kills the smell, although it has a strong smell of it's own. We ordered a pad that he can pee on, easily washed, impervious backing. He took to it right away. And I finally remembered how much Moby loves the smell of Indian food. He doesn't eat it, but he will sniff in obvious pleasure when we have it around. One place, our neighbors always cooked, the most lovely of Indian food aromas would fill the hall, and he would sit where he could get the best wafts. So, I thought, maybe Masala spice sprinkled, would give his brain a different message about the entryway. Sure enough, he has not gone in that area, or anyplace outside the bathroom, since.



We can live with this. Old guys just get peculiar about where they take a piss. Has to be expected.

Sunbathing

This last for Crow, who asked if he ever didn't take a good photo. Blurry, yes. But this is about as ungainly as it gets, fur all rumpled.

Airport

Drama. Within an hour, the rains poured down for our long drive out to deepest, darkest Sandy. The view from the airport.



It can be no coincidence that in no language on earth is there a phrase that means "as pretty as an airport." - Douglas Adams.

The 'park and wait' lots are a good idea we very much appreciate, for the second time in the past month. This time, D's brother. Then off to an Indian restaurant way, way, way down south that D has been wanting to go to for three months. Still missing the chicken Madras from India Quality in Boston, when he found it on the menu of this place, we had to give it a go. Invited his parents along, and then brother. Turned out a bit more expensive than we'd planned. HOWEVER, entirely worth both the cost and distance. Wonderful stuff, everyone loved what they ordered, and took home at least three more meals. BIL had no place to keep leftovers, so we got his. Score!

Scary

I'd like to wear a costume, but as usual, no place to share it. So, harummphf. Did put up this figure for the balcony. Never hang yourself in a public place near Halloween, people will just think you are a decoration. Why do I find this idea so deep, dark funny? (Another incident this year, too.)


Years ago, working at the Library. Early, took the staff elevator, to a non-public area, and as the door opened, a body lay face down on the floor. A breath-space of deep panic at the corpse, until my rational mind sent in word that it was a dummy, it was Halloween, bring down the adrenaline levels. Laughed in panicked relief. Not even hands or feet, just clothes stuffed, can't remember what the head was, if any. My favorite Halloween prank, no idea who did it. Still want to do it at work, one year. Oh, yes. Maybe next year, it'll be a Tuesday, perfect.



Unlike my young self, I have few real fears. I'm more annoyed by the challenges of aging, the degradation of my strength. How much I look like my mother, aunts and older female cousins. Still, not so bad. At least I didn't get in line for the alopecia gene. Which is about as bad as it gets among my close relations*. Not much to fear there, really.

Never a fan of horror movies, although the music scared me as a kid. (Oooo, that theremin!) Eyes and skulls freaked me out, but not anymore. I've held patients while a surgeon numbed up the eye, and it turned out not to bother me at all. Horror movies got nothing on my regular job. Movie blood doesn't act like the real thing at all, destroying the illusion. The Last Wave is the one film that could no doubt still give me the heebie jeebies, and that's all suggestion and shadows. Scary movies, are, for me, not scary at all. Annoying, silly, occasionally startling, but no longer nightmare fuel. The gore is just gross, the violence just revolting, none of it touching on my fears.



Clouds roiling in, the air still mild. We took a short walk. Out to dinner later with D's brother and parents, they didn't want to be home for the trick-or-treaters this year.

A custom long dying out. I still remember my Casper the Friendly Ghost costume, I was probably 3 or 4, old enough to pick it out, and more or less understand. Went to just a few houses in my aunt's neighborhood, then stopped at her house for the evening. I'm sure I wore it the next year as well, and the body of the costume as a nightgown for a very long time. In my neighborhood, fewer and fewer houses, and children, each year. Parties took over, and much later, school events. I feel a bit sorry that young children no longer get one night a year to run amok in the dark.




*One aunt died of breast cancer, but I always assumed it was due to the nasty chemicals she was exposed to as a beautician from the 1930s onward. A hazard that continues. (I find it horrible that these products aren't properly regulated, or banned. Talk about scary.)

Witch

Heard the phrase "son of a bitch" today, and it's a swear phrase that repels me. Much because my father used it on me (which is ridiculous) and used it all the time, which is irritating. It's one I've never used. It doesn't offend me, as such. But just as I dislike the smell of coffee, probably because my father used to pour hot coffee on shredded wheat, which smells like wet dog, I likewise am repulsed by the words he used. I don't use "brat" or "rude" either. Nor do I accuse others of lying. Because I have so often found that those most guilty of bad behaviour, use those words to accuse others of their own sins.

The words most women find offensive, maybe because I didn't learn them until I was older, and never really heard them much, don't bother me at all. Twat and Cunt are nearly novel, ones that I take as my right to use. But call me a "nag" and the cold will descend as I walk away. When I was in college, I was warned never to call a black girl a bitch, a prohibition that seems to have faded, but I internalized the idea. I'll use bitch as a verb, but will not use it for myself, nor accept it even in jest from another.

Shit, and Fuck, especially in creative combinations, are my go-to swears. Fucktard is my current one for cell-phone drivers, implies idiocy and jerkishness together.

We all have our hot button words, loaded with stories, history, associations, pain. Important, I think, to know what they are, and why. Accept their power, without automatically reacting to them. Just words, albeit ones to use with care.

Recursive

Moby, very proud of himself.


I don't know why I haven't taken a photo of the camera yet. But here it is. Nice camera.



Getting recursive.

Cluttery

Moby bunched up on D's chair. Not minding the rain this week. He woke enough to partially open one eye at me, then tucked his head firmly behind his paws.



And not just rain. Snow in the higher elevations since the early hours of Monday, making the skiers hopeful for Thanksgiving Day openings.


Valley snow visible on roofs, and cars this morning. Bright sun will melt it all before long. Lots of birds on the balcony, intermittently.
Addendum: And Moby caught one, probably his first ever, at eight years old! Very proud of himself, bringing it in to show us, or play with it. D spotted him coming through the door, and I picked him up to put him, and his catch, back outside. Bird escaped momentarily, recaught, both shoved outside. Bird escaped very quickly, no sounds of distress at all, and cat brought back in. I did go out to check, hoping not to have to do another mercy killing, but it was gone. No blood, no feathers, so it may not have been too badly hurt, even. I hope. Moby VERY proud of himself. We told him "Very good. Now, never do it again." And we won't let him out when there are lots of birds out there again.


New systems in at work, and as with all complex systems, a lot of little snags. Not all to do with the new system, as chaos seems to spawn more chaos.

D up so much of last night, he's taken the day off, and will make it up on his normal day off. Good that he has a schedule that easily allows for such flexibility. We both, therefore, slept well this morning, as the snow/rain fell. After lunch, we will beat back the entropy. Kipple, says D, which is apparently what Phillip K. Dick called the cluttery accumulations of life.

Klaxon

Wild rain and lashing winds through the afternoon and evening, turned into a dark and stormy night. When the rumbling clap cut through my sleep, I expected Moby to jump off my ankles and hide. He stayed, even through subsequent thunder. I drifted back to sleep as well.

Until about 0200, when the klaxon and strobe of the fire alarm jolted us out of bed. We threw on clothes, grabbed the carrier, and I fished out the clot of Moby far beneath the sofa, and dragged him out and into the bag, utterly passive. Everyone milled about the lobby, unwilling to stand in the heavy downpour, and the firemen not insisting. Moby squirmed and writhed in the bag, with the alarm still loud and painful to our human ears, it must've hurt him badly. D went back for umbrellas, and we took him outside where it was quieter. Rather cold, still windy, very wet, cat quieted, and shivered. About 20 minutes out of our place, we were allowed back. As soon as he hopped out of the bag, Moby was tail-up, eager to eat, happy to be home.

Took us longer to calm ourselves, a few more alarms, but short, as though they were testing the system, and we stayed put. Crawled back to bed, hoping for a few hours, but dreaming about not making it to work. The chime dragged me awake, and I made it on time, in fact. Moby needed a full cat-rubdown before I left, purring away. I spilled the kibble as I filled his dish, again. Rain, mixed with snow as I drove uphill to work, still thick in the air. Snow on the mountains.

Dramatic clouds all day, as the precipitation abated. Gorgeous.

Ebony

Ugh.

Needing to clean, the downside of cooking at home. Switched to iron pans many years ago, as I had to discard the last of the non-stick coated ones. Although ingesting the stuff (it's got to go into the food, where else would it be?) is probably not as bad as some of the alarmists might claim, I figure I'm exposed to more odd chemicals and diseases than most people. Limiting one variable, and adding a source of dietary iron, seemed wise. Not to mention that I won't need to replace them in my lifetime, with care. I've gotten used to how to cook with them, and an electric burner.



Ting! Well, ok, more like, Gleam!

I didn't chose the color of the kitchen appliances, but I do like the black. Hard to shine them up, they suck in the light, but oh, so stylish. I'd never buy them black, but I can enjoy them rented. D and I looked at a condo open house yesterday. A livable space, good as a rented apartment. But too poky, too oddly broken up, to want to own it, especially at the price. Not that we are in any position to buy a house of any sort right now. We are looking, idly. Dropping in on open houses as we come across them, getting a feel for what we may eventually look for, if and when. How much space, and what is too much, no more beige-apartment-cheap-carpeting, wide-cat-friendly window sills, stuff like that.

The storm is looming, and we have snuggled down in eager anticipation. We'll go walking later.

Balm

When I make my own tea at home, I put in a cinnamon stick and a cardamon seed, reused with fresh tea for about a week. Mellows the black tea, rounds the flavor, theoretically medicinal. And a reusable coffee filter that works very well, but slows the flow, meaning I have to pour from the kettle more carefully.



Some of our fridge magnets, and equally magnetic poetry.




Finally cooler, rained through the night, merely overcast most of this morning. Soothing, a balm to the eyes, a breaking fever, a much needed bath. It's good to pray for rain when it's already predicted at 70% chance.



Rain on the construction across the street. When the rain registers in photos, now that's rain!

Changes

Some days I just pray
for strong winds and heavy rain.
A cool, wet heaven.

Ears

Cat in Domestic Scene.


What was that?




Oh. You. And the camera. Again.

Reading about Pete's procrastination battle, I realize it's not a huge issue in my life. Not to say I don't let stuff get by me, or delay tasks. But it's rarely putting off what I genuinely want to get done. I often handed in term papers early, got forms filled in at work before they were due, always got laundry done before I was down to my last bit of clothing, have never run out of gas in the car. I will put off cleaning, but never so long that it becomes a health hazard, only until I deem it needful.

Mostly, I find that not thinking about a chore is the best way of getting it done. I viscerally remember, as a kid, having to clean out the oatmeal pot, after it had been soaking for hours, and the cold goo on my hands. I retched, but still had to clean it out. These days, I am the only one making me take care of gross jobs, and as long as I just do it quickly, without making it emotional, it's not so bad. It's just a thing, not a punishment, not a trial. Or I decide just to vacuum the front hall area, and often I will continue on and do the whole job, because I'm there anyway.

If I don't write here, it's because I'm tired or out of sorts, and better not to muck the place up when I have that kind of attitude. I never apologize for insufficient postage, since I'm the only one to determine the rules here anyway. I enjoy it, I know if I reach out consistently, I get more company, so I work to keep it going.

At work, I like getting everything done as early in each case as possible, so I can sit and watch. Or take care of the inevitable crises that come up, without having to worry about the routine jobs. Settles my mind, and I can stop worrying about that stuff. Run a five minute or a five hour case the same way, but in the second I may get a crossword done as well.

Words

Stephen Fry. Talking.

Cayenne

Finally got around to shopping, fresh produce and fridge replenishment. Clementines and avocados, pears and our own chilies. Quite a relief.


Amazed that one plant has produced so many little peppers, and there are more flowers on it. I'm hoping I can wrap it up, and it may survive the winter.


Moby usually very enthusiastic about fresh wheatgrass. Today, ho hum. Wondering if he's feeling a bit off, sleeping more than usual. Maybe, hard to tell with cats.

Fatigue

Hhnnnfff.


Four days in a heavy fatigue, cellular ache, bleary headed, and now the weight has lifted. Not like I can afford another day off, but I was called off work, and I'm not going to complain. A day feeling alright to clean up from a week unable to do more than minimally feed myself. Still not sure how I got through work on Thursday, it didn't really feel safe.

Not dead yet. I got better.

Drifted

Having issues with mis-reading.

World's Longest Railway Tunnel Drilled

I saw as

World's Longest Railway Tunnel Drifted. Which would have been bad.

Tough

My brushes with the military exposed me to quite a variety of people over the years. And with some of the key to decode the types. Not all, being a part-timer, one hitch, and medical to boot. But I watch people closely, and I think about these things.

Working with an obnoxious retired Marine, who is new at being a scrub tech, has confused me, until this week. I think I know what's going on. Most of the tough guys I've known have had at least an element of self-deprecation, amusement, in their manner. The final insight came with seeing the R. Lee Emery in that ad*. There's a guy who is playing a part, and not buying his own hype. Reminds me that all the Drill Sergeants never seemed to be genuinely angry when they were shouting so well. Very controlled, very impersonal, an act to produce an effect.

My impression of the work-marine is that he's bought into his own myth. Not the sharpest spoon in the drawer to start with, lots of experience with zero insight. Unlike most of the strong men I've talked with, who are whole human beings and matter of fact about their humanity, this one is all crust and terrified of appearing anything but hard. As a result, he's out of control. Frightens me, to be honest, bearing in mind a slew of little tells that I read, but would have a hard time putting into words. Big, loud and entitled, but lacking a genuine sense of humor.

I don't think I'll tell him that joke.


That joke:
What do you call a Marine with an IQ of 100? A platoon.



*For that crappy company.

Viral

Seems like every cell in my body is trying to get away from every other cell. Every one prickly, achy and irritated. Discrete symptoms elusive, just overall fatigue, malaise, pressure. Made it though ten hours yesterday, no idea how I managed to keep it together at all, I certainly didn't do a very good job. Today, hunkering. Intermittent waves of intense congestion and sneezing, which then pass, which is just weird.

Yes, I got my flu shot. Presumably this is some other virus.

Language

Moby is not a big talker. Of course, in the carrier on the way home from the shelter, he mewled at D the whole way. After that, silence. It was a few months before we heard him mew.

"Was that Moby?"

"Yeah. I think so."


And he's never gotten much more talkative. In recent weeks, he will Mrrkh at us when we get home more often, but even at that, it's not much.

Once in a while, he will get up in the bedroom window at night, and jump down, vocalizing his disapproval of whatever he saw that he didn't much like. Last night, it was a full paragraph in Cat. I didn't know he knew those kinds of words. He was explaining in detail what was wrong with the world out the window. "Mrrrr, mrrkh, wwwaar, wrawwwk...." Lots of different sounds, none of which were meow. The relative rarity of his vocalization means we both woke to listen to his rant.

Not that we mind, always glad to hear what Moby wants to say. Even if we don't understand the language.

Knead

I've given myself until ten this morning to start all the chores I need to do. Moby kneads beside me, purring intensely. Been fighting off a cold or something the last few days, crawling in bed very early just to try and sleep it off. Could be allergies as well, the mold is high these days. The high heat has broken, but the cool is hesitant assert itself. Nights are better, but with our southern exposure baking this side of the building, and temps in the 70s, we still need the AC in the afternoon, as it's still getting over 80˚ in here. No cross ventilation, both of us too used to AC anyway. In October, we should be able to turn it off. The solar warming is great when it gets cold, we can delay putting on the heat for quite a while. But this is ridiculous.

Craving

One of those long days
When I'm just happy it ends
Craving only home.

Profile

Mean

The usefulness of reward and uselessness of punishment can be explained quite cleanly, as well as why it is so difficult to convince those who don't believe it.

Coach sees a young player make a brilliant move, praises him. Next time player tries it, he fails - because this is a new skill, and a certain amount of luck is involved in getting it exactly right. Coach thinks it's because he lavished praise. Really, it's regression to the mean. Praise continued will eventually improve performance because the player understands better what is expected, but not immediately.

Coach sees a player screw up royally, shouts at him. Next time player tries it, does a lot better, can't really do much worse. Coach thinks it's because he shouted and player knows better than to mess up so badly. Really, it's regression to the mean. Continued punishment will demoralize the player.

This relates to the post from yesterday. The military is all about shouting at failure to punish it, and giving praise only in extreme success (often after death.) No reason to get much better, so the mean only improves a bit due to simple practice. But it does get to a base level of competence, which would happen anyway. The attitude within this system, over years, is to keep one's ability down, get away with whatever can be snuck by the shouters, and not get caught.

Bonsai

Because water is always better found in a bucket!


One of our anesthesiologists told us he was making dinner that night, claims he is a good cook and even cleans up after himself (and I believe him) but that his wife hates when he cooks. Says maybe she feels threatened (dubious, but possible.) Which sparked a conversation among the women present about husbands who not only don't cook, but seem to think dinner appears as if by magic. And for the one man, who was in the military for so long, making a meal a consideration is an alien concept. I do relate to that, however bad the food, not having to think about where the next meal was coming from made serving in the army a lot easier, quality of the food aside. What few cooking skills I had, atrophied badly during that time.

The guy, now retired from service, is not taking well to civilian life, especially not with a religious wife and slew of children. I can't tolerate him, in no small part due to the contemptuous attitude toward me. But I keep thinking about long term military service, and what it does to guys (maybe women, I have no data points there.) My brother was retired Air Force, and I saw the same phenomenon. It makes teenagers into men. Men of about 22 years. If they stay in until retirement, they seem to stay at about that level of emotional maturity and day-to-day practical coping. Grow up fast, then stop. Not all, but it is a discernible trait. Saw it in my brother. See it in this guy from work. Bonsai'd, apparently formed, but small.

When we are in our early 20s we are adults, baby-adults, just starting out. So much goes on for the next decade, when we have to occasionally go hungry because we didn't budget properly, or took too much cash out of the ATM, or bounced a check, or couldn't make rent and had to face a landlord who threatened to evict, or didn't have boots all winter - only soft cloth shoes that hurt our feet and let the snow in. Hard lessons, that we had to solve ourselves, and take the consequences until the next check came, or didn't. Getting fired, or quitting a job, and having to find another one. Being sick alone. Needing to make our own lives from scratch. Lessons, opportunities to grow and change and figure out what we are made of, what we are capable of. A lot happens between 22 and 50, really.

I was 26 when I joined, and only the reserves, and a medical unit, which is as far as can be from the core military as one can get and still be in, I'd already been coping for a long time. Oh, I went through basic training with other regular army recruits, ran and froze and lost sleep right along with them, for two months. But I was already complete as a person, that experience was fire testing. The younger women had a much harder time, mentally, than the older ones. We mostly had other plans, the Army was a means to an end. Education, income, whatever. The younger ones, not so much.

Six years later, I was out, and back on my own completely. Paid for about half of nursing school, helped pay the rent, got to meet a lot of people, including beloved D, and made me think differently about the world. Lots of important stuff that I'd already been working on, got hammered into a useful shape. If I'd gone in at 19, when my brother tried to recruit me, I didn't have anything thought through yet. No grist for the mill.

D made dinner this evening, wouldn't let me help. I withdrew, and all his hedging made me wonder if I was going to eat at all. Turned out delicious, and I was prepared to be glad and grateful for any charred old thing on the plate. I love that he takes on responsibility to feed us both. He's always been grateful for anything prepared for him, even my nuking a frozen burrito for him. I'm glad to be fed, and occasionally pampered. We don't take anything for granted.

Maybe a lot of men who marry early, to traditional women, similarly fail to develop parts of themselves, as their wives stunt themselves in other ways. Traps are always easy to get into.

Excessive

Excessive cuteness.


"I know, deal."

Flan

Took D to lunch, since I was called off today. I'd been craving flan, and the Rio Grande Cafe has my ideal flan. It also has a huge papier mache sculpture of a woman in a taco. Don't think too hard about that. The restaurant serves up southwest/diner food. Burritos and tacos and all the fusion versions of US/Mexican comfort foods. Been there forever. And when the state once thought to close them to use the old train station for other uses, the state employees got in such a rage, they backed down and left it as it was.


Yes, and a suspended train track, with train. When we took Moira and C, and their daughter Plum there, the waitress made sure the train was on and in view of our youngest friend. Plum was properly entranced.



The flan is not the richest, but we like it best. Red Iguana has a much richer, sweeter version, and it's very good. But when we want flan, we want a very mild flavor, a light texture, we want it from Rio Grande Cafe.



Then we play Xeno's paradox, until one of us gives in and takes the last bit.

It's not great food, but it's good, reliable, and easy, and the staff are great, and they have a jukebox untouched by the years and a revolving art exhibit. A diner in the old sense, and we don't go there for haute cuisine. Cheap and reliable, one of very few in this area.

Tipping

The heat has been shoved out, finally. Rained on as I walked to my car, real rain, big drops, driven by gusty winds. I untied my hair and soaked it in, not minding the chill and wet at all. This morning, more clouds, hopefully more rain yet, over the next few days.


Moby eating grass, his morning balcony time. He has been fascinated with the water bucket I use to water the plants. This morning, with just a few inches left in the bottom, he managed to tip it over, and had a sip. He also likes tipping over wastepaper baskets, apparently just to see what will happen.

Dreamed that we had goldfish, and that they were outside the tank, walking around, then they flew back into their water. But when I got out the camera, they only stayed in the tank.

List

Advice in 49 parts.
(Closing following herhimnbryn's list.)

Get out every day, especially if it's cold and wet.
Read what you love, but be brave and try to read anything that you come across.
Love is a verb.
The rules don't apply to everyone. Knowing this stalls a lot of envy and bad feeling.

Live in your skin, although a room to oneself is very nice.
Allow yourself to cry, then to laugh.
Think about everything, stay curious.
Watch how people walk, their path is written there.
Make the people around you feel loved. If they don't feel it, you're doing it wrong.

Never feed anger.
Fury will always bounce back at you, hit you in the face like a slammed door that doesn't catch.
Stick to real stuff as much as possible. Good butter and eggs cost more, but are worth it as well.
Any lesson not embraced will just find you out later, and be bigger and meaner the next time.
Accept the grey in your hair, the sags the wrinkles, as scars from the wars. Wear them with grace.

Be creative, in your own way. Unless it's crocheted beer can hats.
Keep your home clean, but never worry about friends seeing it untidy.
When you don't have words, let the silence have it's say.
Greet each problem with good cheer, like a good teacher.
Value grace in all it's forms.

Never let group cattiness and criticism in, it will just take over and ruin everything.
Shine the items that can shine, once in a while.
When you say no, stand by it and mean it.
When you say yes, follow through with a light heart.

Have a cup of tea.
Forgive your back for giving out on you, it tried so hard for so long.
Get good, solid, socks.
Give hugs and hold hands and pet animals, but make sure they want you to.
Routinely carry a camera. Leave it home when it will get in the way of talking with friends.

No one will tell you if you wear too much perfume. But they will avoid you.
If you collect anything, use it, and always be willing to give it away in whole or part.
Trust your instincts, and practice using them.
Friends are valuable, but mutable. Let them in, and let them go, as applicable.
Make plans for becoming rich. To test your integrity, and, well, just in case.

No one can make anyone do anything. Or stop being self destructive.
Wishing cannot harm another, or make anything better.
Take time to do nothing.
Smile, not because you feel like it, but because it will help you feel better.
Dawn is as lovely as dusk, and much less crowded.

A sleepless night now and then, is inevitable.
When it rains, go for a walk.
Just because it's ugly, don't mean it ain't beautiful.
Be fair. Then be generous.
Talk to whomever is annoying you. Give them first shot at fixing it.

The young don't need make-up, and it looks fake on the old. There is nothing so wrong with your face you need to mask it.
Listen attentively. The fools and the wise will reveal themselves.
Be honest and truthful, it will keep your ability to remember accurately sharper.
Pay up front, it always is cheaper than catching up, replacing cheap stuff, or additional interest.
It gets better. It really does.

Uncles

Uncles, in particular uncles named Bob*, came up at work this week. I don't actually have an uncle Bob. Not so much as a Robert in the family on either side. On the paternal side it was Oscar, (the one Not Spoken Of, or was there another?), Norman, Art, Milton. Each had a number of middle names as well, which I never knew well enough to remember.

Except for my father, Rene, who had no middle name at all. He was kept back starting school to go with his one year younger sister, Madeline. At my parents wedding, Rene insisted on having a birthday cake at the reception for Madeline whose birthday was the next day. So goes the story. Herbie was her husband, and as unpleasant an uncle as one could want - short, stout, in too tight plaid pants and loud shirts, a used car salesman stereotype, although I don't know if that's what he actually did. He mostly ignored me, which made it better.

Uncle Art was a big, hard, loud smoker who liked to grab up children and sit them on his lap and roar with laughter. No meanness in him that I ever saw, but I still found him intrusive and alarming. Uncle Norman was laconic and always ill, unobjectionable and unapproachable. Uncle Milton fell between the two, and although I knew him the best, and felt the most warmth for him, it was still an arms-length relationship, and he got grabby when I hit puberty.

On my mother's side, the brothers were Michael, Walt, & Jerry. There were three other children from Granny of unknown (to me) sex, a single and a set of twins, I have no names, who died in infancy. Michael drowned age 17, but never left the family consciousness. Uncle Walt I adored because he talked to me as though I were an equal, and smoked a pipe with the most wonderful aromas, and blew smoke rings for me. Jerry had eight children, every visit to their place was chaos, which is all I remember of him.

The husbands of the sisters were Ernie, and Elmer. Uncle Ernie had an infectious giggle and gentle manner. Until he fell off a roof, the brain injury changing him permanently, and he became vague and petulant. Elmer started off as a collector, always showing me coins he thought I be interested in, letting me read through stacks of old comics. (Peanuts and Archie, mostly.) He became a full on hoarder, with several sheds packed full, after the house had only a few paths left. It took Aunt Grace a year after his death to clear it all. By then, she was diagnosed with breast cancer, probably due to chemicals she'd been exposed to as a beautician since the 30's.

Aside from Michael, the names are all very old fashioned, fallen into disuse these days. The paternal uncles were farmers, and did not enlist in the war, as far as I was aware. Walt - I always thought it was in the CAF, but I remember being corrected on that point, so I don't know really. Jerry was Navy, chasing UBoats up the St. Lawrence, which he could not tell anyone for years after the war. I have no idea about the rest. I could find out, I suppose. I think I'll stick to the stories as they have filtered down to me.



*Yes, as in Bob's your uncle.

Balcony