Moby napping between us. Eleanor pokes her nose over, then sits on his head. He is now snoring.
Well, this is good.
Saturday, November 15, 2014
Mush
Moby napping between us. Eleanor pokes her nose over, then sits on his head. He is now snoring.
Well, this is good.
Puffy
Walked past some puffy jackets at the store today, and remembered my dear friend from jr. high, of the costume photo two weeks ago. She had a navy blue one, of much the same style, that she assured me kept her beautifully warm. Even in Michigan winters, as we were forced out of the heated lunchroom to stand out in the school/church parking lot/playground, freezing. I'm not sure I entirely believed her, in my fake suede, faux fur trimmed midi coat. Warm seemed impossible. My much loved green -orange lined - parka, was still a year or two away.
Our friendship faded, as we were in different high school classes. It never entirely ended, though. I didn't realize it for a long time, as I did college, moved to a different state, went on with my life. But once we got back in touch, we've continued to tag each other at irregular intervals.
She's the only friend I know now that I knew then. I don't know if she'd describe me any differently than when we were together every day. Similar, sure. I would hate to think myself the same as then, when I shelled myself over to keep from exploding. But my childhood photos are strongly recognizable as the same me.
My friend is still there, still warm and welcoming, still funny and capable. I'm still smart and fragile, still cranky and wary.
I remember helping care for the quads born while I was in obgyn rotation of nursing school. Each had their own particular character, clearly observable at birth. Their mother, I think, was glad I could tell them apart, even in that short a time.
It's not that we are just the same, I think. So much as that we are made of the same stuff as when we began. I only, always smiled for Mrs. Rizzardi as a baby, I only always smile for D now - although I've learned to smile as a defense mechanism. I prefer to sit in the staff room doing the crossword in the paper during lunch, as conversations float around me and I occasionally interject. I hand myself my writing assignments, still annoyed when I can't be given a clear subject. But then, I work in surgery, where the goals are clearly defined beforehand.
I still love purple and intense color. I still prefer snow to simmering heat. Still rather swathe myself than bare myself, although I've done both.
Our friendship faded, as we were in different high school classes. It never entirely ended, though. I didn't realize it for a long time, as I did college, moved to a different state, went on with my life. But once we got back in touch, we've continued to tag each other at irregular intervals.
She's the only friend I know now that I knew then. I don't know if she'd describe me any differently than when we were together every day. Similar, sure. I would hate to think myself the same as then, when I shelled myself over to keep from exploding. But my childhood photos are strongly recognizable as the same me.
My friend is still there, still warm and welcoming, still funny and capable. I'm still smart and fragile, still cranky and wary.
I remember helping care for the quads born while I was in obgyn rotation of nursing school. Each had their own particular character, clearly observable at birth. Their mother, I think, was glad I could tell them apart, even in that short a time.
It's not that we are just the same, I think. So much as that we are made of the same stuff as when we began. I only, always smiled for Mrs. Rizzardi as a baby, I only always smile for D now - although I've learned to smile as a defense mechanism. I prefer to sit in the staff room doing the crossword in the paper during lunch, as conversations float around me and I occasionally interject. I hand myself my writing assignments, still annoyed when I can't be given a clear subject. But then, I work in surgery, where the goals are clearly defined beforehand.
I still love purple and intense color. I still prefer snow to simmering heat. Still rather swathe myself than bare myself, although I've done both.
Lemon
Cold, getting colder. Powdery snow blowing about the road surface Thursday on my way in. Not slick, rather pretty. Yesterday, graupel and spitting rain, a crust of snow across part of the parking. Last night, not as cold, more rainy snow, mountains lightened with more. Predicted lows tonight about 18˚F, (-8C).
But the leaves are golden in piles, protecting and recycling themselves.
Among the thyme and lemon balm.
And the lemon grass I hope survives the winter.
Leeks and green onions looking better than they have all summer.
Leaving up the sunflower stalk for the birds to perch upon.
And a poem, mostly for Phil.
IT'S SUNDAY MORNING IN EARLY NOVEMBER
and there are a lot of leaves already.
I could rake and get a head start.
The boy's summer toys need to be put
in the basement. I could clean it out
or fix the broken storm window.
When Eli gets home from Sunday school,
I could take him fishing. I don't fish
but I could learn to. I could show him
how much fun it is. We don't do as much
as we used to do. And my wife, there's
so much I haven't told her lately,
about how quickly my soul is aging,
how it feels like a basement I keep filling
with everything I'm tired of surviving.
I could take a walk with my wife and try
to explain the ghosts I can't stop speaking to.
Or I could read all those books piling up
about the beginning of the end of understanding.
Meanwhile, it's such a beautiful morning,
the changing colors, the hypnotic light.
I could sit by the window watching the leaves,
which seem to know exactly how to fall
from one moment to the next. Or I could lose
everything and have to begin over again.
- Philip Schultz
The God of Loneliness
Via Whiskey River, natch.
But the leaves are golden in piles, protecting and recycling themselves.
Among the thyme and lemon balm.
And the lemon grass I hope survives the winter.
Leeks and green onions looking better than they have all summer.
Leaving up the sunflower stalk for the birds to perch upon.
And a poem, mostly for Phil.
IT'S SUNDAY MORNING IN EARLY NOVEMBER
and there are a lot of leaves already.
I could rake and get a head start.
The boy's summer toys need to be put
in the basement. I could clean it out
or fix the broken storm window.
When Eli gets home from Sunday school,
I could take him fishing. I don't fish
but I could learn to. I could show him
how much fun it is. We don't do as much
as we used to do. And my wife, there's
so much I haven't told her lately,
about how quickly my soul is aging,
how it feels like a basement I keep filling
with everything I'm tired of surviving.
I could take a walk with my wife and try
to explain the ghosts I can't stop speaking to.
Or I could read all those books piling up
about the beginning of the end of understanding.
Meanwhile, it's such a beautiful morning,
the changing colors, the hypnotic light.
I could sit by the window watching the leaves,
which seem to know exactly how to fall
from one moment to the next. Or I could lose
everything and have to begin over again.
- Philip Schultz
The God of Loneliness
Via Whiskey River, natch.
Friday, November 14, 2014
Kite
Too much time at work this week, the last two days ran especially long. Rough week.
ORs have positive pressure, this is by safety policy. The cleanest air starts there, pushes out. The OR I work in occasionally has trouble with the engineering, and the pressure is too high. Still safe, but it creates a loud whistling. So we have to block open the door, which means a substantial wind.
My room had this happen today for a short while, as did OR4, which got resolved after about 15 minutes. OR2, though, kept going all afternoon. G got creative with this, and he built a little kite, with tail, out of materials he had available, strung it up, and flew it out the door. It was unexpectedly impressive, cheered me right up. Video was taken. I'll try to get at least a still of this to you tomorrow.
There, it's not easy to see, but you kinda get the idea.
Yes, I did sing "Let's Go Fly A Kite" at him. He grinned, nearly laughed. That kind of guy.
ORs have positive pressure, this is by safety policy. The cleanest air starts there, pushes out. The OR I work in occasionally has trouble with the engineering, and the pressure is too high. Still safe, but it creates a loud whistling. So we have to block open the door, which means a substantial wind.
My room had this happen today for a short while, as did OR4, which got resolved after about 15 minutes. OR2, though, kept going all afternoon. G got creative with this, and he built a little kite, with tail, out of materials he had available, strung it up, and flew it out the door. It was unexpectedly impressive, cheered me right up. Video was taken. I'll try to get at least a still of this to you tomorrow.
There, it's not easy to see, but you kinda get the idea.
Yes, I did sing "Let's Go Fly A Kite" at him. He grinned, nearly laughed. That kind of guy.
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
Look
Can't like the term "selfie." Implies egotism and self aggrandizement. For me, the self portrait, is all about dealing with my own face, my own self, as is. Coming to like making my own photograph, even as I avoid others taking it. Rather like every painter who does a self portrait, it's the image one has an irrevocable right to use. How we see ourselves in relation to the world.
No doubt, many who stuff their faces into every image on fecesbook, shove celebrities into their ambit and flash them beside their own phizogs, deserve the epithet of 'selfie.' Even then, not all.
Using photobooth on the laptop has been enlightening to me. Seeing my face not as a horror, an embarrassment, but as something creative and interesting. I remember staring in the mirror as a child, as a young woman, and it was not admiration, but curiosity I mostly felt. How was I seen? Because I was rarely seen as I felt inside, and everyone seemed to have an opinion that they expected me to accept as Truth. I know my naked and wind ravaged face, and the bland glamor of full make-up, the tired, happy, sad and distracted expressions. This is what I put first, to deal with whatever job is in front of me, whatever music plays.
In my self created images of myself, I watch the process of my life, find the ones that ring true, as well as the ones out of tune. I see the marks life has left upon me, and the beauty lurking beneath the surfaces.
D got a work gift this year, a book of his choosing. Nicely wrapped, and his boss covered it with a wrapper.
Ah, the Library.
Potato
Nearness continues.
Stole leaves for the garden, again.
Turning them into soil for the planter.
Not putting them on thick, since I don't have to kill the lawn this winter. It's pretty much gone, with the odd patch of plastic netting still showing up. Took down most of the sunflower stalks, to make it easier to use the electric snow-blower this winter. The long grass bunch and lemon balm will be trimmed down, likely this weekend, maybe next, depending on how wet it is.
Making mashed potatoes for the first time this week. Golden potatoes from Trader Joe's, nuking them in water, mushing them up with butter and better-than-buillon, works well. We've been cooking our potatoes in the microwave for a long time this way. The old, tiny microwave had a knob that went up to 15 minutes, so we put the potatoes in water and turned the timer all the way. Worked really well. But I never mashed them, never peeled them either. Often fried them with peppers and chilies and spices. So, this is a new thing.
Mashed potatoes for my mother when I was a kid, peeled more taters than I can imagine. Hated using that masher, not easy work.
Both, at various times. Couldn't see that either was any easier.
Not a favorite food, too much milk and margarine. But I've occasionally liked mashed potatoes at the BBQ place where we sate our meat cravings, comes with lovely gravy. Gave it a try with the TJs organic* golden potatoes, and turkey gravy, and we both were comforted and nourished. Not hard, neither, used a fork, and the hand crank mixer with the less favored sour cream, and real butter.
D found instructions for how to peel a load of potatoes. Not effort-efficient for the amounts we eat.
Next time, I'll gather some chives.
*As opposed to the inorganic potatoes made of lead and arsenic.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Veterans
One Veteran's Day, D was stuck out in an industrial part of town, in sleet, and the bus was an hour late. We agreed that this was utterly appropriate for the day. Being in the army was all about being cold, wet, hungry, waiting in line and out of luck.
Today I worked with the most unpredictable surgeon, rushed and annoyed all day. Not quite as cold or wet, but it worked.
Still, beats the alternative possibilities of military service, or appropriate equivalencies.
For those of you who also endured, cheers.
Today I worked with the most unpredictable surgeon, rushed and annoyed all day. Not quite as cold or wet, but it worked.
Still, beats the alternative possibilities of military service, or appropriate equivalencies.
For those of you who also endured, cheers.
Sunday, November 09, 2014
Watching Leverage again, and it's still fun and good, so well cast/acted/written/directed. Super-bad-guy talking about what matters, his business, possessions, name. And we look at each other. Wow, none even in our top three.
Each other, honesty, health, that sort of 'matters.' What would we rescue in a fire? Cats, computers (because that holds all the vital contacts/documents) and maybe one other thing. One of his guitars? Sure. Nope, nothing else, our living creatures, and the information to get the needs replaced, that's all. Implying that we each can take ourselves out. Shoes, because it's good to have shoes on in an emergency. And we take off our shoes in the house. So, slip on shoes, grab cats and laptop/ipad each, grasp hands, out. Very sad, but all replaceable.
I've lost things. It ain't easy, but it's not that important.
Ran into neighbor, she's interviewing to be a PA. Good on her. But I'm happy with our smaller, less work oriented life. We have what we need. D brought in their trash bins last Monday, as she recovered from childbirth with her newborn, husband is a neurosurgery resident, and gone by 0430 in the morning. She made sure to tell me she noticed, and ask me to thank D. "He's so sweet!" I have to agree, D is a sweet guy, best anyone can meet. And why I feel unutterably fortunate. I have the best, he loves me, loves our felines, nothing needed, nothing lacking.
They are rather a power couple, very nice folks though. And we are so not. We are a low-power couple. We get tired, injured, we have issues. Missed those moments when we might have changed the world, and just taken care of the people around us. Broken, then made the best of what we had. D has a slew of broken bones, me just one - and three herniated discs. Bruises and bad feet, PTSD and neglect, hypertension and migraines, we drag and pull and survive. Smart, we have exactly the same(rather impressive) IQs from high school, which does not mean we have ambition, or ever did. Not from family money, graduating from college not precedented on my side. Hell, mother didn't graduate from high school, my father not from grade school. Actually, D's family is related to the Rockefellers, a generation before the money. Damn.
We've managed to carve out a good life for ourselves.
Remembering accidentally mentioning how much we'd paid for the house during the short period talking with my mother. Forgetting the difference in scale. When friends years ago, in LA, talked about their 1/2 million dollar home, we boggled. Found out it was a dinky house in need of repair. We got a very good deal on a short sale, close to downtown. Compared to my mother's house in derelict Detroit, bought in 1952 for 10K, worth the same amount sold in 2012, we paid a fortune. And her pregnant silence at the amount, I remembered how we reacted to our friend's mortgage. Her previous assurance that she had an unexpectedly large nest egg, an inheritance she could cajole me with, rather fizzled in her aghast silence. I never bothered to explain, let it sit there, meaning what it will.
No, things don't matter, ultimately. It's who you love, and how honest a life lived, with compassion. Things are only for sharing, making it all easier, means to an end. Very nice, but it's all about how much we want to give each other.
Come to realize my mother bullied me as much as my father, without the shouting. Sad woman, I hope she finds some comfort. People really need to think before they take on children.
Each other, honesty, health, that sort of 'matters.' What would we rescue in a fire? Cats, computers (because that holds all the vital contacts/documents) and maybe one other thing. One of his guitars? Sure. Nope, nothing else, our living creatures, and the information to get the needs replaced, that's all. Implying that we each can take ourselves out. Shoes, because it's good to have shoes on in an emergency. And we take off our shoes in the house. So, slip on shoes, grab cats and laptop/ipad each, grasp hands, out. Very sad, but all replaceable.
I've lost things. It ain't easy, but it's not that important.
Ran into neighbor, she's interviewing to be a PA. Good on her. But I'm happy with our smaller, less work oriented life. We have what we need. D brought in their trash bins last Monday, as she recovered from childbirth with her newborn, husband is a neurosurgery resident, and gone by 0430 in the morning. She made sure to tell me she noticed, and ask me to thank D. "He's so sweet!" I have to agree, D is a sweet guy, best anyone can meet. And why I feel unutterably fortunate. I have the best, he loves me, loves our felines, nothing needed, nothing lacking.
They are rather a power couple, very nice folks though. And we are so not. We are a low-power couple. We get tired, injured, we have issues. Missed those moments when we might have changed the world, and just taken care of the people around us. Broken, then made the best of what we had. D has a slew of broken bones, me just one - and three herniated discs. Bruises and bad feet, PTSD and neglect, hypertension and migraines, we drag and pull and survive. Smart, we have exactly the same(rather impressive) IQs from high school, which does not mean we have ambition, or ever did. Not from family money, graduating from college not precedented on my side. Hell, mother didn't graduate from high school, my father not from grade school. Actually, D's family is related to the Rockefellers, a generation before the money. Damn.
We've managed to carve out a good life for ourselves.
Remembering accidentally mentioning how much we'd paid for the house during the short period talking with my mother. Forgetting the difference in scale. When friends years ago, in LA, talked about their 1/2 million dollar home, we boggled. Found out it was a dinky house in need of repair. We got a very good deal on a short sale, close to downtown. Compared to my mother's house in derelict Detroit, bought in 1952 for 10K, worth the same amount sold in 2012, we paid a fortune. And her pregnant silence at the amount, I remembered how we reacted to our friend's mortgage. Her previous assurance that she had an unexpectedly large nest egg, an inheritance she could cajole me with, rather fizzled in her aghast silence. I never bothered to explain, let it sit there, meaning what it will.
No, things don't matter, ultimately. It's who you love, and how honest a life lived, with compassion. Things are only for sharing, making it all easier, means to an end. Very nice, but it's all about how much we want to give each other.
Come to realize my mother bullied me as much as my father, without the shouting. Sad woman, I hope she finds some comfort. People really need to think before they take on children.
Saturday, November 08, 2014
Excitement
Grocery/department/mega-store a block away sent me coupons, and had an "open house"* with samples and more coupons going on, so I walked over since what the hell. They handed out raffle tickets on the grocery level, so I decided to mooch around until they called some numbers, just in case. Went up to the department area, on the escalator, properly tucked to the edge, when a man ran up past me, apologizing as he raced past. I murmured, "no sweat" then saw a store employee in their bright red shirt, coming up on the stairs.
Momentarily, I wondered if I'd let a thief past, but then saw them confer as I hit the top. Another woman, seemed like maybe a witness, tagged behind. Well, this looked interesting, so I fondled the holiday socks until the raffle announcement came on (I didn't win.)
Then four store guys, and the one who whooshed past me, brought another guy, mid 20s, bald, and hollering all the way, into the store.
"I"m being assaulted! Call the cops!"
"Oh, we've called the cops." - the runner's voice.
"Let me up! Let me up, I can't breathe! Let me sit up! I can't breathe!"
(If you can talk, you can breathe. If you can shout so the whole floor can hear you, you are breathing just fine, Mr. Drama.)"At least let me turn over!" Um, no, I don't think they bought that, either.
The whining and drama continue, with constant repetition, lots of people present, all looking askance. A little asian lady muttered something to me, and I agreed with her derisive tone, what a tool he was being.
"You didn't identify yourselves!" He shouts.
Bright red uniform shirts, ID tags, not enough, I guess. Then he starts yelling for the cops again. Over and over. I decided to head down and check out. Mentioned it to my cashier, since I had so many coupons I skipped the self checkout. She hadn't heard, so I explained briefly.
Don't see that everyday. Probably won't ever find out any more, still, not hard to guess. Add: Larceny, but that's all I can discern so far.
*Why an open house for a grocery store I don't know. Customer appreciation sale makes sense enough. Whatever.
Momentarily, I wondered if I'd let a thief past, but then saw them confer as I hit the top. Another woman, seemed like maybe a witness, tagged behind. Well, this looked interesting, so I fondled the holiday socks until the raffle announcement came on (I didn't win.)
Then four store guys, and the one who whooshed past me, brought another guy, mid 20s, bald, and hollering all the way, into the store.
"I"m being assaulted! Call the cops!"
"Oh, we've called the cops." - the runner's voice.
"Let me up! Let me up, I can't breathe! Let me sit up! I can't breathe!"
(If you can talk, you can breathe. If you can shout so the whole floor can hear you, you are breathing just fine, Mr. Drama.)"At least let me turn over!" Um, no, I don't think they bought that, either.
The whining and drama continue, with constant repetition, lots of people present, all looking askance. A little asian lady muttered something to me, and I agreed with her derisive tone, what a tool he was being.
"You didn't identify yourselves!" He shouts.
Bright red uniform shirts, ID tags, not enough, I guess. Then he starts yelling for the cops again. Over and over. I decided to head down and check out. Mentioned it to my cashier, since I had so many coupons I skipped the self checkout. She hadn't heard, so I explained briefly.
Don't see that everyday. Probably won't ever find out any more, still, not hard to guess. Add: Larceny, but that's all I can discern so far.
*Why an open house for a grocery store I don't know. Customer appreciation sale makes sense enough. Whatever.
Swap
There is a feature on the mini C-arm x-ray machines we use called Swap. It allows us to find a previous image and put it up on one screen, while they continue to take images on the second screen.
Sometimes the surgeons don't say 'hit swap,' but something else, not always the same something else. Getting the same terminology out of surgical folks is... I was going to say difficult, but it's really impossible.
More chance of our cats snuggling down together soon.
Foxtrot
Foxtrot is for F. A fancy dance, not a fandango, for the fleet of foot.
Such finesse.
Foxes are furry and fast, frightening fellows. Or foxy ladies, if you are Jimi Hendrix.
F sometimes fluffs up the off ends with stuff to huff and puff.
Not to be confused with Ph, they never socialize.
France, Florida & Finland fix the final.
Zulu, Yankee, X-ray, Whiskey, Victor, Uniform, Tango, Sierra, Romeo, Quebec, Papa, Oscar, November, Mike, Lima, Kilo,Juliet,India, Hotel
Golf
Foxtrot
Such finesse.
Foxes are furry and fast, frightening fellows. Or foxy ladies, if you are Jimi Hendrix.
F sometimes fluffs up the off ends with stuff to huff and puff.
Not to be confused with Ph, they never socialize.
France, Florida & Finland fix the final.
Zulu, Yankee, X-ray, Whiskey, Victor, Uniform, Tango, Sierra, Romeo, Quebec, Papa, Oscar, November, Mike, Lima, Kilo,Juliet,India, Hotel
Golf
Foxtrot
Friday, November 07, 2014
Pace
The Fellow did the two cases today, with a pleasant resident, all ran smoothly. He's a fine surgeon, a nice guy, and efficient, even working on his own. Off by 1300, drove my scrub to the train since she was going to miss the bus to it. All very happy and easy today. Warm sun.
The photo above D took, as Eleanor lounged on the heated chair, and Moby napped beside her on the stool. D went out, and they were still there when I got home. Peace in the kingdom. Love at home.
"Dunno 'bout love, but she's alright I suppose." - Moby.
Thursday, November 06, 2014
Siete
1. Seven cases in my room.
2. With a resident whose personality is augmented by Dale Carnegie, or something like, apparently.
3. Not all small, simple cases, a real mix.
4. An early lunch, which is fine if one gets a nibble sometime later.
5. No break after 1130.
6. No clean up help at the end.
7. My eyes are very tired.
2. With a resident whose personality is augmented by Dale Carnegie, or something like, apparently.
3. Not all small, simple cases, a real mix.
4. An early lunch, which is fine if one gets a nibble sometime later.
5. No break after 1130.
6. No clean up help at the end.
7. My eyes are very tired.
Wednesday, November 05, 2014
Tubing
I see so much wrong in this idea. A female urinal is a piss poor idea, for so many reasons. The "instructions" are pretty much useless.
Ok, so what do I do with the pants? Drop them around my ankles onto the floor that other women have pissed on? Then, awkwardly shuffle over and aim blindly behind me, leaving urine on the floor, or my clothes? What if my period has started? I can't aim the blood, so I guess I have to pull up over my smeared legs and hobble over to another restroom?
No one in their right mind, who has actually talked with women, would think this is a good idea. Women do not have an aim-able tube, in the front, with a clothing opening for the purpose, to use such a device. Maybe if I were taught as a small child to use this, it might not be quite useless, but only under very specific circumstances. For women like me, with back issues, not even worth attempting.
And I've thought about what is important on this subject, if not this specific idea.
Ok, so what do I do with the pants? Drop them around my ankles onto the floor that other women have pissed on? Then, awkwardly shuffle over and aim blindly behind me, leaving urine on the floor, or my clothes? What if my period has started? I can't aim the blood, so I guess I have to pull up over my smeared legs and hobble over to another restroom?
No one in their right mind, who has actually talked with women, would think this is a good idea. Women do not have an aim-able tube, in the front, with a clothing opening for the purpose, to use such a device. Maybe if I were taught as a small child to use this, it might not be quite useless, but only under very specific circumstances. For women like me, with back issues, not even worth attempting.
And I've thought about what is important on this subject, if not this specific idea.
Tuesday, November 04, 2014
Golf
Golf is for G. The stereotypical game of doctors and wealthy businessmen, begun in Scotland, coming from the word for club. Started as 'gowfe' pronounced 'gouf.' As in the Loudoun Gowf Club. Yup, really.
G can grind harsh and gutteral, guttering and glittering, gouging and glowering. Notice, though out it also ends in a gliding glow with it's good friend, N.
G greases around R, growing green and grassy.
G goes gingery in gin, gushing gently for George.
Greta Garbo would have gone gaga.
Zulu, Yankee, X-ray, Whiskey, Victor, Uniform, Tango, Sierra, Romeo, Quebec, Papa, Oscar, November, Mike, Lima, Kilo,Juliet,India, Hotel
Golf
G can grind harsh and gutteral, guttering and glittering, gouging and glowering. Notice, though out it also ends in a gliding glow with it's good friend, N.
G greases around R, growing green and grassy.
G goes gingery in gin, gushing gently for George.
Greta Garbo would have gone gaga.
Zulu, Yankee, X-ray, Whiskey, Victor, Uniform, Tango, Sierra, Romeo, Quebec, Papa, Oscar, November, Mike, Lima, Kilo,Juliet,India, Hotel
Golf
Tom
So long, Tom.
'We Have Learned Absolutely Nothing': Tom Magliozzi On Decades Of 'Car Talk'
We used to listen to Car Talk on the radio, running errands on Saturday. Nothing quite the same. Tom Magliozzi will be missed.
'We Have Learned Absolutely Nothing': Tom Magliozzi On Decades Of 'Car Talk'
We used to listen to Car Talk on the radio, running errands on Saturday. Nothing quite the same. Tom Magliozzi will be missed.
Monday, November 03, 2014
Trivial
Seems so trivial,
Moby on top of his tree,
The first time in months.
The last few days, he's slept between us on the sofa, and Eleanor mirrors him on the back. A trip to the top of the tree is evidence he's feeling pretty good.
Moby on top of his tree,
The first time in months.
The last few days, he's slept between us on the sofa, and Eleanor mirrors him on the back. A trip to the top of the tree is evidence he's feeling pretty good.
Sunday, November 02, 2014
Intention
Eleanor took over the stool today.
The front garden is looking more, intentional, these days. Even in it's autumnal going-to-bed mode. Looking forward to seeing what comes up in the spring, what it will become then. A long, slow, gradual process, allowing, not forcing. Patience, waiting.
Thinking about smells, because Fresca reaches minds through smells.
Never been one to get hungry with pictures of food, but aromas of yeast or spices, basmati rice or bacon, that works just fine. So many smells that reach in behind the words, waft into the cracks. To this day, certain cold mornings smell like Basic training in Ft. Dix. D, who had a different basic, knows what I mean. We packed pallets one icy windy morning in Ft. Collins, and army stuff has an odor, of machine oil and canvas, temper tent and mothballs, wool and sweat. A certain light as well, but the smell is critical.
We as humans need to be out in the dirt.
Frankincense, peppermint, thyme, lavender, bergamot, all appealing scents. So many others, dry leaves and fresh cut grass, our own cats fur, lemon lotion, wind before a storm, woodsmoke and pine trees, old books and oatmeal soap. Other less pleasant smells that still evoke experiences. Lake stink means rain, or lots of snow. The stale smell of thrift stores, but promises treasure.
I don't know what our cats smell when they are outside, sniffing intently, but it's something amazing.
Our first sense, perhaps our last, the one we have the fewest words to encompass.
Our mountains are dusted with snow, the valley feels different today, although familiar.
Hotel
Hotel is for H. Both Stater and Waldorf.
Hello, my honey.
In Hertford,Hereford and Hampshire hurricanes hardly ever happen.
Herbs in some places ignore their aitches.
H teams up with schools and things, thoughtfully remembering the Thorn, flexibly churning and thrusting.
Happily helping or hampering hungrily, H hangs out on the highway to hell.
Or haunting the Hermitage.
Zulu, Yankee, X-ray, Whiskey, Victor, Uniform, Tango, Sierra, Romeo, Quebec, Papa, Oscar, November, Mike, Lima, Kilo,Juliet,India, Hotel
Hello, my honey.
In Hertford,Hereford and Hampshire hurricanes hardly ever happen.
Herbs in some places ignore their aitches.
H teams up with schools and things, thoughtfully remembering the Thorn, flexibly churning and thrusting.
Happily helping or hampering hungrily, H hangs out on the highway to hell.
Or haunting the Hermitage.
Zulu, Yankee, X-ray, Whiskey, Victor, Uniform, Tango, Sierra, Romeo, Quebec, Papa, Oscar, November, Mike, Lima, Kilo,Juliet,India, Hotel
Saturday, November 01, 2014
Clippers
As a kid, I had a mark on my cheek that my mother told me was from when I scratched myself as an infant with a long fingernail. Tried to find the old mark today, and could not.
D says, "Well, it has been a while."
Yes, well, indeed. But I could find it well into adulthood. Now, I can't even be sure which side it was on.
Worked with a woman, hired when she was pregnant, just learning the OR. She was one of those slender women that doesn't look pregnant unless she turns to the side, right up to her delivery.
But we trained together, and one day I asked her, "What was the most useful baby gift you were given that no one else thought of." She told me, baby nail clippers. I asked, because I had to attend an SIL's baby shower - well, or send a gift. Which is what I wound up doing. As well as to every other baby shower ever.
I've managed to avoid all but my own brother's wife's wedding, then baby shower, when I lived with parents. Was thrown a family wedding shower for the failed wedding, a nightmare I'm still trying to forget. Have not attended another one. Never offered a work one, no occasion. Don't attend work ones. Occasionally slip them a clipper.
Stopped over to the swoopermarket and brought neighbor baby nail clippers for our neighbor. Knocked (shave&a-haircut) very lightly, on the door, since that is the only other thing I know about people with new babies (DON'T WAKE THE BABY!) and just as I was about to leave, O came to the door, husband followed to show off new daughter. Very asleep, tiny, full head of hair, dad holding her confidently as a football. I stroked her head and was able to gush honestly at her loveliness. We chatted quietly a few minutes, and I left trying to be unobtrusive.
Never wanted my own children, in awe of those who do it well and conscientiously. I try to listen to advice, parents' complaints of those with assumptions who don't have children of their own. I try to stick to what I have been most assured of, and listen.
Here's what I know,
Parents are sleep deprived.
Babies asleep should not be woken by doorbells and such.
Don't tell parents how to raise children.
Give baby-nail-clippers.
There are a bunch of interesting infant reflexes that I learned in nursing school. But,
Don't drop babies.
Don't experiment with infant reflexes.
And the most important and obvious thing, there is no excuse for being unkind to a child. Ever.
New baby neighbor really is beautiful, with global genetics. A Mutt, and I mean that as the highest compliment.
D says, "Well, it has been a while."
Yes, well, indeed. But I could find it well into adulthood. Now, I can't even be sure which side it was on.
Worked with a woman, hired when she was pregnant, just learning the OR. She was one of those slender women that doesn't look pregnant unless she turns to the side, right up to her delivery.
But we trained together, and one day I asked her, "What was the most useful baby gift you were given that no one else thought of." She told me, baby nail clippers. I asked, because I had to attend an SIL's baby shower - well, or send a gift. Which is what I wound up doing. As well as to every other baby shower ever.
I've managed to avoid all but my own brother's wife's wedding, then baby shower, when I lived with parents. Was thrown a family wedding shower for the failed wedding, a nightmare I'm still trying to forget. Have not attended another one. Never offered a work one, no occasion. Don't attend work ones. Occasionally slip them a clipper.
Stopped over to the swoopermarket and brought neighbor baby nail clippers for our neighbor. Knocked (shave&a-haircut) very lightly, on the door, since that is the only other thing I know about people with new babies (DON'T WAKE THE BABY!) and just as I was about to leave, O came to the door, husband followed to show off new daughter. Very asleep, tiny, full head of hair, dad holding her confidently as a football. I stroked her head and was able to gush honestly at her loveliness. We chatted quietly a few minutes, and I left trying to be unobtrusive.
Never wanted my own children, in awe of those who do it well and conscientiously. I try to listen to advice, parents' complaints of those with assumptions who don't have children of their own. I try to stick to what I have been most assured of, and listen.
Here's what I know,
Parents are sleep deprived.
Babies asleep should not be woken by doorbells and such.
Don't tell parents how to raise children.
Give baby-nail-clippers.
There are a bunch of interesting infant reflexes that I learned in nursing school. But,
Don't drop babies.
Don't experiment with infant reflexes.
And the most important and obvious thing, there is no excuse for being unkind to a child. Ever.
New baby neighbor really is beautiful, with global genetics. A Mutt, and I mean that as the highest compliment.
Pigeons
Pigeons scrounging for sunflower seeds, or perhaps just getting out of the wind, providing fascination for Eleanor.
The head in question.
He says it felt funny being out in the wind, having to remove his hat to keep it, and only having skin on top. Not that it's an unusual experience, but freshly shaven and so much wind, is a bit more intense. Irresistible to me, so I kiss his scalp, to his evident pleasure. I think he has a lovely head, and I should know, since I do the shaving.
Trimmed back the ivy encroaching on the house. Not getting close, but reaching toward, and I'm not having it. Figure I have to beat it back twice a year. Pulled another couple half-bricks and large stone out from the bottom of the ivy choked chain link. So, not just status quo but slight progress.
Winds picking up, temps dropping along with visibility. Rain expected, possible snow tomorrow. Our tree has lost all but a smear of leaves, as usual. It's the last to get dressed in the spring, and the first to drop 'em in the fall. Dia de los Muertos, the year begins to die off, fall dormant, dose off, draw back, and enjoy a time of rest.
Nov 4:05 pm MDT 56˚F WindsSSE/31G47 -RA
Crunchy
On the weekends, I have Maple Pecan Clusters, a rough and crunchy cereal. A bit too granola, so I drizzle a little tea over it, for moisture. My dislike of milk extends to not ruining cereal with it, and as a kid I ate all my cereal dry. Warmish milk in the bottom of a bowl revolted me, and since I was still required to eat it, I figured out very early to simply avoid the substance. Still required to drink a glass with it, which was terrible enough.
This cereal is a bit much without some dampening, and hot tea by teaspoonful works a treat. No puddle when I'm done, nor would I have to drink it even if. Anyway it ain't milk. But I also always think of my father pouring hot coffee on shredded wheat, which had a terrible odor, like a wet dog on a hot day. Finally, I realized why he did that.
My father was a man who thought any medication was better doubled. Don't take two aspirin, take four, maybe six. Feeling a little sluggish in the gut? Don't just drink coffee or eat shredded wheat, down 'em together.
Having taken everything and done anything, to stave off or attack a migraine, I can see his starting point. Information and moderation were not his friends.
Yeah, he'd have been a much better person if he'd just not had children, he'd have been just a hard worker, a helpful neighbor. If at a high risk for accidental self over dosing.
Trick-or-treating sparse last evening. Not too surprizing, we were one of only two lights on this side of the block, not worth it for the littles. Only one pair of kids with mom last night, the only little girl was, yes, an Elsa. Much later, a few adults and teens. We gave them extra little bags of chips/crisps. After the creepy guy who carries his doll everywhere showed up, in costume (don't ask me exactly what he was supposed to be), we turned off the lights and called it.
Watched Attack the Block again, it really is a solid story, with some deep twists. One I'd like to see in a theater with a big screen.
Reminded that this is November, the beginning of nanowrimo and other projects. Since I can't grow a mustache, writing every day, and maybe a photo a day, with haiku and the ZYX and tao threads picked back up and tucked in. The blog has been remarkably useful for me to remember events from previous years.
This cereal is a bit much without some dampening, and hot tea by teaspoonful works a treat. No puddle when I'm done, nor would I have to drink it even if. Anyway it ain't milk. But I also always think of my father pouring hot coffee on shredded wheat, which had a terrible odor, like a wet dog on a hot day. Finally, I realized why he did that.
My father was a man who thought any medication was better doubled. Don't take two aspirin, take four, maybe six. Feeling a little sluggish in the gut? Don't just drink coffee or eat shredded wheat, down 'em together.
Having taken everything and done anything, to stave off or attack a migraine, I can see his starting point. Information and moderation were not his friends.
Yeah, he'd have been a much better person if he'd just not had children, he'd have been just a hard worker, a helpful neighbor. If at a high risk for accidental self over dosing.
Trick-or-treating sparse last evening. Not too surprizing, we were one of only two lights on this side of the block, not worth it for the littles. Only one pair of kids with mom last night, the only little girl was, yes, an Elsa. Much later, a few adults and teens. We gave them extra little bags of chips/crisps. After the creepy guy who carries his doll everywhere showed up, in costume (don't ask me exactly what he was supposed to be), we turned off the lights and called it.
Watched Attack the Block again, it really is a solid story, with some deep twists. One I'd like to see in a theater with a big screen.
Reminded that this is November, the beginning of nanowrimo and other projects. Since I can't grow a mustache, writing every day, and maybe a photo a day, with haiku and the ZYX and tao threads picked back up and tucked in. The blog has been remarkably useful for me to remember events from previous years.
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