New topper for the tree, a felted moose ornament, found in Ogden today. So, on the train back, I thought, why not put up both trees? I have enough ornaments, gathered over my lifetime and earlier. The small silk one we got while in Boston, ordered online a pair, and gave the other to a friend of Dylan's. Could even do themes. Not like color, but perhaps material?
And as I began, I sorted, not thinking too much, feeling my way to my choices. Until the Shiva tree held only old ornaments, those bequeathed, all from before my time, from elderly neighbor women leaving their decorations to the only family in the street with kids, from aunts, baubles that I have handled since childhood, a few my mother knew from childhood. A century and more, of christmases. With a hindu god on top. As we turn toward a more inclusive celebration, shining twinkly lights into dark corners. The turning, multicolored led in a lamp at the base, like Aunt Alma's silver tree.
The Moose tree, another silk, but found at a yard sale a couple of years ago, holds every ornament since. My lifetime, our christmases, Yules, Solstices. Festivus for the rest of us, but for the christians, too, if they want to join in. (They are welcome, so long as they behave.) This one is full of recent ornaments, our initials, the house, the lump of coal dug up from the back in a tiny decorative sack, gifts from work, a special bought one added each year for ourselves.
We did the crossword together in the train on the way up, challenging, but we got it solved.
People at work getting seasonal crankiness. I'm not immune, although I do my best to stifle the symptoms. This is probably my first year not down with the goombah, which helps me. Everyone else has been variously ill. We're short staffed and long scheduled. With a midweek christmas, and a full schedule on the Eve as well. But at least our narcissist nurse is gone, gave her notice and left, to no one's dismay. I'd rather have no one than someone that can't be trusted. We shuffle around and get each other lunch breaks, and it all works out.
I really must put up the tree, for the sake of bright lights to cheer us through the grey days. We'll leave it up past Epiphany, sometimes a good week past, depending on how we feel.
Today we take the train up to Ogden, for BBQ, meet a friend for lunch. We remembered last night that today is our legal anniversary. Only took us 25 years to remember before the day passed. It's the least important anniversary, but the most practical.
Struggling to get "the right food in the right cat" as Dylan puts it. One medicated for Moby, the other for Eleanor who would prefer to just eat, then hork up, kibble. Most days, it's not a problem. Some days it's impossible. Cats, eh? Who can figger 'em?
Oh, yes, the years creep.
Age lays a shawl over me.
New rug under foot.
The new rug.
Thinking about my childhood desire to be an actor, despite every reason I would be terrible at it and detest the life of an actor, I need to add that I was no chameleon. So, I couldn't even have been one of those character actors you never recognize from one part to another.
The first great decision in my life was to recognize how badly I would have starved trying to stay with that profession.
You never write, you never call
And now you wander in the hall
You look familiar;
I barely know your face at all
We never get together at all
Until the last day of Hanukkah.
I got you a harmonica
And a bag of chocolate coins.
The only thing we have is fights,
But there's got to be a change tonight.
Please be nice on this feast of lights.
We never get together at all
Until the last day of Hanukkah.
I got you a harmonica,
And a bag of chocolate coins.
The only thing we have is fights,
But there's got to be a change tonight.
Please be nice on this feast of lights.
I'm not Jewish, but then I'm not a believer in any faith. Nor will I assert that there is no god. Because to do so is to believe in the absence of a god, which is also a faith. I tend to think that all the gods are equally real, and say much about the interaction of the human mind with the universe. Our definitions of what gods are, however illuminating of our own half hidden motivations and worries, is only half of the story. The reality is one thing, our interpretation another.
I was once castigated because a believer in god thought we "really thought the same thing using different words." When I asked him to define what it was he believed god is, Oh, no, not going to "catch" him that way! Well, I wasn't trying to "catch" him, but how can people believe when they don't know what they believe in? I'd been told much the same by my oldest brother, who's beliefs were fervently all over the place over the years, and he expected me to convert along with him at each turning. He too was a believer, a salesman, Air Force recruiter, bought into Amway too. Eventually went back to Catholicism. His pushing me into Buddhism did lead me to Taoism, at least as a general philosophy, but nothing else stuck.
Pratchett's idea seems a more practical way, on his Discworld, the gods are real. No need to go around believing in them. See below.
I ain't against gods and goddesses, in their place. But they've got to be the ones we make ourselves. Then we can take 'em to bits for parts when we don't need 'em any more, see?' (LL)
Everything was a test. Everything was a competition. Life put them in front of you every day. You watched yourself all the time. You had to make choices. You never got told which ones were right. Oh, some of the priests said you got given marks afterwards but what was the point of that? (CJ)
Most witches don’t believe in gods. They know that the gods exist, of course. They even deal with them occasionally. But they don’t believe in them. They know them too well. It would be like believing in the postman. (WA)
They are accustomed to each other, and willingly share the same space. Company, if not exactly friends. Still, so much of our lives are simply not minding the people around us, at work, in public. These two seem to have come to agreement.
At work, there are three people who have recently or are going through divorce. It's sad, but better than living with irritation and dismay when love and safety were expected, promised. I don't know if I would have divorced for that alone, would have endured my life and waited for an ending, had it not turned worse. Better, to be able and willing to chose to end the relationship, however painful, and try again, or chose differently at least. Marriage is only as good as the people in it.
To imagine my life without Dylan, just to fulfill a promise I did not understand making when I was so young and inexperienced, is dire. Marriage should be closer, should involve real friendship, mutually satisfying companionship. Whatever else it may be to the couple. Loneliness in company is miserable. Loneliness when there was supposed to be love is an eternal empty ache.
The cats know we love them, and they (in their cat ways) love us.
Love at home.
We went out to Adib Rug Gallery, just to look and admire. It was slow, and she asked to help. We knew we were going for the lowest end. The two men turned the piles of rugs, and we watched guiltily at their work, given that we were looking at the cheapest ones. We found a half dozen dhurries we could afford, several we liked. Many of the expensive ones I Oooo'd and Ahhhh'd at, I have a pretty unerring ability to spot the most expensive ones. My taste is good, even if our budget isn't. They treated us as well as anyone coming in to drop thousands, were given a discount from a recent sale.
Shifted rugs around when we got home. The green, yardsale rug was, as we suspected, too tempting to Moby as a piss-place in the dining room. So, it's up and out of temptation. Not sure what we'll do with it. Alcohol killed the odor in the spots, but there really isn't another space for it.
Photos when the light is better. Today is grey, gray, with an undercurrent of dingy drab.
I never met either biological grandfather, both long dead by the time I was born. My paternal grandfather died when my father was still young. My mother's father was separated from Granny (not divorced, never divorced) but still alive, when my brothers were young.
The story goes that he came to visit my parents for a holiday meal, and insisted on butter, wouldn't eat margarine. So, my mother bought real butter, and genuinely forgot to put it on the table. Grandfather ate it and didn't notice, apparently the sort that if he had noticed would certainly not have been gracious enough to pretend otherwise. This was my mother's proof that margarine was just as good, and cheaper - so, even better.
Of course, this was in Detroit, and margarine sticks looked exactly the same as butter sticks. While in Canada, margarine, or oleo, was colored orange to prevent deceptive sales. How well would an old alcoholic and (I assume) smoker notice the taste? The color would have suggested butter.
So, like many kids my age, in the lower stretches of the economy, I grew up on margarine. And now I eat butter on my bread, when I eat bread. Which is not all that often. But butter does taste better on rice or noodles, too. And fats aren't the real problem, carbs are. Not that any food is morally clean, as the more extreme religions expound. I figure everything eats everything, and we are part of the natural process, however currently unbalanced. Eventually, the microbes will eat us too. So, I try to tread lightly and act kindly.
Article about how MSG is not bad for you, and why. I did used to get ill and migraines, after eating at some Chinese restaurants. I wonder now if this is due to my reaction to garlic, not MSG. Seems likely.
Every year or so I would get a coat. Winter in Michigan was no place to be without one. Mine were typical of the sort available, and had to be appropriate for church, since I would only ever have one. I have vague recollections of snowsuits when I was tiny, but no recollection of being warm or cold at that age. Yearly visits to self-service dry cleaners to wash all the coats.
My biggest regret was the stylish midi-length coat in pseudo-suede with acrylic fur around the hood, hem and cuffs. In 1975 this was just the thing, and the length was useful, as well as the hood. But I was very cold for a couple of years, it got very shabby very fast, and the wind cut through it readily. But then, I was often cold, and hated being cold. Especially where the snow got in between mittens and cuffs.
I had an orange Pea Coat once, it was not as warm as I'd been lead to believe such a coat would be. I vividly remember being at Jupiter's, finding a rack of OD green parkas, with hunting orange lining for... $15? Something like that, less than $20. I was about to start high school, and really wanted a warm coat. I expect I had a Sunday appropriate one, since I'd about done growing. And I saw immediately that this coat would insulate better than anything I'd ever had. I stopped my parents, and begged for it. After all, it really was cheap, and I really did need something warm. Mom started with "It's too expensive..." so I showed her the price, which she had to admit was a great deal. So she started in on, "Would you really wear it? It's very ugly..."
Yes, yes I would. Ugly it was, but I could see the beauty. With strong reservations, they agreed, with me promising I would wear it enough.
I kept that promise, heartily. It became my absolute favorite cold weather gear for a decade. The hood zipped up into a snorkel. I had to walk to and from school a few times when the roads were too bad to drive, at least once coming right back because the school had closed. And no place the coat was got cold. Snotty tissues in the external pockets froze, but I was warrrrrmmmmmm... . It got me through my first stab at college.
My mother tended to go out and buy stuff when it was needed, with a focus on only what was needed. Many a shopping trip failed, or left me with what we could find, but nothing really useful. I tend to graze throughout the year, watching for bargains and seeing the potential. I've gotten a lot of very useful, durable items at very good prices, because I could see ahead. It's a lot less frustrating to shop this way as well. Of course, taking into account the growth rates of kids does complicate this, but mom was a seamstress, and could have made alterations. But, no.
The winter I escaped, the lovely man I briefly dated, took me to a discount coat store, and I got a big, black parka-like coat with deep pockets. Took it with me to Colorado Springs as we waited to be sent to Saudi, the husband of a woman in our unit took it back, promising to get it to my apartment. But it was in their home for a long time, and when we got it back, it reeked of cigarette. Got it cleaned, and wore it many years. On the way to Boston, we both got Land's End parkas, which kept us warm through even those weeks of sub zero weather, and being out in the wind all the time.
Here, we can get along much of the time with heavy hoodies and polartec. A parka, with lots of layering, only a short, if crucial bit of the coldest weather. Easy enough, to get ski-wear here. My even better duster stops all wind that would cut through me.
Snow with abandoned shopping cart. I called the store, they say they'll come pick it up this morning. People, what is it with people?
Happy Hanukkah! Ok, a few hours early, but we will be lighting the candles next to Shiva and Buddha and the glow-in-the-dark BVM, with assorted symbols of hope, light, freedom and gratitude.
Last night, we went to a Japanese noodle place for John's birthday. An impromptu party of 18 people, ok, including four or five* brothers, but it says something about the sort of friend. Dylan knew him through the library comic book club that we started inviting here, since the library rooms became unreliable. It was lovely to be part of such a good group, the server was cheerful and efficient, and everyone was kind and patient. The food was so good that, despite being a bit outside our comfort distance, we plan to go back for more of the spring rolls. When the waitress asked if it was an event, we all said "Birthday" and pointed at John. You'd have thought it was planned, but no, just spontaneous synchronism. She brought out mochi for him. Most tuneful version of Happy Birthday I've ever heard, as well.
The gathering expressed a range of ages, inclusive. I'm sure some of his brothers are my age or so, John is 38, and there were younger folks and a two year old niece present. I love this, more folks to learn from.
Reminded us of our reception, Lebanese restaurant, 23 people, bellydancer, and the owner and every waiter there made a point to come up to us and tell us how nice our friends were. We were very touched. Which is great, but a bit sad that it's exceptional.
John's soon to be spouse is a lovely woman. I think she's a bit disappointed that I'm not a comics/gamer girl. Dylan has gotten me into a few, like Usagi Yojimbo. I loved Maus and Persepolis. And Kate Beaton. But I've never gotten the appeal of superheroes. And as a kid, I wanted my funnies to be, well... funny. Even as I got older, it was The Far Side and Calvin and Hobbs. Graphic novels are a valid, even ideal, way to tell good stories, I have nothing against the medium. But the story is what matters, and the medium is not especially appealing for its own sake. Odd, given how long it took me as a child to prefer text mostly books to picture books. I really got disappointed at books that weren't mostly images.
But, it's ok not to be taken by every interest of friends. I respect the love of comics. I appreciate some that speaks to me. And I like the people.
People at work getting all wound up about Christmas Eve, a Monday, and one surgeon (not known for his speed) getting on the schedule for a full day. Different stories. It doesn't make cost effective sense to stay open for one room all day, especially since we get a pay differential in the afternoon. But that's a side issue. We don't stay open 24/7/365, we have weekends, nights and holidays off. And the nurses forget how many of all these we have worked, routinely. And resent being asked to after assuming we wouldn't.
I figure I'll take whatever luck gives me, making no request or complaint either way. Stay out of the froth. I'll still get the next day off.
Today, one case cancelled because the patient was on drugs. High as a kite, I heard. Which has happened before. But this time, they called EMT to get him up the the Main hospital, because he was ODing. First time I've seen that, patient getting loaded into an ambulance as I leave work, for self inflicted recreational drugs use. The problem of facing a stressful situation like surgery, with only one coping mechanism - drugs. Yeah, anesthesia on top of that would have killed him.
The (probably) narcissist nurse (NN) has finally given her notice. The excellent J, who doesn't trust NN one bit, mentioned she thought she'd be happy, but has mixed feelings. As do I, relieved of course, but I can't be happy about her mental illness and failed life. Like with my father, I want NN far from me, but I still pity her. She's caused a lot of distress, is unteachable, needs to be away from vulnerable patients, so this is good. But I wish her treatment, not punishment. Far away from me. When K told me on Monday, recounting how she called NN to task and the resignation followed, K mentions we can cope, it's only ten days. I say, hell, I went through a divorce, this is nothing. We'll be short handed, but we can deal better with that than with someone not doing her job safely.
Watching the snow piling up on the mountains. Rain down here, impressive morning fog.
Told the story this week of being in Kindergarten, walking home, older girls talking, and I butted in, offering a correction.
"We were not talking to YOU."
I pulled back, hurt and shocked, but wiser. My first lesson in Not my circus, Not my monkeys. A cow-orker says they were rude, but I know I was, even if I didn't mean it so. They were right, I was wrong. There is a time to step in and confront, to stop bullying or protect, to call out bigotry or injustice. But there are far more times when the right thing to do is keep one's own counsel.
Never grab the steering wheel when someone else is driving, unless they've passed out, or are trying to kill you...
Thinking about sexuality and sex and gender and all the variations. A spectrum, a graph, I am convinced the utterly male macho heterosexual man and utterly female, feminine, heterosexual woman are the real anomalies, the only actual queers. Most of us are a bit off the ideal, in this as in all things. Perfection is sterile and vulnerable. Only when error and variation are present is there life. Messy, complex, vibrant life.
I've been reading about new information coming out of genetic research, stimulated in large part by the search for a cure for AIDS - closely tied to homosexuality. Poetic, really. Rich pickings, myriad complexities.
It begins with XX and XY, but even that is flawed, as it can become XXY, XXX, XYY... we ring the changes from before we have our full compliment of DNA. The card shuffle is just the beginning, since we also have mitochondria just from mum, mosaicism, and our receptors for hormones can have incomplete expression, or mum's uterus contaminated by previous occupants... um, older siblings. Not to mention how it all gets triggered differently when we hit puberty. An apparent girl can become masculinized, an obvious boy exposed as female. Or what looked like one or the other begins to form into a bit of both. We've only begun to suspect environmental chemicals' effect.
Then, of course, is how this is interpreted through the pressure of culture, twisted by expectation and a societal imperative for simplicity and clarity. Subtlety and confusion are not well tolerated by rigid cultures.
It's not just a matter of inclinations, but of degree. Is asexuality the opposite of sexual obsession, or the flipside of bisexuality? Why is dress sense a part of it? Except that it does seem to be? What is core, what artifact?
Not that I think there is a moral matter here, but that understanding would enlighten us to how our minds work. Computer networks reflect human brains that create them.
We are all part of these natural processes. However man-made and artificial, there is no outside. It may have gone askew, toxic, cancerous, but that too is part of nature. Our houses and freeways and factories are as organic as a bird bower, or a beaver dam, or a wasp nest.
Change is inevitable and imperfection critical.
Sin is built in, necessary.
Taking a day off. Oh, not off work, it's already my day off the job. But I had a dentist appointment this morning, and the light in my face made the headache far worse, to the point that it felt like a migraine brewing. I took my mix of OTC meds when I got home, and hunkered. Also, after the last two days at work, my feet - heels, were painful even after a night's sleep. And the toe I stubbed on Sunday is black & blue and swollen and unhappy.
Not doing well. All whiney, too.
Need a tooth recapped, with requisite cleaning out of the old repair. Scheduled for January, when work will likely have slowed a bit.
A long sleep, luxuriating in drowsy. A five day respite from all the running.
We cleaned the music room, took up the green, yardsale rag rug that has lain there for perhaps five years. Six? Got it for $20, maybe less, we remember it differently. Vacuumed it, and around it, and considered shifting floor coverings about. Still not settled. But I made the executive decision that I knew Dylan would not like, to try it in the dining room. Not forever, but as an experiment.
He sort of likes it now, although we may replace it later.
Shallot sprouting.
Moby's stairway to his waterkettle.
The grey rug is for taking the piss.
Getting the balance between the beauty of wood floors and the warmth of rugs, echoes and dust and catfur everywhere, the cost of decent rugs, and Moby's propensity for using non-wool ones as urinals, is tricky. We are looking at vinyl floorcloths, which are reasonable in the smaller sizes, but get prohibitive as they get larger.
At any rate, much of the dustfur is now discarded.
Moving very slowly this morning. In no hurry to end my break.
Rain all through the night,
snow on the garden
Winds roaring away debris.
We got 52mph winds just before 0500. Clean air, a dilute gesso for the week.
We ate well yesterday, and no one stopped by. This happens some years, the risk of informal invites fall out thusly, a goose egg. Nothing lost, Dylan's chili was amazing. Enjoyed each other's company and a quiet day together. We'd have liked to see people, but honestly, we aren't the most sociable people. The upside is that often around holidays we wind up short of food unless we plan to feed others. We have to make a very conscious effort to keep up the nutrition when we don't have the structure of a work schedule.
It rained well. We cleaned adequately. Got food for today, peppers and onions and cilantro, tortillas. I made cranberry sauce to take to the inlaw event. In the afternoon, Dylan fired up the iTunes on his phone, from my playlist, and we headed out to the far southwest. The journey into deepest suburbia was more tolerable than I'd imagined. A good view of the Wasatch mountains newly snow covered.
Dylan's brother and spouse are good folks, despite not having proper bookshelves, only religious books, mormon pictures on the wall. The 4 year old nephew glommed onto Dylan, to his bafflement. Dylan does not know how to deal with kids, so he treats them like somewhat mad adults. He gets lots of practice at the Library, and he's gotten good at it. It's polite, rather formal, and I find it very amusing. When their 2 year old woke up, the disorder ratcheted up.
Dylan's parents I did my best to politely stay at a distance from. The other brother and SIL from SD, with their 4 year old and 2 year old sons, are lovely, but more young boys did add to the chaos.
The house is newish, certainly built in the last 10-15 years, and that odd sort of open plan that is neither flesh nor fowl nor good red herring. No real dining nor living room, but a hash of the two. And the way people arranged themselves in the space reflected that disarray.
I ate well before I left, because I am so used to eating at 1100 or noon, that a long car trip on an empty stomach would make far worse. Not to mention, the traditional thanksgiving foods are just not how we eat. Dylan felt much the same, although he did wait to eat there - what he could. I brought a thermos of tea, because no one in that family would even think to offer a hot beverage of any sort. The seating was random, not a formal sort of table, so I could get away with it. Dylan understands, and would not read any of this as "rude", although I had a panicked child inside me that was convinced I'd be screamed at the whole long drive back.
He called it for us at 5, since we wanted to get on the road before it got too dark. A clot of hugs ensued, from the brothers that was fine, from MIL I tolerated, managed to avoid FIL. What most annoyed was MIL trying to force her grandsons to "Say bye to 'Zhoen'." Over and over. Seriously, why does she care if they know my name? I'm a stranger to them, will rarely see them, they'll forget me by the next time. I wanted to tell her "Leave me out of it, and leave him alone." I didn't. I will always treat children kindly, but I'm never going to be any one of my niblings' favorite aunt. Not going to happen. Doesn't hurt my feelings.
As we drove out, Dylan mentioned he wished he'd stopped in the bathroom. I'd thought about it, but in the bottleneck of goodbyes, skipped it. We took a route with a lot of commercial development, hoping for an open large grocery store. What we found were McDonalds. The first one he demurred, the second we stopped. I bought fries, ($1.39 for toilet access on Thanksgiving afternoon is reasonable) he used the restroom, we were especially polite and thankful to the counter people. I ate fries the rest of the way home, Dylan feeding them to me as we did the crossword puzzle, discussed the oddities of open plan modern architecture, and he enjoyed my music.
Got home, ate salad, took a walk, fed cats, read books.
Today, we will make food, open our House to whatever friends stop by, and balance out.
Time for me to shower and get started. Dylan's chili already going.
My mother had contempt for the idea of microwave ovens. Aunt Alma, I think got one, after I'd moved to another part of the country. Not entirely sure on that point. But my mother... toaster oven was daring for her.
My first microwave experience was at work, where I managed to get hot meals for lunch because of which. Damn useful. Dylan got our wedding present from his father from R.C.Wiley, a simple microwave with a single dial, to his father's consternation, but our delight. In it, I learned to cook potatoes, boiled in water (15 minutes, because that was all the dial went to) as well as Apple Stuff*.
Microwaves have meant hot meals, when cold would have had to suffice. An economy of power. Not how to actually cook a meal, for the most part, but the way to heat already cooked food. And a way to cook potatoes, since when boiled in the microwave, they come out nicely soft and ready to be fried in spices. As well as beets.
But I steam vegetables. I fry eggs. I roast beef in the oven, I make catsoup in the slow cooker. Microwave ovens are tools, used appropriately.
The one that came with the house is a RadarRange, which is oddly retro and pointless. But this 107 year old House doesn't mind. It has too many buttons, we have highlighted the relevant ones with red or green fingernail polish.
A cow-worker claims she hates the way microwaved meat tastes. I will never push that, but I wonder about the results of a double blind trial. We warm up the cats' food for 5-7 seconds in the microwave, so that it's not cold from the fridge and smells right. They seem to respond to this.
My mother was amazed that Aunt Peggy could lay on the table a meal of roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and all hot on the table. I do think that's amazing. But failing that, I have the nuclear option.
*Apple Stuff, apples cut up with oatmeal, cinnamon, butter, in a dish, for 15 minutes. That's it. Adjust to what is available. What could go wrong? With this? Nothing.
Yesterday rolled and rolled. Thankfully I had Jodie as my fellow runner, we handed off to each other all day. Everyone got lunches, I was able to get our scrubs breaks between many cases. Despite being short handed, with one sick call. Not to mention the pre-holiday stress and a long schedule. By 1700 we were both pooped, with two rooms still going,but she had to work today. I encouraged her to just go home, which she normally wouldn't do. So when she agreed, I knew she was proper exhausted. I caught a wee second wind for the last hour of flurry.
We are trialing the vocera, a sort of personal intercom system. Getting the phrasing right is tricky, but it's useful, and will be better as we figure it out, and everyone has it. Like a transit system that is very small, people like it, but need it to go many more places.
Worrying over the holiday, as we are going to Dylan's brother's. I haven't spoken with any of them* for the past year, because his parents, well - his dad, treated Dylan badly, and I needed to step out of the role of peacemaker. The thought makes me anxious. And reminds me of driving out to Grandma's.
I was never given any kind of choice, visiting maternal Granny and paternal Grandma, was mandatory. On birthdays, Mother's Day, and other assorted holidays, random Sundays. Over the river and into The Sticks, La Salle Ontario for Grandma. She lived as an invalid with Aunt Madeline, her youngest, and only daughter, a rough, loud woman of uncertain temper. And Uncle Herbie, a stubby crude sort who wore plaid suits and obviously disliked kids. I was not allowed to read, although I could sometimes go outside or sit in a side room. There were no toys, nothing to do. The two chihuahuas were not friendly. Grandma only spoke French, and never got my name right, in the limited time she sat out among us, rather than staying in her bed - which worsened as she aged. I would sit with her beside her bed, but she never talked with me. In its way, it was worse than mass.
The long drive out was boring, but I would imagine myself waterskiing the many ditches beside the road. The drive back was my father yelling at me for rudeness, because I'd missed some question, dared to have a book to read, appeared to sulk or pout, was insufficiently friendly, failed to eat enough or enjoy the food enough. There was no winning, I don't think he much liked being obligated to go, so he accused me of what he dared not admit he felt.
Far worse if we'd also visited Aunt Evelyn & Uncle Ernie, who made me feel welcome, had toys, and let me go off and read, listened to me. I would be blamed for their imagined sins of "snubbing" him as well. Perhaps they did, he was difficult even when being sociable.
I know this trip a half hour drive into the valley will be fine. I know. But the memories fill me with dread. What if, what if, whatifwhatifwhatif... ?
Making cranberry sauce tomorrow to bring. Still warm it will be, with orange slice on top. No brandy, though. For the sake of the kids, not the mormons.
The saving grace is that my original kith did not celebrate Thanksgiving. This holiday is all mine own, hand crafted with Dylan right from the first one we didn't spend together, but thought of each other, as we were sent to Gulf War I that following weekend. We celebrate this time of year as our anniversary. My 28 years of having a real home for the first time.
So, I find my courage and my reality, and tomorrow will be fine. I can do this, with grace and kindness. It's not really that hard. And I have so much to be thankful for.
I will also make sure I know all of my nephew's names. Out of respect. More than I got from my grandma and her daughter.
*We wouldn't have visited with his brother anyway, only seeing them in the context of parents normally. The family is not close, because of distance and lack of common interests. Good people, just... random.
Sunday, November 18, 2018
Brand’s concept of the “Six S’s,” itself an expansion of a prior idea by architect Frank Duffy, offers a useful framework for thinking about how we build our houses for change. Brand describes six elements of a building that change at different rates, from most to least permanent: site, or the geographical setting, legally defined lot, and context; structure, or “The foundation and load-bearing elements…” lasting anywhere from 30 to 300 years; skin, defined as “Exterior surfaces” now changing “every 20 years or so”; services, or the “working guts of a building: communications wiring, electrical wiring, plumbing, sprinkler system, HVAC...elevators and escalators,” which change every seven to 10 years; space plan, or “the interior layout–where walls, ceilings, floors and doors go”—which can remain static for as few as three or as many as 30 year
Setting, Structure, Skin, Services, Space, Stuff.
We are near downtown, on a medium traffic street, between where we both work, with groceries and transit within walking distance. We are on a very small lot, but with space for parking and a garden.
The foundation is concrete and sandstone, with brick walls and wood framing (I assume).
We can close off or open up, there is space for storage, the basement could be finished - although not by us. We could put some doors back up and shut off parts. Our house is a living thing, she creaks and squeaks, expands and contracts.
In my parent's house, I was afraid of the noises, and was told it was Settling. THAT made me fear it would fall into the earth. Well, no. It was reacting to sun and heat and cold, humidity and storms. All the different materials reacted differently and rubbed against each other. This House does the same, but now I hear singing. House the Home is glad to have us, protects us, and we pay attention.
She breathes.
We added some eyes, because there is some evidence it deters crime. It certainly has stopped the amount of trash left in front.
The former basement window, long blocked, with the AC unit wires coming through, as well as defunct dryer vent and sprinkler pipe, was a worry. Our painter/handyman came to fix it. He thought the wood was in fine shape, although it looked bad - that was only surface wear. He used the pressure plywood leftover from the laundry room project, patched it, then refused payment. Says I support his business enough by recommending him on nextdoor. Well, alright. Talk about a good neighbor. We have several windows for him to get working again next spring, and will insist on paying him for those big projects.
I'll slap some paint on that eventually.
This is not why we treat people with kindness and respect, but it is the (always unexpected) side benefit. Generosity begets generosity.
Had the usual gang over last night to watch a mystery, two extra showed up. Makes us happy that people feel welcome enough to just show up and eat. They raided my tea and found the Wild Sweet Orange. I invited them to rifle through and find what they liked, so glad they believed me, because I meant it.
Thinking about former cow-orker at a party here years ago, who took it upon herself to start washing forks, because of course I wouldn't have enough... not bothering to look in the drawer where there were plenty of forks for people to have clean for the dessert. She is only about 10 years older than I am, so to be treated like a foolish daughter stung. I try to treat everyone as an adult, even when I have more experience. I can still learn new things, and never assume ignorance in others. Then I thought about a friend's Rule.
His rule is more a general guideline, and it's about when a woman is too young to date. Half your age plus seven is the minimum. Which seems a reasonable approach. So, I thought, to see someone as very young, take half your age minus seven, and under that you can get away with seeing them as the younger generation. Over that, treat them as equal adults in all things.
I was small, perhaps five or six, and there was a wedding shower that all the women in the family on my mother's side attended. For some reason, I was deemed too young, and was left with the men at Aunt Evelyn & Uncle Ernie's house. My father, brothers, other uncles and a few older male cousins were there. It was summer, and they were in the back yard.
I remember being thirsty, and it took some doing to get an Orange Crush from the male adults present, so I must've been too small to get one myself. I remember it tasted funny, and I tried to tell these people who were supposed to be taking care of me, but I was dismissed and ignored. I don't know how much of it I drank, but I was taught to finish what I took, so if I poured some of it out, or left some in the bottle, I was being rather naughty. Then I felt very dizzy, and tried to tell my father and uncle and brothers, but no one seemed to care. So I went inside and laid down on the spare bed, feeling very alone and frightened and ill.
I would remember this strange incident, because it seemed important. After I was old enough to drink, I figure the bottle had somehow fermented. But how likely is it that a commercial soft drink would go bad like that? Up until last night, I'd assumed it was a manufacturing error of some sort. But then I thought, what if one of the uncles or cousins who'd gotten me the soda had spiked it? I wouldn't have noticed them doing it, although the taste was off. Perhaps they were annoyed enough at having to 'babysit' that they spiked my pop? Knowing more the history of my family now, it seems more probable than a national soft drink maker having a single fermented bottle.
Some days I'm especially glad I've been estranged from the whole pack of them.
And, don't assume children will forget bad things. The memory may be twisted into their reality the rest of their lives, even if they can't find the words to express it.
My name got missed for the honor roll when I graduated high school. But it did mean I avoided a hug from the bully nun.
Ok, lemme 'splain.
Catholic school, had two nuns working as principals my first three years. Both respected, and energetic women, who obviously cared about us, knew us by names. The last year a new principal who threw her weight around with numerous petty rules and constant threats directed at us seniors that we would not be allowed to walk down the aisle at graduation.
I never cared about the ceremony, I'd attended both my older brother's graduations, and was not interested in my own. But my mother cared deeply, and knowing how much my tuition was, and being grateful for a solid academic opportunity, I was not about to disappoint her in this. I would wear the purple National Honor Society sash and do my duty. I was not about to challenge arbitrary rules and risk that. I would keep my head down, high school was temporary. Even then, I think I had a pretty clear view on that. I lived to leave my father's house, and high school was wrapped up in that.
But this bloated nun was a piece of work. Intrusive, arbitrary, and racially insensitive. There was a pep rally, and she showed up wearing an "Indian" headdress, carrying a tomahawk and whooping... . My friend Anna was Iroquois, we sat through that exhibition together. The school team were Lions, not any sort of tribal name, so there was no reason, no excuse.
Pep rallies were bad enough before that, after unbearable.
In the last week of the year, we threw an impromptu water balloon fight, inside the school. Someone, and I wish I knew who, got the principal with one. Glorious.
But graduation day came. I didn't get to wear the dark purple gowns that had always been used before, now they were a tacky gold. But I had my sash, and sat in the second pew with my friends who all wore the same sashes. We'd taken our educations seriously, our homes were variably fraught, and we'd seen the way through. I was 10th of 137 students in my class, which I considered pretty damn good. At least I avoided having to give a speech. Principal sat at the table set up in front of the altar looking pleased with herself and apparently enjoying being the center of attention. Oblivious to the number of parents, or family members, climbing over the railing and running around the aisles taking photos. It was a zoo.
She announced various awards, then had us stand as she listed the NHS students. And skipped my name. My friends were more bothered than me, but I also knew my mother noticed. Then they passed out the diplomas, and I watched as my friends were pulled in for a hug, to their dismay.
To this day, I don't know where I got the self possession, but when she handed me my diploma, I told her. "You missed my name for the National Honor Society, it's too late now." I took my diploma, did not shake her hand, and escaped the hug. She looked askance at me, like she'd been savaged by a mouse. I defaced her image in my year book. My mother said I might regret that one day. Hasn't happened yet.
I had a dream. At work, and something flew by in the sterile core, which became a bird. Sparrow or small dove sized, with a very long and fluffy tail. I knew I had to get it out, and we talked about getting a box perhaps. Then my manager and an anesthesiologist walked through, in deep conversation, manager had a parrot on her arm. Anesthesiologist put her finger out, and the bird stepped on to perch. I thought, Oh, good, she's taking care of it, but they walk on and the bird is still there. So, I put out my finger, and the bird steps onto it. I hold it gently, and with help, get it to an outside door and let it go. It flies off. But then a large bird foot with shackles drops. The bird is far off, but seems to be fine, so I don't know where the foot comes from.
I woke a bit worried.
Only days later did I remember my grandmother's superstition that a bird in the house meant a death. Given that I only knew about this is because birds regularly came in my converted from a bathroom childhood bedroom, and no one died in that house, I never took it seriously.
The U bookstore had a great deal on tech supplies, and Dylan urged me to get a laptop so I could write again. Compared it to his guitars, we need our creative outlets. And he reads here. Spending money on myself makes me very anxious, but I accepted with gratitude. Had a mandatory meeting at work this morning at 0700, bookstore opens at 0730, so he came up with me and read in the waiting areas. He set it up when we got home, and the pent up words are flowing out.
Feeling rusty, awkward, but eager to stretch out. Wanting to write thousands of words in a batch of story.
The sun was streaming in. I put Moby up on the arm of the chair, and he paused, decided this was a Good Thing, and took a bath. Eleanor sat in the window close by.
Writing with an external keyboard and an ipad isn’t as cumbersome as, say, with a pencil clenched in one’s teeth on paper. But for me, it’s enough to dissuade me from trying to write a ton for November. Every time I consider it, the amount of writing diminishes, a thousand words a day - ugh... maybe 500? Every other day? As the right hand side of the page disappears, I roll my eyes and recalculate down.
Dylan’s desk at his desktop is set up for him, and I am overcome by the little annoyances. Subtraction ensues.
I love to write, but I am not driven to. I have to make the mechanics of it easy to get results. Writing is what I do for comfort, and clarity. When it’s too much work, when it drains me rather than fills me, I stop. Because lemme tell you, this week, I have very little reserve. Pain drags on me.
As we were finishing up our short day, no one eager to leave before 2, the last room cleaned en mass, 8 of us walking out through the core began a chorus of Bye! Byeeeee! Byeeeeeeee! Increasing in intensity and silliness, until we were all giggling. A spontaneous, improvised moment of absurdity. I love that we can be silly together.
My surgeon yesterday is also one of the most dryly sarcastic people I know. I’m not used to the people I work with ‘getting’ my humor, which normally I lay out there solely to amuse myself. That DrC sees it and reacts to it in kind throws me off a bit. Then I laugh, but it takes a second or two. When he jokes, it takes me a few seconds to be certain he is not serious.
Being able to laugh, and sing and dance while on the clock, well, it’s wonderful. Our patients don’t see it, or the drugs mean they won’t remember. Comeraderie.
We also have to know when to drop it in an instant and focus on the job.
The Death of Rats (AKA "The Grim Squeaker") appears throughout the series from Reaper Man onwards, whenever a newly deceased rat (and other rodents--he handles a lot of hamsters after Hogswatch) needs guidance to the next world.
I like the cooler weather. It rained up at work yesterday, isolated shower though. Two hard, long days at work, and my crapped out back giving me trouble. Working on it as best I can. Annoying. Tiring.
Time change coming up this weekend, which should help, but often doesn’t. I may go to bed at 8 next week.
Not bothering about Halloween, not midweek, not even at work. The custom of neighborhood trick or treating is disintigrating. turning into school, church and mall events for small kids, parties for adults. At bars, I assume, not being my milieu. This is normal, customs change, disappear, lose meaning. All things have a lifetime, and end.
The garden is covered with all the tiny leaves of our now denuded tree. The neighborhood leaves not on my compost pile... yet. There is time. Rooting a shallot inside, not sure if I should plant it outside, or in a pot on a sill over the winter.
Eleanor still being a bit mousey, there may be more bodies.
Picked up a turd this morning. Moby gets random. Lost, caught short, he seems to say, “eh, close enough.” Geriatric cat. We can deal. Then I saw what I thought was another one on the dhurrie rug, which would be unprecedented. Until I saw the tail. A recently, but definitely dead, mouse. Eleanor has scored another kill. I picked that little surprise up as well, thanked her for her diligence. We knew she’d been acting mousey, staring and sniffing intently into the corner of the kitchen and the edges of the CED* to the basement. And we found a dead one in the basement in a snap trap last week. Tis the season.
Having people over to watch I Walked With A Zombie tomorrow. Eerie, but not gruesome, not horror. We never have gotten the appeal of horror. I hated violence in movies until I took stage combat classes and could see it as a sort of dance. Still not my thing, but easier. The sword fight in Princess Bride is great. And I see actual gore at work, the fake stuff is just unpleasant and technically incorrect. Murder and torture are not my idea of entertainment, uncontrolled surgery is ridiculous. Murder mysteries are not real murders, just puzzles, or Halloween decorations around a puzzle solver character. Even they sometimes bother me, really.
We’ve been watching the Nero Wolfe show, with Maury Chaykin and Tim Hutton again, as Dylan reads more and more of the Rex Stout books. There is a certain satisfaction in the murder mystery, the world returned to order, justice prevails. But when the victims are a string of innocent people as the murderer covers his/her tracks, I can’t watch.
Woke up thinking about how there seems to be a tendency for the right wing nut jobs to use guns, and the far left crazies to use bombs. Dylan thinks it’s about the far left having a Cause and a Manifesto, while the far right is about the Man. The guns used most often to take out his own family and himself, the bombs often destroying the bomber and their own homes, so the effect is similar, as they merge into the same place from varying mindsets. I think the bombers have to be a bit better at planning, more intelligent, if no less insane. Maybe the far right is less crazy but more stupid.
Ultimately, the microbes will win anyway.
*Cat Exclusion Device. Rigid insulation panel, covered, cut to the size of the basement stairwell opening. Remarkably effective.
Made it to the last summer farmers market. Got beets, and then worried over cooking them. Thought about how I cook potatoes, in water in the microwave. So, in 20 minutes, I had the most tasty, thoroughly cooked beets in yoghurt. I really have to grow beets.
Acupuncturing myself for an incipient migraine.
Cut down the mint and bergamot. Leaving the tall grasses.
Most recent iteration of garage curtains. The red ones from the first week in House, shifted several times. Replaced by cream curtains from yard sale. Never got around to painting. Maybe next week.
For some reason, I remembered being in kindergarten, in line, and the kid in front of me squatted down for some reason. The line started to move, and I leapfrogged over. Got me in trouble. But I thought I was following the rule, I had to stay in line and had to move with the line. I followed both rules, and thought I was clever for figuring out a way despite the snag. The adults disagreed. I thought this terribly unfair. They should have simply suggested a better way to deal with the paradox of the contradictory rules, like stepping around rather than going over.
Often children and animals are deemed malicious, for following rules so literally they break them. They should simply be offered more acceptable solutions, and have the consequences of their choice explained, praising their creativity and fostering that ability to see laterally and literally.
I went to dump kitchen compost on the pile, neighbor out back with her inlaws and their three dogs. One especially glued himself to me, as I petted him. That massage training really helps me give critters a good petting. Dog wandered off to take a piss against the garage curtains, and O's SIL aghast and embarrassed. I shrug, dog being a dog, no harm done, not the first not the last. She offered to clean it, and I am baffled. These curtains are torn and faded, would have been thrown out or used as dropcloths if I hadn't used them as visual barriers on the doorless garage.
The other two dogs also came by for pets, and to have tennis ball thrown. Humans chatted, but I was there for dogs.
O brought me grapes from her SIL. Apparently Glue Dog had been hiding in the car until I came out. Well, I'm glad to be a comfort to animals.
Eleanor slept with her butt on my chin, back paws on my throat, stretched out across my chest. I was not quite awake enough to move her, only to be aware. Eventually I was able to move a hand enough to shift one back paw off my throat, up to my chin. I am a cat bed. She is a face hugger.
Odd the sleep gradient, awareness, discomfort, coma, immobility with some movement, some memory, altered perceptions.
It rained all night Friday, which is not a normal sort of thing in this part of the world. Everything soaked through. I will weed and lay down fertilizer (chicken poo) for next spring. The new-found weed-whacker needs to be cleaned before I try it out, so another spring. The garage awaits, and I have to steel myself to the task.
If we go back far enough, we are all kin. But it’s jarring to hear my maternal family name in the news so much. Not that we are currently related, my family were surely not the high status Irish, but the fitz, the poor relations, the literal bastards. And it’s not that the men of my ancestors were above sexual harassment or corruption. But there it is the K-alphabet of my family, catching me. I have largely given up on following the stories. I will vote, I will do what I can. But I can’t let it distract me from the jobs in front of me. Things will get as bad as they will get, the world will collapse, and something new will emerge, and I will survive or not, as the case may be. Adding my anxiety will not change anything, except perhaps for the worse.
Blooger and ipad really don’t get along properly. Makes writing on here several unsatisfactory steps longer. The words spread off the screen to the right, so I can’t really tell what I’m writing. Editing is difficult, when I find a mistake far up the text. The autocorrect doesn’t like my creative spellings. And I don’t like it’s misinterpretations. Creating links has utterly escaped me, and posting photos is possible but unnecessarily painful. Nothing to do about it now, stuck.
My frustration levels this week are high, despite getting a substantial rain last night. After I toddled off to bed, mind. I waiting all day to watch a storm, and it dawdled until late. Hoping for rain today, so far in vain. I did pull the sunflowers, the spent ones, leaving some for the finches to continue to feed. The ground soft with a good inch of rain, much needed. Rain barrels already emptied, ready to store for winter. Hoping to sweep the garage over the weekend, put as much as I can away.
The possibility of snow later this week, up in the mountains. Make the skiers happy as well as us gardeners. Water storage for spring.
The food from the local variety of chefs has been glorious. Made by people who love what they do, and it feels so nourishing, body and soul. We supplement the single meal, but not as much as we’d thought. When the food is good, you don’t need as much of it.
I have to start going the extra bit to keep my health. I’m feeling like I’m crumbling, thumb, back, knee, balance, gut, sleep. However much I want to just lay down and stay down. For I have promises to keep, and miles to go...
