Scarlet

Sun in the evening. Grey morning. Woke too early. Not a long day yesterday, but concentrated.

Took care of three patients who knew the surgeon, two everyone else knew as well. A surgical resident - a cocky little shit who made no friends, but we took care of him as well as possible.

Second - one of our attending anesthesiologists who we adore. Taking care of our own has a different level of attention. Fighting the urge to keep to our routines, do everything the same, even for someone who knows it well. So easy to omit an explanation, or skip a step. Hard to keep up exactly the same patter that is part of the routine.

Around me, bubbling up resentments over the fired cow-orker. Relief, mostly. This from other people, I'm just listening. Even down a person, the work is easier, because we don't have to cater to her as well. We can eat in the staff room, without incessant chatter or a butt on the table, or her phone going off at full volume. She has apparently asked several surgeons for letters of recommendation. And they might do it for her, lie essentially. We all hope they don't, since we now figure that is how we got stuck with her. No warning, just passing on the problem. And she is apparently blaming us for "picking on her." She was given so many chances to do better, and refused them all, flaunting her immunity. Everyone would have been more than willing to accept a changed her, willing to do her work, open to improvement. She never even went to EAP to see a therapist - the manager didn't require it of her, as she did for me.

Still, short staffed or not, the mood is lighter. Going into our slower time, when the university is out.

Sen

I am French, Canadian variety. Apparently through both maternal and paternal lines. And, yes, part native, verified on the female line, not verified but certainly also on the male. almost absolutely both, given small communities in southern Ontario in the last few centuries. Lots of Irish men who had a thing for French-ish women, and French men who would nail anyone as far as I can tell. It's all vaguely incestuous, lots of first cousins marrying, according to my first cousin once removed who is doing the ancestry thing. Working through the mess, and good on her. I add my penny's worth, and read her stories. She's from my maternal side, but that hardly means much as they cross.

I grew up hearing River Canard French - held to be ignorant and rural according to my mother, and nothing I saw contradicted. My father spoke terrible English, and lost a lot of his French, read English only minimally, and no French at all. He was functionally illiterate. That no doubt provided fodder for his angry insecurities.

I knew that in Windsor, Ontario grocery stores, the labels with the French were often turned to the front, and so I got familiar with some words. Sel, serviettes, pom. I never lived there, but I shopped with aunts. Which gives me no usable French, but a decent accent. Once, in Saudi, in a souk, some French soldiers, seeing my very French name on my uniform, began to speak to me in French. I said, as well as I could,

"Je ne parle français." Which isn't quite correct, but they still looked at me in puzzlement. I shrugged in as gallic a fashion as possible, and they did not try again. Figured they thought I was blowing them off. I'd hoped they would laugh.

Never took French in school, to keep my father further from me. Took Spanish, which has come in handy, rudimentary as my use of the language is. Especially in surgery recovery.

"Tiene dolor? Tiene frio?" Numbers, yes, no, please, thank you, I'm sorry, left, right. About what most Spanish speakers know in English, but it seems polite that I at least try. "Como esta usted?" I use the polite form, although I had one young male family member mock me for my usage. Have to assume that jerks appear in every culture and language.

"Hablo Espanol un poco."


"Ni hongo ga wakari wa sen." Which is "I do not speak Japanese." Tried it on a native Japanese speaker - anesthesiologist. She choked, laughing. Apparently I got the pronunciation perfect, and the joke worked. Maybe in part because the negation comes in the last word - sen. Like saying "NOT!" to finish a sentence.

Really would like to have a second language. I think I would have to need it. Had trouble enough with Medicalese, which is derived from Latin and Greek, but really isn't either. In that, though, I can translate rather well, and will do so for anyone who asks.

Pieces

Once, long ago, I was taken to visit one of my father's aunts. I didn't really understand the relationship at the time, and was too young to ask clearly. Out in the middle of the country, a house by the side of the road. No heat, plumbing, electricity, I presume an outhouse somewhere. The aunt was a large, very elderly, flower-print wrapped swaddle in a decrepit rocking chair. The uncertain floor covered with something thickly papery and worn through, newsprint covering the walls, no place to sit. Probably she and my father only spoke in French, since I have no recollection of the conversation. A stove sat there, cold, and a vent pipe wandered away from it.


It was a way of life, and a deep poverty, that I observed anthropologically. But it was a stray puzzle piece that never fit to any other bit. Presented to the ancient relative, I don't recall any interest from her, I was only a bother, potential noise. I'm sure there was an odor, of neglect and damp. Since I made the rounds of the elderly neighbors at home, the smell of age wouldn't have bothered me. Instead, there was a sad pall over the one crumbling room.

I had a soft spot for little old ladies, so my detachment felt strange, even at the time. Repulsion, even, far beyond my shy reserve with strangers. I knew my father enough to realize I had to be meticulously polite - and I'm sure I was.

Perhaps the photos over at Shorpy remind me of this odd interlude. And the passage in Smiley's People with Connie Sax.

It was a house of day and night at once. At the centre, on a pine table littered with the remains of toast and Marmite, an old oil lamp shed a globe of yellow light, intensifying the darkness round it. The gleam of blue rain clouds, streaked by sunset, filled the far French windows. Gradually, as Smiley followed Connie's agonizingly slow procession, he realized that this one wooden room was all there was. For an office, they had the rolltop desk laden with bills and flea powder; for a bedroom the brass double bedstead with its heap of stuffed toy animals lying like dead soldiers between the pillows; for a drawing-room Connie's rocking-chair and a crumbling wicker sofa; for a kitchen a gas ring fired from a cylinder; and for decoration the unclearable litter of old age.

- John LeCarre

One of those indelible childhood memories I have no idea what to do with.

Bitter

A stuttering day, stops and starts, running and waiting. Even after I got home, and then went out for groceries, then - after dinner, for bland cookies*. D suffering with tree pollen. Very cold winds this morning, cutting, shattering. Cancelled one case, patient coming from Wyoming, and shifted another for weather. The Great Basin region throws alls kinds of spins at anyone daring to travel at this time of year. Late snows, potent winds, bullying battering, forces to be reckoned with, not a part of the world to be toyed with in the in-betweens. Trucks are routinely toppled, not for the light hearted, or light footed.

Got the rest of the story about the "fired" problem last week. Nothing new, only that she pushed it all too far, then took it out on the person who could fire her - who quickly obliged. Woman has demons chasing her, but she wants everyone else to fight them for her, denies them, and blames everyone else for them. I find myself with a detached compassion for her plight. I hope she learns, although I doubt she will. I do know none of the other ORs in the system want her. She has not burned her bridges, but blown them sky high. Splitting, I suspect.

When I was most in trouble at work, had gotten as low as possible with the pain and stress, I reached out for help. Therapist showed me what I was doing, and I was horrified at what I was becoming. Hard work, miserable work, but I threw myself into it, changed how I related to the world without changing who I am. Fired woman merely threw a doily on top, and expected nothing to change, only that everyone else would stop complaining about her. Useless manager - until she was turned upon - as the rest of us where. Nothing like being savaged to see when someone is out of control.

And I do feel sad for her. Her mother was a mess, and she can't even see, refuses to even see, that she is deeply damaged. I knew age seven that something was terribly, terribly wrong. The cracks still break through, once in a while. I know full well how fundamentally broken I am, and I try to see the cracks, and the beauty. Damage is not an excuse, only a hurdle.

I am reminded of this, from Fiddler on the Roof:

Rabbi, may I ask you a question?
Certainly, my son.
Is there a proper blessing for the Tsar?
A blessing for the Tsar? Of course! May God bless and keep the Tsar... far away from us!



Bitter cold, the kind only spring can throw up. Glad I held off planting anything but freeze tolerant seeds.




*Almond windmill, and oatmeal raisin.

Winds

Quite a blessing, a short day, to come home and find shoes. Then I went to look for the Cat. This took a while.




"Leemmealone."

I did.

High winds predicted tonight. When the winds roar through this part of the world, channeled down canyons, slammed down Rocky Mountains, they can leave a mark.


Found shoes, for summer, walking type, very on sale, light and squishy, and a bit flashy.

Arch

How does one lose one's shoes? This morning my shoes, with the good high arch support inserts, would not be found. Baffled, and getting late, I wore the crocs and called it good. Kept worrying at the puzzle all day, to no effect. When I got home, I went at it systematically, figuring they got kicked under somewhere. After a full round, and seeing D's eyes red and running, I suddenly remembered where I took my jeans off, and why. After hacking the branches, I immediately went to the basement and shoved everything into the washer, so as not to trigger D's allergies. The shoes sat there innocently, unaware of the anguish they'd caused.




The shoes have seen nearly enough service to justify replacing them, but the inserts have many years of wear left, and they are not cheap.

I have tender feet that really don't like being in crocs to walk any straight distance. In the garden, as slippers around the house, they are perfectly adequate. More than that, and my feet pass the pain up as far as they can reach, into my hips and back if given enough time.


Raining today. This is a happy.

Caulk

Not quite what I was thinking, but serendipitous. Rather fond of Mutts, for reasons I can't entirely explain.

Someone swiped the log we had out front, no idea why. They didn't take our chairs, or the rake on the porch, only that branch. So, I figure, meh. Maybe they needed firewood. I dug up sod, cleared more of the plastic netting. The soil seems looser, with more worms. Maybe because of the heavy snow pack on the "lawn" or that I'm out there earlier this year, or that the digging I did last year made a difference. Either way, it looks healthier, and I can barely restrain myself from throwing the rest of the seeds out there. But it needs another month, three weeks at least. Might well freeze hard this week, snow in the forecast.

Neighbors built a shed, possibly illegal in a historic neighborhood, but I'm not about to say anything, since I got up on the other neighbor's garage roof and took out some pollen laden box elder branches not at all on our side of the property line. Not that anyone will even notice. That house is a rented residence of college age folks, very transient.



And more sun for the garden. Still feel a bit silly that the idea of making sure there was enough light, for like plants, never occurred to me last year. Learned it in a class. Well, boy-howdy, plants need sunlight? Whod'a thunk?


Moby has proven himself a lap cat for the duration.

And has added sitting by this window, since I put the pillow on the chair. The sills are not quite wide enough for comfort.



We actually went for a walk, cat style, down the street a bit. I noticed a guy staggering down the block, what I think of as "Boston drunk." (Mostly because of watching a guy there working his way up Charles Street, keeping himself at a 45˚ angle by holding on to the buildings. To me, the epitome of drunkenness while still moving.) I got Moby off the sidewalk, onto the verge. Cat noticed staggerer, watched until he made his way past us, then cat had to run!run!run! faster than I could follow, right back inside.


I did caulk this last year, but didn't do a great job. So I finally got it right today.
Took way too long for us to find the caulk gun and then the silicone caulk. Inch long plug in the nozzle, which I pushed out - as well as a mess of the still fluid stuff with some force. Every job is the job, and cleaning up after the job.

Transparent

Moment of clarity. My chattering demon got herself fired. I'd pretty much calmed myself down, didn't react to her, but she was still dumping work on other people, noisy, loud, intrusive. Realized that I never need say anything, just let her have all the rope she wanted, and eventually, she would do herself in*. Knowing I was her silent, watching demon helped me keep a distance. I am relieved.

Know how people say it's hardest to see our own faults in others? I think it's more than just a quirk. I think we see most in others what we need to deal with in ourselves. They embody the demons we have to wring a lesson out of, learn it well, in order to banish them. Sometimes inverted, but they are the screen we project our own pain and fear onto. When we figure out what of ourselves we see in them, they lose their power over us. Might still be annoying people, or we might then see that they aren't even what we thought they were.

Came to me today, as another nurse took offense. I hadn't even been talking to her, and she reacted out of context and off the scale. I wonder what demon I am to her? She doesn't get to me, so I have no idea - except not to trust her good moods.

Becoming empty and transparent really has let more light in. Open to anything.

*As in get fired. Not hang herself by the neck until dead. Self destructive type, but not suicidal.




These are my signature files that randomly appear at the ends of my email.


"The problem with defending the purity of the English language is that the English language is as pure as a crib-house whore. It not only borrows words from other languages; it has on occasion chased other languages down dark alley-ways, clubbed them unconscious and rifled their pockets for new vocabulary. "
- James Nicoll

To regret one's own experiences is to arrest one's own development. To deny one's own experiences is to put a lie into the lips of one's life. It is no less than a denial of the soul.


-Oscar Wilde


"Those are my principles, and if you don't like them . . . well, I have others." -- Marx

"Not an unbeliever, sir, a free-thinker. Perhaps you've never thought about the difference. As a free-thinker I can believe what I like, when I like. I can commit you, in your sad situation, to the protection of God this evening, even though tomorrow morning I shan't believe he exists. As an unbeliever I should be obliged not to believe, and that's an unwarrantable restriction on my thoughts."

The Beginning of Spring

- Penelope Fitzgerald.

Supermodels. Hah! Nothing "super" about them - spoiled, stupid little stick figures with poofy lips who think only about themselves. Feh! I used to design for GODS!
-Edna "E" Mode.

Why is this thus? What is the reason for this thusness?

-Artemus Ward


When you're following an angel doesn't mean you have to throw your body off a building. Somewhere they're dancing on a pinhead calling you an angel calling you the nicest things. I heard they had a space program when they sing you can't hear there's no air sometimes I think I kinda like that and other times I think I'm already there.


It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it.

-Oscar Wilde

"Problems that remain persistently insolvable should always be suspected as questions asked in the wrong way."
- Alan Watts

There was a young man from Honshu
Who tried limericks in haiku,
But


The airy sky has taken its place leaning against the wall.
It is like a prayer to what is empty.
And what is empty turns its face to us
and whispers:
"I am not empty, I am open."
- Tomas Tranströmer

People say nothing is impossible. But I do nothing every day.

-Winnie the Pooh

And as you sit on the hillside, or lie prone under the trees of the forest, or sprawl wet-legged on the shingly beach of a mountain stream, the great door, that does not look like a door, opens.

- Stephen Graham


I think there's a point where you're allowed to let that shit go to voice mail.

- John Cheese

"It is a mistake for anyone to think he has lived too long in his old, unsatisfactory ways to make the great change. If you switch on the light in a dark room, it makes no difference how long it was dark because the light will still shine. Be teachable. That is the whole secret."
- Vernon Howard

“Ignorance is bold, and knowledge is reserved.” — Thucydides

"I prefer winter and fall, when you feel the bone structure of the landscape - the loneliness of it, the dead feeling of winter. Something waits beneath it, the whole story doesn't show."
- Andrew Wyeth


"I care not for a man's religion whose dog and cat are not the better for it."
-Abraham Lincoln

I’ve learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he or she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.

~Maya Angelou

"Nobody said it was easy, to stay in the fire, stay alert, and forebear. But the alternative is to suffer what is anyway, but with no true or reliable relationship with it."
- Susan Murphy
Upside-Down Zen

"We do not receive wisdom, we must discover it for ourselves, after a journey through the wilderness which no one else can make for us, which no one can spare us, for our wisdom is the point of view from which we come at last to regard the world."
- Marcel Proust

"Real fearlessness is the product of our tenderness. It comes from letting the world tickle your raw and beautiful heart."
- Chogyam Trungpa


"In the most ordinary terms, egolessness is a flexible identity. It manifests as inquisitiveness, as adaptability, as humor, as playfulness. It is our capacity to relax with not knowing, not figuring everything out, with not being at all sure about who we are - or who anyone else is either."
- Pema Chodron



I think that fish is nice. But then I think that rain is wet, so who am I to judge?


“Being nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you like everybody else means to fight the hardest battle any human can fight.”
— e.e. cummings


Those who were dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.
-Friedrich Nietzsche

Commuter

We hit the time all wrong. Didn't really plan, part of us still believing it would be like the MBTA, and you just go, don't worry, there will be a train along. One train at the station, but it was being taken out of service. So we waited 30 minutes for the next. Enjoyed the art. D found it a bit disturbing.



Then a large school group arrived. Not bad, but loud and erratic - as they are. Looked about 8- 10 year olds, wildly diverse. One of the shorter boys, when the Out of Service train started up to move away in an impressively thundering manner, began shouting "OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!OHMYGOD!" D, so only I could hear said, "It's just a train, you'll get used to it."

My travel anxiety hit me hard, and it was all I could do not to beg that we just go home. Once we got on, and started moving, I got it under control. When they announced three stops later that the train we were on was also going out of service, and we had to board another train, I managed to laugh. Didn't really feel a whole lot better until we got to Ogden, and ate at the station grill. I do this, and it can be very disconcerting. Thankfully, D has seen me go through it so often, he just comforts me, and I let him jolly me along, until it passes.


Waiting again the way back, watched a bird, and read the signs.

Trains

Just my usual day off, but D shifted his day off, and we ran off to the train museum.


We'd not been before, did not quite realize they would have a geographically accurate, history supplied, train set. We were entranced. Had to go back around twice, both times slowly.



Despite an abundance of set-backs, delays and frustrations, we made it up there by train.

Cracks

This is my current worry. Must learn how to use concrete. Front porch already had cracks, but the winter was harsh, and it's looking much worse.

The compost pile thrives. I think the east section will not get enough sun for strawberries. And the salvaged mulch from the neighbor's long grasses, cut down when she moved, are seeding all over the back section. Long grasses will be just fine, let the bugges and wild creatures live back there, and I'll put the strawberries in with bought dirt next to the newly opened fence. They'll get plenty of sun there




Further experiments. Never know what's going to take. The lemon balm is spreading nicely out front, the mint that limped along last year thrived under the leaves and is vigorously pushing up now.

I so want to just start planting right now. I know it's too soon, not a good idea, but the urge is powerful.

If you have not visited Nancy Ruth lately, she has some potent writing up. I hadn't been in a while, as she took a break.

Neighbors

Yes, Moby wanted to go OUT this morning. Out the door, and Mike & Spike are in front. Spike has stopped, and is staring intently at Moby, who is walking straight out to this rather excitable, but small, and leash-held, dog. Moby sniffs noses with Spike, who is apparently quite pleased. Apparently, next door neighbor dog is To Be Greeted. Moby walked back a bit and sat half turned away, quite enough, though, thank you. Spike would like more interaction with his new friend, but has to be contented with my ruffling his ears. Spike must be greeted on his walks when I am visible.


Spike.


Mike & I both surprized and delighted. It only took a year.

Mike rescued Spike from abandonment, tied to a fence in the neighborhood. Not a dog person, has a couple of cats, one of which - Sebastian, is mostly an outdoor, fed stray that deigns to be inside at times. Spike doesn't seem to mind. He's good with cats, cats are good with him.


Moby and Sebastian have stared at each other occasionally.

I'm glad we can give Moby some outside life here. A bit of fresh air, dirt under his paws, grass to eat.

Need a yin yang of a cat and a dog curled around each other, with a small cat in the dog and dog in the cat.

PS: Today, Moby sunning himself, Spike too excited, Moby hissed. Not that upset, moving toward him, but definitely not best pleased with the doggy excitement. "You interrupted my nap, dog!"

Turnaround

The sun comes in quite strong in the evening. Moby approves. I see all the dust in the corners.

Cat's don't really have to worry about where their eyes don't go, they just twist.


I think I have successfully killed the lawn. Putting something in it's place that looks better is going to take some time. Planted scarlet flax and poppies. Red Coral has also been suggested. Sunflowers and cosmos will come next month.



I was core monkey yesterday, which means I'm the resource nurse, the lunch lady, the runner and general dogsbody. If anyone needs to leave early, I'm the relief. It makes for a fast day, if tiring and sometimes confusing. As in, I answer the phone and don't know what room I'm in, "Hello, OR ... um, three? No, sorry, 5." Not entirely oriented to place or time on those days.

In room #1 is one of our more notoriously cranky surgeons, the scrub a nurse who blows hot and cold, but can be very cranky and snippy, and the circulating nurse is very picky - and especially snarly yesterday. Then, because surgeon didn't have a resident, the scrub core monkey that I think-not-much-of, scrubbed in to help on that first case. I stood with our Aide - who runs the supply core - and we agreed that at least they were all in one room, all the most prickly people.

Late in the afternoon, when room #1 was finished, the anesthesiologist insisted we break out the last case from #4 into room #1 to save turnover time. The nurse finishing OR #4 that still had the case to go shifted away from her was not terribly broken up about it, although I assured her I could see that tiny tear of bitter disappointment forming in her eye.

None of us felt very bad about the prickly pair. Ha. They had the only room going when we left. We helped them to do a very fast turnover first, and I'd given both breaks in the afternoon, so no guilt. When prickly nurse snarled at each of us, separately, a last time, we smiled, waved, and snuck out.

Made a pile more origami bunnies, left them all over the place.

Hoping for a good spring soaking this coming week.

OK, one more. Shows the brown undercoat.

Easter

Made origami bunnies this afternoon, waiting for our last case to start. Still weren't the last case, though. A day to mind the gaps. One surgeon done, waiting for another who started late in another room. When we overlap, we save time by removing the turnover time from the equation. When we gap due to changing surgeons, especially this one who is not speedily efficient, the staff waits. And waits. So, I began folding.

Easter has never been a loved holiday. In my home, it meant a week in church. More than a week. Every day of school during Holy Week, we started the day with Mass. By Easter Sunday, I needed the bribe of chocolate just to console me having to wear dressy clothes and sit on hard pews so long. More of a disadvantageous trade off than a treat.

One year, my old Easter basket was brought down from the attic, and my mother discovered it had been useful as a nest for mice. I didn't really see why they couldn't just clean it up and use it anyway. My mother was not about to countenance using a mouse-shit basket for my chocolate. Still, it was a very nice basket.

At some point, when solid chocolate bunnies got hard to find, I asked instead for a chocolate block - which had become a thing. My mother loved putting in the malted milk chocolate eggs, and whatever else struck her fancy. When I was very, very small, my brothers would lead the morning search for the basket, as any hidden eggs belonged to them, but the basket was for the baby-sister. As I got older, I was perfectly content with simply looking out the back porch, knowing it would be there in the cold. And a lot of chocolate would be sequestered in the plastic grass under the chocolate bunny.

I bit off the ears first. Then popped off the eyes. No sense being watched. Or listened at.

I have TJ's chocolate, dark with almonds, in a bar, these days. When perfection is achieved, stop searching.

Just glad of spring.

Have I mentioned lately how much I love my house? I love my house. It's my home.

Murdered

Pissed off. I hate authors who murder their characters. Not if a character is murdered within a story, but when the author is bored, going for a cheap emotional yank, and kills the character for no good reason. I call that murder of a character, and it's one sin I can't forgive in a writer.


One book of four was good, unfortunately I read that one first, so I kept hoping the rest would be worthwhile. Well, no.

I have a few rules for murder mysteries, modern ones anyway. Agatha Christie and her ilk set up these tropes, others made them passe.


1. Rare female murderers, especially for a violent crime. Women rarely commit murder. Instigate it, sure. Poison someone, maybe. So, out of ten police investigated murders in a book series, I'll accept one female murderer. When it's 50/50, it's just lazy and wrong.

2. No killing off the main investigator's love interest, especially not in the last chapter, especially not by the killer him/herself. While the investigator is running to help.

3. Easy on the coincidences. One person finding both bodies - maybe do that once in a whole series. More than that and it's just a bit silly. Likewise too many other matters of chance, instead of steady investigation.

4. Easy on the number of murders. One motivated murder always followed by more to cover up the first - no. Especially if the first murder could more likely be considered manslaughter or even accidental. Mass murderers are another not-that-common a thing.

5. No murderer committing suicide at the end, just to keep everything neat with a last moment confession.

6. No amateurs. Unless it's a once in a lifetime thing. Keep it to the person responsible for brining murderers to light, building a case.

7. No cheating by withholding vital factual information until the last pages. Or, not as a regular habit.

8. If you want to write a travelogue, or a series of character studies, write a novel without a murder.


I could do more, but these are the ones relevant to the recent series. I did not finish the last one, and I care not a bit how it resolves. Damn that author.

Turtles

Marriage is not the institution it was when my parents married. When being a bastard had some kind of meaning other than just being an awful person. When women had to marry if they were pregnant - because keeping a job often wasn't an option, married or not. When a woman needed a man to get a credit card. Because men on their own were pitied, as well as suspected of being swish, and were expected to have a son to carry on the name. When people were routinely called Mr. Mrs. Miss - not first names. And that last name mattered. When a child who wasn't clearly only one nationality, or genetic type, would be rejected by the family they didn't look enough like, or both families they didn't look enough like them either. When marrying someone outside your "race" was illegal in many places. And frowned upon everywhere. When women had to carry a child to birth, or risk her life on an illegal and unsafe abortion, and contraception was unreliable, often illegal, always a bit difficult to obtain. When living together was "shacking up" or "living in sin" instead of a common, normal phase of a relationship.


Children of single parents are just children now. Pregnant and married women are not routinely fired from their jobs. Women can legally handle their own finances. Men can be gay, or live alone - although I think the pity and suspicion might actually be worse these days. I don't think I have ever been called Mrs. D-lastname, at least not un-ironically. I can't remember the last time I called someone Mr. Anything. Children with well mixed genetics are accepted by all but the most recalcitrant bigots. Obviously different-looking couples don't get more than a second look. Contraception is routine, abortion is still a problem in a lot of places, but with decent contraception that is less of an issue. Still dealing with the economic/insurance side of that, and the churches are still digging in their regressive heels. Women are making their own decisions.

This really has all changed in the course of my mother's lifetime. Can't expect people her age to get over that easily, especially if they don't want to. Especially if they indulge in gilded nostalgia. And we have a ways to go to break down the assumptions and stereotypes. And that is just in this country, other places are still a couple of generations behind, and unwilling to adjust. Other places are doing better, leaving us looking crotchety and priggish - which is quite true.

And this all comes with more responsibility, more work, newly discovered problems. I think this is why the gay marriage issue looms so large for so many. It was so deeply buried underneath all the other issues that affected the vast majority, no one not directly affected even realized it was there.

This from The Onion, and flask.

Underneath that will be other problems. It's problems all the way down.


It's turtles all the way down.

Civil

This is not the first time I've written about this.

Marriage should be a religious ceremony, a rite, a ritual, a sacrament. And it should have buggerall to do with the legal/social meanings of "marriage" which could easily be called something else. A civil union, or registered union, Betrothal sounds good to me, but whatever. Any two consenting adults could get a license for Betrothal, with all the rights and privileges now given to "marriage." Fill in the forms, attest to it before a judge, that's it. Marriage as a word will no longer be considered a legal definition. Children from an unlicensed union will be considered the children of "unmarried" people, with the same rules applied. Each person in a Betrothal is a spouse, as "wife" and "husband" will be considered social terms, not legal ones. No state can tell any church who it can or cannot marry. The church will not be free to criticize who the state will recognize in a civil union.

It'll never happen. Too reasonable, obvious, simple. Not in this fool country.

Stonehenge

Our own celestial calendar. Mid-March, and the sun comes right through at about 1920. That small post-it note has been there since last year at this time.

Everything

D moaned when we heard the spattering of icy snow against the windows last night. I figured, I don't have to drive in it, probably won't have to shovel it, suits me fine. March being March, is all. Quite cold, but nothing like the midwest, or Michigan when I was small. A mere frosting, nothing to complain of.

Let myself get irritated yesterday. Nurse in charge of one room, repeatedly ignoring me, or just not listening after she asked me a question, spoke over me, then asked me again what I had clearly said. Tidied away items the scrub and I had set out to be used. A hindrance, and oblivious and repeatedly wrong - objectively so.

"Um, this is a left arm."
"No, it's right."
I get the schedule, "Left."
"But this is (the patient before)!"
"No, it's this (name of next patient.)"
"Oh." Leaves.

I get everything back to where I'd already gotten it before she came in to help me. This is how the whole day went. Scrub, P, wondering at me as we are leaving, why she wasn't in there to start the last huge case. "There wasn't anything else going on!" only one room running. I have to say, well, probably just as well, considering how much "help" she'd been all day. At least we had each other, and we trust each other's skill and attention completely.

Kept the music going all day. White Stripes on one of those online streaming sites that creates a mix. Not my favorite band, at first the guy sounded so much like Sony Bono singing I really didn't like them. But as I get further from the one singer, I find I can like the other. Or his voice has matured a bit. That surgeon likes that mix, and I kill songs that are overplayed, or too far afield (heavy metal or hip-hop-autotuned-to-death.)

With music, I like variety, a strong melody, and a bit of an edge. Too soft gags, too hard and it blasts. Too much the same and it goes through my head eternally. Which is why I do so enjoy They Might Be Giants. Enormous playlist, variety.

When I tell someone they are my favorite band, and they respond "Oh, I hate them." I know what I am dealing with. Wow. If someone tells me "OH, I LOVE Journey!" I will make a non-commital response, but I won't say "Really? You have terrible taste then!" I think it, but I would not say that to them. And people who have a knee-jerk, vocalized, hatred of TMBG tells me that they have only heard the couple of (relatively) popular songs. Ana Ng, Istanbul (which is a cover anyway), Birdhouse, and then say they hate their voices. I think it's like hating Bob Dylan's voice, and thinking he only sings Blowin' in the Wind and Subterranean Homesick Blues. Have you ever seen a book of his collected songs? It takes a couple of thick ones, and I expect he's still writing more. Bob Dylan and John Linnell are incapable of stopping writing songs.

Oh, I thought everyone did Bob Dylan songs better than Bob, too. Until I really started listening, and heard Oh, Mercy. Oh, my. His voice has an authority (literally) that transcends whatever tonal deficiencies he has. There is more to a song than being pretty, and you can 'hear the words.' If they really want to know the words to a song, look up the lyrics and read them. Otherwise, just listen, it's a whole experience, not a lecture with a test at the end.

This is all akin to people who look at a painting to show something. "I can't tell what it is" is a criticism of an illustration, not of art. If you can clearly see what it is, look harder, if it's great art there is more behind it, and the obvious - obscures.

All my life, I have searched for new music, old music, sounds that stretched out and spread across the ordinary. Old hymns and world music, Johnny Cash to Sleeper Agent, Nancy Griffith and The Go Go's. Three Mustafas Three and The Clash and Gogol Bordello. I would never turn my nose up at a song, or a band, without giving them a good listen.

"Art changes, it doesn't get better." Sr. Wendy Beckett.
"If it sounds good, it is good." Duke Ellington.
"It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that certain je ne sais quoi." Peter Schickele.

Ewe

I don't mind scrubbing in. Used to love it, because I was good at it. Lots of concentration, very interesting work. Engaging. As I get to do it less, the muscle memory loses it's facility, and I forget names of instruments and don't learn all the new toys. My eyesight is not what it was, and I have difficulty focusing. That, and general surgery is different from orthopedic scrubbing. The first I could still do very fast, in my sleep. The latter is more recently learned, and less thoroughly, so I'm just not as good at it, and never was. I don't want to go back to big belly cases, but I will never be as good at fractures as I was at bowel resections.

One of the weak points to scrubbing is whomever is circulating. Today, it was a matter of inexperience, and bad taste in music. If I ever hear the Halleluia song again, or It's Pitiful... oh, correction, You're Beautiful, or Over the Rainbow on ukelele, again, I may have to kill someone. Horrible, overplayed, whiny... . All I asked was not to hear Coldplay, which to her meant Journey was preferable. To me, Journey is Coldplay a few years back. Blech.

One of the sappy tunes played was a cover of Imagine. A song originally played rather slowly. The cover -- even slower. Lugubrious. I craved a version by a punk band. Sex Pistols, or Madness, those are versions of Imagine I could get behind. Really fast and furious. If The Clash ever played Hey, Jude, I might be inclined to listen. As long as they didn't do all the nananananaeheyjudes.

My eyes are dry and tired. It snowed madly this morning, whiteout conditions as I drove up. Sunny and clear by the time I left. March. Lions and lambs, sleeping lions and enraged ewes.

All about work this week.

Robins

We went out in the mild rain, Moby not bothered a bit. He wandered and sniffed, as he does. No sitting down for a meditation, though. Robins on the garage roof, not best pleased at another cat around. When I straightened out the blanket, he watched closely and seemed to decide that this was a Very Good and Interesting place to sit.

March in this part of the world. Some raking, some weeding, possibly some snow yet. I wait and watch and apply anesthetic.


Our spice shelf. Needs a bit of variety and exoticism, but not bad for all that. Fresh would be good, as well. Will have mint, and may try rosemary and basil. Ginger is apparently very difficult here, save in pots, but easy to buy at the Indian grocery. I may try one year.

Ocean

"I love the beach!" said the surfer, littorally.

Had the chance to set up a complex case and do most of it, on a lunch, today. Lovely flow of competence moved my hands, fast and sure. Another scrub lunch, and again, that sense of ability, that had been slipping lately. Resource, also known as a core monkey, today. Opening supplies, restocking, breaks and lunches and general assistance, clean up, turn-overs.

Given that yesterday I was so ill from the hormones, hemorrhaging, that I asked to get off after lunches, and they sent me at ten. Apparently I looked pretty bad. Dropping stuff, contaminated some supplies in a way I would never do normally. Not that I felt wonderful today, but so much better.

Off to read the rest of Ann Cleeves Raven Black. Read Red Bones first, and I'm hooked.

X-ray

X-ray is for X.

X-rays are incredibly useful for finding broken bones


and lost objects.

Too much, and they do a lot of damage, and early on people played with them, really strong ones, - which was quite dangerous.


Another letter not entirely at home in English, prefers to hang behind E, exercising and exiting, existing and explaining. When it starts a letter, X speaks in a Z, playing a xylophone

and acting all xenophobic.


X is more symbolic, X-ing out mistakes and X-ing Peds across the street, X to indicate which dotted line to sign on.




Zulu, yankee, x-ray.

Sulky

Kilter is off. Body being weird. My preoccupation with the end of periods has become completely unbalanced. Marked changes, not just misplaced hope.

I knew, when first told that my period meant I could have children that I did not want that at all. Have never wavered on that, despite momentary curiosity - which is not the same. Knew. Now that the option is nearly run, all I feel is relief. More when I have confirmation. Forty one years is enough.

Of course, there have been advantages. Good for the bones, the blood pressure, skin and connective tissue health. Without the hormones, well, there will be drying and sagging and brittleness. Have started the yoga I learned years ago. Just a few minutes of it to start. Feels really good, although I am stiff and shaky. Intertubes wonderful for a refresher.

March wind, no rain, only harsh and raw. Idling and vague. The garden and front yard sulk at me.

Groceries

Young patient, anesthesiologist very funny and kind with her. After she was under, mentioned that she would be a great best friend for his daughter. He talked with scrub - who has a warm relationship with her adult daughter, about how of course you like them, ideally kids are the best of you and the one you love most.

I had to choke back tears. Not envy, never that. Hearing about good, loving parents keeps my hope in humanity alive. Just a dire sadness for my own small self. That my parents never much liked me, didn't much like each other either. I said nothing, only smiled and did my job. Nothing to add, here, move along.

Cat had to go out again, walked right down the sidewalk, stopping in front of the neighbor's house. Looked back, and a guy with a large dog - some kind of poodle mix, coming along. I picked Moby up, since I knew that Spike would start up an unholy barking, and I didn't know about the walkin' dog. No problems, aside from a couple of excited dogs, but I brought him right back and inside. Sometimes, Cat is a little too nerveless for his own good.

I may just go ahead and plant some seeds, take the risk of a frost. Just a few poppies. See what happens. Front yard looks so dead.

I returned a bag of groceries
Accidentally taken off the shelf
Before the expiration date
I came back as a bag of groceries
Accidentally taken off the shelf
Before the date stamped on myself
Did a large procession wave their (did a)
Torches as my head fell in the basket (large procession)
And was everybody dancing on the casket? (dance?)
Now it's over, I'm dead, and I haven't (now it's)
Done anything that I want (over)
Or, I'm still alive and there's nothing I want to do
Now it's over, I'm dead, and I haven't (now it's)
Done anything that I want (over)
Or, I'm still alive and there's nothing I want to do

- Dead, TMBG.

π

Happy pi day. Have some pie. It's ok to be irrational.

Clinging

He really wants a hug, sometimes. Purring madly, clinging on. Enjoyed the mild March day, wandered to sit in all his spots. Got to see off a neighbor cat who agreed that a different route would be perfectly acceptable, and would just not even bother coming in that yard at all, excuse me. Strange looking black & white cat with a permanently surprized expression, a habitué of the neighborhood. Moby crouched quite menacingly, and I was there, of course on the other end of the lead, to reinforce the threat. I took him out morning and afternoon, which is good for me as well. To feel the season changing.

Some disintegration of the sandstone foundation, and a break in the concrete of the front porch. Nothing to be done right now, but I'm aware. Maybe next year we will be able to get both fixed. A bit of quick-crete to fix the porch this summer. Planted some lettuce, we shall see how that goes. I'm betting on at least one more good snowstorm, but the weather is changing, and anything could happen. Found some light green paint for the grey concrete blocks of the backing wall of the garden. Looks much less dreary out there, now. I will add a strawberry in red spray paint in time. More digging.

Looked up last year's March posts. I was further behind, and going through more. More grief, more uncertainty, then. My hips are not doing as well this year, and my energy is down. I think I shoveled too much over the winter, and started the garden too early. Reminding myself to slow down, not expect quite so much, certainly not the week of the damn time change.

We set the clocks back on Friday evening, which helped a bit, but makes it no lighter in the mornings going to work. Impatient to try again, get everything growing. Lacking the power to do much. So stiff, everything hurting. Doing my PT more, managing. I wasn't wrong when I thought that was the last move I had in me. I could not move again. They take my body out of this house, hopefully after it's paid off. Don't care who gets it. Probably one of D's nephews, to sell and send his kids, or grandkids to college. In 30 years, the world will have spun a few times, and nothing is certain.

Sat on the porch this evening, reading, listening to the Spare Change* couple screaming hoarsely at each other. Held each other's hands, glad that we don't shout at each other. Anything worth yelling is better solved with a lawyer. But shouters get high off the rage, feed it, nurture it, blame everyone else. I kept laughing at the raw swearing. This is several houses down and across the street. If there were any children involved, I'd've called the cops. They know this couple well anyway.

Good to have a day, haven't really done nothing. Just feels like not enough.





*There is a rather infamous beggar in Boston, with a hoarse voice that carries blocks, shouting "Spare change!" To the point that he has an internet presence now. This couple sounds like him, both of them do. Hectoring and audible blocks away.

Pepper

A set of glass salt & pepper shakers, more correctly grinders, from Ikyeh, showed up at work. First noticed them on top of the running microwave, trying to commit suicide. I don't blame them, they were pointless. Have yet to see anyone using them, and no admits to bringing them in. Fugitives from justice? Well, I put them on the counter, not wanting to have to clean up broken glass on my lunchbreak.

I keep noticing a push for novelty Salt&Pepper shakers at a popular aggregate site with a shop. Is it just a form to play with, or are people actually still buying - and using that many S&P shakers? I certainly never bought any. Given a pair in a tupperware set at the shower - 29 years ago. Filled both, used the salt for a while, both long lost but unmissed. My mother had several sets, for everyday, for fancy, and a clever diner set her DIL gave her.

Very much like these, in blue.



This is our condiment selection.


I use some salt in cooking, on occasion. Not much, by the pinch. We cooked up bacon for dinner last night, good stuff, ends & pieces, no nitrates. An hour later, my mouth felt like I'd been sucking on rock salt. Not used to it anymore. Getting away from processed foods, the taste for more than a hint of salt is gone. Not a health concern, just don't use it much, don't want it, don't miss it. Do overtaste it in salted foods, certainly. Come to prefer spicy, a touch of oily, tart and savory.

The last time we were at Red Iguana, all wonderful moles and carefully mixed spices and flavors, we wondered at the presence of S&P shakers on the tables. Who would add either to those dishes? Really? Why not ketchup as well?

As we discussed this, while falling asleep last night, D tells me of Bede's possessions at his death, incense, some linen, and a bag of pepper, the latter being the most expensive. I wonder if its popularity has to do with being rare, so transportable, while staying fresh? Looked it up this year, to see if growing* it is a possibility. It's not. Not even close. I'll stick to chili peppers - they love it here.



*"Needs plenty of water, shade, humidity and heat. It takes 3-4 years before the first fruit can be harvested." - excerpt of post from Gardenweb.

Scheduled

I find myself doing what I did in college, going over and over my plans for planting like my schedule for graduating. And I wonder how many ancient farmers, gardeners, or travelers, repeated over and over the way ahead, making it poetry, mnemonics to find our way, grow our food, until it took on a life of it's own, chewing away at our worries - keeping us awake at night.

Plant the poppies in April. Everything else in May. Could do lettuce now, but I will wait - the ground too muddy yet. Flowers would have to wait anyway. Must prevent the box elder seeds from staying until they sprout - not pulling millions of those buggers out again this year.

I slept last night, but I am very familiar with the hamsterwheeling thoughts. This is why we have recorded books playing us to sleep at night. Bedtime stories, we call it "putting on talking." Seems to help both of us.

My only photo of beloved Gigi, the black poodle who loved me, and I loved back without reserve. She lived to chase her ball, and I was of just the right age to oblige for hours.


My Aunt Alma, my brother Bill. And me.

Cheesy

Aunt Evelyn & Uncle Ernie once took me to see a cheese making place. Would that be a dairy, exactly? Not that I was that much of a cheese fan, liked it in small amounts. Milk was the bane of my childhood, forced to drink a full glass with every meal, I came to loathe the stuff. Cheese I tolerated, the sharper the better.

When they make cheese, they use milk. I knew this, but the implications were not clear. Not when I was a kid. Milk and bacteria, soured, turned, rotting milk. The stench got into my nose for the next three days. Being a well behaved child, cowed might be a better word, I tried not to breathe, covered my face, and held out as long as possible. Cheese making is interesting, it just smells horrible. Churningly nauseating. I didn't throw up, but it was a close call.

Never drank milk willingly. Refused to put it on my cereal. This caused much parental mirth and scorn, but I held fast. The only thing worse than drinking a cold glass of milk was spooning up warmish milk with soggy cereal remains. The sourish aroma wafted up from the Cap'n Crunch. To this day, I eat cereal dry, or I make hot cream 'o wheat with boiling water. With the wheatabix, I spoon a bit of plain tea on top, just for enough moisture to settle the dust. Once in a while, when I overbrew the tea a bit, I will add a few drops of milk to cut the edge. Maybe a teaspoon's worth. Less than once a month. It's not an allergy, but a mild lactose intolerance. Mild, as long as I don't drink it by the cupful.

D loves milk. I accept this, even as I don't understand it. When we were in Saudi, he kept trying to get milk, none of the sterilized stuff satisfied, tasted wrong. In the first chowhall back, his first glass from the huge stainless tank of supercooled milk numbed the back of his throat, and he fell in love. I get him milk. I pour it in his glass. I've never been able to figure out how much is right to put on his Joe's O's, but that's alright, he never expects. He is willing to make me tea, and I say thanks, those tea bags will do nicely.

When I shopped on Wednesday, I didn't realize he was low. He forgot Thursday, and yesterday as well. We are waiting to walk over and get him milk. He'll carry it back.

Were you ever sent to the corner store for a gallon of milk that weighed more than a seventh of your own mass? In the summer? Having to stop every few yards to put it down and rest your arms? And your fingers are numb because it's cold. And you know you are just going to be forced to drink it?




Planted peas today. Southwest corner spot. Everyone mentioning planting pease this week. Loads of worms, I think they like all the dead leaves. The cardboard put down last fall is nearly undetectable, eaten away, broken down.

Dread

Working the dirt exhausts me and fills me with dread, I don't know what I'm doing. Sore, aching, wanting it all to be ok. Digging calls to me, and I love the mud the worms, the hope under the dead leaves that the worms love. I've made a difference this past year, cleared out the bad stuff, given it organic materials to turn into soil. The smell of fertility, damp and rich and a little frightening.

I ache and want and despair and dig.




Hard to imagine myself ever this young. 1980.

Crystals

Ok,still too cold.
Soft earth holding ice crystals,
Hesitant to jump.




Ever get the feeling you were being watched?




Found and sent this to Ancestry Cousin.



Grandfather (died before I was born), Granny, Mother, Father, Grandma. Father's father died when he was a kid. Couldn't recall Grandma's name, it was rarely used around me. Zebre. I wonder how usual that was, or if French Canadian liked unique names.

My father does not look like a happy man on his wedding day, more like every other photo of him, cranky and sour.


Update: 06 Mar 12:20 pm MST 59˚F 28% Humidity Winds S 26 G41

Acoustic

I love this for so many reasons.



But you will find your own.

Yankee

Yankee is for Y.

A word from years of yore, for New Yorkers baseball,

or New Englanders, or Northerners, sometimes anyone from the US when shortened to Yanks.



Depending on how far away one yawns or yodels.


Y shies away from starting words, but frequently, slyly, humbly, tags on blindly, rearmostly.

But when Y leads, it yells and yowls in yellow yips.



Or is silent in Ypsilanti.






Zulu, Yankee.

Springish

Real rain.




Snow clearing, washing away the scummy remains.