Lessons

Staring at the fifth move in four years, we have learned some lessons.

Don't worry about packing a room all in one set of boxes. Mix it up, so if one box disappears, gets wet, crushed or badly shaken, not all of the teacups will be lost. Amid the books, put in a set of bells, and the small toy Gromit.

Use bedding, towels and clothes to wrap breakables, use bowls and other hard hollow structures to cushion them. Think of form and material, instead of normal use, when packing.

Don't be afraid to repack to make items fit more securely. Shaking can cause as much damage as insufficient packing.

Several breakable teapots packed loosely in a large box will find each other, and smash each other to pieces. (This was a previous move, from long, long ago.)

Small boxes, really, especially when packing books.

A tape gun. Oh, gods in heaven, a tape gun. Always. Will get lost every other time I put it down, but it's still oh so worth it.

Ruthlessly get rid of all excess stuff.

Pens into a zip locked plastic bag.

Don't move in three hours or less. Take at least a week to shift stuff from one place to another. Unavoidable if moving across country, or with movers. Gah.

Don't let D pack any boxes. At all. Ever. No matter how much you love him.

Think about what small, necessary comfort will be most needed upon arrival. For me, a mug, tea, and a way to boil water. For D, a glass to drink very cold milk from.

Spring for extra toothbrushes.

Plan

On The First Day:

The first load shall be:

The stool, what Moby shall consider sufficient Under.
The aerobed and pad, with bedding.
Tea kettle, dishes, flatware, pots and pans, other kitchen essentials.
Towels, soap, shower curtain, litter box, first aid kit, other bathroom supplies.
Packed suitcases with everything needed for the first week.
Whatever small items can fill in, and a guitar or two.


The second load shall be:
Moby.
Other guitars.
Coatrack and lamps, clocks and small tables.
Folding table and chairs.
Reloadable boxes, to be unpacked and brought back.

The third load may be:
The red sofa that can be folded, or drawers, or bed components, or desk parts.
Rugs (2).
Folding shelves (2).
Whatever else will pack in.

The fourth load may be:
Whatever else we can pack in.

The fifth load may not be.
If it exists, can be described as above.

I may well at this point enjoy the new bath. At some point, there must be lunch. If anyone shows up, we will get more done.

On the Second Day:

D will get the connectivity and some shopping done. After my twelve hour shift, we will do another load that evening, with cleaning and organizing for ease on the Big Heavy Move Day.

On the Third Day, I may not manage another load, as I work 1100-1900, but it is possible. Book boxes as tolerated.

On the Fourth Day - which is the Big Heavy Move Day:

Friends arrive with truck. With luck, there will only be the couch, shelves, mattress and frame, bookshelves (3), dresser, and too many book boxes.

Then, we go to Hong Kong Tea House for thanking dinner, and to celebrate D's birthday. Funny way to have a birthday, but I shall make sure he knows how much loved he is, and how glad I am he was born.

Gonna be quite a week. Nine days until The First Day.

Kendo

With just over ten days to go, we both ran out of patience - variously. A good lunch, chocolate stout, and a Kendo demonstration seem to have patched us both up, enough to hold. We have just enough background to get the gist of what's going on. That single minded intensity captured both of us. We seem to be following the path of Move-do.

Hard to get decent photos, I forgot and just watched. But if you click on them, you can see a bit better.

Evolutions

Yesterday was about overhearing conversations in the staff lounge. The one about creationism drove me near mad. A young man, educated, if not quite intelligent, could not buy Darwin and evolution. This is, of course, a side effect of the dominant religion here. They also believe the native population is descended from the Lost Tribes of Israel. (With recent DNA evidence in direct contradiction.) And there are no dinosaurs. Science, as a process of testing and discovery and advancing theory (as opposed to simply believing anything with the 'scientific' label on it, I feel I need to add) vs. Religious prescription, what is written is true, and further questions are heresy.

Not that I reject all that is inexplicable or spiritual. Quite the opposite, π is a fundamental ratio, the universe is, at heart, irrational, three and a bit. I can hold this paradox in my hands like a cracked egg. Scientific methods can only illuminate so far into the darkness. But religion gives up, closes the doors and locks them, and says, This Is It, ignoring the wonders all around because they are terrifying. Those literalists are, I think, the most truly agnostic, they turn their back away from the immensity, preferring a manipulable little god in a book.

But, I refrained from asking the young creationist in the lounge if he knew that the world was not flat, but round.

Millard Fillmore's Bathtub reports some progress in the eternal struggle of Galileo and Darwin.

Yoyo

How is it a cat on the floor can look straight up, yet stare at you eye to eye?


Natalie describes a strange and illuminating experience, which my mind turned into an iconic tableaux of my own original family relationship.

My father towers, angry, red faced. My mother stands beside him, one hand vaguely holding him back, the other pulling me toward him, as she cries, pleading for me to go to him.

I have not spoken to either for four years. Not to my father for eight - more. They do not have my phone or address. When they die, my cousin E will let me know. E only has my email, because my mother kept trying to get my old address from her through her mother, and I hated putting her in the middle. She can't tell what she don't know.

I like to allow others the choice to say No. I had to work way too hard to claim the privilege for myself.

Feh. All this upset keeps throwing up old crap. Toss it. Hope it stays tossed.

Broken (Movie)

(Not to worry, the rope is too tough to be bitten through and swallowed. We also took it down later, so he could drag it to the rug in victory.)

I need to add that D gets all credit for this wee film. He has a nice touch, a good eye.

Zeno

Half way there, each time never gets there. Filling my mind, my field of view, until all I can do is rail against the mess. Eventually, we will punch through, and wonder at the change.

Until then, I bore all with my preoccupation.

Time stretches, elastic tension that will abruptly snap back, break on, or both in a blink.

D watches Battle 360˚, a tactics extravaganza of CGI and prose so purple it reaches into the Ultra Violet. War stories being a little boy's comfort. More sensible, I think, than the female urge to delve into painful, emotional, immediate, reality.

My own life's changes bob into my conscious thoughts, my father, the ex, the Army, hospitals, to jostle and elbow into my muddied mind, unasked for, unwelcome, overwrought. Need an exorcist, to banish these demons.

We have been re-reading Pratchett's Watch series. Guards! Guards! Men at Arms, Feet of Clay, Thud, Night Watch, as well as Moist Von Lipwig stories - Going Postal and Making Money. We share details, witticisms that thread in and around all the books.

Trench

This is what the only through-street from our apartment parking looks like these days. Oh, if only you could hear the symphony of mechanical sounds, as well. We suspect we will not see the end of it, in our seventeen remaining days. That trench precludes left turns for many blocks.

Crap

Tired and dispirited, but strangely hopeful. Two and a half weeks to moving day, and much packing done, plans formulating. But work has announced that there will be 150 jobs eliminated by september, hospital wide. They say, and based on past performance I tend to believe, they will do whatever they can to reassign as many people as possible, and allow attrition to make up the rest. I honestly do not think my job, nor most of our slowly increasing surgery section, will be much affected. But, this is hard, bitter change, with more uncertainty than I prefer.

The large road, and the only way out of our parking, is down to one lane each way, a trench down the middle, and lots of heavy equipment and guys in orange. The two less than adequate bus routes that D relied on have been eliminated during this construction, leaving him stranded. With his laptop, and only computer, on the fritz today. He's reached the calm beyond the panic. He says he has lost hope, not in a 'There's a bus along in five minutes I have to stand in front of' way, (because, there won't BE a bus...) but simply being swamped by suck.

We have reassured ourselves with a bit of classic Engrish. "What kind of world is this? It's kind of crap!"

Every move has had a phrase, from "I mean a juice knife!" to "Help is coming, one day late." Most of them lost to recall, but battle cries that rallied us at the moment, acknowledging the misery, calling forth the courage and humor.

It is to tire.

April (Movie)

Not like we haven't had enough snow this year. Jo(e) wrote about Sugar Snow. Her student gave it a different, more appropriate name.

(Yes, I know it's not good footage, but it's short.)

Peek

Funny

We wonder, sometimes, on days when we have made each other laugh so hard we can't breathe, or right after a stranger comments on how cute and funny we are together, or when we see other couples who seem so serious or cross or vaguely distant, are we that odd? Yeah, we are odd, no question there, plenty odd.

We can come up with examples from our coupled friends who are funny and affectionate, Dave and K, and my cousins E & E - who have been together for a couple of decades and are still amused and delighted with each other. All have been through strange beginnings and hard times, and proven themselves to each other.

But, it seems unusual, aside from the people we most know. Perhaps other couples hide their humor in public. Or don't have a joint wit account. I certainly was not so funny before I got with D. A fellow Guard member, and RN at work, who I think is one of the funniest people I have ever known, once told me he thought D and I must make each other laugh a lot at home, because we were both so funny. I took this as high praise from an expert. Dear Beezer, I so miss working with a man who wears flowered nurse jackets and his kids sunglasses, just to see how others will react. He told me that his wife didn't think he was that amusing, which didn't seem to be a joke.

We speculate it has something to do, in our case, with having been close friends through difficult times, the love affair only being a discrete part of our relationship. All those hours and days and months with little to do but complain, chat, and simply spend time together quietly. Catching each other's eye in formation, letting an eloquent eye-roll suffice for swearing. Humor buoyed us up, our saving grace, and not just then. When I got to D at the instacare when he'd shattered his elbow, I readily got him laughing - to the bemusement of his nurse. There would be tears later, but at that moment...

And we wonder if happy dates aren't the culprit, jokes at a nice restaurant to show how funny one is, cannot be the same as grim mutual amusement at exhaustion and hunger and grief, pain and extremis. Or maybe just people marrying when they are still so young that they eschew childish things. We have no difficulty with appearing silly, to each other or anyone else.

So, tell me, are you in a coupled pair, and are funny? Or, are most of your married (sic) friends funny? And, why, do you think? Feel free to answer here, or link to your own blog. Your choice. This has been a conundrum to both of us for many years, how any couple could survive without big dollops of laughter applied liberally.

Gazpacho

I had just finished my last final, one of those pre-nursing school semesters, when home held a dangerous edge. I watched every penny closely, knowing how little I had, how much I would need it as soon as I could get out. I stopped at the Roasting Co. for lunch. Got a day old croissant and gazpacho, with tea, savoring my time alone, in peace, the luxury of being served, indulging deeply in my selfish sin. My brain buzzed, my heart ached, I dared not dream of freedom, so I immersed myself in the pure pleasure.

Strange now, how that seemed so expensive, so luxurious. How much I needed that solitude, required that hour of quiet. I decided, without actually deciding, to tell all the people I knew what I lived with, at whatever cost. If only to shame myself into doing whatever I needed to stop it. Without hope of help, for I never considered them helping me, only being unable to meet their eyes if I didn't act, and quickly.

The tears of gratitude still well, when I think of all the generosity that made my escape possible, all unexpected, a very human miracle. People who stepped in because they were needed. Even though I have since lost touch with most of them, I remember, and wish them all kinds of blessings.

I still enjoy a meal alone, to not think exactly, just to be, while chewing.

Mistakes

I laugh, I do my job with energy and thoughtful intent, I smile and join in. I don't feed the anger, or indulge in gossip or dwell on mistakes, my own or others.

Yesterday at work beat me the hell up. Everyone got out alive, I could still laugh at the end. But I made some doozie mistakes, sins of omission, that I had to run - not being metaphorical here, to correct, several times. I wasn't the only one, we were all dominoes falling about. Not to worry, patient is fine as far as the surgery goes. No one died, no one really hurt. Except for C who will probably lose his toenail, but that wasn't my mistake.

As I write up the most important error - also not my mistake - that fell on me, only 20 minutes after my shift ended, D called to say he and N were going to Desert Edge, did I want to meet them there? I was tired, and distracted, didn't want to say no, so I said sure, Desert Edge. I finish writing up the incident, get changed, gather boxes obtained from the dock earlier, wrangle them to the car.

It took more than a bit of jockeying to get them in, because they are different sizes, and they are boxes. Twice I dropped my keys into the trunk, and had to take all the boxes out to get the keys back. Finally, I am on my way, don't try to park in the Red Rock parking lot, but around the block by the Greek church. My legs are rubbery, I am not thinking well. As I walk back through, I realize there were open spots in their lot. It's crowded, I walk around looking for the guys, no luck, I put our name on the list and take the pager, thinking they just hadn't left immediately, and would be by soon. I wait. I go back in and check just in case, I wait more, and start to worry they have been in an accident. Enough time goes by that they can't possibly have just be a little late. Then I realized, he said Desert Edge, not Red Rock. SHIT.

I walk all the way back to the car, drive to the other crowded parking lot, cut through the stores, and D is in the walkway of the mall, looking for me. I can't deal with a touch, certainly not with food, nor his worried, then greatly relieved face. I can't stay, I have to go home I tell him.

"We'll bring you food," he offers.

"I don't give a shit." I say, and escape, a long, annoying drive home with crappy jazz, bad news, or prickly silence to chose from. I alternate among the three. When I get in, Moby gives me the Flop Of Welcome, and allows a bit of catherapy. D calls to make sure I am safe. Bless him for not taking it personally when I say, "I need to stop talking," because I do. I have learned to be explicit with what I need from him, and he takes it as simple information. By the time they get home, I have applied alcohol, food, and read some blogs. D nurtures, and gives me space to settle. We all talk and talk, and I come down and calm down.

Woke at 0730, more rested, but drained, convalescent. I have few reserves these days, always feeling on the edge of despair. I kick a few pebbles over.

Bent

When the RSS shows that nifty little "1" next to the blog Bent Objects, I grin and squirm in my seat with third grader excitement. He always makes me smile, the humor is, on the surface, simple and brightly lit. Underneath, or in the edges, there is usually a dark twist. As with his Circus Peanuts Circus series, and the horrific accidents they suffered. Such a simple idea, done to perfection. Bits of disregarded drawer litter, twirls of wire, an eye for subtle attitude, an amazing talent, and, well, um, wow. Oh, wow.

Treat yourself. Get hooked.

Bones

When a bone breaks, it heals, reforms, remodels for years after. But it's never as strong again. Surgery shows- in the way the connective tissue reforms. It's never as smooth and orderly as they way it was originally laid down. The pain will ease, function will return, but the disruption is permanent.

My own little irrational belief, and a theory to explain some elements of stigmata, is that of any wound that heals, can at any age reopen. As can all our life's wounds, given enough distress. If you tell me this is not supported by evidence, nonsensical, I will concede you are right, but, I still nurse the idea as seeming right. I don't mind being wrong. But come here and let me know you think me stupid, or mock me, here, in my home, on this odd theory, and you get the boot.

My father broke me emotionally. Wild, illogical accusations, baffling feats of incorrect mind reading, all escape routes blocked. Then I went and married a smart version of him, thinking it was just the stupidity causing all that misery. I had no defenses against an abusive manipulator who could talk sensibly. After he hit me, he would always apologize, and say all the right, insightful phrases to keep me strung along, leaving the implication that it was all my fault, really.

I have grown and healed, but any kind of irrational challenge is far more painful than it should be. So condescending, accusing assertions, in this, my safe place to speak my own mind, rattle me far more than seems appropriate.

The troll who struck me three times, did, after I packed my bags to leave, offer a sweet apology, which I believe as much as I do those of the ex after he slapped me.

I will never be any kind of a manager because of this deficit. I can be extremely accommodating with people, even if they are upset, up to a point. But when the nudge becomes a shove, I simply have to stop myself from killing them. I have no middle ground, no place from which to gauge a reasoned response. I tried to write several posts to warn, to set rules. When that didn't work, I fell apart rather than finding those people, and torching their homes. I hate confrontation, so I prefer people to see me as dangerous. Deep beneath is a well of rage, which horrifies and reassures me.

Have I ever mentioned I know how to shoot an M16? And, I'm a good shot? Had to for the Army. Just, you know, stray thought.

I have learned real calm with D, and with Moby. The pain is less, it is not gone.

Thank you with all my heart for all those who comforted me, and kept me from throwing away the work of five years. I could have just gone to the new blog, but I would have deeply grieved this one. I am not ready to leave here.

I won't be chased off.

I will be far less cautious in deleting posts, without explanation. I will consider the invite only blog option, but that seems so cold. It's just that I had three trolls in rapid succession, one of them a personal acquaintance that I need to stay on some kind of civil terms with, on top of the Inspection at work, and impending move. Skin thinner than usual.

I will never go to anyone else's blog to question their beliefs in gods, astrology, makeup, Disney, creationism, Republicans or ferrets. I may well rake them over the coals, in general, here. They are free to rebut on their own blog, but not here. Unless they offer a kind, reasonable, respectful, response. Maybe not even that, this week, please.

Enough

I want to cry and give up and throw all this away because of a third idiot this week. After having gone through this twice earlier. The last one made sure I knew he had the last word by sending an even more insulting email by leaving it on the comments and then deleting it, knowing I would get it, but you wouldn't hear that he called me "crass" for shining the light on his attitude. And of course, it's all my fault, for being "petty".

Yup, defending my own patch is petty and crass. Expecting mere silence from a stranger who just shows up, uncritically reads the bits he understands, then attacks me, is silly. Not letting him hide his persistent defense of his mean words... ah, well, shame on me.

This makes me crazy. This has to stop.

Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone....

This blog will either be moving, or going away. I can't do this, my stomach hurts, I'm crying. I don't need readers, I don't make money here, there are other patches. This one smells bad.

Cozy

We count the days, and snuggle down.

We are watching the second season of Black Books, and laughing aloud, with Moby taking over most of the stool, but he's willing to share.

Roll

I had a desk in my room by the time I was about nine, a leftover from my brothers, as I inherited their larger bedroom. But when I got home from school, I would take my usual place at the dining room table to do my homework, math usually - get the hardest work done with mom nearby to help. And be in a well lit room while she went to pick up my father from work.

As soon as he got home, or right after he had his nap, he would start in on me. Not having a conversation with me, but talking at me, criticizing me in some way. Or he would have the television on full blast, or talk with one of his brothers on the phone at full volume (they were all half deaf from working in factories.) So, with work still to do, I would pack up and head upstairs to my fiberboard desk under the slope of the roof, he would stop me.

"You don't have to leave. You're not bothering me."

He would say this every time. I'm not exaggerating here, every time.

Moby lies in the hallway as we repeatedly step over him, blandly looking up at us as if to say, "You're not in my way." Which is fine, we love that he so trusts us. And he is, after all, a cat.

My usual scrub and surgeon gave me a hard time today, to which I roll my eyes and say "Yeah, well, just can't get good help these days." Or, "Oh, you just want Everything!" Dr. H. tells me he read a study that men create an average of seven hours of work a week for women, and do about an hour of work a week to help out. I don't respond except to laugh. It takes me a few minutes to say, "You men cause me about forty hours of work a week, I know that for sure, but at least I get paid for it." I love when I get them to chuckle. Today was a Good Day, despite every patient being, um, short for her weight. I berated the surgeon for this, and he hung his head dutifully. Aw.

Really, context is almost everything. Sarcasm is the rest.


Moby slept on D all night, and came to sit on him twice this evening, atypical behaviour. Moby knows we are moving, he's seen the brown boxes, smelled the roll of tape.

Rude

Why, oh why do so many women insist that being female is more important than being simply human? Why is femininity so bound up with surface glamour, decoration and display? Why do women make such a big, fat, hairy deal that other women have to participate in the petty cattiness of female politics?

I could as easily ask why men are so wrapped up in the rigid trappings of being male, with a terror of anything with a whiff of the feminine. But men don't make a big deal of putting me in my place, at least not these days. The graces that come with middle age, not that society has really changed so much. And, I have a much more masculine style, I cultivate an androgyny that embraces all that I am.

But women still want me to conform. As I strive to live as honest and authentic a life as I can, eschewing the surfaces, the illusions, rejecting the arbitrary trappings, I am pulled back and examined by other women. For telling a funny story about a woman acting in a flighty manner that is identical to parody of the worst excesses of girly behavior, I am called judgmental. Should hear what is said of the women who, against instructions, wear heavy makeup to have surgery, when it all smears off during intubation. I was being very, very mild.

One reader in particular took me to task today. I deleted her comment on No, wrote to her directly. I know her personally, but we are not friends. We have mutual friends, she and our spouses have been friends since childhood. She seems unable to separate her own interpretation of my words, from my real intentions. She made counterfactual accusations against me, while calling me "sweetie," and I corrected her, held my ground. She brought out the big gun, and a personal hot button for me, and called me ~rude~.

Now, rude is what my father always accused me of for not being the fluffy pink little doll daddy's girl he wanted me to be, for not being sweet and compliant and friendly in all situations. I was dark and moody, too smart, too stubborn. His intrusive rage was fine, my defense of myself was rude.

I suspect she means exactly the same. I could be wrong.

I have had to swallow so much of myself this week. I let out the real, raw me here, a stream of pure, unfiltered, undiluted opinion. Most of you who come here regularly seemed to be amused and entertained, as you should be. Two decided to take offense. Their comments could be interpreted as being against your opinions as well. (I am much more sensitive about the treatment of my guests than of myself.)

They have been addressed.

No One. Was Talking. To Them.

Was I rude? I was blunt. Not rude by masculine standards. I told the truth as kindly as I could. I was not friendly, but I don't consider that any more of a virtue than pretty. Great if you have it but I don't, so I make do with what I have. I could have been rude. I could have told each of these people exactly what I really think of them. I did not. I couched my terms, I did not indulge in contempt. I tried to stay factual and reasonable. I may not have succeeded. They are free to think I am rude. I would not presume to tell them what to think, or assume I knew what they felt.

I only wish they had accorded me the same courtesy.

We've had another one. One who thinks their own opinion isn't like an asshole. (We all got one, and they all stink.)

But this is my blog, like my home. I can say whatever I want, I can challenge any opinion, and you can disagree quietly or leave. If you chose to take personal offense and speak up, I will expect you to leave and not return. In no small part because most of the people who come read here agree with me, and when you insult me, you also insult them. I feel so pressured by the society around me to keep silence, this is my only place to really speak my mind. I will not be told I am being judgmental here. Especially not without being offered reasoned discussion, but only reactive emotionalism that I have already addressed in the essay.

I can even quote myself. Thusly.

"If that still offends you, then maybe you have come to the wrong blog. You cannot silence me here. I will not tolerate being insulted here. I spend most of my life around people who disagree with me. I do want yes commenters here, actually. Civil folks who are not going to come into my little corner and tell me I'm pushing my opinions on others. Rebut on your own blog to your hearts content. Call me whatever you like there."

Territories

Last, before the...


Fenway basement, preceded by the...


Brookline studio, which followed the...


First Boston high rise.

(No photo of Boston Animal Rescue League.)

Business

I'm sure I was in kindergarten, walking home. I stood waiting at the corner, as two older girls talked. I told them what I thought. There was a pause, a glare from them, and the bigger one said. "No one. Was Talking. To you."

Hot anger and shame hit me, silenced me. And shocked me out of my baby-egotism. Resentfully, I still felt I had done nothing wrong. That short, sharp shock nevertheless impressed on me that my view of the matter didn't matter.

I thought about the guy from the barber shop, a decade ago, who approached me when he recognized me in the grocery store the next day, and demanded to know why I had my hair shaved like a boy. Apparently, he never had a second grader look down her nose at him and tell him to mind his own business.

Today, I know how to withhold my opinion in public. As I can ignore an intrusive question. I still think about it. I hear stupid and wrong statements in the lounge, and I want to correct them, but I don't. I come here, often writing in response. Anyone here comes voluntarily, can read or not read, leave or stay.

I feel a little posh about getting a place with so many amenities, even if it is small. Then I think of the woman at work who complains about decorating her new-built 3000 sq ft house, and the difficulty of getting to the country club, in a loud and constant chatter during her lunch. I tend to avoid her, lest I say something snide. My opinion of her is none of her business.

D spoke with our ISP to-be today, a local company we have had email from for fifteen years, the owner used to post on a BBS run by D's friend before there was an internet. The tech asked D if he was from Boston, because of the way he said apartment. No, he'd only been there three years, but so often imitated the accent, it stuck to him. (Ah PAHT m'nt). So much better to have local support, not Crapcast's helpline that gets us to Indian call centers, where I can't understand every third word. We are going cable tv free for a while, maybe to read more, write more, walk more certainly.

Moby knows, it's that time of year when we change where we live. This is all he had known living with us.

Circles

We heard back for certain on the apartment. Not that we were really afraid, but after so long worrying, we worried. We are worriers. Which, I believe, is largely why we are not afflicted by a lot of self inflicted chaos in our lives. We have an enviable credit rating, despite never having more than living wages, and early on, not even that. We are not people to simply let bad and uncomfortable stuff slide, we err on the safe side. Not exciting, but we prefer that to social and financial surprizes. As I love boring at work, means nothing is going wrong. I'll take my thrills elsewhere, thank you very much.

I misread my schedule, but my manager didn't check either when she wanted me in to clarify the notorious Timeout with the pedantic inspectors, and went in this morning. A rare change, I work Saturday, not today. But since I'd shown up, and wound up much needed, I will instead have tomorrow off, and got to leave today by 2PM. Worked out that I did NOT have to chat with the Officials. Breaks my heart, hurt my feelings, I actually shed a tear.

Well, no.

This morning, I'd gone to sit in the lounge for a few minutes before running around helping out. Since the Timeout, and being called in to explain same yesterday - then let off the hook until today, then off the hook completely, there has been an irregular squeaking of the hamster wheel spinning in my head. Not obvious ruffling, but deep down riling. My stomach hurt, my head ached, the thoughts ran and ran. So, anyway, I sat there, and the charge calls on the intercom for me to "help out in 12." Sure, I go immediately, should have been walking around helping, properly.

"What can I do for you?"

"We need a circulator."

Yeah, if they don't have one, by 0730, when the case is supposed to start, they need an RN in the room. Everything needs to be set up, and I pull it more or less together in nine minutes flat, with the surgeon being helpful and patient. Make the bed, get stirrups, clamps for stirrups, open the program, interview patient, get scope monitors in the room. Nothing much. Sheesh. By the second case, we are running smoothly, and we get on schedule. I've been doing this a long time, serves me well in the crunch. Even with a nursing student present. Well, she proved helpful, bright young woman.

The thought of not getting the apartment haunted me. Having to look for another place, after finding the perfect one for us, just seemed too much to bear. Knowing we are in, ahhhh... We will give notice tomorrow to our current landlord. I dream of a deep, hot bath. And being able to do laundry without leaving our door. Lists are being listed.

Moby is more affectionate than usual, lately. A great comfort. Ever since D's hand got strong enough after surgery to hold him again after a month unable to, Moby seems to appreciate being held more. He holds on to the shoulder of the sweater with gentle claws, purrs, and touches his nose to our cheeks, eyes, nose.

Funny how love continues to grow and deepen, over years, through experience and trial. As trust develops, as we all know each other more.






Really got the dry skin, acne, and dark circles going this week. So be it.

Lipstick

My mother did not allow makeup on me at all until high school, and then only for dress up occasions. She only ever wore face powder and lipstick, for church or parties. The first time I wore any was for a ballet recital, and I looked like a doll - red circles for cheeks, the whole deal. Felt weird.

I've always had dark circles under my eyes, and short eyelashes, so when I chose makeup, I went for mascara and liner, shadow and concealer, lipstick lasted about ten minutes as I wiped it off immediately, unintentionally. I got my only positive comments from other girls, so I spent my tiny allowance on cosmetics. When I was the prettiest of my life, I felt so ugly I had to wear paint on my face. To cover my horrible dark circles.

As a theater major, I only needed the one makeup class, but I did the full year, and really enjoyed it. This meant my basic inability to do mild makeup turned into complete incompetence, since I only knew how to layer it on, make myself look older, or wear a crepe beard. Spent many an hour that year in front of a mirror, examining my features. The real break through came from seeing the most glamorous actress grad student, a truly stunning woman, always dressed to the nines and made up for a photo-shoot, with a bare face. She looked perfectly ordinary, but more interesting, then. And when I did full on glamour makeup on myself, I looked like her - an image, perfect, but the same as every other model. Well. Huh.

I lost my interest in the stuff, not wanting to try for typical glamour anymore. I would have stopped wearing any at all, but the ex preferred me made-up. And I had a job teaching, excuse me... selling - dance lessons, and the boss expected me in makeup. I continued to put it on, but with growing resentment.

D, of course, got to know me bare faced, as the Army bans soldiers wearing any makeup. When we got back, I put some on to visit his family, and he gently let me know he preferred me plain. Didn't take much convincing, I admit. Aside from a bellydance performance, I've been my own naked face ever since.

I honestly cannot understand the women who feel they "can't" go out, not even to the store, without the mask of makeup. Nothing wrong with masks, as long as it's acknowledged as such. Speaks to a certain lack of confidence in one's own self, though. And for those struggling to pay for rent and groceries, to buy into the cosmetic industry's pervasive advertising, is just dumb. So, why? Why the compulsive element? The sense of MUST, of not having a face, and having to put one one. How self effacing, to feel like a blank canvas without pigments.

Wearing mascara as a decorative exercise, like jewelry or nice clothing, simply for oneself, is a comfort for some. As a hobby, of sorts, sure. But when not wearing it means being ashamed and not fit to walk out the door, or be seen by spouse or family, something is terribly wrong.

And why the mixed message? Men don't have to change the way their faces look. General cleanliness and a shave, and they are good. Women have to "enhance" features, and cover up "flaws" in order to be presentable in public. It's a huge lie that we NEED this crap, and huge corporations are pushing that message. Every TV makeover show, every 'beauty" pageant, every fashion magazine exploits this thoughtless assumption. And here in the US, much of what women put around their eyes, on their faces, is not much regulated. Europe has much higher standards of safety.

It's part of the Cinderella/Princess/Bride story girls are force fed. Pretty as a virtue that brings love and fulfillment, and for that one needs makeup - just to not be hideous and lonely. I have never heard a thoroughly reasoned argument for constant makeup, only a knee-jerk reaction, peer pressure societal expectation. Unchallenged assumption of what is normal.

So, I have to wonder if this is a kind of anxiety disorder, this inability to see one's own face without so much revulsion that it must be covered. To be so worried at what strangers might think if they saw them without it. Or to feel so peered at to necessitate a sort of veil. And I wonder if this is a female trait, to hide one's face behind whatever that society allows, less to attract - although that is often the stated reason - so much as to divert the public gaze.

No, I really don't get it. But it bothers me when women see themselves only as this weird illusion that must be maintained at all costs. So threatened they must always hide.

Primp

Yesterday, relieved for lunch, I dropped down to my locker to get my lunch and tea mug. A pretty woman in scrubs is primping - no other word for it - in the mirror. I see her teal suede style purse on the bench, and roll my eyes out of her line of sight. Not that she looked anywhere but her own reflection. I open the lock, get my stuff together, she is still fussing at her hair and hat in the mirror.

"I look so silly in this hat," she simpers at me, clearly expecting sympathy, perhaps a bit of girl-talk. I have a brightly colored fabric hat because they are more comfortable, hold my hair back better, don't have elastic leaving a mark across my forehead, and at forty hours a week, don't dry my hair so much as the blue paper bouffants. I don't wear them for fashion. "You know what I mean."

"No, I don't," and, afraid she will explain, "I really don't," and rush out before she can make another attempt at engagement. All the time I am thinking, I thought you were silly right off, and that ain't got nothin' to do with the hat, honey. Only then do I wonder if she is one of the inspectors.

One of the Post Secret cards this past weekend was from a woman afraid to go out without make-up. The feedback page is likewise full of woman fixated on make-up as a necessity in their lives. It's all so emotionally illogical, no reasonable rationale is given. Make-up is simply what is done, like corsets of a century ago. To such an extent that I wonder if there is not some kind of anxiety disorder beneath it.

Later, more on this later.

Fooled

Fooled me, today. At least I had good company, good people to work with.

The hospital accrediting inspectors came through, to the ditherment of our managers, and everyone else caught up in their chaotic whirl. And guess which room they wanted to witness a Time-out in.

Yeah.

So, in addition to the announcements and botherers whispering "Jahco is coming! Jacho is coming!" I also got numerous calls and visits about what to do, what to say, forcing their anxieties on me. I was pretty impervious, until I got to a certain point, then I got deeply riled, because all the warnings had to be addressed, and began to affect my ability to care for that patient. Ancillary staff, terrified of making mistakes, insisted on all kinds of unnecessary tidying up that took needed supplies away from where they were needed.

Mind, this was on a heavy day, our surgeon running two total joint rooms - which works because he has a PA to do much of the paperwork, sew skin, and put on dressings, and on the other end, the spinal and block take sufficient anesthesia time, in addition to positioning, that he can do the actual surgery in the other room. And, this surgeon ain't slow. Which is good, he does good work. Today, he had five cases in my room, four in the other. I don't lollygag on these days. It takes planning, attentiveness, and staying on top of everything.

So, the inspector comes in, and I'm tripping over him, trying to stay polite. But this is a smallish OR, with a lot of equipment, and a long way to go before the Time-out. Time-out is a process, of double and triple checking that we have the right patient, and are doing the right procedure, the legal one is the last before incision, with a form I must fill out and sign. Fair enough, we are gradually getting the surgeons to take this seriously, and, once is too often to do it wrong. I look at the consent, check the name out loud with the surgeon and everyone else in the room, including the stupidly obvious "correct position", like pointing out the sky is blue, the grass is green and I still have my feet on. But I do it. Inspector guy hangs around and talks with the anesthesiologist for a while.

Then we hear back, we missed checking that we had the proper implants. I want to hit something. The implant rep had been working with the surgeon templating the correct components, before the patient came in the room.

If there had been any doubt, the surgeon would not have let us bring the patient in the room, his scrub would have stopped us if he didn't have what he needed, would have told me, and I wouldn't have even brought the patient over from the pre-op area. Saying it again is simply insultingly foolish, to all concerned. It's been enough of an uphill battle getting surgeons to stop a moment and confirm the right patient, right surgery, right side, to add several obvious statements is to invite righteous ridicule, and have them resist any kind of final check.

I missed a few other things, specifically because of having to deal with so much meddling attention. Nothing really critical to care, but the kind of marginal detail inspectors so often focus on, while missing the important functions. I am upset with myself that I let all the turkeys get me wrapped up in their bent reality. I stayed calm a long time, but once stirred, I could never quite regain my peace today.

My scrub, a Harley riding, sushi-loving, military guy, who I rarely just talk with, just because we have no common interests, was, I think, rather pleased when I swore*, sitting by him in the lounge, just after. I wonder if he thought perhaps I didn't have it in me. Oh, honey, I do know how to put words to obscene situations. I don't think we will ever come to like each other as friends, but we surely do love to work together. It took a while, but we have grown to trust and admire each other, there, in that place. Well, made him giggle today, at any rate.

Patient is fine, which is all that counts at this point.


*"Fuck" & "Christ on a Cracker!"