Velcro

The dryer door didn't like staying open, so, after several irritating bumps, I applied hook 'n pile.

After a week of, shall we say, maybe too much tea, the light toilet lid bouncing back down at inopportune moments became a similar problem. With the same solution.

Yes, the lid is closed in this house. Because I have lost items down the toilet if the lid is open, a comb, an earring. And I hate going fishing there. Most people do.

Brown

"Whose new spread?"


In life, the browns in Moby's undercoat have always been visible, depending on light. Brushing pulls out a much lighter layer of fur. And he, too, is sporting more and more white hairs. On the new blanket, those warmer tones become visible to the camera, a black-brown cat.

There really is something to be said for top end quality. Pratchett writes about it in reference to Sybil Ramkin and her class. That the very rich buy the very best, then never have to replace it. Cheap clothes, needing to be discarded and replaced, wind up much more expensive. I remember not having enough cash in hand to buy a monthly bust pass, even though it would be cheaper. Only when I needed it less, could I afford the discount. Likewise, food is more expensive at corner convenience stores, for those without the means to go to larger grocery stores.

The new chocolate quilt is hefty and warm without being too heavy. It has the feel of quality, the sort to last decades and then. And it brings out the mahogany in Moby's fur.

Approval

I can't imagine why I never get carded at all, these days... . It still startles me, at times, how white it all is. Not bad, just, whoa! Is that me? D took this of me, at my request. I rather like it, although I do keep thinking of Cousin Itt.

"'Snurfle, snurrrrrffflle."


"I'm Moby, and I approve this new blanket."

Clairvoyance

We ran errands this morning. Ok, afternoon. Lunch, then cork coasters to protect the new table, assuming I ever get around to finishing it. (Tablecloth working for the moment.) Groceries after.



And we stopped in the catalogue outlet store that I enjoy browsing. More than browsing, I've gotten a half dozen really good items of clothing, favorites in fact, at amazingly good prices. I'd been eyeing this heavy, chocolate quilt/spread since they first appeared, well over a year ago. Even the (initial discount) price was too much (nearly $300) for something we didn't really need, so I ran my hand over it, and walked away. Today, it was 30% off the lowest number, and I asked for my birthday present, so as not to feel guilty for getting it. Which wound up at about 10% of the original cost.



We do this. We don't try to make the other one guess about giving a surprize present. Took me a little while to learn it, but once I figured out that mind reading would not be on the table, I came to enjoy getting myself what I liked, and thanking D for his present. He says "you're welcome."

Or we go together, and make the trip part of the gift. Or just calling a larger, not strictly necessary outlay that one wants especially, near birthday or christmas, to be for that event. D apologetically explained that he was giving me my present 28 days early.

"When have I ever minded that?"

"Never. Just, you know..."

Not that I expect anything, but some years I get a craving for a touch of luxury or indulgence, preferably without guilt. D indulges me.

All but one of his guitars were presents of this ilk. I could never have chosen a guitar for him, but I get credit for it because we went together, and he let me encourage him. Beats a "oh, how did you know!" hands down, over a lifetime.

Shame

Strange how two experiences, both known for decades, can come together and light each other up.

When I started nursing school, my mother re-told me the story of her own experience of the OB nurse shaming her when she lost control of her bladder during labor. This for her first child, and she knew no better herself. The hurt stayed with her.

So, I take care to always support my patients when their body acts without their intention, to lessen their distress instead of adding to it. I'm good at "better out than in!" cheeriness. I just clean up bodily messes without becoming emotionally irritated. Code brown? Bring a half wet, half dry towel and make it all pink. Tossing cookies? In the OR, a bath blanket catches stomach contents best, and a wet washcloth for the face after. All the while, I reassure them, "it's ok, this happens, it's what we are doing to you, we are used to this, no big deal." This is part of my job, this is what I was trained for, what I'm paid to do. No one needs baggage from a nurse who is squeamish. No one needs a squeamish nurse, full stop.

Dressing when my back hurts involves adjustment, like dropping a skirt over my head to put it on, instead of stepping into it. My mind flashed onto my tearing a blouse, when I was perhaps 12, because I took it off by sliding it down rather than take it over my head. And my mother shamed me for ruining my shirt doing something so stupid. But it wasn't stupid, I'd done it many times before. In the middle of puberty, my hips had widened just enough to make it almost still possible, but not quite. My body betrayed me, and my mother made a point of it, making me feel lower still.

Only today did I connect the two stories. She should have done less bad. Not a single occurrence, this, but a pattern of anger over my development, or it would have no doubt been forgotten long ago.

She often complained that her mother introduced her as "My baby." She never did this to me. She just didn't like me once I stopped being a little girl. Changing the words didn't change her treating me exactly the same as the way her mother treated her - that she hated.

The willful ignorance that allows for these gaping holes in her integrity keep me far away from her. Not any one mistake, any of which I would readily forgive, but the disconnect from what she says, and what she does. And what that shows me of her character. Understanding where this all grows from, the insecurity and anguish and grief, means I can understand. I wish her no ill.

Like avoiding poison ivy, once one knows that the next contact will cause anaphylaxis. Just want to stay far, far away.

Insomnia

Yesterday morning I did not want to get up. More specifically, I wanted to stay in bed and sleep and sleep and sleep. I got up, stopped toying with the idea of bunking off, and actually had a pretty good day. When the charge nurse asked for volunteers to take off today. I said 'sure' and life handed me compensation. One cannot count on this, but once it a while, life evens out. We begin the slow period, as several docs go to conferences. The mandatory education modules must be finished by the end of the month. Dull beyond belief, and poorly written questions, but I will churn through them in the next few weeks. All just part of the job. Once in a while, there is actual, useful, new information... like every five years, or so.

D is having a hell of a time with insomnia. I would gladly give him one of my nights of sleep, if I could. I rubbed his feet, which has been known to help, and buzzed the hair off of his head, which also helps, and he slept, with only one wake-up from Moby. He's still pretty groggy, poor dear. Thankfully, he has flexible hours, and his last minute switching of which-day-worked this week is acceptable.

Dullness reigns today, which is fine. Just fine.

Wrought

The last few years have wrought changes, in our lives, in myself. I'm still figuring out what, exactly, is different, and in what ways. Easiest to focus on the lack of dye. But I see a change in my eyes. Maybe because the pain, while still present, is not constant, not oppressive in the same way. Sometimes it feels as though I've made no headway at all, but when I look back, I realize how bad it had been, and is not now. Even on bad weeks, like the last few. I hurt when I move wrong, when I'm very tired. Not every moment. I'm stiff, but I can sit, I can crouch with difficulty, where once I could not at all. It's hard to remember how much better this is.

Strive

Thin night's sleep, with a cat unable to get comfortable on my legs, so there is much shifting of joints and chin, prodding of paws, shoving with spine. Cat's, not mine. Later, he just settled down near D's feet, where the bed was warmer. (Presumably.)

ND is really tempting me to get on roller skates, since he's learning himself in order to be a more rounded ref for Roller Derby. I'm glad he's enjoying it so much. And the memory of gliding along appeals so strongly. But my back bleats a warning, a fall will be a stunning defeat (puns intended) of injurious proportions. Still, I was once a solid, if in no way flashy, skater. I loved the self propelled speed, much more with skates than on bicycles. Ice or roller, didn't matter, all felt like an effortless dance.

I keep coming up against walls. No sense getting frustrated, just have to find another path. Keep testing for hidden latches to the hidden passageway. Something I can do, some joyous creative expression. Writing here is one, certainly. But I feel I just repeat myself so often. Need something wordless, musical, physical.

All things strive.

Heat

So, our wonderful heated mattress scorched our sheets, my pillowcase and pillow, burned it's own connector black, and is now in the trash. DON'T get a Perfect Fit heated mattress pad. We took our BB&B coupon* and got a Sunbeam, which is a more reliable brand. We also put this Queen size one on our standard double size (quite sufficient for us) for one reason. Dual controls. I cook at night, D freezes. Now we are both comfortable. We shut the furnace off at night completely. I like to warm up the bed, then shut it off, most nights. The pad is a bit fluffy on our mattress, but not too bad, and we got straps to cinch it down a bit. And the controls have a nice dim light, the heat is better distributed, and modulated. All in all, I wish we'd known about this brand three years ago when we got the off brand one.

Moby is happy to have a warm place. During the day, since we turn it on for him, he sticks to D's side. At night, he still prefers to lean on me, so far. While we washed the sheets, Moby didn't care, and now it has black fur on it. I wonder why.


Heat seeking cat.


*Bed, Bath and Beyond, a ridiculously pompously named chain store that sells kitchen, bathroom and bedroom froufrou, with a small amount of actually useful items. Much better supplied with 'useful' in Boston, less so here, but it does work for bedding. And they send out "20% off one item" coupons with great regularity. You can also get a lot of "As Seen On TV!" items there. Shop with caution.

Crush

Series of bad dreams last night. Living at my parent's house, having trouble getting out in the morning, all my necessary things mislaid. Finally kiss them goodbye, and find that two keys are missing from my keyring, and I know I didn't remove them, frantic and furious and just want out. ANY dream where I still live there is inherently a nightmare.

A yellow school bus, and something is pushing the seats, crushing people then pulling back. The official who is supposed to be watching for problems is having an irrational argument with a woman on the curb. I try to slide myself out of the central path, pull another girl out of the way. Right before the final crush, it opens up and most of us get out, but then the thing compresses completely and people are killed. I get out and stab the official repeatedly. Dream ends, and I am deeply comforted by Moby's presence, leaning against one leg.

In the middle of an operation, my scrub needs to break to get some food. It's close enough to the end that the surgeon, resident and med student can manage without a scrub, so I tell her fine. But she doesn't come back, so I go out to find the scrub, get in the car to a local cafe, and find D with two friends eating, and ask when he's going to come back. He wants to finish eating, so I drive back. When I'm in the hospital parking lot, a cop stops me, then seems to let me go. I get into my spot, and cop is there again, demanding my insurance papers. I know they are in my bag, but I can't find them. By now D has walked back, and we are going through everything to find the papers, the cop standing there, in helmet and sun glasses, waiting. I find old photos, ID of all sorts, but not the insurance. And I'm getting very worried about the surgery going on that I have to be in the room for. And if anything's gone wrong, I could lose my job.

Woke again to Moby leaning on me, and I get up gladly.

I don't know why I've been having so many vivid dreams lately, but I'd much rather not.

Spaces

Moby loves the new table. He now has computer access, to warm his butt.

Vivid dreams, of distant places, trains, slow movement, the army, bowling and a cat saunters through it. So worn when I got home last night, crashed hard while reading The Science of Discword. D got me into bed, and I submerged immediately, into more dreams that left me immovable, untouchable.


Got the TENS unit on, really need new stickers for the leads. It helps, I will feel better by tomorrow, I'm sure. But today I am stiff and afraid to move much, the modulated electrical pulses causing me to be dull and distracted. Going for a massage next month, massage therapist who works for the Physical Therapy department, so there are few openings. Highly recommended, so that should help, then. Now, doing what I can to battle the tense encroachment.

The rearrangement and ridding ourselves of the huge desk is in a bid for just a little more space. One more little room would make a huge difference, and it's quite unobtainable right now. We've pared our lives down so much, more loss is more than would make sense. We could, and have, lived with less. But prefer not to long term, wanting just a bit more comfort. In the one apartment too large for us, we did not fill it up, but stayed with the same amount of stuff. We are about one, small, room short of our natural amount of area for preference. Here, one main room is all the room, open to the bedroom. And the bathroom is through the bedroom, which is not ideal, not even close. Livable, but we keep hitting our elbows and toes.

And we don't want to move.

Word

I've been wanting a meme, it's been so long. So, one comes along. From Jessica. A quietly marvelous artist.


Answer each using only one word. (How Appropriate!)

Where is your phone? There.

Your hair? Grey.

Your Mother? Compartmentalized.

Your Father? Petty.

Your favourite food? Chocolate.

Your dream last night? Australia.

Your favourite drink? Beer.

Your dream/goal? Ocean.

What room are you in? All.

Your hobby? Reading.

Your fear? Pain.

Where do you want to be in six years? Peace.

Where were you last night? Movies.

Something that you're not? Angry.

Muffins? Butter.

Wish list item? Space.

Where did you grow up? City.

Last thing you did? Eat.

What are you wearing? Comfy.

Your TV? Small.

Your pets? Furry.

Friends? Scattered

Your life? Good

Your mood? Accepting

Missing someone? Friends.

Vehicle? Peppy.

Something you're not wearing? Shoes.

Your favourite store? Eccentric.

Your favourite colour? Purple

When was the last time you laughed? Now.

The last time you cried? Morning.

Your best friend? Moira.

One place that I go to over and over? Bookshelf.

Facebook? Irrelevant.

Favourite place to eat? Iguana.


There grey compartmentalized, petty chocolate Australia beer. Ocean all reading, pain peace, movies angry butter space city. Eat comfy, small furry, scattered good accepting friends. Peppy shoes eccentric purple. Now, morning Moira, bookshelf. Irrelevant Iguana.

Arrangement

In black and white, with cat.

Game

We headed out to a Munchkin game night, after I got home from work and took a shower. Looked for a while like only a handful of sixteen year old boys would show, but one older guy joined us, and ND arrived late- due to a pizza mishap, so we barricaded the table, and played just adults, at Munchkin Impossible. Great writing and art on the cards, very witty and silly. A well designed game. We mostly played cooperatively the first round. I won in a last minute gush of luck. Then the knives came out. And I won again. I also got to wear a Shooty Hat. (Not a real hat, just a card, but a Russian, American Triple agent (not telling my other loyalty) can imagine.)

For my birthday present, I am going to take ukulele lessons. No, don't wish me any happys yet, it's not til next month. But we tend to refer to non-utilitarian personal outlays as occasion presents. Keeps us from feeling guiltily indulgent. This is a long neglected corner of my life. I do want to play a bit, and I'm getting nowhere on my own. Maybe I can still so clearly remember a violin teacher when I was a kid, who was more interested in my being able to hold the instrument between my chin and clavicle than getting me excited about the music. I wound up with a bruised chin, and a sense that I had no talent. While resenting him for assuming I would ever want to be a concert violinist before I could get a good tone from the bow on strings.

Moby loves the new arrangement. When we are both here, he hops up to sit beside us.

Oh

Oh, two! Or O2, which we finally have some of. The snow trickle started early this morning, and did bupkus for several hours, the particulates thickened again, to my dismay. But just a little breeze followed, which was enough to scatter the worst of the aerosolized muddy pollution, so that by afternoon, breathing became a recommended activity again.



We got out to Red Iguana for lunch. I'd been getting in a mood, and hot suizas always helps in that regard. When we got home, the maintenance guy came in and drilled holes for the shelves, which we put up with only a moderate amount of swearing and extra holes drilled in the shelves themselves, and only one trip back to Ace Hardware to exchange a misaligned bracket. Much rearrangement and vacuuming and back pain later, and we are settled and sitting next to each other. The table still needs to be finished, and the counter still needs to be cleaned, stuff needs to be donated to the library, but all in all, it is better.


Finished reading The Authoritarians, by Bob Altemeyer. Eye opening and disturbing, he describes research on people who seem to make no sense at all to me. The first chapter is dense, the rest much easier to read.

Equations

Cat + electric bed pad = Happy.



Cat + White shirt left on bed = Happy.

Muck

(From the Air Quality Division, University webcam.)
The air is still very bad. Some hope for Monday, and next week. Nothing new, but recently worse.

D was exasperated with the current desk/cable nest situation, so we worked out a way to get rid of the desk, by putting up shelves and getting a table we could both sit at. Since me at the kitchen counter brought other problems, which is to say me whining about everything being put on what I used as a desk, from keys to food and dirty dishes, to mail and gloves. We have already got our taxes figured, if not officially, so we are using a small portion of the expected return to make this place more livable. And we can sit together while online, again.

We weren't going to actually buy anything today. But the only furniture store where we figured we'd find anything worth having, was unexpectedly going out of business. Not quite the bad news it seems, since the owner was just ready to sell up and retire to join the Peace Corps, no debts, not a matter of the economy. And we got a great deal on a solid alder table just the right size. Got it in the car, dismantled. So, we had to clear out the desk, with no other place to put the table. Picked up serviceable shelves. The desk went within an hour of being listed on Craigslist, picked up and paid for. Well, we passed on the spirit of economy, and they got a great deal too.

The shelves will go up when our building maintenance guys drill the holes. They prefer to do that, and we like it that way as well.

Of course D had to do a lot of cable and cord sorting, with lots of dust mopped and vacuumed by me. Everything in a silent uproar of clutter. Moby circled us suspiciously. He would prefer we never moved or cleaned anything ever, but he doesn't get to vote.


He gets to glare.


(That's him on the shelf of the cat tree, staring at me balefully.)

Shortly after, once we moved his stool in place, he figured out that he can lounge between us, and that is ideal. We've been provisionally forgiven.

Questions

My mind was racing around with so many ideas the other night. I got to talk with IT people, a chemist, a civil engineer, several artists, a fellow military escapee, among others. They'd never heard of the Fortean Times. Several were Terry Pratchett readers, "Stiff" was discussed.

Most were happier with the term agnostic than atheist, since we were even skeptical of the assurance of atheists. I find that the phenomenon of belief is more interesting than whether or not there actually are supernatural beings, or being. Or if religious belief is an evolutionary advantage, or the artifact of a different one.

Three things in medical research. Sickle cell anemia is a nasty disease, sickle cell trait is protective against malaria. Ulcerative colitis is unknown in populations with endemic intestinal parasites, so is probably protective, and only appears when the parasites are absent. The appendix appears to sequester gut bacteria to repopulate the intestines after cholera, useful after all, since most human populations often dealt with cholera, and a few individuals dead of appendicitis didn't change that advantage in evolution. The diseases are a kind of artifact, not the actual function. So, perhaps religious belief is also an artifact. Not the actual advantage, possibly even the drawback, of another aspect that does promote overall survival of a population.

This is not surety, but a question.

All in all, I either know, or am content to live with doubt and uncertainty. Belief seems such a fragile crust to build one's life upon. For me, anyway.

Games

Last evening we both got out to social events, despite overflowing reluctance. D to a game night that a local game shop sponsors. I went to a meet up for Skeptics. D enjoyed himself, and so did I. Met some really smart, funny folks, and we managed a series of good conversations despite the blaring music. Bad venue, excellent company. I felt emotionally and intellectually energized.

Too bad the predicted storm fizzled, leaving the air just as bad as before. Worst in the country, yeah we win, woohoo. Work up feeling ill, but not enough to call in to work. Got through, scrubbed in, most of the day, but on the last case I flushed hot, nauseated, dizzy, and had to ask for relief from the add on case. Thankfully, that was possible. I got home safely, lunch still inside, and D got me club soda and crackers. This is the worst I've seen the inversion, and it's making me sick. I grew up with a coal furnace, I used to stoke it, once I was old enough. Black snot a feature of my childhood winters. So I figure my lungs are pretty much shot even though I don't smoke. It's probably better here than in, say, Beijing, parts of the old USSR.


After more tea and a long hot shower, my head is calming down, my stomach settling. Moby snores, and is intermittently agitated. D's head and eyes hurt.

I'm looking forward to more gatherings of Skeptics. I'm going with D to the Munchkin game night next week, since it's a Tuesday, and I don't have to be home early to get to bed on time.

Antidote

From Avus, an antidote.


ON CHILDREN


An excerpt from "The Prophet" by Kahlil Gibran


And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said,
"Speak to us of Children".
And he said:

Your children are not your children,
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but are not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and
He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
So he loves also the bow that is stable.

Regurgitation

Old thoughts running around in my brain. Working with a nurse I once worked with, years ago. Drama all the way. And I'm much more in love with boring, aka reliable and pleasantly dull. Remembering working the burn room in Boston's hospital, the heat, and the guy who'd been found electrocuted on top of a commuter train after a bar crawl (alive, if you can call it that.) Old names cropping up like floating corpses, not really welcome.

I often think of my mother, to whom I have not spoken for over five years. I think about calling her, of course I do, but then some angry memory bobs to the surface, the insistence on pastels (that I hated), that I had to go buy my own tampons at age 11, because she was clueless, and there was no kind of communication between us. She wasn't bad when I was a child, but my maturation was an unbridgeable gap that never closed, and she showed no interest in me as an adult. It's all too sad, but we never really liked each other as people, in no small part because I never let her get to know me when I became so much of what she was clearly on record as hating.

I sometimes feel so deeply unknown by those who most loudly claimed "unconditional love" to me. There is no such thing. Parents may feel great and powerful emotions toward their children, many I am sure do. But if they don't bring those strong urges into the reality of the people they have raised, and accept them as separate individuals that interest them, that they admire, their offspring will be lost to them, in part or whole. All love is conditional, parental love especially. We strive to earn their respect, and know, despite reassurances, that we'd better live the kind of life they value, or we will not be loved at all.

Love is more that this. Love is a process, a trade, but one where each feels eternally indebted to the other, an overflow of admiration and joy. It can happen with parents and offspring, I've seen it. I just have no idea how that would feel.

I was the daughter my mother longed for, except that I wasn't. Huge disappointment for her. Not entirely my fault. Some deeply deviant side of myself.

They fuck you up, your mum and dad...

The air is a poison fug in this valley, worst in the country. I go outside for a smoke. Which is to say, I go outside and breathe. My lungs hurt, my eyes rasp in my head, my thoughts are murky. Had to report a dead deer at work. A small scrub area surrounds the building, we often see deer in the winter, come down from the foothills. Yesterday I saw one lying flat out among the small trees, it never moved from morning to afternoon. I kept hoping, although I knew, as one does.

Plow

Serious snow. And a train plows through it.

Boots

Here it is Saturday, and so little writing done. Cold here, but I feel no need to really complain. Yes, the cold clocked in at 0˚F, and topped out at 0˚C (not quite but I'm not about to quibble.) Yes, the air quality is far below required federal standards. But we have good insulation, adequate heating, a heated bed pad, parkas, toasty sweaters. If there'd been (blessed, cleansing!) snow, there are sufficient plows and salt, and usually clear roads within a few hours. We get this sort of weather, so are prepared for it.

No so Britain, and why would they? When snow is occasional, there is no point in that kind of infrastructure investment. Rather like Seattle last year, who took weeks to dig out from a snowstorm that would have been inconvenient for us here for a day or two. I especially feel for the thin blooded folks of our deep south, who live in houses built airy to stay cool, no coats, no boots, and no stores that stock anything much of such items. Camping suppliers must be about cleaned out of anything with wool or down or fleece by now. Pathetic heaters, if any.

Cold I love, I never much minded it even in Boston, where at least two weeks of every winter we spent there, the temperature never got about 0˚F, with wind chills off the ocean beating the tears out of one's eyes. I rose to it, fought and survived, and felt proud of myself, created anew every time. I wore silk long johns, and two pairs of heavy sweatpants, parka, shearling gloves, wool scarf, parka, good boots, and walked fast. I could sense the cold, but not crumble in it, it made me feel so alive. In a way that heat never does.

But I also remember New Jersey in December, in Basic, in army field jackets, socks in the webbing of my helmet, or only that cotton cap on my head, leather shell gloves. Always shivering, huddling for warmth, never ever warm. Exhausted and demoralized by constant cold. That is how I imagine you who are being hit with this drastic change from what you expect.

And if I hear one more person dismissing climate change because it's been called global warming, and it's cold, I'm going to start shouting. Extreme weather is more proof that the climate has changed, will change. I prefer GCFU. Global Climatological Fuck Up.

Everything is broken. Stay warm, prepare for anything.

Aging

So relieved to know I have tomorrow off work, unlike the last month, as I worked at least part of every one of my usual days off. That I had the holidays just doesn't count. It's the number of days in a row at this sort of work. Thirty hours in three days just hurts.

A friend kept talking about an "older woman" he'd spent time with recently, who referred to herself as an "old woman." Repeatedly. I had to ask him to stop, since she is my age, and I am not old. Oh, my body feels old because of the damned pain issue, but I'm not old. Middle aged, sure, fine, not something I fixate on, but reasonable. And I've used the phrase when the young residents drop stuff on the floor that I have to pick up... actually, I then tell them I have an old back, and ask them to pick it up. Which is different. I may even say I feel old on particular days. Even "old lady" I've ironically used, clearly in jest. Gettin' there, but good gods, not there. Over 60, well, that probably begins the qualification. When I worked mostly with the elderly, that was still pretty young. Now, 80, 90, that's really getting up there.

As for not staying up late and partying, I never did. Midnight has been very, very late to me all my life. Strongly diurnal, me. Do better getting up early most days, can't keep late hours. Never pulled an allnighter, even in my 20s. Worked periods of night shifts, and about killed myself doing it, since I can't sleep more than a nap during the day. Never been a high energy person, short bursts only, get a job done then collapse. Nothing new, not a matter of age.

I know what old looks like. The oldest looking people smoke, do meth, don't walk. I know my experiences of the past six years or so have etched the time on my face. I look my age, and fair enough. Most days, I don't quite remember the number, and have to really think about it, am I 48, or going to be 48 shortly? Not that it matters. If my back didn't give me so much crap, I'd feel no different than when I was 30.

Rumple

Moby doing much better, now that there is actual air to breathe. Not snuffling and squeaking and wheezing through his nose this week. Sun helps, or at least proof that the light is getting through with not so much particulate.


That our next door neighbors, the loud ones with their all night summer balcony parties, over the top cell phone calls, booming computer games, and most recently - drums until 0400, have been smoking voluminously these past two weeks, means the long hallway stinks. None seems to be getting under our door since the management added a brush strip. Even our lovely Balkan, smoking maintenance guy thinks the smoke from them "stinks!" Coming home Friday, an ambulance was out the main door, as I came in a woman in a scarf, much bundled, was being rolled out on a gurney, awake but anxious, with one of the guys from next door. I've seen a good half dozen young men in and around that two bedroom apartment, but never her before. Not even on the balcony. This worries me. How isolated she must be.

Then we got all our other neighbor's mail, and our mailbox is next to this loud awful bunch. We figure we've probably lost some mail. Not like they are going to return it. Subbing-holiday mailman error, we assume. Still, all worrisome, and nothing we can do about it. Admittedly, we give the finger when we walk past their door, but that's ultimately harmless. A gesture to our own powerlessness in the face of bold obnoxiousness.

Like we used to raise a finger to our Guard unit armory, which made us feel better, and affected the Army not at all.

Here's to being calm in the face of the inevitable. Smile and shrug.

Knowing

Watching one of those animal planet shows about extraordinary animals. Yes, I know, doesn't narrow it down much. The nursing home dog who knew when people were going to die. The animal psychic with all her cockeyed confidence, made me want to throw something at her. The more scientific approach of the animal behaviorist who was sure it was a scent given off didn't impress me terribly either. Not that the latter is necessarily wrong, so much as the explanation isn't based on any real evidence. Just as much a guess as the psychic, however much given with hedging.

I've worked with the dying. I'm sure something happens when someone dies. As hospice nurses on a floor, we knew when to start watching, and knew when the aide called to us it was because of death. Just as people know when they get the call, and don't need to be told the actual words "she's dead." When I had to call a family, I never had to be more specific, only giving the time- if anything. Odd circumstances happened nearly every time, often not obviously related.

I will not try to guess the mechanism. But the best anecdotes of non-local communication seem to be very real crises, with strong emotional components, between people with a bond. Which is why putting it in a lab cannot recreate the circumstances. Not ethically, anyway. Because it inherently cannot be real peril, is not done with people closely attached, and getting the emotional circumstances right is no end of tricky. Not to mention that the response, the message as received, is not quantifiable. Proof isn't going to come in a neat package.

As for what a dog senses? Problematic.

I do think we are capable of more than just the obvious senses, but I' not about to go all wooo wooo! about it. It's not magical, it's just difficult to qualify. The damned data isn't all hoax, not all foolishness. The exceptions have often been the keys to unlocking understanding. The abnormal informs the normal.

Routine

Every day, I read at certain sites. As I once read particular columns in a newspaper. Comics, features, puzzle, work my way forward to the local news, then the national news. Much the same idea, but with the larger sites, followed by the blogs where I leave a note in the afternoon when I'm more awake, usually.

First, usually is NOAA, the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration, or National Weather Service, for the local weather. Good to know if I will need an extra sweater, or boots.

Then, the comics. Doonesbury, Mutts, Rhymes with Orange, For Better or for Worse, and see if Daisy Owl has a new one. Not as long a list as I once had, because many of the old comics have either A. Stopped being any damn good/funny, or B. Are not available for free. A few others I read are too new and uneven to recommend.

Then the USGS for the U, find out if any interesting earthquakes have shaken the area.

Nothing to do with Abroath for a general run down on the weirdness.

Carolyn Hax for sanity.

Then, depending on updating status, Cats, Maru the Cat, Fails, Wins, bad ink, confusing images, & the dangerously clever. I may go to Pete's photo, since I can always comment later.

Mostly Images, easily digested by a sleep clogged brain, takes very little time.

Usually I read the news sites from work on break, the local rag, the Beeb, Washington Post, NYT, Christian Science Monitor, urls I can recall. And at least one trip to Wikipedia. Depending on the day, of course.

The WP has a good crossword online, nothing flashing at me, but has a Check and Reveal button, which I use only after I'm stuck.

Mental stimulation, connection to the world at large, stuff to talk about, a structure to hang my thoughts upon.

A good book trumps all.

Zip

Yesterday went zip.

One surgeon with her fellow and a resident did eleven cases in two rooms within seven hours. Mostly smaller cases, and she is first rate, and did right by each patient, but everyone was highly motivated to finish the day. Which is to say, I was home by 1600, with a cup of tea and some entertaining cookies. I was not entirely entertained, more like pleased, but that'll do. Can't expect that much from a mere cookie.

The roads were merely wet at 0700 yesterday, the snow apparently stopped early enough the night before to allow the plows to keep them clear, and the temps high enough not to then form lovely black ice. A poorly organized pot luck in our department (way too much sugar.) Indian rice and stew. I'd thrown in a bag of baby carrots in my pack the night before because I had nothing else to take for lunch. It became a much welcomed bowl of community carrots, and I got dessert. Bread, orange, carrots and chocolate. I rarely eat from the home cooked pots. Probably safe, but the hepatitis C outbreak in this town, although blamed on various restaurants - media got all het up about the closures- turned out to be home cooked food brought to pot lucks. Pot bad luck. Oral fecal route on that disease.

We didn't much feel like seeing midnight, although we heard it, as downtown fireworks went off.

Moby seems considerably better today, not as jumpy and irritable. The air, while not ideal, is breathable. Especially for little lungs.

There maybe a more holiday themed post later today. Right now, I'm enjoying having slept in and not being at work. Plenty of joy just in that.