Lima

Lima is for L.

As in Lima, Peru, with an Eeeeee sound, not like lima beans with a schwa little i as in it.






L is lingual, tongued, languaged, lapping and licking.



In Spanish, double the L, and you get another sound, as in tortilla.



Liminal limes limping limply in lines.

Lasting lateness, languorously lazing.

Lots of loruses.




Luminous lutes.



All lavender lillies.



And limitless love.




Zulu, Yankee, X-ray, Whiskey, Victor, Uniform, Tango, Sierra, Romeo, Quebec, Papa, Oscar, November, Mike, Lima.

Lasting

Reading over last December. Reminded of my reverse alphabet. Since I seem averse to writing, at least here, I will pick that up as a template.

Sent letters, emails, to all the people on my list. Everyone I felt comfortable wishing Good Yule to, or Happy New Year. Not one stock email readdressed, but a specific note to each. I've done both, in my time, but this was personal. Almost everyone replied, which is lovely, but not expected. Yes, I have friends. We all do. This is the form it takes these days. However much I love a good hug or an evening in companionable conversation, or silence, the written connection, paper or electronic, really is good. Easy to schedule, just as reassuring, a comfort as all friendship is, in any form.

So, I will pick up the alphabet again. Lima is next. After completed, I will open a new blog just for that.

Cleaned the living room, and the mud room. The only reason I finally got to the last one, Eleanor caught another mouse there this morning. I heard her thumping about before I got up, near the litter boxes there. Once I rose, I figure out what she was after, hopping and lunging around the boxes energetically, as Moby watched in fascination on the rug nearby. I did not interfere. A while later, after she'd settled on the bed, I came in to dress, and she bopped down, and sniffed at a spot on the rug. I praised her and put the mouse-corpse in a baggie, then petted her until she purred. I managed to only shudder a little, wanting to reward her for a job well done.

Then I scrubbed the mud room/stairwell utterly, laid down peppermint and eucalyptus.

Moby has a bit of a runny eye. Not crusty, just drippy. Have gotten him mild eyedrops, he's looking better already, but not perfect. Not infected, just irritated, either by virus or allergy I believe. If it's not cleared by next week, we'll take him in. But flushing it seems to be helping already. Poor old guy, the air is smoggy again.

Calendar

A calendar flips
As good a time as any
To count the changes.

Chair

Slept. Feeling like I'm fighting off a virus, cold sore and all. Could just be fatigue, after the last month of rushing. Back-of-the-headaches I can't seem to shift. Offered a day off next week, gladly accepted Monday.

Dim sum at the Hong Kong Tea House, brought home the extra order of sticky rice in lotus leaf, aromatic and tasty, nourishing, reheats perfectly. Ran a series of errands, first to The King's English bookshop to redeem D's parents' gift card.

D fascinated by this book that came through his hands at work at the library. In no small part wondering how the various cataloguing and circulation processes will work with all its bits and pieces.

I spotted this one, and had a nice talk with the bookshop lady about both.



Cat food, and litter since we were there, laundry soap - refilled at a local green-eco oriented shop, a few groceries, sand for the ice sheet that is our driveway between the houses.

Today is a good day to thaw out the thickest of the ice, sun and smog.

I may have had too much tea.

Drowse

Eleanor wanted to play.

I'm looking at the mess with utter disinterest. Can't be arsed.



Earlier this week, I asked D if we could fill each other's stockings for Christmas morn. Nothing fancy, small and silly, but something. He agreed.

He woke in the wee hours, as he so often does. I asked him the time, since I'd been struggling with migrating blankets.

"Threeish."

"We can't get up now, Santa won't come!" I muttered. He laughed.

I wound up getting up about fourish, since I couldn't sleep either. We toasted the cranberry bread, I had tea, D milk and eggnog, and we found that Santa had indeed, already been. He left us an orange each in our stockings, which was nice. D got me cozy socks, I got him a long sleeve t-shirt, we were both quite pleased. Watched Moby get up on the barrel and explore the tree, delicately.

Then we remade the bed, and crawled back in, to sleep a few more hours. I'm roasting a turkey roll, making cranberry sauce, D will whip up stuffing/dressing. He promises me we'll sweep and vacuum, but I may not want to bother. We plan to attend the free showing of It's a Wonderful Life this evening.

Bunch

Working with a great bunch today, every single one of the team a joy. Surgeon suggested christmas music, but did not insist.


So I pulled up the Utube, and took requests. G, the Korean* descended anesthesia resident, from Oregon, very funny smartass, started us off with Wham, Last Christmas. I played TMBG's Santa's Beard. N, the Fellow, of Egyptian parentage, from Louisiana, got There Ain't no Chimneys in the Projects, Sharon Jones & the Dap Kings. Dr. H, Surgeon got Bob Seager and Little Drummer Boy. We just played soul for a while, then E, the scrub/musician, asked for Vince Guaraldi's Charlie Brown Christmas. The whole album available, we play that. More soul As they finished the last patient, right before one PM, I put that on again. It's well worth hearing twice.

Or more, I'm listening again.

Clocked out at 1330, with much help cleaning up. A day and a half off, better than some years when I worked trauma center hospitals.

P, whose husband went fishing in Alaska in the spring, gave me some of their salmon, still frozen. I nearly wept. I'd asked her, joking, for just a wee bit, when she was telling of his fishing adventures, months ago. She gave me two large fillets, several meals for me, in a shiny bag and bow. (We know not to wrap gifts for each other - too much like work.) Told her it was the best present I'd been given in many years. It really is.

Sun bright and warm, 40˚F/ 4C, everything melting. Moby out for a long stretch, sniffing everything, slipped on a bit of icy snow, but kept going. A chance to bask. After so much cold, then smog, then snow and grey skies, this little thaw is a moment of ease.


May you find as well suited a joy.



*I asked him if there was a humor gene common in Koreans. He seemed to think it might be a valid theory.

Festivus

The festival for the rest of us. One of the few really great ideas to come out of a show I almost never watched. Actually, I watched one episode about three times, as so often happened with broadcast tv, nothing on, you watch a show with minimal appeal, and it's the same episode as the last time you were in that situation. But that phrase, oh, I do love and use.

I suspect I'll be using another one this week at work, from the same source. "Not that there's anything wrong with that!" They did have a touch for the catchphrase.

Saturday was lovely. Outside to clear a bit of snow, but not a lot. We met D's parents for a really good lunch, and together wandered the winter market. Opportunity to congratulate our first gay married couple in the state, and buy nice tea from them. Came home and ate cranberry potato bread and lounged. Shared rotisserie chicken with the cats, which they very much appreciated.

Sure felt like christmas. Festivus, at any rate.

The Cafe Rio Grande (in the old train station) is our idea of comfort food, southwest style. D's parents as well, who are from Texas and California originally. Me, just from the Mexican enclave of Detroit, now formally called Mexicantown. Went to school with kids whose parents came from Mexico generations before mine came from Ireland or Belgium - then through Canada, emigrating to the US only in my parents'. So, by some strange osmosis, I consider burritos and chiles rellenos to be comfort food. I certainly never ate them as a kid.

We made pizza for lunch today, D with yellow peppers and olives, green onions, tomatoes, me with the fried mushrooms. Enjoying getting the dough from TJs, spicy marinara, smoked mozzarella, and making it ourselves. Restoreth the soul.

So, whatever Wednesday is, I feel I've had my solstice celebration with the people I love. The rest is the Yuletide, ebbing out.

That simple.


Watching, again, The Vanishing of Pato. So funny, and I know I'm missing a lot of subtext, but the charm works on me.

Solo

Moby enjoying his tree.


And his solitude.




And not too much later, after a reshuffling, Moby at the top, Eleanor below.



Ten minutes and he decides he wants her gone, and swats at her until she gets off HIS tree, dammit.

Inspection

And not too much later…

Ersatz

As the sun rose, metaphorically, I decorated the tree. As the earth revolved so that the sun appeared, theoretically, on the horizon, 0748 local time, I unwrapped these tiny treasures, gathered over a lifetime. And hung them on our little silk fir ersatz tree. And sang,

Venite adoremouse/Venite adoremouse/Venite adoremouse! For Eleanor!



I have mentioned I like my yule tree encrusted and gaudy. When it comes to christmas decoration, I want the whole jewel box out and glittering.

Cats have long been a theme. The oldest (lantern) and the newest(Xmission logo) together. Surprized at how many of them are fairly recent, the glass ornaments from childhood a much smaller proportion, partly due to attrition, which is to say breakage.



And little initials*, for the two of us who can spell.

Happy Crossword Anniversary! Good Yule! Bon Hiver! Let it glow.












*Consider that ZH and J can sound alike, and that I use a nom-de-blog.

Solstice

Eve of the solstice.
Living bones under winter.
Sparks in the darkness.


I never thought I'd see it, gay marriage, here, not before national enforcement. In Utah. But the door has been broken down, and as much as the fearful old guard is planning to replace it, their war is lost, even though there are still battles to come.



We made it to 99 cases this week. Despite joking calls for one more little case, we stuck at 99. It's a record for this facility. Today flowed well. I had to scrub out our 8 hour shift scrub and leave my nearly done room. My original surgeon came in, partly to needle his colleague, but made a point to thank me for a good day. Sometimes, the small kindnesses make it all worthwhile.



Got to meet the first couple, they run a loose tea concern, and they happened to be at the winter farmer's market, so I took the opportunity to congratulate them, and get some very nice tea.

Turnaround

Wet, icy, sloppy storm blew through, treacherous roads. All I had to do was take the power-shovel out. So, much as this has been a very hard week so far, switching my day off made my day, may even have saved my life.

That new tool was a miracle. It even made a good chomp through the underlying icy slush already solidified under the snow. Imperfect, but easier than chopping with a shovel.



And snow falls. We'll be out there again, later. It's not the amount so much as the slush beneath. I'll leave some for D, so I won't be completely exhausted tomorrow.


The house across the street is coming along. Windows are in, and I find the proportions rather pleasing. Someone with a good eye has a hand in this, it's not just a box.


I did get the lights on the tree last night. Wasn't as late a shift, clocked out about 1630. Nothing like the occasional colored lights to cheer me in the dark of the year.


Found this photo on my local news site. The right side is sad, the left makes it farce.

Unyule

Having such a major cultural holiday on my usual day off really sucks. Work is only closed the day I wasn't going to be there anyway, and I don't have any other day off that week. Add to how much busy we've been, and I just want to curl up into a corner and sob a bit.


I should not have agreed to the schedule change, to cover for today, and have tomorrow off instead. I've had three full, and two late days, as reward.

Really could have used a Yuletide this year. All the emotional dredging has not settled in. Necessary, but fresh wounds and all. Not to mention a retinacular cyst. Got the hand surgeon to take a moment (all it takes for them) to diagnose me. If it persistently bothers me, I'll get him to take it out, but until then, it will come and go and I'll ignore it, which he agreed with completely.


I have really come to appreciate the skills of hand surgeons. Nothing new, but as a group, I've never med a bad one. They are remarkably skilled, work very hard and efficiently, and with remarkable talent. I like hand surgeons. Even the cranky ones. They tend to be fast, efficient. So many cases are very small, but always hands, so important, not to be messed with.


Going to sleep tomorrow, then put lights on the tree. Maybe decorate, maybe not.


So tired.

And it's not like I've never worked the holidays before, I just knew ahead of time. Call, weekends, holidays, this is the norm in my work. The problem this year was the not knowing.

Parka

Two days down, one to go, in a row. Record breaking week at work. More to come. Hurts.

Phil reminds me of my parka as a kid. We were in Montgomery Ward, a store even then more or less on the ropes. In the aisle, a rack of OD green parkas, orange lining, for (I seem to remember) $20. Having looked at coats recently, I knew this was cheaper, by a good stretch, anyway. One look, and I was in love.

My friend Anna had a down jacket she kept warm with. My wool coat, or the suede long coat, never did. I'd kept a watch for a really warm jacket.

Brought my mother over, this was the coat I wanted for winter. She was utterly aghast, too expensive, can't afford that, and so ugly. I urged her, the price was much less, see? Oh, well, but, are you sure you'll wear this? Reluctance and doubt and a bargain took over her. I assured her, I would love it. With great hesitation, reason and rare insistence from me working, she agreed. Maybe it was only $15. I was in about 8th or 9th grade at the time, 13 or 14 years old. Shockingly unlike my vain age group, perhaps. Hated being cold. She bragged about wearing skirts all winter, I thought that rather foolish, but never told her that.

And wear it I did. That winter, or perhaps the next, with temps well below zero (-17), the car didn't start, and I had to walk to school. Once I got there, found it had been closed for the storm, walked back home. A mile, perhaps? Twice. Just a bit over, according to oogle.gaps. With the hood zipped up to a periscope, hands in pockets, only my legs and feet were cold, cheeks a bit. A wonder and a miracle.

Kept that ugly, beautiful warm parka, for many, many years. My mother never really said another word about it, one way or another, that I remember. Didn't fit her idea of me, I suspect. But I am practical to the core, I just happen to have a pervasive esthetic sense to run alongside. Beauty follows function. Anything really useful and well made takes on a grace that exceeds it's looks, adds to them.

When we prepared to move to Boston, we both got parkas from land-send, because of cash-backs from our credit card, so they were, in a way, free. Black for me, blue for D, and still our cold weather coats. Essential, really. The coat that lets in no appreciable cold, no matter what. Hoods, deep pockets, insulated well, they are an enduring joy.


When the cold wind really cuts, nothing like a decent parka. Especially if cheap, or free.

Shiny

Shift in my shifts, working three days, then Thursday off, then Friday on. Big days, which is why they asked me to cover. Which is fine, busy time of year. Bracing myself for long days, and accumulations of pains. Got beer ready.

Considered putting up the tree, although it feels too soon. The the same silk tree we've had for years and moves in endless tiny apartments. I think it looks rather wonderful on the barrel, as though growing out of the oak, a fir graft. Can't imagine a larger tree, although we could make room for one. I prefer to encrust a yule tree, bejewel it densely. Ornaments on every branch. D suggested just putting the tree up, so if Eleanor gets curious, she can investigate safely, leaving lights and decorations for the weekend.

This seems completely sensible, which is part of why I married him, lo these twenty years.

He's also the one to remember it's our official, legal anniversary, this year. The least remembered one, we've counted our activation date, celebrated the Friday after Thanksgiving, the real one. That was 23 years ago. Or our moving in date, 1 July - Canada Day, 21 1/2 years ago. For most of the time, the LDS bishop performance of a low key ceremony at his parents house, three younger brothers made to wear ties sitting on the sofa, his mom's angel food cake, and balloons, his father with the certificate, was a date we had to figure out rather than remember. I was getting over the flu, just finished finals for that term, and flew out the next day to visit my parents. Already had the plane tickets when we decided to do the legal thing. I was in a bit of a fevered fog, but deeply glad. Still am.

The legal stuff has certainly come in handy. For insurance, credit rating, hospital visits, buying this house. Simplifies interaction with the outside world. Between us, it's largely irrelevant. Took me seven years to change my name, and that because of the definitive break with my father. We discussed choosing a new name for both of us, but not being a royal family, we couldn't come up with anything appropriate. So, we went with his illustrious* name, and I left my distinctive, difficult French Canadian name, and a slightly higher spot in the alphabet, behind. No regrets, I have to spell it fewer times.

Yes, I think any two adults should be able to be married. Don't make churches do it, just municipalities.

So far, no trouble with Sparky here. I may start with non-breakable shiny things, see how it goes. She was, for the first time we've seen, on the top of the cat-tree this morning. But Moby got to go outside, so perhaps there was some negotiation.







*He's kin to the Rockefellers, a generation before the money. And an early governor of Massachusetts.

Masks

Awful air, pollution jerky. Wore masks snitched from work, for the walk for groceries, which helped a bit. For it to be real help, we'd need respirators, or N95 masks. Those kinds of face-tight masks are rather miserable to wear. As were the gasmasks we had to carry with us, and occasionally don, during GWI. (Found I could sleep in it, as long as I didn't snore.) But today's masks are what I wear every day in the OR, so it felt very normal.

Keeping the house warm, today. Both of us tired of being cold, wearing on our nerves. Extreme dust abatement in the bedroom, vacuumed the rug bare. Laundering away. Not feeling like it at all, but it smells so much better. So lovely, to get working and have to take off the heavy sweater. A day's holiday from the cold, too much, too soon, too ugly.

We also got chocolate treats, one of those terrible temptations about Trader Joe's. Chocolate orange sticks for D, chocolate bing cherries for me. Momentary flashback to (aunt)Madeline's awful "chocolate" covered "cherries", the cheap kind with the brown wax enclosing bitter unidentifiable fluid around borderline rotting "cherries"- if, indeed, they were anything organic. Mostly learned to avoid them, or how to spit them out inconspicuously. For a long time, I thought I hated fruit with chocolate. Apparently, I hate BAD fruit in BAD chocolate.

Love GOOD Chocolate over GOOD cherries.

Turmeric

Pair of hard days, bad air, frigid. But my head continues to settle in to a more peaceful place, even as the ugliest thoughts surface. Funny, that. I kept stepping in to the memory, taking care of my child-self, not leaving her to suffer alone. Indulging some violent fantasies, the turning them, turning them again, until they become kinder. But I have to go through the process. That I learned with my guide, to flush the worst out, follow with cleaner feelings.

Cats continue to enjoy chasing. Moby still old and prefers to warm on the hotpad-through the cat-bed most of the time. But he also relishes a good cat-chase, now. We hear her high "Mew!" then her galloping run, then Moby's steady stalk shortly after. Sometimes, we hear a chase, then a Hiss, as Moby decides enough's enough, or that he's declaring himself the winner and that's that. Either way, he's simply being emphatic, not hostile.

It's been a long road, and not over. All in all, I think Eleanor has been good for us. I believe we've been good for her as well. She's calmer, and purrs when petted in the time before the chime goes off, and she gets a cuddle. As I get snuggled by my comical cat.

Picked up Moby when I got home, he purred and clung to me. No moaning, just happy to be hugged. I like to think the meds and the turmeric seem to help all of us.

Noticing the hands of one of my patients, today. Looked like he did physical labor, but without the staining of a mechanic or a rancher, the grease and dirt that tattoo the skin. So few jobs mark the hands, as so often in the past. A seamstress, a tanner, a dyer or a weaver, would all be marked by their work. I've had ranchers and mechanics apologize for their hands, I assure them I know they are clean, and the dirt is not dirt. This guy's hands were unstained, but still showed evidence of hard work, callused and dry, rounded fingernails.

I wonder if my own hands mark me, dry, hangnails, trimmed very short, a number of thin white scars.

Internment

Ob lig a tion/keep in rhythm/ obligation, ready begin. (Remember the hand clapping game?)


Set the table/wash the dishes/set the table/wash the dishes.
Iron shirts/pants and hankies/ Iron them well for no thank-ees.
Miss Independence, make people happy take some help/woman's libber.
Son of a bitch/son of a bitch/brat/ damn you to hell you sonofabitch.
You hurt your mother you hurt your mother you hurt your mother.
If you are too sick to go to church, you are too sick to go anywhere.
You don't have friends, you are so rude, you don't have friends, you are so rude.
Of course he loves you, he's your father. Of course he loves you, he's your father.


Now I see them, written out, I know they are my parent's fears and angers. Passed down, a toxic inheritance. Both together. Left to me.

I always knew there would be nothing left, hell, nothing to start with. The debts excised. Only scars to show where the curse was laid. Now, I am left to execute the remains. Bury them, after scraping the bones, cover them with ochre, proper words all intoned.

My rabbi/sherpa/warrior/nun/shaman shakes the rattles, moans the death rites, frees me from the dead, lays a hand on my shoulder in compassion, and is gone.

My hands sting from the slapping, my throat sore with shouting, but my heart, finally, truly, at ease.

Life will be hard and soft, as it always is in turns. But the dead will bury the dead, and I will dance.

For a while yet, anyway.

Obligation

Woke thinking about having to go to church on Sunday, the only exception being when I was sick. And if I was too sick to go to church, I was too sick to go anywhere else that day. Sort of an automatic grounding. My childhood was full of such mandatories.

Mostly the family obligations, I had to be there, reading a book was verboten - unspeakably rude. So I had to sit there, and engage in the conversation - without interrupting or being a pest, no moping, no sulking, no getting that look on my face. If I failed in any particular, specifically with my father's family, I would be shouted at in the car the whole,long, way home. Mostly, the drive from Amherstburg, across the bridge, to Detroit, was full of hectoring at me. Told how rude I was, how ignorant. I had to gladly accept any food given me, with gratitude and evident enjoyment, no matter how awful it was. That I was excluded made no difference. That they were talking about curtains - I remember that rant clearly, made no difference. That I was bored and could only hear their bad grammar and was not allowed to play with anything and the nasty peanut butter was thickly dumped on stale bread, mattered not. His only sister, who never showed any interest in me, had to be treated the same as my aunts who clearly loved me.

Wait. Madeline did express sudden interest in me. When I was about 16 or so. Out of the blue. So weird it seemed at the time, I deflected it completely. But, had I my mother's back up on this one, unexpectedly. There were gifts and cards, when there never had been before. She kept trying to hug me. There was a distinct creepiness about it, but I had no clue what.

Since adulthood, I've always suspected an unhealthy attachment between my father and his only sister. Knew he'd been held back starting school, so she, a year younger, would start with him. That he insisted on a birthday cake for her at his wedding, her birthday being the next day. My father lacked boundaries, but then so did his next older brother - less profoundly. Not that I'll ever know exactly what, but the shape of this is suggestive. Perhaps the three youngest suffered mishandling, it would explain much. The whole family had some nasty history, although with the preponderance of lies, it's impossible to know clearly.

Had a friend who told me he won't be told not to like someone. A mutual friend was being an ass to me, and I assured him that was just fine, I would not ask him to drop a friend just because I didn't like them anymore. But for me, I won't be forced to socialize with people I don't like, just because I'm told I must. He was isolated as a kid. I was on display, participation demanded. He's a big, friendly social bear. I'm a quiet conversation in the kitchen during a party. Took a long time for me to simply deny the obligation to go be festive.

Most of my adulthood was about not accepting other's ideas of what I had to do. Figuring out what really is necessary, what I chose to accept as needful. No, I don't really have to bring sugary treats to your holiday party. No, it won't be fun. No, I don't really have to go to church. Clearing off the barnacles of obligation, sailing away.

Side effect, clearly, is the lack of friends. But then, most of the 'friends' weren't. The few that were, I'm still in some contact with. These friends, it's more a matter of changing lives, distance, busyness with young children, nothing personal.

Perhaps, when circumstances change, or I change them, there will be a new wave of friends. Perhaps not. But I love and am loved. And there are two cats who, in their feline way, love me too, and feel my love for them.



I'd hate 'love' out of duty. Contradiction in terms.

Paralyze

The snow removal may not have re-injured my back, but my arms have been complaining bitterly. Assigned both days to scrub, now, that didn't help my back. Really tired.

But heard the best OR story ever. Fellow tells of a general surgeon who'd been ill with a stomach bug, but decided to perform surgery anyway. With an IV in, and a bag of fluid running. Ok, never seen that before, bit extreme, but it's a rational plan.

He's mostly through the case, when he says, "I'm going down." And does, collapses on the floor. The paralytic agent the anesthesiologist gave to the patient went in the surgeon's IV tubing by mistake. An understandable one, anesthesia is used to all the IVs in front of them going into the patient, never into the surgical team. They had to intubate him, because paralytics also paralyze breathing. His resident was able to finish, as they carried him out.

There are a number of punchlines and morals to this story, that would take way too much explaining out of context. Suffice to say, this one is a humdinger. The day had laughter, which counts for a great deal.

My arms are nearly useless, thankfully my hands are still functional. As Drill Sergeant Burrell would chant at us as we failed to get out of the deep bunkers, "noodle arms, noodle arms!" Or Muppet arms, the ones without the wires. Useless and limp.






(It's funny, because it's a logical extension into the ridiculous, and in the end, no one got hurt. And it happened years ago, far away.)

Dandy

Found this list on Mental Floss, and thought, what a dandy set of jumping off points.


1. Talking to yourself. Yup. Always have. I remember babbling to myself when very little indeed, long songs of syllables and sounds, stories and thoughts. Now, I disguise it, as most adults must, but I still do it soundlessly in public. Days alone, I chatter at myself the whole time. Cats don't mind, D has headphones on.

2. Repeating stories. I never remember to whom I have told what tales. Often, I simply stop myself saying anything. Except of course, with D, who never minds me repeating myself, and I gladly listen to his stories over and over, through the years.

3. Dropping a cell phone, in a toilet, has not happened to me. Partly because I don't have one. My short stint with the electronic leash, and inadequate coverage, meant rare calls, so I never depended on it for much. But once, in Basic, my dogtags slipped from my neck as I sat on the toilet. Felt the slither of the chain then the metallic hiss on the porcelain under the water. I knew I had to put my hand through the pisswater and get it. Drill Sergeant would not sympathize if I flushed it through squeamishness. Took a deep breath, and did exactly that, pulled them out, washed them, put them back around my neck. With a slight shudder.

4.Lying about seeing a movie, or reading a book. Never. I get seen as snobbish because I do read a lot, and see a lot of films. Omitted admitting I'd seen something, sure, just a matter of not bothering. But if I've not seen it, I can't imagine pretending I did. That sort of lie makes no kind of sense to me.

5. Pushing a Pull door. Actually find this very reassuring, that it's non standard, and not really our fault.

6. Getting song lyrics wrong. Oh, always. Never could pick out sung words as well as written ones. I will look up lyrics to get them, but I sometimes expect those people don't hear them perfectly either. Not like singers ever change them, or slur.

Risk

Jenny has a meme. The usual sort of thing, but I was in the mood. She added photos, so I'll do something of the like.

Some of the questions put to Jenny.

1. What do you love about blogging?

I get a circle of friends from all over the world. Answers to questions, support, cheering, insight.

4. Newspapers, radio or Breakfast TV?

Papers are only for the puzzles, at work. Never could stomach early morning chat tv, I don't even get tv at home. Radio, NPR in the car. Online news, aggregate sites.

5. What is your favourite cake?

Come to accept I really don't like cake. Even as a kid, I had to have the cake, but would gladly have just had the frosting. But I do have a soft spot for panettone, which has no frosting at all.


6. One thing you would still like to learn?

So many things I'd have loved to have done when young and strong, if only I'd had the money. Skydiving, bungie jumping, ultralight flying. Now, I'd like to draw more, take better photos, continue to write.

10. The first album you bought with your own money?

No idea. So much of what records I had were leftovers, or chosen because a friend was a fan. If I go with the first recording I bought that I still love, that would be 3 Mustafas 3.




11. What is your favourite flower?

Bougainvillea. Anything purple. Iris. Love my scarlet flax.


------------------

The Questions Jenny asks.

1.  If there is one candy left in the box, do  you have to eat it, or can you leave it sitting there all alone for the next few weeks?

I can leave it. I am likely to choose to have it anyway, but if I have some reason to save it for later, I have no problem with that.

2. What do you want to remember most of all, if you survive to be very old?

To be kind.

3. Would you enjoy being a very rich and famous celebrity? ( after all you don't HAVE to be like the unedifying Charles Saatchi and Nigella Lawson and pay someone £1,600 a week to clean your silver and gold collection....)

I would love to be very rich, I have a detailed plan in case this happens. I would hate to be a celebrity, though. Well-to-do and obscure is probably best.


4. Which of the photos in this post is your favourite and why do you like it?

The gold tea set. Both the potter in me and the raven want to run my hands all over that.



5.What piece of music do you personally find most emotionally moving?

Something wordless with dense harmonies, complex rhythms, minor key, that sounds ancient, like klezmer laments that turn into frantic dances.


6. How do you deal with anxiety, depression and bad times?

Beer. And consistently choosing to be calm, to find the humor. It's an integrated approach developed over a lifetime.




7. What do you love doing that bores everyone else stiff?
Sudoku. Writing. Especially question lists.

8. Did you ever encounter an inanimate object that seemed to have a will of its own?

Never met a long cord I didn't think wanted to knot itself in spite.

9. What is your very favourite hotel or restaurant? (This blog does have "travel" in the title, after all)

Red Iguana. Also the Hong Kong Tea House.


11. What do you wish you had known when you were 18? (if you are under 18, ignore this question)

That I would find stability and love. And to take more science classes in college, risk a B or two.

Blown

Got about 5-6" of snow, so I plugged in the shovel. Which took a while, since I had to plug in through the window, after unplugging the speakers, insulate the gap, untangle the 100' cord - knotted and cold. But once I turned it on, and it shot snow into the atmosphere, ohnoohshitpower what a rush.

I'd been thinking about needing to get the snow shoveled in my dreams - so as soon as I woke up, I just got dressed and prepping. D still in bed while I was unknotting the powercord. I was still there when he appeared with de-icer in his paw, and helped with the cord.

Yeah, I know, a cord. But it keeps the unit lighter than a battery power pack. Only 13.5lbs (6Kg). I accepted this would be the huge annoyance factor.

Took on a half foot of snow with barely a murmur. Whoosh. Aiming the stream of snow so it doesn't pile up on anything important takes some practice. Or the other way around, if you prefer. All in all, I managed to get all our walks, and clear the garage turnaround, most of the driveway between the houses, by myself. And although I know I worked, my arms are very tired, my back does NOT HURT. Or at least, no more than it usually does. Didn't have to lift all that snow. Felt more like a huge vacuuming job.

So, while I am not about to actually plug it*, I have to say, I'm quite happy we got this.

Pacian, Yeah, I wish it had huge articulated arms that unfold from a tiny 'bot, and amusing pinging noises as well. It's a compromise.





*Pun not intended, but accepted.

Electric

We got an electric snow shovel. With any luck, we won't even need it. But D and I have some bad joints, and shoveling so much last year just hurt. Reallllllly hurt. So, this should ameliorate the pain of the task. Never really looked at snow blowers before. They are huge, mangling monsters. I've seen them in use, but never in a store, never contemplated them as object in themselves. The electric cord on this shovel device could well be quite the annoyance, but that seems a fair trade-off for ligament strain. Beats having to deal with gasoline cans.


The subject of my estrangement from my family keeps arising, as I'm sure it always will. Not a step taken lightly, payment in guilt, and subject to amendment. On an advice discussion forum, it's been coming up from others, along with making the decision a last resort, and what is owed, and what is lost. Ultimately, it took over twenty years for me to break off all contact, and I feel I paid back in thanks and support for what they did do right, during that time. Well paid. And neither of them added any reason for me to continue past the repayment plus interest period. If anything, they wanted more and more, with no thanks at all, only more blame. And I still gave my mother one more chance, and walked away covered in blood, sporting a few more scars.

I do feel sad for my mother. But her cloying, poisonous dismissal of me as a person, just won't go down. She's a coward, always has been. I keep trying to write a letter to her, to explain a little, or just to ease the break, only to feel the gorge rise. Can't write it, the anger bleeds through. Takes all I can do to keep my memories from overwhelming me, adding more on ain't gonna happen, nope. So, I give my mother/little girl a big glass of milk, pretty shoes and dress and blonde curls, to distract her while I walk away. That is the form of my compassion, give her what she needs, so I can take care of myself.

Odd, how much easier it's been to silence my father. Imagined him as a very small boy, held him on my lap, shushed him and soothed him. The more unalloyed the monster, the easier to slay. It's the half ogres, werewolves and Jekyll/Hydes that take the most disentanglement.




Moby sat a long time on my lap this morning.



Eleanor flattens out.




The quality of their play this week has improved dramatically. A real sense of fun. Perhaps in part because Moby is feeling better, between the heating pad and the glucosamine/chondroitin. He still gets tired before she does, to be expected. Then he hisses at her, even we can tell it's just talking. Eleanor just looks askance, then quietly sits nearby.

Got out the humidifier, since both cats have been sparking.

Mandela

And I kept thinking about his garden on Ground Force.

Sneezed

And… I think I'm done with active therappy sessions. I have new tools and ideas, and I've made a lot of progress, and ... I'm done. I'll keep on working on my own, but I don't think my guide can help me any further. This is my own backcountry, and I'm the one with the machete. Some of it is simply dealing with my own impending decline and mortality. I want, need, to be more active, mentally and physically. Whatever else I find, is on me. I'm on my own, the rest of the way. My journey. So long as I don't start stuttering badly again.

Through grief or loneliness, loss or dismay. In joy or satisfaction or creativity, this has no map. I have my own path, as I always have. I was lost, got righted, and more will only turn me back under. I am an archetypical introvert. I'm happy alone. I want my guide to help me to my seat, then bunk off.

I have D, who loves me as I am. I have two cats, same sort of thing.

I always just wanted my parental repeat loop tapes silenced. Done. Not permanently, but I know how to hammer them down. Including the one from my father, that I didn't have friends because I wouldn't let anyone help me. Just like he didn't have friends, the poor old bastard. He wanted friends with all his sad, black, little soul. Poor sociable, but inept, creature that he was. He needed me to counteract that, fulfill his own desire for status, in some twisty way. Doomed to disappointment, for which he, in a way rightfully, blamed me. Shouted at me for being a "women's libber!" and "Miss Independence!" Well, yeah, and? I thought that was the point, being liberated and independent. Couldn't see why my taking unwanted help from someone made me a friend-worthy person. Female, perhaps, but wasn't that secondary? Not to him, apparently.

They forced on me what they most needed themselves.

Thinking about Pooh as a potential guide, and how A.A. Milne was not a good father, nor (at least to P.G. Wodehouse) a good friend. Who created this character, who perhaps feed the child in himself. But he seemed not to have taken Pooh into his heart. Perhaps rather the opposite.

Sure could use one of those electric tappers, though. Really helped, that did.


Hell, just use my electro stim.

I will stay open to friends, active to classes and experiences, but otherwise count my numerous blessings.

I love and am loved. To include two amazing and lovely cats, who are at least sometimes enjoying each other's company. Tonight, Moby chasing her, paused in the hallway, and Eleanor cleanly leapt over his back and sprinted away.

And all of you, especially those who chimed in my lament, are friends. As I am yours. This is how things are, and we have each other.

Not to be sneezed at.

Nor is a good heating pad. Under an ancient red wool blanket.

Shawl

Felt so good going into to my appointment, but therappy is for digging up the crap we've thrown a shawl over. Rough session. Talk about friendships and loneliness.

Yeah. Well.

I'm not a terribly sociable person. I have the skills, it just takes so much out of me. It's a job, not what I do for fun. I can charm the hell out of my patients, pour it all out for them, expect nothing back, save my paycheck. But fun or not, some part of me that enjoys being around people, especially smart, witty, funny people, is hungry.

So often, the people I've befriended have simply taken my efforts, and smiled, and walked off with them. I too often attract the needy, when what I want is egalitarian companionship. I give too much. Not that I give the right things, or am generous, but I dump too much on others, and they leave before being swamped. Learning just how much to offer is not an easy task for me. Never had much of an example to follow, no pattern to recognize. My parents did not have friends, they had family. And a fuckedup family it was, too.

For intimacy, I have D, who cares for me so utterly.

Perhaps what I don't need is a dear friend, but a few friends of a lighter variety.

So often, I have found excuses for myself, why I can't find any friends. Too religious, too conservative, too into their own children*, too into food/crafts/stardreck. And while I will not tolerate abuse nor evangelical ranting, most folks can avoid sensitive topics for an evening. Some situations create spaces for friendly banter, and I think that is what I most need. The old pockets of interest that created this are gone. The army was great, any time, day or night, one could joke around with someone, if only the CQ on fire guard. Not about to join up again. Belly dance (the scene has evaporated), pottery open studio time(studio closed), library volunteer desk (fine at the time), sacred harp singing (I just can't seem to stomach the religiosity of the sacred harp songs anymore), all have filled this trace nutrient need for a while. All those are come and gone, and I need to find something else for this. Work helps, but sorta doesn't count. No choice involved, high price for error. And I don't need much, maybe a dose a month.

Not that I haven't been trying, but I think I've let it all slide. Taken my failures too much to heart. Like when I was learning to be an ESL tutor, and they sent me to the LDS Mission Center to teach people in a large class who were learning English and were illiterate in their own language. Not to mention the 30 minute drive on my only day off. For me, this is all nightmare fuel, as communicated to the program instructors on the first day. Oh, well. Or the Meetups where I wound up talking to the nutjob, while wanting to talk to the person two seats over, but no one could hear because we were at a bar with the music too loud, and I got tired at nine because I had to be up the next morning before six.


Buggered by scheduling.


Nevermind. I don't think I need a close friendship, I need a group I can socialize with once a month. What I don't need is someone needy. Casual, "guy" friends. Not necessarily male, but poker buddies, without the poker. D is trying to organize a RPG here, with my full support. This could take a while.

Perhaps this is the point of knitting circles. I'd form a book club, if that wouldn't suck utterly.

That I have all of you who read here, and leave me notes, makes a huge difference. Essential. If only I could invite you for a weekend…





I like the house across the street. The roof has a certain rightness to it. Nice proportions, I think.






*I am glad of parents who like their children, so this is about my own whining, while admiring their proper dedication. Yeah! for good parents.

Claimant

Time off seems so rare, I barely know what to do with it all. Four days seems a very long stretch. This may say something rather unpleasant about my life, that I don't get a month in the country every summer. Not even the two weeks vacation my father got from the factory. Or about the world. Certainly about how the US workforce is treated. But I get my days, here and there, rather than in a lump, and that suits me well enough. I barely get tired of doing nothing, and the break is over.

Thoroughly enjoying the idleness, time with D, and the cats. We have come to enjoy preparing meals together. We have always talked together, made each other laugh





She has definitively claimed us. Moby is more content in himself, these days, secure in our love, on walkabout in his own dreamtime.

We got a few bits of much needed clothing. Most of mine has gotten rather shabby, mostly because I don't wear my own clothes for work. Except for the cotton hats. Sent for a couple more of those. I could wear the paper bouffants, but the elastic, to which I have a mild allergy, leaves a red mark across my forehead, and it doesn't hold my hair in. The fabric ones keep my hair from drying out as much, they stay on without needing to be reminded, and they are colorful. Makes me easy to identify from a distance, patients remember me.

I've resigned myself to simply buying men's clothing. Can't find a shirt among the women's clothes that doesn't cling or is in a putrid color, or won't go through the laundry twice before disintegrating. Women's jeans aren't quite so bad, if I stick to the old brands. My clothes are so utilitarian these days, nearly impossible for me to dress up. A few skirts, no fancy shirts, even dressy sweaters, to go over. Always a botch. Nothing new, really, just a matter of degree.

So, I buy medium men's shirts, and slouch provocatively, you know, like in the ads.