Shoulders

This morning I was core monkey, excuse me, resource/lunch person. So, I helped set up the hip scope room (tons of equipment, but on well balanced wheels)then checked in the least strenuous room. The scrub had not appeared, so I got stuff ready as much as possible. Thinking "The room you set up may be your own."* And, indeed, that scrub was finally reached, he'd taken a son to the hospital. (Yeah, even so, really should have called in at some point.) The other two rooms were about the same, so I stayed put.

Now, I do scrub, but ortho/arthroscopy is not my strong suit, and I'm well out of practice. Harder and harder to keep up that skill set. As a nurse, I'm kept circulating most days. It's been years since I've done a full day scrubbing arthroscopy with this surgeon. who has a well deserved rep for being demanding and exacting. When he walked in, I freely admitted, "Well, I'm it today, tell me what you want and I will keep everything sterile."

As, indeed, I was. There were no other nurses who scrubbed at all, available. We didn't even have another lunch relief, although none of the rooms were scheduled past 1230, so no biggie.

It's all very specialized, and equipment changes constantly. I'd never used the arm holder before, and had never seen the anchors before. But the surgeon was kind and communicative, both with me and with the intern that appeared after the first case. The rep for the anchors prompted me through a lot of the shoulder instruments. By the second shoulder, I was in pretty good shape. Attentiveness is 90% of the job anyway. The other room finished up, and the scrub from there, an actual scrub tech, took his lunch then gave me lunch for the last 40 minutes of the case, as it turned out.

My circulator told me that the Dr. was "very cute with you" throughout. Indeed, he gave clear instructions and stayed cheerful and positive, which is not unknown, but not to be relied upon. And I stayed engaged and present throughout. I do actually enjoy doing a day scrubbing, feeling competent and capable. Very interesting work, I get to do. Too bad my eyes are less cooperative than is helpful. But I eyedropped myself at every turnover, which helped.


Got some nifty needle threaders out of it. Properly disinfected, of course.


Very satisfying seeing a shredded shoulder from the inside, turned into something solid and smooth, ready to heal up. High tensile suture attached to metal or biocomposite anchors that burrow into good bone, tying down edges like bungee cords over a bundle on a station wagon. All secured, awaiting the body's own recuperative skills. I get to help with very cool stuff.



The last case, for the whole facility, started late, and it was mine all mine. Surgeon coming from the VA, going to the Main Hospital, stopping by for that one surgery. He was a resident here before, and he's stayed the same good guy he was. More knowledgeable, skilled, authoritative, still kind and clear. We do good work there, and I'm blessed to be a part of it. New set of implants for him as well, again, the rep talked me through it.

Constant change, good practice.







*"Drive carefully. The life you save may be your own."

Ojos

Visited my ophthalmologist this morning, which is always a trial and a tribulation. Took the train up, they got me in immediately, even though I was early. Treated my poor sensitive eyes with tolerance, which has not always been the case. I've been castigated for my blinking, tearing and reflexive recoiling before. But the young woman physician assistant* who did the exam was kind and patient, which I appreciated. And the blue light is better than the air puff, although not by that much. The drops hurt, and no matter what I do, no matter how tough or brave, I do not hold up to the drops and lights. I try, really, really try.

My prescription has only slightly changed, but the ophthalmologist suggested I treat the rosacea first. Oh, is that what that is? No, never been diagnosed with that, no. And get my thyroid checked. Made the appointment as soon as I got home. I don't want to be one of those nurses, who let early signs slide.

All my life, people have commented on the color of my face. "You are all flushed! You are so pale! You look green!"† I stopped listening to what color I supposedly was decades ago. But I do have this translucent skin, my parents both were red faced and fair. So, yeah, I knew my face went red a lot, and I still get outbreaks, but I've always picked too. Oh, so bad to pick, but so what? I didn't earn my living based on my complexion.

But when it might effect my vision, that's a different matter. I care little how I'm seen, but I really want to keep on seeing.

My eyes are tired, irritated, with a persistent tic in my lower eyelid. Much is the pollution this winter, normal aging, the cold. Time to make moisturizing a thing in my life, specifically keeping my eyes lubed up.

Otherwise, I have, with glasses, 20/15, 20/20. So, yeah, I'm ok.



*Not sure what her title was, but she did the vision test and put in the drops, then the glaucoma test as well.

†Yes, I know the joke. So why did they call black folks colored? I can honestly say I never did.

Lies

Ah, Pete.


No con man, psychopath, high power CEO salesman, professional liar, will ever bald faced lie as convincingly, as sincerely and innocently, as an old lady who will not admit she wears dentures. She could be my own granny, but she will lie with full confidence. And shortly after, as the anesthesiologist goes to intubate, we will find out. We always find out. And are always amazed at the assurance of the previous lie. Asked specifically, "Do you have dentures?" they will tell us, "Oh, no, I have caps though." To this day, after all these years of knowing this fact, I am still astonished. Today was no different. We found her a denture cup, and made sure they stayed with her in Recovery. No amount of explaining why we need to know, they have gone down the throat, they have gotten damaged, makes the slightest difference.

Given that they probably get them back before they are at the point where they fully remember, they probably all think afterward that they've gotten away with it.

gods.

Stardom

Whatever you like, whatever you do, this is a documentary with music and heart. Twenty Feet From Stardom, and we watched last night. I feel honored to have spent the time with such wonderful, talented people. Rev up whatever service you have and fire this one up.

Heard about it a while back, NPR interview, ready to pounce.

Turmeric

Still have the red wool blanket of my childhood, with magical properties. Freshly laundered.



Turmeric on the cat, for joint pain, presumed.



Eleanor. She's very smart, in her own funny way.

Steel

Long ago, and not at all far away, two good people were getting to know each other. She was not charmed by one-size romantic notions, and wary of persuasive words without concrete follow-up, and especially of forced fun. He asked what she wanted for her birthday, and she recoiled at the idea of pretty gifts for the sake of making him happy, or rather a different him. She asked for a good, stainless steel bowl. Really needed one, it was not meant as a test, but it sort of was.

He gave her a set of steel mixing bowls. He listened, which was the real gift. And she still has the bowls, despite a couple of decades and a number of dents. Uses them all the time.


Never, not for one day, have I ever regretted, in any way, marrying D. Grateful beyond words, more like. Our idea of romantic, and yes, we do have one, is more down to earth, individual, and practical. Making dinner, clearing the litter boxes, sending a relevant link, that sort of thing.

I get my own roses, from Trader Joe's these days, and chocolate, ditto. I feel very much listened to, and D feels cared for. He finds his own comic books and guitar gear. The heart of romantic gestures, the warmth and regard behind the expression. He treats me tenderly.

Enthusiasm

Much chasing, with much enthusiasm, the tree being the goal, apparently. Moby eventually came ahead on points, but Eleanor got a nice steal to the windowsill. Good to see them both so engaged.

As D and I read on the sofa, Moby came and settled on my legs. Eleanor hopped up on D, nestled into his leg, right behind Moby. Gradually, both relaxed, and we got what we'd so hoped for, all of us together, snuggled in.




Not like we'd pinned everything on to this, but thought it would be nice, and it is.

Strange dreams of visiting an aunt I'd neither liked nor disliked, and she seemed to feel the same of me. First thing she says as I enter her apartment in the dream "I just get sooo many people here all the time!" More people did arrive shortly after, people I knew, but none of us acknowledged each other. I wound up on some kind of massage bed, with a round woman in a flowered housedress squatting over me, her butt in my face, then nearly suffocating me. I pushed her away, and left, wondering why I'd even come.

I wonder if Eleanor sat on my face this morning? She does remind me of a be-bustled round lady from behind, with her fluffy fur and short legs.

Seeds

Attended a Community Garden class on seed starting. And came away with the idea that I may do it some year, but not this year. Too much set up, and I'm not that interested in the plants that would benefit from the process. So, I will seed directly for the pease and spinach, plant the potatoes and bok choy, onions and green onions, and purchase plants for tomatoes and chilis and whatever other peppers I can find.

Some year, I will do an extensive chili garden, and save seeds and start them inside with warm feet and a grow light.

The equipment for this, including low-energy lights, has grown out of the pot growing establishments. Motivation for a lot of research under what conditions sproutlings thrive. I find this fascinating.

But I will lay down seeds for spinach and pease around St. Patrick's Day. See what comes up.

Strangenesses

Insight smacked me a tap to the noggin, why my therappist kept checking to make sure I was ok, when I wanted to jump in hacking and slashing. She deals with so much shame. Many people not only deal with whatever they are dealing with, but slather themselves with a deep coat of shame. I never thought my father was my fault, nor was the crap he laid on my shoulders. She felt she had to coax it out, when I wanted only to chuck the lot out with a pitchfork. I just needed a pitchfork. Which she taught me how to make. Once I had that, the rest was just practice, which I can do myself.

That care may be akin to how I keep patients covered as much as possible. Occasionally I get someone who runs hot, and wants no warm blankets. Or a woman who's just given birth, and her body has been so much on display and near-publicly prodded, she is impatient with the niceties. Or just a borderline exhibitionist, who throws off the blanket and cares not a whit who sees the butt. Most folks are somewhere in between, as is so often the case.

Emotionally, in the context of therappy*, I'm really good with dropping my drawers. No time for modesty, I wanted to get that gaping fistula cleaned out and healed up.

And I am in better emotional shape. Not healed, but I know how to cope, head it off. Stop obsessing over family who never were, who don't care about me, and it doesn't matter that they don't. Letting go, releasing my grip, and only falling a few feet(huh, well, that was anticlimactic.) Easier to get to sleep, able to stop the hamsterwheeling thoughts.

Inspiration came from the discussion with this wonderful bit of advice.

We're all weird. Some people wear it for all to see, and some people tuck it away at home in horror that anyone will discover it, and most are somewhere in between. Please make up your mind just to accept yourself and your weird.

And a quote to follow, with various attributions (Karl Lagerfeld and E.A. Poe among them), but this seems the earliest.

There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.

Sir Frances Bacon.

The perfect can only be pretty. Beauty requires flaws and peculiarity.

*Yes, I know it only has one P, this is a Pratchett reference, and an Oogle dodge.

Chunky

Dreadful air, with fog, so that I thought, waiting for the light to turn in at work, "How'd I get to Beijing?" I was not the only one to have this thought, it seemed the consensus impression. Yes, I had turned off the engine, knowing I had a good minute or so to wait through the whole light cycle.

Somewhat better by the time I got home, a bit of wind drew away some of the chunky poison.

Both of us are congested, mildly nauseated, sandy-eyed and vaguely unwell. Moby has mostly taken to the hotpad chair. Eleanor baith, blythe and bonny as ever.

Got to show this to the hand surgeon I worked with today, she was fascinated. A jeweler born without fingers. I imagine if I knew her personally, I would come not to notice the difference. As I often don't notice missing fingers, although I sort of do. Notice, then it becomes normal. As my father's missing finger seemed strange only in that I only thought of it occasionally. One of those things I never minded in the least. Although after he lost another half finger, I began to wonder how much inattention and carelessness had to do with his injuries.

I do see injuries, even old ones. Often, part of me sees it, and marks it 'irrelevant' and moves on. Even quite obvious oddities.

Timeline

It all seemed rather playful, if still serious, with rules, and taking turns.

Thumbs

Weird thing was, the night after the massage, I woke up with my thumb aching and pinching hard, both wrists very painful. Got up at 3AM to take drugs, laid ice on the thumb (CMC joint, to be specific), and tried to find a neutral way to rest. Good enough to sleep up to the alarm. Rubbed capsaisin I had at work, once I got there. By mid morning, I took off the brace, and it all felt about back to normal. Hot rub on the scapular knot as well, which seemed to get rid of the rest of it. Last night, ice massaged my thumb (which was stunningly fun) laid on the spiky-rubber ball well into the night, no issues with thumbs nor wrists this morning.



I know massage can mean more pain the next day, but this seemed so distant and random. Pain to wake me in the wee hours bothers me immensely. In no small part because I'm at my utter worst at 3AM. D says I have 3AM courage, which means a great deal, that I will still deal well with a crisis when I'm running on fumes and drugged with sleep. I'd prefer to sleep through it. Too many migraines have hit me at that hour, forcing myself up and opening unopenable migraine drugs -- "here, take heavy narcotics and defuse this bomb."

Have scheduled a follow up massage next month. Because I did NOT have any remains of the permaheadache I'd been dealing with for weeks. Day off after the next one.


Just weird.

Iron

I've adored the little iron teapots for ages. Got a small iron teacup early last year. A few weeks ago, came across this swirly round pot, and resisted. Today, D got it for me, retroactively. I bought it and brought it home, and thanked him. This is how we do gifts, find what we really like, give it to the other one to give as the ideal present. Which works for us. I'm calling it my early b-day gift, and am completely enchanted with it. Have had two pots of tea from it already. Sipped out of the wee cup. Both such a pleasure to hold, a reassuring weight in the palm.


The light is that strange orange of late afternoon through polluted haze. Not worth breathing, but no alternative. Still, pretty effects, like uranium glass.





As I laid under the hands of the massage therapist, I realized it was the first time since I'd started the therappy. The tears came, but then subsided, rubbed out with the bubbling knots. The headache is gone, my neck much improved. I'll have to keep working on the neck, as one does.

Buffet

Ok, it's obvious now. Leaving all the sunflower heads on the back porch was a good idea. But I needed to seal them up. Which I never got around to. Work got busy, I was feeling overwhelmed. I'd read the instructions to seal them, but it never occurred to me why. Like that mice would see this as a buffet.

No wonder Eleanor kept wanting to go back out there. But it's unheated, and we've closed off the back room, with the heat off, to conserve energy. Today, we put the tree away properly, welcomed Eleanor back there, cleared the glass recycling we'd put out there, and I realized what happened to all my sunflower heads.

Our Mouse Killer set up a blind and got ready to hunt.


D rationalizes that perhaps they didn't come in to the rest of the house so much, because they had that spot. Sounds like wonderful rationalization to me, and I'll stick with that story for the sake of sleeping at night.

The top of the basement stairs were covered in mouseshit. I cleaned all that, laid down more peppermint and eucalyptus, and set a trap in that top corner.

One day, we will get the basement properly lit, drywalled, with shelves, and let cats run. Right now, with all the raw dirt, unknown potential exits, asbestos tape, not gonna happen. Upgrading the plumbing will have to come first, and we are not prepared to do that yet.

Right now, we're putting off cleaning that porch area properly until next weekend. Going for a massage today, for the neck-headache that will not die.

Daily

Daily or not, still a miracle.

Mandatory

I clearly remember my mother, upon hearing that wearing hats in church was no longer mandatory, gleefully discarding that hated item, and never wearing anything on her head again. But when I searched for the year this happened, what I found surprized me.

Nothing. Apparently it was more of a cultural push, possibly an uncorrected misunderstanding by a journalist, not an explicit pronouncement by Vatican II. Perhaps our parish priest gave permission, or it was in the Sunday missal. At any rate, my mother found it welcome news, and never questioned it. So, sometime between 1963-67(?) hats for women during mass became casually allowed, at least in the US, or at least at All Saints Church.

The reasons for women covering their hair are just as amorphous and arbitrary, insulting and condescending as ever. I found that the idea of the covering is growing in appeal for those who devoutly attend mass. Don't ask me why. I read it, but it all feels so patronizing and downright silly it won't stick in my memory any longer than a random number. Humility and angels figure in, so go figure, if you have the stomach for it, which I don't.

Call it a form of jury nullification. Pass a bad law, and it will be flouted. In Brazil, Catholic women have just gone for the contraceptive and sterilization - ignoring what the old churchy guys preach. Call it women deciding they don't need more humility, thankyouverymuch. And there is nothing wrong with my hair or not having a score of pregnancies, and gofuckyourself.

For me, the god of my fathers is a god of fathers. Useless, cruel, clueless gods of no use at all. A worthwhile god would inspire and energize me, not stomp down on me. Sort of like a good father, which is not what I had either. So, it's a social construct to justify injustice.

The god of my mothers is even worse. She would make me wear hats, and make me hate them, pins into my scalp.

Hat

Eleanor is a cuddler, especially in the mornings, on me, on the bed. Face rub, body ruffled, presses in, stretches out front paws on me, much movement until she finds a spot, then only stays still a short time, then more wriggling and nestling. I chuckle, and let her mood sink in. This morning, right after I heard the chime click, (but not chime of course) she walked up to my face for attention. I stayed down for as long as she liked, about an hour. Head is much less sore, need to spend a lot of the day working out my neck kinks.

Dreams were odd, topless*, crowded, anxious. Thinking about hijab, and women in scarves and how women are held responsible for the thoughts and actions of men. The worst case, to be responsible but have no power. Then to internalize it into a pride for their culture, their country, their family, and wear their burden with pride, as so often happens. Does this make it bearable? Or is it simply a wise wariness of western cultures?



But a mere generation ago, we wore scarves over our heads as well. And it is part of our history. It's only in this culture, in this generation, that wearing headgear is so utterly optional, solely utilitarian, and unexceptional.




Headgear, rather like hair, holds a lot of meaning for people. We wear different hats, we support our godlike sports teams, at times it's legally mandated.




My mother wore her hat on Sunday to church, but it was flung off as soon as she got in the car. A half-hat, light blue, cheap, with net. When no longer required, she never wore a hat again. I rather missed my little doily, as I was the kind of kid who happily made ANYTHING into a hat, by putting it on my head.



What hat are you wearing today, if any?


AH! RR, thanks, I couldn't think of the word to find it, but how could I forget the Straw Boater Riot?

*I've often had dreams being out in public, where men are shirtless, and I am as well. Only belated realizing, usually as I come out of the dream or waking up, that it wouldn't be acceptable or I start feeling like I should cover up. I always figure this is related to my being so un-busty. Generally, I'd prefer men to keep their shirts on in public as well, whatever shape they're in.

Fierce

Rough days, much needing the monday holiday. Fierce headache, from sore neck, woke me at 0300, tiger balm a helpful friend. Not a migraine, I know the difference.

J, who was last out at 1930 the night before, stopped in after her room finished, also late (again), to offer me a break. I took long enough to get some water, when I heard my room was finishing. I ran right back, and shooed her off home, with many thanks. Sometimes that's all it takes is a few minutes and a little hydration, and I can keep going.

Two patients in a row with same sex spouses. I expect we will see more, and not just coincidentally, but specifically related to those who jumped in that small window, now qualifying for health care benefits. And good on 'em.



I'm still not tired of seeing this. Especially today.

Futureless

Got my birth certificate to the DMV, same cheerful woman who took care of me last week was at the first station this morning. I recognized her as I stood in line. She looked at me, and said,
"I know you!"

Although I could tell she could not immediately place where. Told her it was just last week, and I had what I needed. She offered to take a new photo, the one from last week was bad even by license standards, and I thanked her most gladly. The new one isn't great, but the last one was dreadful.

Seems only right to treat any public employee, anyone who deals with the public, with gentle kindness and utmost courtesy. If only because so many don't.

As I stood in line, I wondered where all the better dressed of our society were. Seemed so heavily weighted to the lowest socio-economic levels. Part of course is simply that people on their day off dress casually, the people who have to wait in the longest lines are the ones without internet access to make appointments, as I'd done for the first time, and I'd only be there a short time after the initial wait. Some of it may be less organized lives. At least a score were there for bus and heavy equipment driving licenses, and those guys were all in winter work clothes - I'd overheard that bit of information.

As is so often the case, part of it is real, those with better incomes can reduce the time they spend there. Partly, it's perceptual, no one dresses up to go sit in a public waiting room, hell no one dresses up at all. It seems so much easier than ever, more organized, streamlined, all the clerks pleasant and efficient. It's almost like they've done research and training.

The house across the street is coming along, and not all beige siding. I like the oriel window.




Feeling better today, the sun helps. Like I've been fighting off a virus, but today it's gone. Moby chasing around the reflections from the laptop, until I turn on the camera - and he just sits in his halo.




Also experimenting with the idea of only using present tense, inspired by #1 in this article. Today, I am very successful and efficient, DMV, mailing books, dusting and vacuuming, dishes are running, with plenty of time for tea and reading. Futureless language, seems worth a try.

Housiversary

Two years ago today, we crossed the threshold of our dear house, our first house.

That was a rough month.


Moby and Eleanor continue to sleep near each other on the couch, which is a huge relief for us. She's good for him. We're good for her. Nice to see a plan come together.

Contamination

Bit of flotsam bobbed up, keeps happening. Need to leave it here, as is my wont.


Aunt Peggy got a dishwasher. My mother grumbled that it was so foolish to spend all that money, and she still had to rinse all her dishes first anyway. When Aunt Alma got one as well, I heard it all over, such a waste, such an extravagance, when it didn't save work anyway. Ridiculous. And my mother liked both of these aunts.

I often heard her complain of other people, judgmental at a near moral level, for matters of taste and preference. Aghast at how much Aunt Alma spent on food for the two of them, when she could feed five of us on less. How my SIL wore her hair, what her mother ate for breakfast (oatmeal? How binding, how foolish) what some people's children wore to church (pants on little girls!)

Knowing no different, I rather assumed most people held such opinions about people around them, at home, in private. I also assumed my mother would hold me in equal disdain for liking any of the things she complained of in others. So, I held my tongue. I was ridiculed enough for liking purple and long hair. Funny, it didn't seem so bad at the time, but now I write this out, it's pretty dreadful. If called on any of it, she would exclaim that she never meant it that way, and surely she never said that, why do people twist her words so?

And I think at the time, although I couldn't have expressed it, I realized she was expressing frustration at her own life and choices, and had to live with the bully she married. Nothing wrong, in principle, with the Sour Grapes method of coping. Disdain what you can't have so you don't grow greedy and envious. Up to a point, which does not include disdaining the PEOPLE who have what you want.

I've had a dishwasher in apartments for the best part of twenty years, and I think they are wonderful. Given how hard my job is on my hands, how often I wash them, not adding dishpan hands to my cuticle woes is quite a blessing. Yes, I have to rinse dishes off, which is far less work than meticulous cleaning, rinsing and drying. Nor do I have to dry them, a chore I detested, and my mother considered mandatory at a very high result level. I consider wiping a cloth over my dishes to be a method of contamination.

My mother also didn't use any bleach for the dishwashing, nor cleaning the kitchen, because her husband told her she couldn't. He hated the smell of it in his sister's kitchen, she used it with extreme liberality, since that was a family who figured if one was good, two was better (to include medication.) He also would not allow her counter top canisters, which she wanted, but he didn't like them on the counter. For a traditional marriage, that she would allow him to mandate what she had in her kitchen, seemed contradictory. But, he was a bullying bastard.


So, the clean looking kitchen no doubt grew some nasty bacteria, but at least she didn't have a ridiculous dishwasher.


Addendum: A useful article about Complaining.

Accommodation

About to run errands, both cats in the kitchen, waiting for me, watching me. D checks, but we're out of catfood. Moby bumps his shin, yeah, that's what he wants, "You're right there, give me that."

So I pull out a bit of sliced turkey. We try to get Eleanor to eat elsewhere, since her eating close seems to put Moby off. But she won't budge, and Moby has already started in.

For a moment, he stares at her, then goes right back to eating. A minute later, he gobbles up what she's left (this is not her ideal of treat food.)

This may seem like nothing, but it's a huge change. When stressed, Moby won't eat. First thing to go in him. That she was eating some of his favorite food, a few feet away, didn't bother him above a moment's hesitation, is quite a change.

Last evening, Eleanor is beside me on the sofa, Moby jumps up, sniffs at her. She goes to bop him, and I wave her down, and pinch her scruff. Moby comes back, and lays down near her. Once they both seem settled, I let go her nape, and they are still there when I head off to bed.

We were largely resolved to their calm co-existence with chasing, but they seem to be getting closer. We watch with fascination and delight, not daring to hope for more.

Warm today, everything melting. This is not the melt of my Michigan childhood, very little mud for a start. No wind, either. Grey, but a kind of relief from the cold and shoveling. Instead, we chunked out some of the driveway ice. Easier not to have to bundle up. Even some evidence of sky for a while. A Nice, dull, day, but a welcome one nonetheless. All in all, I prefer storms, or cold, but these days, anything not involving heavy work or heavy breathing, is at least something of an advantage.

The extra day off this weekend, unexpected, is proving to be much needed.


Fair
48°F
9°C
Humidity44%
Wind SpeedS 16 MPH
Barometer29.91 in
Dewpoint27°F (-3°C)
Visibility10.00 mi
Wind Chill42°F (6°C)
Last Update on 11 Jan 2:20 pm MST


And that same evening…

Kilo

Kilo is for K.



Kilogram, kilometer, a thousand grams, a thousand meters. A somewhat more rational basis for measurement, that some countries just can't abide. But K can stand for one thousand, 1,000, all by itself.

K kisses and karate chops, kicks and kills kippers.



K hangs around with N, and stays silent. Knots and knows knits, knaves with knee knives.

(Hope you don't mind, Lucy)

K also loves C, walks behind, but speaks for her, flicks and picks a quick trick.





K has a crick in the neck, clicking and clacking.




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

Intent

In his own way, Moby knows he is loved. Sits between us, purring so hard he coughs, settles under our hands, at peace. After over ten years, we are his life, and are apparently, acceptable. When we laughed so hard at Key&Peele he looks at us with concern, and we assure him we are fine, but thanks for his attention.

We love our serious, polite, wonderful friend, and have to assume that he knows he's loved. And in his own, feline way, loves us.

Eleanor grows into our lives. She begins to trust, knows us to be kind, but does not entirely trust it, yet. But we think she begins to love us, as we her. She begins to mew at me, then skitters to the rug, and rolls over for a belly-rub.


Our funny, fuzzy, sweet, mouse-killer, who sleeps on us with determination, begins to know her home.

RR, I think it was you, who described her two cats as having a brother/sister relationship. This seems to be exactly what we're seeing develop. Both affection and irritation, intentional antagonization and casual co-existence, playfulness and concentration. Both of them in the kitchen, watching me with intent, until I opened and served the gooshy food.

Yeah, I'm kitty whipped.

Mush

Overcast
42°F
6°C
Humidity 53%
Wind Speed ESE 7 MPH
Barometer 30.05 in
Dewpoint 26°F (-3°C)
Visibility 10.00 mi
Wind Chill 38°F (3°C)
Last Update on 10 Jan 1:35 pm MST

Everything is melting. Which is good for reducing the ice in the narrow driveway between the houses. And the sidewalks are more passable.

Sitting around waiting for my birth certificate until after 1300, but it's done. Will get to the DMV this week and take care of the details, get my permanent license.

Brain getting mushy. Just like the ice out there.

Handy

A recommended handyman checked out our wonky front door today, and fixed the immediate problem, leaving the rest until summer since he'd have to leave the whole opening open for a long time. Reassured us that it's normal, and really not that much of an issue. The door not closing well he fixed this morning, even telling us not to pay him until the full job was completed. The door now closes beautifully, and we paid him anyway. When people are as unhandy as us, we want this handy guy's good will.

Cleared the driveway, enough. Waiting for my birth certificate, UPS tried to deliver it yesterday, but it needs an signature. Very surprized it cleared through so quickly. Today, we don't leave until it arrives.

Sat on the sofa next to Eleanor. Moby hops up on the other side, nudges the laptop aside, and sits on my leg, sniffs at her, and settles in. Eventually decides it's more comfortable over there, but he's made his point.





Both cats checked out Handyguy. Eleanor I put in the bedroom, Moby sat on the tree and supervised. He knows about this sort of thing. In apartments, he greets maintenance people when we aren't there, some of them have even played with him. Very polite cat, always has been.