Olio

Eleanor at rest.


Three mornings below freezing, and I'm glad I resisted the lure of mild April days to plant and plant. Later this week though, I am putting in the onions. And getting out the hose. Filling all the bottles to act as walls of water, in preparation for the tomatoes and chilis going in the following week. The commercial ones are too expensive, and fragile, for me, although they apparently work amazingly well. I figure I'll give my cheap and salvaged way a go.

Mostly looking raw and short out front. The back even less impressive, ignoring the Veronica that blooms early in the spring. Seems pretty harmless, and I gather it up and compost the excess biomass. But the peas and bean, spinach and lettuce, are appearing reassuringly.




The two of them, establishing consistency. When we come home and find them thus, content in each other's company, we are glad. Nearly every day for the past two weeks, they have slept beside each other.



Marbles, old and newly found. Newish and quite old.




In Japan, crows make nests from wire hangers.

Dear Bob Hoskins will be missed. I loved him in "Pennies From Heaven."

Pétomane

Granny was elderly when I was born. At a certain age, I learned she'd lost her sense of smell, and realized that she was very hard of hearing, despite hearing aids. Oh, and that she had foul, loud farts, that I assumed she thought she was getting away with, silently and odorlessly. Of course, I never said anything to her. Found it vaguely funny, although I was never one for fart humor. I figured she'd be mortified if she knew how loud and how bad it was, but recently, I begin to wonder if she was past caring.

Because over the last few years, I have settled into my own gassiness. I avoid beans, because I will be woken with loads of sulfurous and uncomfortable gaseousness through the night. Likewise broccoli and cauliflower, cabbage and dried apricots. And I've had to be careful about what I bring to eat for lunch at work. Although I still get tooty in the afternoons, no matter what I eat. I try to stifle and move away from people - never knowing if it will be a stench or relatively odorless. Thankfully, most of what emerges is not very stinky. A day when I'm wearing a lead skirt for X-ray makes it easier not to offend.

It has gotten worse over the last few years, and I'm very conscious of it. Still, nothing to be done. Gotta come out. And it's probably indicative of gut health.

I do have wheat germ in my cereal every morning, which has done wonders for my long standing issues with intestinal gas pain and sluggishness, crippling cramping from early childhood and well into my 30s. Improved diet, belly dance, and other coping issues, means a happier digestive system entire. Improved motion all around.

Still. It's hard to know when to mumble and "'scuse me" or just ignore it, move along. When a nursing student doing clinicals, I've cheered on those who've had gut surgery, waiting for the first fart, as a sign of health and healing. In general, though, I've never found anything innately funny about farts. Maybe if I could have seen this guy perform.

Eh, let 'er rip.

Mugs

Had a lot of unique mugs, once, long ago. Collected, each for it's own charms, since an age when I had money for Christmas presents. The kiosks in big malls were sort of a new thing, along with the blown glass ornaments and arrays of cosmetics, there was always one with mugs. Hand painted, if not hand thrown. Gave one to my mother with blue skies and a balloonist, rather pretty thing. My go-to gift, useful and decorative together.

The ex smashed all of them, the day I left. Well, this is what happens with pottery. It all breaks, given time. I got off cheap, really. Can't remember now, which ones were lost. Only the blue and white Czech teapot, I kept a shard of that for many years, as a reality chit, a tactile reminder.

I like a mug I can fit my fist into, which means it's large enough and can be properly cleaned. Although not all my mugs fit that description. I like real ones, not the ultra-light ones with cleaver sayings. But a well made mug should feel a bit lighter than it looks, certainly not heavier.

Held one today, at the Japanese market. A mid tone, complex, green glaze, raw around the bottom, Japanese script as decoration. I picked it up, and it nestled into my hand, light and comfortable. At $20, and me with plenty at home, I did not get it. But I made D come over and hold it. He felt the quality as well.

When I went to Basic, someone told me to take a mug along, with a cover. I had a plastic one, came in very useful. Didn't have to run down to the fountain for water at night, in the overheated, dehydrated barracks. Washed down the Motrin, Vitamin M, with a real cup, instead of always a gulp from the cooler. Ever since, having a water holding vessel of my own has meant home. Had a mug in Saudi, and an immersion heater for tea. When we took the train out to Boston, I had one of my own small cups, to rinse after we brushed our teeth. I pack a mug when we travel, one that I won't mind too much if it breaks. Have one at work in my cubby.

Seems such a simple thing, sturdy but easily breakable. Without at least one, it would hardly feel like home.

Some have something to say. The Krazy Kat D put together for me, twice. Xmission mug I've had for many, many years, as with the KUER pledge gift. The red one belongs to D, and it's for cocoa, with lots of milk. I gave it to him, and despite the simple taste of the humor, he always giggles when I give it to him.


The one on the left broke it's lid, then broke, but I am not ready to throw it away. It is glued, the string no longer needed, but I think it adds a kind of charm. The new one is used for white tea.




These are just cobalt blue, which is enough for me.


And this is the current crew all together. I usually give the recycled green glass one to Dave.*






* You know, Dave.

Wist

Over at Languagehat, an entry about how language changes us. Only wish I had more than just English, much as I love it. I have just enough Spanish to be polite, and take care of a post surgical patient's simple needs for warmth, pain control and nausea relief. Enough ASL to say thanks, and bullshit. Japanese to count to eight and say "I don't speak Japanese." When I'm very tired, that's about all I can manage in English.

Actually see this, from the outside, going to so many foreign (to me) language films in my 20s. And since. Never had trouble with the subtitles, so I could really watch and listen. Peering into another way of thinking and seeing the world from a different angle. We still seek out stories told in other tongues, and much prefer to hear the original while reading the text, rather than suffering through dubbing in ill fitted English. Better to get the gist of meaning, and the full vocal performance. My smattering of Italian (the odd word) no doubt sounds Sicilian, from Montalbano.

I sincerely doubt I could manage more than this, even if I began to study now. Word acquisition of any kind, with any retention, is a struggle. I wonder what I could have done, given real exposure to any other language as an infant, small child. There was a little bastard-French (River Candard French) around, so my pseudo-French has a convincing accent, but no one ever spoke to me in French. It floated around at my father's mother's house, but she was already very old and never really talked to me.

Asian accents of all sorts struggle to get in. Never heard them until I was an adult, unlike with the various versions of British Isles English, heard on the CBC. Likewise Spanish inflected English, very accustomed to those sounds. The fault is mine, but I don't know how to get past this tin part of my ear.

Names from other languages follow a similar pattern. Spanish based names give me no trouble, Polynesian names look like a bad Scrabble hand. Lots of kids in school with Polish names, so I can usually figure out which letters to say, and which to ignore. German names, I choke.

I do wish I had more linguistic flexibility, which is part of why I read Hat. English has a lifetime of interest, but it's not the only vocabulary, or mindset. I feel greedy for words and variety of understanding. Too late to do more than paddle at the shore.

Coffee

Collecting coffee grounds from the work pot the past several weeks, laying them on the garden. This week, our secretary who used to work in the building cafe, snagged me a whole tub, several gallons, of grounds. All of it went to the north side of the front, where nothing grew well. I deeply suspect snails, which is why I poured caffeine along the hedge, and started scrounging grounds from the staff room. It looks like the richest of soils, lush and dark.

There is a peculiar odor to it, one I have never found appealing. The reason I never drank the stuff, much as I wanted to, many times, for the sake of alertness. The mass of aging grounds wasn't worse smelling than a strong, hot mug of it, perhaps because it was cold. A dankness, sure. And a memory. An undertone of tobacco, and I sat next to Uncle Milton as he smoked and drank endless cups of coffee, as Aunt Alma cooked. A round pedestal table, in creamy formica, vinyl chairs, pushed into the corner of their bright suburban kitchen. The cigarettes in the ashtray, one of those metal saucers with a plaid sandbag on the bottom to keep it level. Or the heavy clear glass lump. The huge, pink, swooping, multi-bowl ashtray lived in their finished, wood paneled basement, and I was given the collection of change to play with in it. Pushing pennies through the indentations from space to space. Always well cleaned beforehand, of course.

Uncle Milton was one of the few adult family members who never pushed me, one way or another, as a little kid. Never pretended interest nor affection. Kind enough, acknowledged me without condescension. Although, like my father, got a little grabby when puberty hit. Not as much as my father, and easily deflected, I was never alone with him. In an odd way it confirmed my unease with my father's handling of me. His brother's echo, an insight, and a sort of inoculation. It didn't last long, nor was I afraid of him. I knew full well if I told Aunt Alma, he would have gotten holy hell. Never came to that, nowhere close.

The few occasions were uncomfortable, but even at the time they didn't feel serious. Akin to a random, half hearted, drunken pass at a party, never repeated, readily discounted.

So the coffee/tobacco stink brought a weirdly clear but rather mixed memory. I wore surgical gloves to strew it, so it wouldn't stay in my hands. Such a change in our culture, that kind of smoking now is so rare. Used to be common. People smoked in the checkout line in grocery stores, cars from the 70's still reek of long dead cigarettes.



Today the rain pours down, and the growing stuff is green and lush. The cats have both been on the bed together, the last four days, and at night. Moby has apparently decided he wants to be on the bed, and will tolerate her being there as well. Although this morning, he started moaning at her presence, and wound up nudged off - by me. "No fighting on the bed." I say. He comes back a while later, merely huffs at her, and lets D pet him until he's purring loudly and contentedly. Eleanor snuggles in to me. The last few evenings, as we read in bed, Moby laid on me, and Eleanor took D's knees.

I still don't think they will ever cuddle with each other, but they seem to be developing a relationship that works for them.

Clear

Slept heavily, unlike poor D. Cats off and on the bed. This morning, D left for work, barely making an impression through my unconsciousness. Eleanor curled behind my knees, and I thought I felt Moby hop up. Sure enough, when I actually woke up, he was at the foot, and she still nestled in behind me. I got up, and they stayed, for at least another couple of hours. This afternoon, again, we found them both there.



Well.

This pleases us immensely.


Laid down more scarlet flax seeds on the wet soil, along with coffee grounds from work. Loads of sunflowers sprouting madly. Compost out to the pile. Cleared away the fallen branch.

Visited Ocean City, a new Asian market, more Pacific rim stuff, Japanese, Filipino, Korean, Thai and Vietnamese brands and foods, fish and seafood. As opposed to more Indian and Chinese with some Japanese, at the other places I visit.

But as I turned into their parking, a bunch of cops, including one with a 'Crime Scene' jacket - taking photos, were there. I asked if they were open, assured they were, I went in. Apparently they had a break-in. Nothing too serious, as far as I could gather without being nosy. New store, well laid out, similar to the other Asian markets in town, or rather, some overlap. I want a class, to learn how to cook with all these interesting ingredients. Tempted by the curls of lamb and the scallops, but the amounts were too large for two people. Not without some research and planning.

But I got soba and sesame seeds and oil.

Stopped across the street at my favorite beer brewers, but the lights were off. They were open, but they'd lost power from the winds. Manual exchange process, but with a little patience, everyone satisfied.

Everything wet, clear skies, brisk and cool.

Change

The warnings were up, high winds from 0800 to 2100. Warm on my way to work. Warm and gusty winds as I came home. With more wind, the air turned white with blown dust. Sometime about 1730, a dramatic microburst wind hit, bringing down small branches, tossing porch chairs, lots of noise. More damage out of the city. Trucks blown off highways, trees down, trampolines damaged - the last I consider too stupid to care about, if only because - HIGH WIND WARNINGS. Jeeze. If you own a trampoline, kinda important to know when it's going to be windy. This has been predicted for several days.


22 Apr 8:40 am MDT 68˚F Humidity 25 SSE 17 G23 10.00 mile Visibility
22 Apr 5:10 pm MDT 77˚F Humidity 16 S 37 G54 6.00 mile VisibilityHZ
22 Apr 5:55 pm MDT 60˚F Humidity 42 WNW 37 G51 0.25 mile Visibility
22 Apr 7:53 pm MDT 47˚F Humidity 86 NNW 23 G33 3.00 mile -RA HZ

Anyway, it's raining now, still a bit blowy, mild lake stink once the winds came out of the North. More rain, some doubtful snow, another wave at the end of the week. The garden will be even more green.

At one point, Moby was on our bed, which is nice. A short while later, both cats are stretched out, parallel, Eleanor two feet behind Moby.


The winds upended everyone a little today, with rain a benison. April.

Ah

Masses of sunflowers emerging, this is going to be fun to watch.

The old hurts obviously still there, but I really am more stable than before the therappy. Flotsam bobs up, I write it out, move on. Heartening to be at maintenance, a trip, a wobble, but no fall, no crash. Memories of pain, vague aches, caution around the scars. As with my poor old back, over pampering early symptoms, but never get anywhere near the severity when at my worst.

And this is what I'm made of, not the sternest stuff, but sensitive, malleable. I'll always be sifting out incursions and inclusions, stuff sticks to me, and won't clear out. Life ebbs and flows, rests and grows, pushes & pulls.

No cases today, so I'm idle. Might hit 80˚F (26C) this afternoon. Snow tomorrow night. Ah, April.

Peals

Wide awake at 5, I got up and read. Checked on Moby, still on the old bed in the back room, up on the stack, as he'd been since yesterday afternoon. Seemed to simply be comfy, but cats hide illness, so I was a little worried. He came out a short while ago, hopped to the top of his tree - which I consider a sure sign that he's fine. Didn't even bother him (too much) that Eleanor came to sit on the bottom shelf, although he had to use an alternate path down.

Came across an NPR story about bullying, and dropped into an anxious state for a while. As mentioned a few too many times, my worst bully was at "home", although I also got it at school - intermittently, and they weren't as good at it.

Then Moby wanted to go out, and I was more or less dressed, so I threw on a jacket and took him. So many birds around here, I can hear them, can't spot most of them. A flash of dull grey/brown/black if I'm lucky. Then the peals of church bells at some distance. A lovely sound, like ship bells or train whistles, carried on the air. Feels like rain, none on the radar though. Not today, not tomorrow, not until Wednesday. Then snow and a hard freeze.

Glad I've resisted the temptations of a mild April to plant. The onions hang in their bag, still. Maybe next weekend I'll give in. Let the last cold front have it's way, then sneak a few seeds into the ground a little early.

With promises, trust, but then wait, and verify. Replicate data. Test. Truth doesn't mind a cautious soul.

Hollow

Thinking about all the time spent in church as a child. Mandatory worship of a mandatory god. Sunday meant mass, no excuses - save illness enough to keep me flat in bed. Catholic school, at least one day a week with my class. And Holy Week meant nine days in a row at church every single day. Singing with the choir for the Easter Vigil service fulfilled my obligation for Easter Sunday, became my favorite service of the year. Ancient songs, incense, candles, lighting the new fire, ritual and costume, got around my distaste at being forced to pretend, and fed some part of me.

I liked being in the choir, singing helped me not hear the words so much. Got to sit up in the loft, away from my parents, out from under their constant scrutiny. I lectored for the same reasons, a bit of margin, a layer of insulation.

Holy Saturday, a day of grey grief, cut adrift from the chains. A moment of respite in the year, when I admitted my drawing away, despite the dire warnings against rejecting the love of gods, turning my back upon salvation. Like the much vaunted, but hollow-chocolate-egg-love of family, I never felt any god loved me. What was I being saved for? And I wonder at those who only live good lives in hope of heaven or fear of hell, and not simply to live one's own and only life as well as possible. Kindness for it's own sake, rather than bribing a god. Oh,I took the shiny wrapped candy, all that was on offer. Even kept a vague affection for the showier foil, the old tunes, a momentary tug even now.

I don't believe there is a god. I don't believe there isn't a god. Belief is such an alien concept to me. The whole argument misses the point, and tires. My mother simply assumed she could dress me in it, and there it would stay, instead of my tossing it aside with as much force as she flung her hated hat to the back dash of the car after mass.

But perhaps it is like being tone deaf, those of us who love music simply cannot conceive how some will never hear the tune.

Our friend scrub jay is back. Lingering on the porch where I put out the peanuts last year. Tapping an expectant beak, as if to demand service. So, I put some out, waited a bare minute... and he just picked one up. Yeah, it's all about proof, sometimes in the form of peanuts.





Moby claimed a spot on the bed last night, a rarity over the past year. Eleanor discomfited, but found another place to settle.


All the peanuts are retrieved, now. I have a bagfull, yet.

Science!

After soaking in vinegar overnight, the horseshoe was still very encrusted. Got a lot of it off then turned to the intertubes. And the suggestion of electrolysis. Well, we have power sources, chargers, for items we no longer own. Wire. A bowl, a nail. Had to go buy baking soda, since I was out.



Then waited.

Brought out the camera.

"What are you doing?"


"Whattatat arararare youuuuuuu doooooing?"


"Eh, human stuff. I'll nap."



The wire kept corroding through. After a few hours of re-attaching the wire, I called it. I think it looks better. D figures the rust was acting as insulator. I brushed on mineral oil, accepted it as is, gave it a place of honor. Visible coming through the door, but without a door opening and closing to eventually make it a danger to entering heads.



As with all experiments, failure is always an option.

Horseshoe

There are young men in the transition home across the street. I made a point to say hi to the woman working over there a while back. It's certainly one of the nicer buildings on that block.

Which makes me think about home. I grew up in a house, but it never felt like home. All I knew, at the time, even so, more loved at my aunts' homes. Family because familiar, not safe, though. Much the same with the ex, come to realize.

Until I met D, and far from 'home', I found home for the first time. Acceptance, joy, ease, welcome, wherever he was, I was home. More as we moved in together a few years later, home with a place to be. I never expected anything else, never dared hope for that even, couldn't imagine it.

When we moved in to our own house, after so many apartments, I expected nothing more than a bigger space and no rent raises every lease. But something changed in me, as all the elements formed covalent bonds, a new substance emerged. Home. With Garden.

As you might guess, I dug today. Still mostly raw dirt, but with lemon balm taking over a corner, and other hopefuls returning, it looks more alive. Less plastic, loosened soil. This easy digging will not last much longer, when the clay hardens into concrete, forcing an end. Until then, I want to see beneath. What I found today, aside from rocks and bricks, and another marble, was a very rusty, crust horseshoe. Very unexpected, I ran in to show D, dirty shoes trailing grime, so excited.

Soaking it in vinegar overnight, hoping to get it more or less back in shape. Maybe even identify it. Then nail it up, for luck. Because, that's what needs to be done.

Sharing

Last year, we'd been worrying about Moby, patchy fur that seemed to be from over-grooming, he'd largely stopped playing, seemed bored, perhaps lonely. So, we found Eleanor. They did not bond instantly. Far from it. We second guessed ourself a lot. What had we done to our dear friend?

As anyone who, as a child, was thrown with other children, and told they had new friends, knows, it usually doesn't work. Despite my awareness of the potential for mere co-existance, I'm enough of a closet romantic to hope they would be cuddle buddies, and just lurrve each other. Yeah. No. These are the experiences that keep that foolish side of me in check.

Eleanor bopped Moby, which he did not like, still causes him to sigh and walk away, and she largely still does not understand. But they chase around, she annoys him, and gives him something to watch, a presence when we are not around. So, his fur is all filled in, and he is more alert (if disgusted.) He hadn't been eating well, now he lets her taste* the food, then he goes back and eats the rest. He's had to negotiate space and favorite spots, ceding to her the bed - on us at night. She walks through, but does not lounge in the music room, where he often hangs out with D.

And Eleanor does not bop him as much, even when they are chasing each other. She's never been afraid of him, but she's letting him have his space more. She's gotten less skittish, I can pick her up more easily now. She's become more balanced, both less intrusive and less easily startled.

They're growing accustomed to each other. If not quite friends. That's ok. It really is. Sometimes, it's not about best buddies, or like minds, but kind cooperation and contented sharing of space. Ideals and dreams are fine to move one forward, but what we get is usually a compromise, a botch, that winds up being better, bringing out unimagined subtleties, filling out our whole souls.


A bit later...



*Sure looks like a Machiavellian move.

Donde

¿Donde esta los gatos?

Los gatos están en las camas.

Aqui.

Who? What? Ahhhhhh!


Oh, it's just you.




Y aqui.

On the bed in the back room, with both futons piled, more pillows, princes&pea-like, Moby barely flicks an ear. Mummbles, "I like it in here. It's private."





A little later, I go in to close the door, since we have the heat on, and he's gone. I check under the old bed, and see two green glowing eyes.

"You want to be under there?"

He walks toward me, "naw, not really."

"You can stay there if you want, but it'll be warmer out there."

Walks past, "Yeah, yeah, I'm done anyway."


Yesterday, at this time, 68˚F, sunny, hot even, digging outside.

Today. 44˚F, rain, chance of snow. Fierce winds through the night, rain, thunder.

Less pollen, though. The elm seeds went right through the netting. First year, I had no idea it would happen. Second year I had no idea when it would paper the garden. This year, timed it perfectly, but my solution failed. Next year, a finer mesh. My garden is on the infinity plan, however many years it takes. The lemon balm is spreading nicely, sunflowers coming up well, everything else holding off on declaring.

Crumbled

More digging. Got down to the white crumble layer I figured to be builder's trash, or a limed up pipe (because of rusted metal bits), but now I have so much of it, I have to wonder if it's natural. So, I'm off to search geology sites and see if I can... dig anything up, I'm sorry, sorry. Hanging my head.




It bubbles with vinegar. There is some splotchy phosphorescence under black light. There was some reddish dense clay around some of it.

Off to search, see you when I get back.


Update:
No answers, oogle has failed me this time, but there is a Rock Shop in town that promises to identify it for me for free, as long as I have less than ten samples and call first. One is less than ten, last time I checked. Maybe I'll take in my supposed clinker as well, make it two. I will try for Wednesday. Also, Farmgal's soil prof may be able to help, if I can't take care of it myself first. I will not plant any food plants over that area until I know this is safe.


D suffering, suffering I tell you, with all the tree pollen. We should be outside lolling, instead he's inside hunkering, snottily and weepily, red, drowsy with drugs, with an irritated head in all it's mucous parts. I react more to weeds, so I'm fairly stable, although I'm feeling some effects. Poor dear.

Ingredients

We have developed this philosophy of cooking. Get good ingredients, don't fuck them up.

That's it.

Talking with our core guy, with several kids, about Farmgal's eggs (from happy chickens.) More expensive than the battery hen eggs, but the taste is worlds away better. But we cook for two, and not wasting food means more than paying less per weight unit. These (happy) eggs need no spice, no salt, nothing to make them edible, not to say delicious. As the chickens lay, we eat eggs as a staple.

And Trader Joe's makes a lot of meals for two, so we throw less away. My compost pile suffers, but we only take out the trash to the curb every other week, one week garbage, two weeks later - recycle, repeat. Twice a month, and we could stretch it longer most of the time.

Get really good pastries, and one is sufficient. Get cheap candy, and the urge to gorge emerges. I'm happy with one nice bit of good chocolate, but Hersey's kisses I could down by the dozens, and still want more, even as I feel a bit ill.

Good beer never gives me a headache, cheap stuff is a different story.

Eating better often means feeling satisfied with less. Nourished. Paying a bit more, but getting far more in return. Snubbing manufactured taste on sale, going for basic quality. Not to mention growing my own.

I don't try fancy recipes, I don't have the skills, nor the tools. D prefers one pan meals, because he gets overwhelmed with doing more than one task at a time. I am not sure about more than basic cooking skills, and even then.

Clear memory of an older friend (when I was 19) going on about people who didn't even know how to make an omelet. Me, knowing I had no clue how to do that. And, honestly, still don't. I can do nicely scrambled, after being taught by a random acquaintance in Traverse City of all places, but no one has ever taught me to omelet. Likewise women at work going on about young female relatives who don't know how to make a roast, or pork chops, and I stay silent because I certainly don't know how to do either. Never have made a roast as an adult. But then, my mother couldn't have steamed a vegetable to save her life. She wouldn't have to save mine, certainly.

But I love, and know how to cook and eat, an artichoke. Got a call from my mother, once, after mentioning this to her, that my father had tried (with no information) to do the same, which failed utterly. I had nothing to say. I had been shown, it's not "user friendly", but it is lovely, with a sauce. They'd gotten a good ingredient, and fucked it up.

We have good chips, good guacamole, good salsa, good sour cream. Dinner, done.

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&


Raked up the leaf mulch in the back, staked out the netting. Talk about invisible jobs. But if it keeps even some of the elm seeds off the beds, I will call it good. Actually too hot to dig more in the front. The peppers, chilies, will love it out there.

This is silly.
A Few Clouds
75°F
24°C
Humidity20%
Wind SpeedN 12 MPH
Barometer29.89 in (1008.5 mb)
Dewpoint31°F (-1°C)
Visibility10.00 mi
Last Update on 11 Apr 3:53 pm MDT

Perfection

I have known my share of self proclaimed perfectionists, and much as I liked some of them, I would always, eventually, lose patience. When I found this on the incomparable Whiskey River, I think I understand better why.

"Someday, sometime, you will be sitting somewhere. A berm overlooking a pond in Vermont. The lip of the Grand Canyon at sunset. A seat on the subway. And something bad will have happened: You will have lost someone you loved, or failed at something at which you badly wanted to succeed. And sitting there, you will fall into the center of yourself. You will look for some core to sustain you. And if you have been perfect all your life and have managed to meet all the expectations of your family, your friends, your community, your society, chances are excellent that there will be a black hole where that core ought to be. I don't want anyone I know to take that terrible chance. And the only way to avoid it is to listen to that small voice inside you that tells you to make mischief, to have fun, to be contrarian, to go another way. George Eliot wrote, 'It is never too late to be what you might have been.' It is never too early, either."
- Anna Quindlen
Being Perfect

I had my first big failure in 4th grade. The 4th and 5th grades were combined in a three track system, I was in the top one with mostly 5th graders, which worked well in every subject, except math. I'd never memorized my times tables, and had no clue how to approach the homework. I ignored it. Maybe I figured I'd miraculously understand in the next class? This seemed to make sense at age 9.

Reality caught me up, slammed me down, and pinned me to my failure. I was put with the middling mix of 4th and 5th graders, including the worst bullies - who were glad to see me fall. And had to face my mother's wrath, as she drilled the times tables into my head for the next year. She never really understood, since she could just see them in her head. I could barely differentiate a 3 from a 5 from an 8, at least not reliably. I got it down sufficiently, and much as I wanted to disappear, I survived. Never got good at math, but by high school, usually kept a high B, with an occasional A-.

Paperwork to this day, comes first. Get it done, get it done right, check it again. So I can sleep at night. Never let that kind of task lay undone too long. Not for fun, but peace of mind.

The more important lesson, not entirely grasped at the time, was that 'done sufficiently' beats 'holding back waiting for perfection.' Perfect is impossible, the work needs to be done.

That sense of myself that included laziness and blind spots and inadequacies, still spins. I'm uncomfortable with generosity, when it comes to food or money spent. I hated over-icing cupcakes brought to school events, I wanted whatever was left in the bowl for myself, not kids I didn't much like. I helped another kid drop rocks on his baby brother, until my mother intervened in a fury. I was small myself, but that shame composted my empathy. Out with D downtown many years ago, a young woman inert on the sidewalk. I barely glanced, and would have walked on, if D had not gone right to her, nudged me to be better. That kindness is in me, but it's my second thought, not my first.

So, perhaps the other way to avoid the emptiness, is to peer into one's failures, and be comfortable in one's own flaws. Not proud of them, nor ashamed of them, simply aware, with a plan for how to cope when they cause a collapse, with a sense of humor and responsibility.

Because worse than the perfectionists, perhaps the flip side of the coin, are the people who shrug and say, "Oh, well that was a learning experience, we all make mistakes" but then never take it in hard enough to hurt enough to actually learn the lesson and change.

Shruggers and perfectionists both seem a little too afraid to look at a job and say "Well, this is going to leave a mark!" and go ahead and jump in anyway. I hesitate, certainly, but then plunge my hands in, trying not to scream too loudly. That is what I see in perfectionists that is a reflexion of my own fears, that reluctance to be brave, the urge to let it slide.

Like that time in Basic, when my dogtags inexplicably slipped from my neck while I was on the toilet. Oh, I considered flushing them down, but I knew where that path led. Took a deep breath, and grabbed them out, washed them off, and (ha) soldiered on. I've done worse jobs since, although usually with gloves.

Maybe it's largely a matter of practice, learning how to fall.

Slipping

In the midst of backsliding, it's nice to hear about progress.


Full day of work. Came home, ate, decided to shift a bit of the long grass stalks of the fall's mulch. Pulled up some plastic, which ran under the big stone. So I moved the stone, and pulled the plastic. There was such a nice patch of bare earth, I dug just a little. Then a bit more, as more plastic appeared at the edges, I moved the big stone again, and dug more because what the hell, it's light and warm. Came across more of the localized white layer I found last year. Had to get most of that out. Also found an old brick. Then some of the white crumbly hard stuff, attached to a metal layer.

So, here's my theory, it's an old water line that limed up, broke, and was replaced elsewhere, and deeper. Found a bit of metal tool, of mysterious use. Maybe a photo tomorrow.

And, yes, I got carried away. D is understanding, and refers to it as my archeology site.

Oh, and it was 77˚F (25C) today. April in these parts, gods.

Marbles

Lots of hard digging,
Nothing showing, only dirt,
And two old marbles.

Fits

Giving up the lies. Releasing my grip on the favorite theory, the comfortable distraction, knowing when to stop and retreat and hide.

Life can be like sculpture that way, removing the extraneous to reveal the art beneath.

My only regrets have been waiting too long, believing when I knew the falseness of the faith, staying out of an ill defined sense of misplaced responsibility. Cutting off contact with my family sooner, leaving the bad marriage much sooner, walking away from an argument, a hollow friendship. My arms ached too long carrying baggage I no longer needed. The awful realization - why have I kept this trash so long?

My mother's stories about unconditional love, that really meant VERY conditional love, or more to the point, no real love, but the words to paper over that inconvenience in abundance and in all weathers.

The ex who kept saying "we have something" when what he meant was he could still sucker-punch me and string me along. That he didn't want to lose the game, so insisted we keep on playing past all reason.

At least my father, for all that he was a rat, sorta knew he was a rat. An insane, mean, lying bastard of a rat. But he didn't have a lot of convincing pretense. I really wish I'd cut off contact as soon as I moved out. That would have been honest. I wasn't that honest, then. Took me a while. I regret leaving that hole in my integrity so long. For the sake of my mother's soft, loving lies.

But I was thinking about why I went into theater, and I kept imagining myself touching people. A quiet reaching out that changed their lives. Which actually is what I do. I offer physical comfort, a hand, a presence beside them as they enter oblivion for a while. They won't remember, not as such. Still.

It isn't what I discard, it's what I keep. And I only want to keep what fits, what is best.

Flash

Taking a break from all the sitting and trying to focus on the screens, six of us stood in the hall between the classroom and the restroom, standing and chatting idly. A woman walked through, dark hair, very familiar, but too out of context. I smiled and nodded, certainly I knew her from somewhere, but that was all.

We are still idling as she comes back past, looks harder at me, calls me by name, and hugs me. Then I knew who she was, I hug back (because I would)and her name bobbed up a moment later. It's been 20 years, old roommate, long out of touch.

I had nothing to write on, she got my phone number on her phone with some difficulty. She apparently works nights. Then I had to go back to the class.

Just that.

I'd forgotten why we'd drifted so much. In the middle of the night, it all washed over me. D and I had gone on a trip with her and another couple of friends. And as such things often do, this did not work out well. Not explosively badly, it didn't end the relationship. More of a turning point, where no one made more than nominal effort to get together after. She married, had a baby. I went under nursing school, got full time work, we lost track of each other. I never knew her married name, although I knew the guy, wasn't on last name basis with him.

All feels vaguely dreamlike, since she may well not call at all. She tended to procrastination at the best of times. Kind hearted, intelligent, charming, funny, but not to be relied upon if it was important to be somewhere at a specific time. For me, being always early for everything, this never sat well.

We were in the same concentrated organic/bio chem classes that summer. Then more science pre-reqs. She stepped up to offer help when I got activated, unexpectedly. I liked her, but we were mostly study-buddies, rather than close friends. She took over my tiny, cheap, apartment while I was off to Gulf War I. She'd been living with her grandmother, and liked having a place to herself. I paid rent, she covered utilities, and I had a place when I got back, six months later. At a time when finding an apartment could be very iffy. She then slept on the sofa for a few months until she could find an apartment with the friend who was also on the trip. I was, and am, very grateful for all the support in one of the most unsettled stretches of my life.

Don't know what's been going on with her, nor could I quickly summarize my own journey in that time. So much has changed. Her child must be college age by now, for one.

It may not matter, ultimately. A flash, a memory, then nothing more.

Rather disquieting.

Misery

Train in vain. Miserable five &!/2 hours sitting (gods I hate sitting) in front of a screen while being walked through the new charting. Add in that I can't see their screen without my glasses, cannot see mine with, despite progressive lenses. A constant trial. Lots of gaps in the program, or not applicable in the OR.

This is a constant, OR charting came late and is not given any attention. It's very, very different from floor charting. No real overlap, actually. We do a lot of implants, for instance, and that part of the chart was still rudimentary. I just realized there is no place to chart x-ray, which is kinda important that we at least mention that the patient was exposed to some radiation. So, much of what we actually do, is given short shrift, if any shrift at all. Misapplication.

I wore a skirt, since I've been in trainings where jeans were an issue. Sadly, because it's lined, I kept sliding, although more comfortable generally. Leaving my lower back in a small agony. Icing it as I write. The other nurses were all going to go to lunch after, but all I wanted was to be home, asap if not sooner.

Another month before implementation, and I want to weep. Thing is, using it, I would figure it out in a day. The exceptional things, I'd forget no matter how much time I "practiced" it. Not to mention, most of those events were not completed. I believe most of this was not for us, but to probe the gaps.

Why are we changing this? Partly because of the health care rule changes. More data collection, research, which I can get behind. I just wish that side of it was more upfront. It's really less about teaching us a new charting software than about dealing with different regulations, and making sure everything works as needed.

Such is the way, though. Hide the real reasons under sugar coating and other blaming, to hide a real purpose that we could actually get behind. Like asking people to be cheerful about an annoyance, rather than admitting, yes, it's awful, but we'll get through it. Which most people understand, and will gird their loins and do the job.

Don't fucking ask me to be happy about this, and I'll do it with good cheer. Demand happiness amid misery, and I'm going to snarl.

Encircled

Got an email from the shelter that cared for Eleanor, they want to get photos of her, and tell her story in this year's newsletter. Well, of course. Don't know when, we shall see.




And this.






And more crudely stated insight from John Cheese, who has done as much for my comprehension of weird habits I learned in a broken childhood.

Servant

Not as if I've spent a lot of time in hotels.

As a child, one night per motel on the road, during my father's two week vacation, in the car. We were bundled into the car before dawn so as to get ahead of the traffic, miles in before the heat of the day. The packing of the trunk, and ice for the cooler, making sure the bed was made and all items collected. Off to the next park, the next tourist trap. Mac Donalds were a blessing, after dodgy diners of uncertain quality, boring - but predictable, and very cheap. My mother really did make the beds before we left every morning, cleared the bit of trash.

When we got to the next motel, she would get ice and chew on it, a pleasure saved for vacations only. I would make my way to the pool, if there was one, with my older brother most of the time. We visited Niagara Falls, The Thousand Islands, the Great Smoky Mountains, New Brunswick, Tahquamenon Falls State Park, Luray Caverns, and one of the last, out to Yellowstone National Park. Ferries, hikes, waterfalls, caves, that's what I most remember. As well as motels and motel playgrounds and pools. Leave out the bit where bullying father had his come-apart.

With D, we've usually done just a night or two away at a time. Going on the cheap, but not quite as cheap as with my parents. A day's drive away, or a short flight. Not much of a vacation for me if I have to drive a lot every day. We've both developed a severe airline allergy. Being in one hotel more than one night came only after we started taking weekend trips. This is when I discovered the idea of maid service.

Did not know what to make of the first time I came back to our room, only to find everything moved and tidied up, and NOT BY ME. Very uncomfortable with this. Much preferred to have it done only after we'd gone and turned in our key. Very intruded upon sensation. And I never got used to it. Last time we went up to Lava Hot Springs, I kept the Do Not Disturb sign up the whole time. Seriously, don't come in our room. At all. Ever. Look in if you want to make sure everything is OK, but then back away slowly.

I come from a long line of farmers and workers. I don't get the idea of servants, from either end. Very hard for me to hire people to work on the house. I feel apologetic, like I should be doing it, and need to explain extensively why I can't. We all have our little issues. Apparently, this is mine.

Give my father his due, he kept the house and car in good working order, however much the plumbing could have been the model for a video game maze. He fixed things, however ugly the results, they did more or less work. Whole lotta this tape.


So, I'm a little ashamed that I have a house, and can't do all that work. Even if I can afford to pay someone to do some of it. D assures me it's better to have it done than have him wind up in an ER with a finger hanging off. He's right, of course. Still. Old values, ground in.

India

I is for India.



India the continent, the country, the ink.



Indian the people, old and new world.



Indus, the culture, the language, the river.



Hindus, too, I suppose, wouldn't you think?




I as in iMacs and iPods and various Mac products that inspire the industry of geekdom, and irritate others.



Iron and Iridium and Iodine, so elemental.




It sits in bits, clips, snips, trips & drips.




Impressive, ain't I?

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

Cheating

As I dug, right by the sidewalk, I greeted those walking past. Everyone seemed to want to say something. Guy who may have been homeless (not uncommon around here) asked me if I'd roto-tilled the rest.

"Nope, just me and my shovel."
"That's a lot of work."
"If I want a garden, I gotta dig."

Another woman, "What are you planting?"
"Nothing yet, just loosening the soil so I can plant." I know, too much information.

Another man asking about the leek, where I got it, would it work?
"I don't know, it's an experiment. We'll see."

Thought about this last year, getting someone to do some of the heavy lifting. Even fantasies of having a landscaper just come in and take care of it all. But there was no margin for that last year. And I came to realize, for all my aches, I also had all the pride. There was a guy last year who offered to dig for me, and I thanked him, but said, no - my work, my garden, my joy.

So many of the big jobs on the house, we've had to hire people. We don't have the skills, the tools, nor would it be safe or wise for us to try a lot of the work. Just the bit of painting on the porch took a ridiculous amount of time and nerves. Neither of us should be high up on ladders these days, we'd certainly needed the tree guys for getting rid of that overgrowth. It about wrecked D just dismantling the ceiling fans. No way we are touching plumbing.

The garden, hard as it is on my muscles and tendons, I can do. And it's so beautiful in bloom.


And I feel the same about the cleaning. For all that I don't like to, and have neglected so much, having someone in to do it for me feels like hiring a ringer to do my test. Before the house, I don't know if I ever really thought this way. The first thing I'd have done with a windfall fortune would have been to hire a cleaning service, for a start.

Maybe, it's because the stuff that is out, that gets dusty, is what we have collected over the years. Our story is there, and that is mine to care for. I love when D cleans, that's great, but anyone else? That seems weird, wrong. Be like having someone dress me or brush my teeth for me.

So, I treasure the job I can do, take it in, know my bit of earth.

Sleeting

I cleaned off the wood surfaces and dining room table. As reward, I got to dig. A nice trench on the neglected side, the clay soft with rain, lot of rocks and bits of brick. Filled in with autumn's leaves. Everyone who passed had a comment, most nice, or innocuous. One woman, older, on a bicycle, muttered to me to be careful of the dirt, not looking at me, but looking worried. I don't know if she heard but I said, "I will be careful, I promise." As I was finishing up, the rain began to pelt down, with frozen bits. I hied me hence and got everything on the porch.



Mostly, that side has done so badly because I have not dug as much. Whole lotta clay over dere. Given mulch and amendment, it might do well. Start with onions, given the known snail/slug issues. I have a bed for the onions now.

I can tell where I have not worked at all, because there is still more of the damn plastic impregnated sod the fools laid down, no doubt because it was cheap/on sale.



This room is better, the clutter was accumulating. But now I may have a reason. D is going to offer to host a game night. Not that I think they will notice if the place is clean or not, only that I will. He says it will be shallow socializing, which is fine by me. Voices in the house. A reason to clean. Sufficient for me.



Ok, it's sleeting out there. Also fine, since I'm in here, and don't have to go anywhere.

Custard

April raining. Good for the garden, good for my soil.

Called off work today, gladly accepted because I have to spend most of Saturday at a training for the new computer charting system. That there has to be a six hour class says everything about how intuitive it will (not) be. In a few minutes, I will catch up on some of the cleaning I've so badly neglected.

Cats chasing madly this morning, tag. No bushy tails, no hissing or growling, so we suppose it to be play. Eleanor occasionally simply hops over Moby, and she is much faster. His surprize attacks after careful stalking always seem to startle her. This may be part of the game as well. There is certainly an underlying threat of, well, threat. But no one seems to be hurt, or unduly annoyed. It seems to be good exercise, heartily indulged.

A quote for the day, then off to de-dust and de-clutter.

'We are here to see Dr Whiteface,' said Vetinari. 'I require you to let us in with the minimum of mirth.'

The door snapped back. There was some hurried whispering and a clanking noise, and one half of the double doors opened a little way, just enough for people to walk through in single file. Moist stepped forward, but Vetinari put a restraining hand on his shoulder and pointed up with his stick.

'This is the Fools' Guild,' he said. 'Expect... fun.'

There was a bucket balanced on the door. He sighed and gave it a push with his stick. There was a thud and a splash from the other side.

'I don't know why they persist in this, I really don't,' he said, sweeping through. 'It's not funny and it could hurt someone. Mind the custard.' There was a groan from the dark behind the door.

-Making Money, Terry Pratchett.