Spots

Got to an estate sale this morning, walked away less $19, and up a chair, rug, mug, and three legged stool with a handle.

How long did it take for the cats to decide which was a gift for each? Or claim them, to be more accurate?



Not long at all.



Furnishing our house from yard and estate sales means we have better, less usual stuff, for a lot less outlay. And I like that each one comes with a story, we remember what kind of place we found this table, that chair. We tend to not actually buy anything from places where we don't think we'd've liked the people. We think we'd have liked the people from the one today.

D found an old email reader - mail station, that he fantasized getting, just to see if he could hook it up. Figured we would need a modem, dial up service (which we ain't got.) We had the impression that they were an elderly couple. Found out he was a fighter pilot in WWII. Mormon, but tasteful and moderate - not of the over-the-top Utah version where every available surface is covered with temples and jesuses, quilted pastel decorations and studio portraits of grandchildren. Not unlike oldworld catholic kitsch. Less about the religion, all about the culture. The art was old fashioned and safe, but not laughable.


This is an older house, and deserves some contemporary companionship. A bit of quality. We like giving a home to the no longer needed belongings of good folks. The cats seem to agree.

Also had to get a new lever for the toilet, the old one snapped. Two trips, much sighing, but it works much better now.

Grimy

Grey January,
Confused groundhog quivering.
Why bother peeking?



All month has felt like November, or March. The cold that isn't quite cold, the warm that isn't really warm. Air polluted, or a sniveling, nasty little wind holding the haze back marginally. No snow, paltry rain, everything brown and grimy. The light is low, without the aid of white snow to reflect and invigorate. A tepid bath, lukewarm weak tea, slightly moldy gravy over grainy, lumpy potatoes, thin socks with rough seams and a hole in the toe.

I'd relish a blizzard, a frigid blast, hell - a damn ice storm would be greeted with glee. Something wintry! I said I wouldn't have wanted to be in Boston last weekend, but I think I was wrong. I wouldn't have wanted to travel to work there, but to walk through the storm, oh, my, yes, yes please.



We heard the sounds, cat-like thumps of some sort, although we were unable to identify the source, or where said cat was. Intermittent.

Then a more pronounced thump, whoosh, gurgle, drip-drip-drip. Ah, the vase of roses. Eleanor sat beside the tipped vase on the table, with a clear look of, "Huh. How did that happen?" on her unconcerned face. I ran for a towel, and we giggled as we mopped up the table and floor, removed the cloth. Cats.

Eleanor has been known to like roses, sitting by them, rubbing her face into the arrangement and into the vase. Moby likes them as well, he sniffs at them, chews (then horks up) the leaves. I get them (from Trader Joes, natch) with the intention of sharing. She apparently just got a bit too enthusiastic this time.

Cryptic

Reading an article on the erroneous phrase "living fossil" and how it relates to Cryptic species. All the old taxonomy is proving inadequate to the complexity of life, how incredibly fluid and changeable life shows itself to be. The old certainties are gone, not because "everything was simpler then" but because we were. Those two orange fish look so much alike, they must be akin. Well, no, different families* entirely, we just didn't have the tools to understand.

We get attached to simple answers when we are kids, because so are we taught. Comforting, to know, to understand, this is a horse, that is a dog, this bird is blue, that cow is brown, and says moo. No controversy, easy. Lies of omission, simplification to the point of falsification. I worry most about those who hold dear the primary deceit into age, of good and evil, right and wrong, this is this and can never be that, and harken back with nostalgic longing to childish comprehensions.

Perhaps because my childhood lacked idyllic peace, I fail to understand the appeal. But I think I just love endless possibilities, a better answer, with even more questions.

I remember several places, store dressing rooms, a movie theater lobby, with mirrors that reflected each other, and I could stand between and see myself repeated into the distance, leading a synchronized dance. Each girl a little more green, smaller, maybe even ever so slightly different. Fascinated me, a sort of magic. A matter of perception and perspective spooling out different threads, endlessly pulling me into the future.





*Not family in the technical sense of Family, Genus, etc. A layman's use of the term to be vaguely poetic.

Treasured

What three things do I treasure? Happened upon this question.

Touch, laughter, competence.

When I come home, D comes out to greet me, we wrap each other in our arms. We hold hands, and lean into each other, touch feet, I kiss his head, he nuzzles my nose. For the simple pleasure of contact. The cats rub past our legs, walk on us, settle on our laps, we kiss their foreheads and stroke them nose to tail, rub proffered bellies, prop Moby on a shoulder, Eleanor into my hip.

D makes me laugh, when I don't feel like laughing, when the mood sucks me down, he crackles through the dampness and sparks a giggle. I make him laugh, when the frustration ties him up, he huffs in relief and amusement. Moby sticks his face in, jumps back as Ninjakitty! and we laugh. Eleanor fluffs her tail in our faces, skitters and hops in her own comedy routine.

Eleanor leaps to the sill, sure footed. Attacks the rug with intense vigor, avoids human feet with skill. Moby still jumps cleanly and softly, although he takes a few more measurements before he tries. Quick paws with reflections, sangfroid out his ears. D plays guitar, keeps track of all the payments and computer interfaces, knows his comics and history, as well as an impressive array of general knowledge with attendant comprehension. I'm proud of my ability to organize, hard won habits, finishing tasks. I can still flip books like any good shelver in a library, open sterile supplies fast - with accuracy, find knots in shoulders and unkink 'em.


When one fails, the others flood in. We are in good hands, or paws.

Wary

Migraine means severe,
Hug the toilet, head to floor,
This is migraine lite®.


It's been many years since I had what I would consider a real migraine, with nausea, vomiting, blinding agony, acute photophobia, hours of earnest motionlessness, darkness, and stifled sobs. I've had a few migrainous days, here and there, sinus pressure, neck aches, belchy, a sense of unrightness, that fades by late afternoon - just as the big M Migraines once did. Or, even less, although it does have a particular flavor, this is just a whiff rather than being slammed to the ground.

I'm very grateful, that these episodes that have plagued my life are fading. That I've finally learned to circumvent some of the worst symptoms, or my head is less susceptible for it's own reasons. It's always been as much a matter of chance as intention, I suspect. Never could clearly identify a trigger, nor a sure-fire remedy. Higher fiber in my diet, irrigated sinuses, emotional health may be helping. Hormonal changes? Dunno, not for sure.

Merely achy and weird, considering the alternatives, I'm immensely relieved and grateful.

Devices

When we moved in, the basement stairwell was a worry. We did not want Moby down in the basement, unsure if there is a way out, some asbestos tape, raw dirt, unfinished to say the least. So, our engineer friend suggested a solution, which still works. Simply a rigid insulation panel covered with duck & gaffer tape, reinforced with a long plastic dowel.

Eleanor likes walking on it, taking baths on it, and uses it as a mouse-blind. Which is why we had to add a block in the middle, so that she won't slide through.



Handling twice the load it was designed for.

We do always call it The Cat Exclusion Device. Always.

Drill

Many years ago, 1988-1994, I spent one weekend a month in a green uniform with USARMY (Uncle Sam Ain't Released Me Yet) patch above one breast pocket, and Souilliere over the other, a beehive on my sleeve. Those weekends were, for the most part, boring beyond belief, loosely filled with busywork, round-robin 'classes' on military skills (Step 1. Gather equipment and materials) and hiding out from the people supposed to make us at least appear busy. All day Saturday and Sunday, with the occasional Friday evening drill for added tedium.



(Yes, it does look like a turd.)


We spent a lot of time shooting the shit, gossiping, reading, and if we found a really good hiding place, napping. Studying for those of us in school, although we certainly tried, proved most difficult. Hard to spread out, interruptions, most of all the idleness of 400 people makes concentrating nearly impossible. I don't know why.

And after two days of this, we would go home completely exhausted, physically sore and mentally numb. Losing that weekend made the following week such a slog.

Sometimes, we did have SOMETHING to do. Such as set up the hospital out at Camp Williams, which took all day. Then, when told we got to go home as soon as we dismantled it on Sunday morning, we worked madly, and always got it away in no time at all, whoosh. No one sat nor hid, amazing what motivation does for teamwork. Paperwork weekends weren't better than idle ones, since they wound up nearly as empty. Vaccination weekends meant everyone felt ill and feverish on Sunday, and the lying down hideyholes were well taken.

The Pioneer Day parade was a refreshing change, especially since I could walk home from the park at the end of the route.

Today, we had one surgeon, Dr. Slow, in two rooms, and more than enough staff. With the long gaps between turn-overs I only had one lunch to give.* Total of four cases, finished the second one at 1400. I brought a book, but found I couldn't focus on it. Took me a long time to do the crossword in the paper, and couldn't solve the sudoku. After the last case started, I clocked out. Now I'm feeling worn out, having done buggerall.


Oh, and swearing, that was baseline.

*How many?

Outlier

Weird warm winter looms,
Tantalus watches the shoe,
Dangling, undropping.

Movies

I will have to avoid The Imitation Game, not just because of the lead actor being vaguely disquieting to me. But because of reading An Historian's Guide to the Movies take on the mangled history. Turing and the rest of the crew deserve better than this kind of hollywood lazy hash.

I tend to side with D about movies that play badly with history. I have no patience at all for bad medicine in film, either. Suspension of belief is one thing, if they can't get the medical stuff right, they need to avoid it as a critical plot point.

Once, I saw more movies than is good for anyone, starting with three (count 'em, three) film classes from Prof. Spaulding at WSU. He taught us how to really look at the nuts and bolts, tropes and cheats, as well as admire the art and skill. I saw movies at the campus film theater, the Punch & Judy, the Unitarian Church, downtown dollar night, Detroit Institute of Art film theater - both weekend and weekday shows, in addition to class. Probably averaged about five a week for four years, old and new, foreign and domestic, without discrimination. A LOT of movies.

Never saw that many again, but I kept up, for a long time. Nothing as good as a bad movie in an army hall, so rambunctious. Until, well, going to a theater stopped being any damn fun. I could watch at home, stop and start for food or beverages, turn on subtitles or not, rewind if I missed a line, be comfortable. Didn't have to put up with kids or loud jerks, broken seats or excessive volume, sticky floors or interminable ads. 3D would cause nausea or migraine, so I don't even try. Just the amount of over the top CGI triggers me, and I have to cover my face. It's all splashy and noisy, which never appealed to me.



Wretched excess leaves me repulsed, wanting only a cup of tea and a nice book, or website. Something historically accurate and maybe quietly Canadian. Involving no fake history or improbable hospital scenes.


Oh, and speaking of Canadian.

Sins

I tend to follow rules and tell the truth. Makes life simpler, for a start. Honest relationships are just happier and healthier. The only way to feel whole, through and through.

My father lied, perhaps reflexively. He lied when a truth would have been easier, more convincing. If he had a cold, he would make up a story about a toothache. He had a story about the time he had a heart attack. I found out later he was allergic to shrimp, his throat swelled and he had to go to the hospital. Truth apparently eluded him. His brothers were much the same, although I think he had it worst, perhaps because he was terrible at lying.

This came in handy when I was a kid, because I had a well earned reputation with my mother for being scrupulously honest, even when I was in the wrong, even when I would be in trouble (although much less trouble than if caught lying.) Mostly, I learned to carefully chose when to lie, learning when I could not be detected. Got away with eating a fair amount of peanut butter and chocolate chips when I got home from school, (I was hungry) while she picked him up at work. Carefully covering my tracks, washing the spoon, returning everything to it's place. He would get the blame, deny it, but she didn't believe him, and it's not like he got in real trouble.

My mother often told me she knew me better than I knew myself. I didn't actively question this, but I did treasure the little sins I got away with that she never knew, tiny proofs that she was wrong.

I was too watched, too protected from experience outside, scrutinized and picked at, by both of them. I couldn't pick a zit without it being a matter for extensive criticism. So the times I escaped detection allowed me emotional wiggle room. A little privacy for my soul. Force-fed guilt, I lost my taste for it.

In the army, I once overheard a Sgt. tell a PFC about to be on a color guard to "iron, no, no, not to ever iron" her BDUs, since "that was against regulations, but... do what you need to do, right? And don't get caught." This was the morality of the military, follow the rules - and if they contradict - do what you need to do and don't get caught. Ultimately, that was the only Rule.

Not a good way to live, given only the catch 22, a dubious morality to say the least.But there is a satisfaction in finding a way to win, or at least draw, in such a game. Better yet not to play. Took me a long time to regain an ethical base in all things.

Those childhood sins are long expired, now. The army lessons worn thin. Not much tempted to foster deceit. There is no punishment to avoid, no one I want to take the blame. I tell the truth for myself.


Addendum, actually, I think it was starch on the uniform that was against regs. It's been a long time.

Mixed

Still mild and grey, rain only a faint promise of maybe. A strange day off, since I have no way to celebrate, save with dismay at how far we have not come. Injustice and violence continue to score, as kindness and civilization cower in fear.

But there has been progress. Within my lifetime, real progress. But as with scifi technology predictions, the problems have proven more difficult than early progress suggested. Making domestic violence seen, and unacceptable, was a grand first step. Changing entrenched attitudes in a society of many cultures is going to take a lot longer. Giving women more rights, access to their own credit happened not all that long ago. Getting equal pay is still a struggle. Still working on allowing any two consenting adults access to the legal protections of marriage. Or to have police refrain from stereotyping by skin color, or a significant portion of the population.

Discrimination is proving pretty durable. How much of that is related to culture? How children are raised within families, and the residue of values from countries of origin, religions, damage from generations before? Dysfunctions related to grandparent's journeys, not applying to everyone, but stereotypes come from somewhere. On both sides, of course.

We don't want to lose our cultural heritage, but that includes the crap that holds us back. And we are judged for it by those who only know our group from anecdote. It only takes one.

No jet packs, but we have drones with go-pros. And instead of video phones, there is skype. Flying cars are really never going to work, but self driving cars are looking to be a real option. So, perhaps some version of real equality will emerge as well. It will be a mixed blessing, surely.

Exclusion

Idling.

Had to reinforce the Cat Exclusion Device to the basement stairs, which was largely unsuccessful, but sufficient to keep Eleanor up. She'd gone hammer and tongs after what we presume was a mouse last evening. Don't want to see her fallen through, nor with a paw in a trap. It holds her weight well, I've seen her sit on it to bathe. But if she really gets frantic and pushy, she might slide through.

Mostly, just not getting anything done, lately.

Warm January, unsettling. So wrong, bad for our water, since we depend on mountain snow melt through the summer.

Salt Lamp.

What made good queen Bess
Such a great success?
What made Wellington
Do what he did at Waterloo?

What makes every Englishman
A fighter through and through?
It isn't roast beef, or ale, or home, or mother
It`s just a little thing they sing to one another

Stiff upper lip, stout fella
Carry on, old fluff
Chin up, keep muddling through

Stiff upper lip, stout fella
When the going`s rough
Pip pip to old man trouble
And a toodly-oo too

Carry on through thick and thin
If you feel you`re in the right
Does the fighting spirit win?
Quite, quite, quite, quite, quite

Stiff upper lip, stout fella
When you`re in the stew
Sober or blotto, this is your motto
Keep muddling through

When a bounder starts to hiss
You must give him blow for blow
Make the blighter say, "What`s this?
`ullo, `ullo, `ullo, `ullo, `ullo"

Stiff upper lip, stout fella
When you`re in the stew
Sober or blotto, this is your motto
Keep muddling through

Salt

Finally got the tree down, not quite packed away, but in the back room. Put the salt lamp on the barrel instead.

Vanilla

Getting myself in a mood today. Restless sort of night, sore muscles, discomfiting thoughts. Finished Debts of Dishonour, which was pleasant enough writing, a bit wobbly on the plot, some unsatisfying elements. What bothered me was that someone had penciled in their edits, crossing out every incidence of 'fuck,' objecting to 'for ever,' in favor of 'forever,' and of 'homey' to 'homely' - to describe a character's voice. I took an eraser to all, including the correct one of adding 'know' in a sentence when it had clearly been missed. Even so, writing in library books? Not done, how entitled and smug. Buy your own, write all over, sharpie out every other word, if you like. But a library book? No. Editing f-bombs? Total loss of credibility.

I was raised to never write in any book, whatsoever under any circumstance. Well, for a child, a blanket statement is often best, given that I had so many library books at any given moment. Made it a struggle to highlight college texts, and the Anatomy Coloring Book left me feeling very naughty indeed, even seeing it as a coloring book. But I recognize that annotating one's own books is actually a way to share in the process of writing. I've gotten intermittent amusement from notes in textbooks owned by other students, used books with marginalia, often ill informed and incorrect. I remember one science book, absolutely everything, every word, was highlighted in the first chapter, first few pages of the second, and the rest of the book clean, possibly unopened. Tells a story.



Still, never got in the habit of writing in my own books, and I think I missed an element of reading by my silences.

Anyway, mood. So, I remembered we had a gingerbread mix. Put it together, with extra ginger. How much ginger? A good dollop of ginger. Grated in a half carrot, for moisture. As it cooled, suddenly I thought about putting vanilla ice cream, or even whipped cream, on top. Now, this is atypical, since I'm no fan of either as a rule, dairy is no treat. D does like milk, though. We discussed, walked over to the store, found some vanilla gelato in a small amount, for the price of more-than-we'd-ever eat. Together, ginger and vanilla, bread and gelato, made for wonderful.

And I remembered when I'd last tasted that, a local restaurant would do a mince pie with vanilla ice cream, that was so perfectly balanced, so flavorful. Back of my brain, in a drawer I hadn't touched for over 20 years, my inner librarian pulled this out, scurried around for possible substitutions, and hit on this solution.

Maybe I'll get a crayon and scribble in one of my own books.

Crimson

Belated christmas present from work, a red* stadium blanket, with my orthopedic hospital's logo. Moby has claimed it for now. Eleanor content with the window. I got called off today, which is good. Not ill, but feeling like a long weekend will stave off a vague threat of same. With Monday off, which had been largely forgotten by everyone at work, although gladly accepted, an unexpected vacation.




*Technically crimson, in contrast to byublue.

Mew

(Asking Eleanor about living here.)

Oh, um, hello... wait, what are you doing? ahhhhh... hands from above! (runs away)

(some time later)

Oh, hi, I'm here, don't worry. Gonna stand on you for this, 'k? Um, whoo, early days, all a blur. Oh, yeah, nice massage, tell you anything. Lemme get right under your arm... yeah, snug and warm. Eleanor? Yeah, that's what you say when you give me food, right? It's nice.

Right, right, shelter. I think there was another house too. Lots of people all the time. Lots of cats all over. Which is cool, totally cool, most of 'em. Some are scary, and take me places, put me places, no one really plays with me much, cats bite and big people shove me around in boxes. Not most of them, no, most of them pet me nice, and kids play with me and love me. But, whew! what a lot of bother most of the time, no real quiet places, nothing feels really safe. Some mean people, mean cats, loud machines.

No, I don't remember the day I met you two, figured it was just one more place, I guess. Didn't know it would be home, or I'd have remembered better. I remember getting better food, and you brushed the knots out of the fur on the side of my face, I was too scared to object, and it did feel nice after. I remember better food, and lovely nip! And toys, you had lots of toys, just for me, and a soft place to sleep in that room with the door. I could smell another cat, I guess, but I was so used to that, I didn't really think about it, probably. I remember the good food, crunchy and tasty and as much as I wanted! Oh, and that amazingly soft blanket, could not stop suckling it, so soft...

Well, so I met the other cat, cute old guy, I could tell he was nice, and I just wanted to be around him. He didn't seem to want to play, even though I bopped him in the friendliest way ever. Well, I guess I also bopped him when he stared at me too much, but couldn't he tell it was a different bop!? Grwrling and hissing at me, did he really mean that? Dunno, seemed like he was scared, of me! WTF?

Gotta go run around, back later...

(some time later)

Ok, so I lurve Moby! OMG, he is so cute! Even his hiss is kind, so wise and funny. He's faster than he looks, too. Can't catch me when I'm running, but I have to give it all I have, I'm very, very quick. I do the head roll on him, and bat at him, and he just nibbles at my paws, so sweet! I wish he'd let me lick him and snuggle up, but some cats are like that, maybe one day.

Oh, oh, that first night you let me out of the room with the door, and you sleep on a bed! I knew what that was, so I took up my position between your backs. Bliss. Can I call you mom? Oh, well, I'll just think of you that way then. You really are good at massage.

Took me a little longer to really appreciate the male human, he's much gentler and maybe a little afraid of me. He's nice to sit on when we are next to the Treat Table. I like that table, it's where you two eat interesting food, and sometimes share cheese with me! And treats, yum.

Oh, oh, and the windows! I love the windows. So many people and cats and dogs going by all the time, and water to lick off it when it's cold, wonderful. 'Scusemeitchitchitch.

I love the geometry of this place, so many trajectories to calculate for some very interesting leaps and slides, fabulous angles, I do love working out the numbers in my head.

What else? Um. Just keep petting me, I'm thinking... mice, rug to chew, you chuckle pleasantly, oh, right there, that's nice... um, ummm, um-ummm, um-ummmmm, um-ummmmmmmmmmmmm



(She's asleep.)

Forgive

Ok, so, the other mammal. Cat, yeah, ok, probably.

There I was, minding my own business, up on my tree, when... when... that, THING appeared, inside MY house like it OWNED the place. Honestly, lost my appetite completely, for a long time.

Seriously, terrifying. Would it eat me? Hurt me? Take over? Would they put me back in a shelter, forever? I don't remember a lot of that time, miserable, not sure if I liked you humans anymore.

I learned to hiss, really hiss and spit. Hadn't done that since I was a small kitten. Well, she would come up to sniff, and I tried, I really tried to be friendly. But then she HIT me! I wasn't doing anything! I'd have tried to be friends, but whenever I let her get close, I'm all relaxed and my people are nearby, and BOP! Just like that. Sheesh.

What? yeah, I really like running with her. She's quick! Very good with those mice toys that move by themselves and smell really interesting.* It took a long time, but eventually I figured out that she really is fun to chase around. Even taking turns chasing. Although, when she flips over and stares up at me from the floor, I know I've lost. I'm sure I'll figure out a way to win at wrestling.

And, sure, thanks for reassuring me, even when I couldn't relax and enjoy you guys. I guess I knew underneath you wouldn't really hurt me, but I was so confused. Worse than the day you put me in a bag forever and there was all that roaring and my ears hurt. This was unending misery.

I figure she's mostly harmless, and it doesn't hurt when she bops me. Still don't want to cuddle up with her, that would be weird. But she's ok, I guess. We like watching birds together. Can't say I'm ever bored since she's moved in.

Good to have someone else to test the food first, too. Make sure it's ok.

Lonely? I was only lonely when you humans weren't around... . Ah, that over-licking my fur thing. Um. Maybe I was a little bored. And, well, this is a much bigger territory, I was always willing to share. The next door cat could have moved in, although I think I scared him, nice old guy though. I guess he's got that dog to deal with at his home. Could be worse.

Anyway, I've gotten used to her. I think she's scared, too, so I try to be calm around her. We, we're getting more at ease. You are mostly forgiven.

*Actual mice.

(Moby, on Eleanor, prompted by questions from me.)

Housiversary

Three years ago yesterday we moved in here with Moby.

We had no idea how hard it would be, how good. D had a nightmare last week that we had to sell the house. I've occasionally had dreams where we had to find an apartment, only to wake realizing, No!no!we have a house, we don't need to move anymore!

Made fruit salad this evening for dinner, figuring we both needed a tasty, high fiber meal. And the kiwis looked lovely. Banana, apple, hazelnuts, yoghurt, all together.

Century

Long, long ago, I do recall learning Roman Numerals. Another of those rote memory tasks that slips out of my brain when I don't need it regularly. The crossword today required numerical knowledge, so it completely foxed me.

Princess DI, 501st kings daughter indeed. So, along with finishing the ZYXary, I need to get IVXLCDM in my head again, if I want to fill in the crossword gap I fall into every damn time. I'm ok shaky on sports names, as I can get Ott and Orr most of the time without knowing. Too big a field, too subject to change, various team balls sports as easy to look up as tennis or golf. But surely, surely, I can get seven silly symbols pocketed somewhere in my head.

The other set is Jewish month names. Crossword compilers love those. But they've also been known to cheat on the spelling(var.), the bastards.

I as one, 1, sure, pretty obvious, never a problem. Singles, even doubled or trebled, or quadrupled.

V as five, since five has a V. fiVe.

X as ten was always as far as I could go. Imagining four hashes, with the cross for five, one going one way, one the other, then removing the singles.

llll /. llll \. /+\ = X. Ten. So far, so good.



L as fifty. A Load to carry. I could carry 50 lbs, not very far. Easier if it was a kid clinging to me, as long as they don't squirm. I'd Like 50£, although not sure what I'd do with it.

C as 100, a century, a cent.

Yes, yes, it's all coming back to me now like the hot kiss at the end of a wet fist. I DID used to know this.

D five hundred. Um. L filled in, would be D. 500. An L and a C, would look like D, which doesn't work mathematically, but would give me a hint.

M as in milli-ped, Millicent? A thousand that isn't a million. Still have to figure out how it works to convey totals, the weakness of the system. Ah, decimals.

Listening to Nick Danger reminds me of the first time I heard it. My brother, a dozen years older, tried to interest me in Firesign Theater when I was ten. Pushing the cruder references he thought especially hilarious. On his stereo, the records sounded so bad I couldn't make out the rapid fire words, nevermind the myriad references. At that age, I hated absurdity anyway, feeling angry frustration at one more thing that made no bloody sense. Sounded only like more of my father's nonsensical ranting. With dirty allusions that repulsed this good girl, at that age. Never one to snicker at sexual or scatological allusions, only with a scientific interest, I drew away from nasty children who lost their composure. An adult acting that way was frightening, not funny.

By the time I got to high school, absurdity began to work on me, I don't know why then, exactly. My friend Steve, who I thought an utter ass to me in grade 8, in grade 9, got through to my wit and proved he really was just being funny. I read Alice in Wonderland on my own, and laughed. The only poem I enjoyed memorizing, Jabberwocky. Hitchhiker's Guide found me in college. So when dear D discovered Firesign, in turn helping me hear it clearly, I got it. Needed a bit more life, knowledge base, better recordings and clearer sound. My brother likely had the bass all the way up, which wouldn't have helped. Humor is so contextual, time and temperature sensitive.

When in nursing school, I had a touch for coming up with the filthiest mnemonics, perhaps because of being so sensitive to them young, collecting them like coprolites later, finally acquiring amusement. By the time I was dealing with biology, it all came in handy.

Pour

Pouring all day long.



And that's just fine.



Got to see the deer around the building at work several time. Lots of running about for me.

Trough

It started raining yesterday, so we figured the air would clear out. When it didn't and D was feeling short of breath, both of us unwell, a horrible taste in my mouth, all we could do was rage in bafflement.

The weather weenies explained it today,

When an inversion is in place, a strong upper-level trough passage can blow out the pollution, improve the air quality, and usher in clearer skies. On the other hand, a weak trough passage just gives us a blanket of dreary mid and upper-level clouds and just enough precipitation to moisten up the low levels and increase the fog coverage.

That's just what has happened over the past 24 hours, and we're left not only with fog and dreary skies, but also plenty of pollution as PM2.5 levels have been highly elevated and well above National Ambient Air Quality Standards.

I made strong green tea, mixing it into cocoa for D (who does not like tea.) For the sake of mild airway easing. I drank the other half straight, since I do like tea.

We cleaned out the spare room a bit, too much throw-that-in-there-deal-later mindset. Missing stuff we need, and could not find. Still have not found them, but that's ok. Insufficient past usefulness items for a yard sale next summer, so we'll likely just put it out for the neighborhood cleanup. The usual pickers will re-use, recycle the stuff. It won't be landfill. At least not for a while after that.

Hard to stay positive, or not negative, even, when the lungs are objecting to having to breathe the second rate stuff provided. Sorry about that. Trough luck.

Hibernation

Took down the ornaments, packing them away softly in a yellow plastic bin that once held a Boston neighbor's cat litter. The older grey bin once held my brother's bulk laundry detergent, eventually started to split. I have no need to find anything purpose built nor festive to store my shiny finery. All wrapped with clean leftovers from work, green and white wraps once held sterile supplies, lint free, soft and durable.

D suggested I keep the lights up a bit longer, so the tree still sits on the barrel, gleaming colorfully. This is atypical, he's not usually one to actively promote holiday lights, although he is politely appreciative of my efforts and effect. He'll help me pack up at the end of the season. It's just mostly my thing, which is fine. This year, he's enjoying the illumination on his own behalf as well, it seems.

No snow, mucky atmosphere, and a yuletide of minimal expectation seem to be combining to make us happy to let the sparkle linger a little longer. The low key celebrations were, I should clarify, exactly what we wanted. A few days off together, having a few people over a couple of those days, a moderate loosening of purse-strings, quite enough for two quiet people. It does leave us without the emotional exhaustion that would have us giving the garlands the bums rush. Such a pleasant guest this year, we don't mind if it stays an extra week or so.

Off to hibernate.

Otwo

Grey, gloomy, jaundiced day. We got out early, needing food for the cats, and some for ourselves as well. One trip, which is better than many, to minimize adding to particulates. On the way home, I felt as though I'd smoked a cigarette.



(From the SLtrib)


Sadly, I do know what that feels like. Couple of decades ago, during the year I was failing to escape the bad marriage, caught and self destructive, I smoked a bit. A few packs over a year, some 'rose', or if I could get them, clove cigarettes. In no small part to piss off the ex, who had quit as a prerequisite to our initial going out. No, I was not the person then who writes for you now. She was despairing in the dark, lashing out and blind. I knew, understood the damage, didn't expect to live - so what did it matter?

So when I did break free, then promptly got sent off to (a footnote) war, where I met a lovely soul, stopping that minor habit took fairly little effort. An occasional whiff of cloves would leave me slightly wistful, is all. I didn't miss the ache in my chest. After the New Year Eve toot in Ft. Carson, and a night vomiting blood, alcohol was off the menu as well, for five years.

Such were my wild forays into vice, real but minimal.

I rarely admit I ever smoked, especially not to other medical pros. My body remembers on days like this, as a dire warning. Only wish I'd brought masks home yesterday, not that they help a whole lot against tiny particles. D saw a bicyclist with a PM10 mask ride past, which seems like it wouldn't let in enough air. There should be portable 02 mask systems for them, like SCUBA gear.

I'm tempted to go in on Monday morning and give myself a few minutes on a tank, just to clear out my lungs. It would be a bit unethical, and certainly frowned upon, so I don't think I actually will.

Finding some comfort in pseudobeer, a sop to my love of the mere taste. Like a sucker for a smoker. Keeping me honest. Breathing as best we can.

Air?

Bad air! Bad, bad, (alleged) air.


Kept driving to absolute get-to-work-get-home today. But the neighbor, or his guest rather, is 'warming up' his truck in the half drive in front of our house. Gah. I could deal with the noise, but knowing that exhaust is pumped right at us.

Our neighbor on that side doesn't even have a car, so we force patience upon ourselves.

Ah, they're gone now. Blech.

Butts

One of the... um, two things that got me laughing yesterday. Thanks Maru and Hana.

Bits

Fight paper with paper,
At most. Laughter better,
Hurts some more than swords.

Reading about brinacles.

Aftereffects of adrenaline, manager always assumes the worst of me, lies and refuses to listen, enjoys her anger. She had to spit out an "I'm sorry" when I denied all the words she put in my mouth, and I reminded her I did not want to address the subject, but I had a responsibility to speak up on a critical issue of safety. I'm barely able to push words out past my drying mouth, but I held, and did not tear up. Not until I was far away and alone.

Thankfully, I do not have to deal with her often. The issue is, provisionally, addressed.

I feel horrid. Part of that is the terrible air of the inversion. The rest is ruffling up of the ptsd issue. I did better, but my body still reacts. D has been patting me bilaterally, per the therappy, and that works small wonders, I reflexively giggle. Sucks to be silenced, as all the world knows.

She sees me as putting myself first, not taking care of my team. When what I am doing is working for my coworkers and patients. But she sees in me her own sin, that of not backing up her own people. Which is her primary duty.

Yup, anger is the addictive, wrong choice, in response to another feeling. Entitlement and misused power.

We make dinner, and turn the lights on the tree I still haven't taken down. Every little bit.

Ridicule

Let's all mock and ridicule the dangerously silly assholes.



All the other gods can take a ribbing, what's wrong with their puny deity?

Draped

Heard the scrub jays, so I put out peanuts.



Before D left for work, Moby insisted on a lap, mine in this case. I stroked his draped-over-my-knee body for half an hour, until he decided thanks-that's-enough and got on the chair.



My eyes have been sensitive, and the lashes minimal, though helpfully present.



A January thaw, weirdly warm, no snow in the offing. Wednesday idling.

Skating

Remembering ice skating. When the new, big mall opened, along with the movie theater, there was an ice rink. I had a Dorothy Hamill haircut, a big sleeved, belted, sweater, in green, and went to ice skating lessons weekly that year. 1976? Apparently, yes. Our class put on a christmas show, (jingle-bell rock, natch.)

And for years after, I would continue to skate there. Sometimes my mother would rent skates and we'd hold hands and circle the ice. I was rather proud of her for this, even more so when she took a hard fall and cracked some ribs. She was over 50! Cool. I got to be a nice solid skater, backward and forward, shoot the moon, and the very smallest of hops off the ice. After a few months of lessons, I got my own, white, ice skates. Which was nice, not to have random skates with uncertain sharpness.

I didn't make any friends, it was rather lonely, really, but pleasantly so.

Never took roller skating lessons, although mom took me there as well, when I was even younger. I loved the feeling, especially after taking off the skates when the world didn't whoosh but the gravity felt stronger. Several school skating parties, but I was a better skater than any of the boys - which is just frustrating. But didn't stop them from going too fast and rowdily crashing into everyone. For me, that just hurt, they seemed to think it magnificent fun.

Never liked the music, pop nor organ. I knew I'd gotten as skilled as I was ever going to get. Stable.

I wouldn't skate today, a fall would just not be worth the pleasure. And falls are inevitable. I could get some pride from a big hip bruise then. These days, my back would wrench and the bruise would last months. But to feel that flow, again, would be rather wonderful.

Everything in it's time. There is a nice curve down the hill, that the car takes very well, if I go a little fast, when there is little traffic.

zoom

Bagel

I was told I walked on my first christmas, with all the extended family around. No doubt passed hand to hand, the only child in the house. 300 days into my life, figured I better get mobile.

With only a couple of months between the holidays and age-change-date, which is no time at all, I often start adjusting the total. This morning, figuring out if 54 was a particularly interesting number. As, indeed, it is. But then I've always liked multiples of nine. Second, ok, maybe third, easiest times table to memorize.

1x, 2x, 9x. Easy. 2x9= 18. 2-1=1. 1+8=9. 18. I could always check my work, instead of simply relying on abstract memory. Is 6x9 56 or 54? Well 5+4=9, so 54. Oooooo, I like this. So what is 56? Um, (scrabbling for pencil and paper... lots of guesswork, um check calculator...) 7x8. No, honestly I still don't actually remember it, have to figure out a lot of the larger ones by trial and error. Except for the 9s, and 3s.

When I was in 4th grade, 4th & 5th were combined in a track system. Track one, mostly 4th graders, track 2, about evenly mixed 4th & 5th, track 3, mostly 5th, with a few 4th. I was in the top track, largely because my reading skills were at about grade 8. But it is in 4th grade that multiplication tables are drilled in, and I missed that entirely. Being about 9, I had not figured out that ignoring math homework that I did not understand would not solve the problem. I believe I thought, well, just skip through this bit, and I'll learn the next bit just fine. The idea of math as a layered process, each step leading to the next, had never occurred to me. Although, honestly, ignoring did work for a while.

My mother, who saw numbers in her head and the only class she liked in school was math, was furious with me, once the teacher took me aside to tell me of my demotion, and called her. My mother could not understand how I could seem so smart and be so stupid. I was dropped down into the 2nd track, and spent every spare minute at home going over multiplication tables for an irritated mother. And failing, for a long time. Never really succeeding, more like.

This is also when the 5th grade girls in the middle track decided I was a snob who looked down on them, and they were going to make me suffer. I'd never noticed them before, and was humiliated enough to leave lifelong scars, but what does reality have to do with bullying?

Terrible to listen to kids read aloud, slowly and painfully, while I read silently three books at a time, hiding them in different desks. Books were my refuge, and I had to hear the words being tortured. My father considered reading in front of anyone an obscene affront of intolerable rudeness. My mother loved to read, but even around her, I was only allowed books once I got through the damn numbers.

I learned them, without comprehension, like a poem memorized in another language, shakily. My mother loved to memorize poetry, as well. My struggle to memorize verse also confused and annoyed her. My brain apparently doesn't work like that. Why I ever thought I could act probably came down to a misunderstanding of how important that kind of memory is in that field.

The combined grade system disappeared the next year, I really got the hang of 5th grade & by grade 8, the bully girls were off to high school. Numbers would give me guff forever, but I eventually figured out that I don't see them well, flipping them between eye and brain. Geometry, with proofs in actual words with definitions, was a joy and a breeze.

D and I read together, side by side, occasionally giggling, then reading aloud whatever amused. He's got a lovely reading voice. We went walking this morning, since we now have a real bagel place a few blocks away. I had poppy, he had onion with cream cheese.

Up

Promises

Slept all through, which is rare on New Year's Eve. Usually, I wake at some point, if only for the fireworks. But since they did a mirror ball instead, nothing roused me from slumber until Moby purring at us for being in bed so late. Which is to say, nearly 8am.

Salved my raw face, irritated eyelids, and dry hands, then out to have lunch with D's parents. They brought up a movie called 'god ain't ded' (or something like.) I am not about to agree with them, nor contradict, nor even engage. Since MIL got talking about the miracle of how teeth are made, I refrained from pointing out that a real engineer would have built them to last better, and instead went off about sensodyne toothpaste, and my own year of broken teeth and crowns and not eating any more popcorn and what a good dentist I have. D thanked me on the way home, adding that not only did he prefer to talk dentistry than theology with his parents, but would rather have dentistry performed. I agreed, adding that dental procedures are to a purpose.

The distraction did seem to work, derailing their attempts to bring us to god. Over two decades ago, they wanted us to be married in the temple*. Had to back up, and try to get me to read the BoM. Then to make sure D was going to church at least some. Now, apparently, they've figured out they need to simply get us believing that god isn't dead. I hope they still have more room behind them.

Then we attended The King's English bookshop, where D's christmas gift card worked. A tiny, cubby-ridden place, certainly with a door into L-space, and crowded with browsers. I'd noticed a large paper on a door with pen attached, and the title "New Year's Book Resolutions!" I ignored it, but had to linger near it for a while. One of the people who work there (I presume) suggested I add my own.

"No, thank you."

"You can promise to read more books!"

"No, thank you."

I consider this rather awful. Resolutions are to do difficult, unpleasant things. I love reading, I read what I can. I don't get how I could make a resolution about books. It takes time for me to really enjoy a book, to mull it over, and often these days, re-read it. But this is for pleasure, nothing I have to force myself to do. I don't have to resolve to eat more chocolate, drink more tea, or buy more mugs, after all.





This hasn't felt like any kind of a holiday. Not in a bad way, just any old day off work. I'll go in tomorrow, remember to write the correct year, although for the next week after I'll get it wrong repeatedly. I should have swept or cleaned, but I read. Not a bad year I'm ready to be shut of, a simple year of sufficiency, no drama, no crisis. A house with garden, cats, and a guy who loves me, as is.