April

Since tomorrow is April Fools, please take extra care not to believe anything you read.



Helped with the tree limb clean up. Always nice to work with our neighbors, both James and Mike, since we live tetrused in this area. Used our yard waste bin, took all three to handle the bio burden. Getting out in the garden every day to weed, and dig up foxtail grasses and transplant mint, throw down black mustard seed.

Canary

If someone treats others badly, but not you, it's just not your turn yet.

I'm usually the canary, not the one they treat well until they hit all the other targets.

Gold

Last week, still grey. But a useful photo, so Dylan could re-set his set-up.



The first week in the House, when de-Ikkea-ing.








Still have to de-grey the hall, but it'll happen.



It's odd, this house seems to want different colors than I ever would have imagined surrounded by. My mother had dark green carpets and either pale green or blue walls. I do love blues and purples. But this house was greens and reds, and now greens and oranges and pinks. Maybe my heart is opened up to more color. I seem to crave more color, especially after the grey and dull blues of the precious owners. It's not just that I'm thoroughly sick of eggshell walls and beige carpets of all our apartments, although that's certainly part of it. The colors here before were painfully tasteful, overly designer-y, too dark and muddy for the space. House seems to come alive with more intense, clear and saturated colors. I have hesitated every time, as though to ask "are you sure?" And every time, I proceed, and feel the light enter joyfully.

Limbs

Our neighbors are really going to wish they'd taken this tree out some day soon. It loses branches with any strong wind, and there are larger ones broken above. I pulled it out of their turnaround area, this one did not hit their car. They are out of town until some time today, and did not need to come home to another surprize windfall.



The snow is nearly gone. We had a good 8" at it's fluffiest, it slumped pretty quickly, and was melted off all but grass and ground by afternoon.

I don't think I showed this, my birthday present.

Branching

The rain started late in the evening, heavy and wind blown. Sometime during the night, I woke enough to realize it was too light through the shades. Like when there is fresh snow. I got up, and sure enough, several inches of snow all over. At another point, there were bright flashes, not quite lightning, but got through the blinds and my eyelids. A transformer was going out a few blocks away, and arcing.

Heard Dylan go out and shovel.

The roads were thick with slushy snow, right lanes iffy. Most people driving well, taking time, leaving space. But a few idiots, mostly in large vehicles, cut in and out, stayed too close, and crowded the semi-passable lanes. Got to work fine, the parking lot in the middle of being plowed, since it was so much, so late in the might, not predicted, so I just found a cleared spot and called it good. Some of my colleagues got angry at the seemingly random plow path, taking the worst possible reading. Oh, well, their misery is theirs.


Our surgeon was late because of blocked roads from tree limbs. A wearing day, not bad in any particular


When I got home, the neighbor's tree also lost another limb, and a major branch is broken very high up. A bird was pecking at the broken area, likely a good meal made available. Another tree down the street lost several large branches, but the most rotten elm still has it's huge branch, maybe not for long.

It's mostly melted now, since the temperatures warmed up to 49˚F.

Moby doing a bit better today, so the ominous decisions can be deferred.

Such is March, brilliant and dire together.

Answers

The vet not sure what's going on with Moby. But a weekly subQ fluid and enema as an answer... we are not, and Moby would certainly not, be happy with. It's not clear, and we are not. We know that decisions will have to be made, but not today.

This is about language and sounds, worth watching.



Rest.

Beaming

Eleanor enjoys a sunbeam.



This golden orange yellow has cheered this grey room up considerably. My usual messy style. Part of my enjoyment, is not having to work to professional standards. Change the color, never mind the corners. Clearing away accumulated dust and fur bunnies. The black paint will come off in time, when I can open windows. Dylan can return the art to the walls, without regard to where previous owners had nails.

Another coat to come, but even just this is such a mood improver. And a sense of accomplishment, which means a lot this week.


Warm and windy, Moby out in the grasses earlier.

Golden

The charge nurse issue has intensified, and not just with me. Manager is on it, and I have faith that she will work on it. Busy day, then distressing, then home early. Dylan prepped the music room's walls, so I painted.

Very bright clear golden, in sunlight a bit strong, but in evening light, rich and warm. Two coats, about half the room done, will finish tomorrow. He's very happy with it, the grey hidden. And not just one grey, but two walls are a very blue grey, the other two a slightly different more purple grey. Both dull and depressing, tastefully ugly. The orange is cheerful and intense.



Didn't cover well, took me a while to realize why. The other walls were in a matte surface, this room was in a semi-gloss or satin. We aren't picky perfectionists, so the increase in light is enough. But a couple of coats, and it's much improved. The rest tomorrow. Dylan very pleased, wishing we'd done this sooner.

But sometimes it takes getting really sick of something to appreciate the change.

Like taking a year or so to decide on a tattoo.

Mess

I love you so much.
Life of my life, all my life.
Every speck and mess.

Butt

Finished reading Never Home Alone, and I wonder. How much being in a house, with attendant bugges and microbes, garden soil, fungus and viruses, have inoculated me. I've been more well over the past year and a half than ever before in my life. Some of this is that I feel more safe, less stressed. The dirt has likely helped. My biome has changed.

Moby is doing alright, not entirely comfortable, hates anyone going near his butt. Well, understandable. We tend him as best we can, and leave him to find his own place.

We have paint for the music room, will start on that later this week.

This weekend we suffered from moodiness. Dylan has to work today. I'm annoyed with a nurse who seems to think I'm lazy, incompetent and rude. I'll accept the last one, since I don't see it as such a terrible sin.


Raining well all morning. The garden is happy, but so is the foxtail grasses. I've been out in the mud pulling, transplanting mint to crowd it out, ready for the ongoing battle.

Blackberries

Went to the Berries and Brambles class this morning. No wonder my strawberries never did well. Made nearly every mistake possible. Maybe every one. I have new plans for new plants. Serviceberry and blackberry will work better, hardier and need less feed and water. I have a better idea about pruning, too. The raspberry in back will get a pole to be tied to, and more water.



So, the Veronica is an opportunistic cover crop, which I have learned to appreciate. I'm tending to the compost better. The Hen&Chickens reliably returns and slowly spreads. Denuding the scavenged xmas trees for mulch and future poles for blackberries.



Moss finding a home between the blocks, stolen from the landscaping of a nearby store. Probably not intentionally planted by them, so fair game. Better than the stink trees dug up two years ago that were trying to shove up and take over.



Serviceberries, the instructor says, were called that because in the northern winters where the ground was too frozen to bury anyone, when the serviceberries bloomed, it was time to dig graves. The symbolism of putting one in the raised bed from the wood that I decided was from my father, struck me.

I think the comfrey is coming up.

Relief

Vet visited next door, neighbor sent him to see Moby, per a conversation earlier in the week. And he gave Moby fluids and two enemas, to good effect. I was at work, Dylan handled it all, and the mess. Moby got in the tub to release most of the poo. We are all much relieved. Dylan had it all cleaned up by the time I got home, for which he deserves full credit. When the vet suggested taking Moby to the clinic to do this, Dylan said no, Moby hates driving.

We do what we do for our family. Out of love.

When I got home, I got a warm wet cloth and some cat-shampoo, and washed his butt and tail fur, which he seemed to consider an additional indignity, but he smells better. More fibre in his food going forward. His eyes are slightly improved, for the one good bit of news. He's in good body condition. We caught this earlier than last time, so he's doing better.

Maybe he will rebound, and we'll get another year or so with him.

Nurtured

Signs of spring, as the light slants in every evening. Dylan sits out with Moby when the sun is warm enough.






Still grey and dead, but with sprigs of green. Turned the compost well, give it a month and it will be ready. Especially if I get out there every week and turn and turn. Amended the shrubbery with micronutrients and minerals, it was suffering and yellowed last year. Oat grass returning. Transplanted more mint to the verge, displacing foxtail. A long, slow, process of trial and error, and time and timing.

A woman walked by with a dog, I said hi. She asked if this was my house, she thought it seemed very welcoming. I had to agree. Her shy dog was bold enough to sniff my hand briefly. Good enough.

At work, I sat with one of the SP staff, M, who likes the tv off, as do I. We don't chat much, but we sit quietly together well. I worked the crossword, when another SP staff that I have never had a conversation with (different shifts, we don't work together) came in. I'm not paying attention to their conversation, when I hear M say,

"Oh, you can talk, Zhoen's cool, she won't gossip."

I'm touched, a little overwhelmed, and say, "M, thank you, I'm glad you feel that."


Nice to be cool. I will nurture this.

Fox

Ode to the garden, damn the lawn.


Here's her TED talk.

Dug up some of the foxtail grass, as much as I could identify, and laid down black mustard seed. With luck, my neighbors who like mustard greens will have a harvest later in the summer again. Another neighbor has been enjoying the green onions, as per my invitation. I'm happy to provide fresh greens.

The fennel is coming up in back, the rose stems are green. I turned most of the wintering compost pile, until my back called it for the day. The crowding out of weeds continues. Got a class on berries this Saturday from the community gardens.

Moby seems to be doing a bit better today, which is a slight relief. We have decided to delay any discussions of the inevitable until it actually happens, the vet is coming by this week. We've heard so often that they'll let us know, so we are trusting that Moby will let us know when it's time to stop. And treasure each day that we still have him. The tears well up, and we let them fall.

Dreamscape

Got a basket and hooks up in the kitchen, so the table isn't always a total mess.

And got out in the garden. Getting the foxtail grass early, planting wheat grass, and transplanting mint, out on the verge. Crocuses open, allium coming up, thyme still alive. The rest of the living will declare themselves gradually.



Went to an interactive art exhibit yesterday. Various rooms, various artists, dreamscapes. Creative uses for recycled materials, LEDs, a bit unfinished and raw. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.



We lament the lack of cool stuff to do around here. We try to see whatever does happen through.

See?

Nothing on the schedule, so everyone stayed home. I let my feet rest. And photographed the crocuses.

X-ray

One story that I have often told, but apparently never written up here, is of the D'elbow*.

Many years ago, about the time I was just over a year in the OR as an RN, Dylan rode his bike out to his parents', as both exercise and independence. On the way home, very close to his old house, a little kid on a bike cut him off, and he went over his handlebars, hitting everything on his elbow.

I'd finished work, waited for Dylan to get home. And I got a call.

His mom, who passed the phone to him.

"Hi. How are you?"

"Hi. How are you? No, what did you do?"

"... I broke my arm."

I gave the insurance and Instacare address info to his mother, and headed off through crosstown/rushhour traffic, nearly getting taken out by a truck at the last block.

When I got there, he was shielding his arm from a rambunctious child and his mother was reading his Psycotronic magazine. (This worried him a bit, after.) They took him back for an X-ray, and according to him, a nurse pulled out a huge cartoon orange syringe and gave him a shot of glowing Demerol. He started to pass out and said nurse and I grabbed him and got him on a gurney. They x-rayed him, and sent us to (my) hospital ER.

There is a huge gap in my memory, but we cast up there, in a cold room with a gurney, and eventually an orthopod on call telling us, "as soon as your elbow hit the pavement, it will never be the same again." He was telling the truth, a truth we took forward through the ordeal. A hand surgeon would call us, go home. At some point I let my work know what had happened, and they made sure Dylan got a good surgeon and anesthesiologist and staff, and my own hours were adjusted and in flux. He got the cast clinic to form a splint, to stabilize him enough to sleep. I don't know who his circulator was but I do know he had a good scrub.

I took him home, settled him on the futon sofa, and went out for videos. Got The Cheap Detective and... something else, filled his pain med Rx, got food, and was back in time for Dr. H's call. High Noon, and Murder on the Orient Express, he tells me. I have no choice but to believe him. He remembers this with strange gaps that worried me for a long time. But I got him reasonably comfortable with all the throw pillows he never minded afterword, and I managed to sleep because I knew the day ahead would be long.

Got him to the hospital, and a kind aide brought a wheelchair, since walking was painful. Another gap. I assume they took care of him. I know I was there in pre-op, as he enjoyed versed, an IV version of valium. The only drug he was happy on, and he doesn't remember it (causes anterograde amnesia). He got a nerve block.

I stayed in the staff lounge, occasionally checking at the charge nurse desk.

And Brenda saying "That's a bad break."



My heart sank. I learned that elbow fractures are some of the worst. His surgeon one of the best, and fast, and it was four agonizing hours later, with various staff talking with me, that the severity of the injury sank in, and he got out of surgery. I worked general, abdominal surgery at this point. Orthopedics would come later. This would not be simple or easy, and would never be normal.

I set up FEMLA, so that I could get him dressed and fed for the first... month? Few weeks? Not sure, but I had to keep working, and get him to therapy, and so I covered lunches and tried to be a good nurse to the only patient that I would give my own life for. He stayed overnight, for pain control. His friends insisted on taking me out for dinner and beer. I protested that I was fine. Fine. They ignored me, and fed me, then took me home. For this alone, I would give them my loyalty for the rest of my life. I don't know how I slept that night, badly I expect, but I slept. Worked the next day, checking in on him as I could. Helped him piss the next morning. Brought him home the next day. Stopped for a fruit slushy, since antibiotics meant he couldn't keep anything down, surviving on Lifesavers candy.

His anesthesiologist brought me into PACU to be with him after surgery, and the first thing Dylan said to me was "I love you." He also kept thanking his PACU RN. And referred to his fractured (comminuted, shattered, into the joint) as D'elbow. A joke in Shakespearean French coming out of anesthesia is extraordinary. And typical of him.

Healing was long and slow. An excursion to the Pride Festival, me shielding his arm, and meeting a friend who exclaimed "Ooooo.... you're on drugs!"

Dylan took PT seriously, and appreciated them as the nicest sadists he's ever met. He never whined, hated the drugs, and reminded me of how much I loved and respected him, a fact I'd begun to forget.

The night he came home, settled in, I needed a hug, perhaps as much as he did. I carefully edged between the splint and him and we held each other, gently and intensely, for a few minutes. It would do for a while.

We got him huge t-shirts, slit the tops of the arms, and safety pins to keep him dressed. He got enormous fracture blisters under the splint. He didn't do well with narcotics, but endured. Found springy shoe ties, that meant he could wear shoes without assistance. There were chair massages in the neighborhood, giving him some measure of comfort amidst the pain. I massaged him as well as I could, but I was worn out. I shaved my head, as One Less Thing that year. He took full responsibility for getting to PT, two busses and lots of scheduling, worked through it all, and got through. I met him there on my lunch when I could. A second surgery six months later, to clear all the adhesions, not quite as painful, he got home, picked up his guitar, played his eight bar blues, and knew he'd make it through. He did. We did.

His arm is still maimed, but he plays guitar. And I remember every time an elbow surgery comes through. He's got a fucked up elbow. He's gotten better.

My second falling in love.

Both of us have wibbly-wobbly memories of this episode, and trust not our own minds. Only that we remember each other as reliable and brave. Nothing else really matters.



The timeline is a mess here, like when Moby writes. But it's how the story exists in my memory. A strange and difficult time, decades ago now.



*KATHERINE
Et le coude?
ALICE
“D'elbow.”
KATHERINE
“D'elbow.” Je m'en fais la répétition de tous les mots que vous m'avez appris dés à présent.
ALICE
Il est trop difficile, madame, comme je pense.
KATHERINE
Excusez-moi, Alice. Écoutez: “de hand, de fingres, de nails, de arma, de bilbow.”
ALICE “D'elbow,” madame.

Crocuses

Got home a bit late last evening, so I did not take a photo of the crocuses starting to bloom.



They're still there.

Hard to get upset about staying late for a case, when the patient is missing both legs. And most of the arm that has gotten infected and needs cleaning out. Being held up by an elbow surgery in another room, with comminuted fracture that takes a couple of hours longer than expected. My cow-orkers shared chocolate with me, after which we all felt able to make it to the end.

Slow

Stim on my foot again, since it seems to be salutary. This is hopeful, and my foot approves.

Reading Never Home Alone by Rob Dunn, a study we participated in. Citizen scientists. We are surrounded by life, and should appreciate and cultivate it, not kill it, since the pathogens take over.


Grey day, but I got out in the garden a short while and pulled some of the foxtail grass, in favor of the allium.

Work friend lost her cat to an elastic hair-tie bowel obstruction, young cat. We printed up a photo of Cat, will give it to her Monday. The grief of loss, the joy of cats. With this quote “I believe cats to be spirits come to earth. A cat, I am sure, could walk on a cloud without coming through.”
― Jules Verne

We worry about Moby and his slow bowels. He's not doing well.

Reversible

I've been thinking about forgiveness. And it's not reversible, which is to say it's a very different thing depending on which side of it you are. I can forgive the whole world all its sins, to ease my own soul. But that doesn't mean it has any right to ask for it. And like placing a dish of food out for a cat, doesn't mean it's accepted.

If I hurt someone, and I want to be forgiven, then I have to earn it. I have to acknowledge my sin, take responsibility, apologize, try to make it right, and only then can I hope for forgiveness. Even asking for it would be presumptuous.

When my father disowned me, and I grabbed that unexpected gift with both fists, refusing to return it, even knowing he gave it to me as a form of manipulation, I also forgave him. Well, never mentioned it to him, and it was conditional upon him never hurting me again. I could make that happen, since I wasn't going to allow any more contact. It would become permanent when he died, in that I would not wish him in hell - even if it exists. He'd created his own hell around himself all his life, what would more accomplish? If his soul now knows I hold no grudge against him, that is fine with me. Likewise if there is no him to know.

My forgiveness, unasked for, is an act of pity. Earned and requested, a matter of grace.

The best way to understand difficult ideas is to turn them and turn them and turn them. Until insight glimmers.

It snowed madly yesterday, but the roads are clear, no shoveling was required. Although I did have to clear the gutter of mud and old leaves to keep a huge puddle from forming at the end of the driveway. The skiers are happy with their spring freshies, and my garden happy with the soaking. I put in cold weather cover crops, peas and beans, last week. Soil building stuff, if it comes up wonderful. If not, no harm.

Corned beef from a package in stewing now, smells amazing. Dylan called in to work, last minute schedule change. I've put the electro-stim on my foot, and it seems to be helping. Some of the pain is from a deep, hard spasm, so I figured I'd try this. So far, so good.

Shrove

Her name is lost to me, which is not unusual for me, still - this patient taught me so much. I got work as an LPN during my last year of nursing school at a long term care facility, nursing home. She had a diagnosis of History of Schizophrenia. Institutionalized a lot of her life. Lots of defense mechanisms that kept her alive, with some power over her life. A stubborn bullying, not entirely rational, to say the least.

And I had to be her nurse, give her meds, enforce safety rules, protect other patients from her. I was non confrontational, she pushed every fearful button my parents installed. I had to earn her trust, kindly, implacably, honestly. I'll never forget the first time she told one of the other residents they "had to listen to nurse joan." She taught me to be strong and sure, to take no shit, and be worthy of trust. Good practice when I had to stand up to surgeons, when I knew I had the facts on my side, or to be my patients' bulldog.

Everyone has something to teach us. It's up to us to pay enough attention, be open to the lesson. To be always humble. Always teachable.

Learn something this Lent.

Had crepes this evening, for Shrove Tuesday, Mardi Gras. Tomorrow, I may smear some ashes on my forehead, and remind myself of my mortality. We are all ashes, all soil, recycled and recyclable.

Blanket

Everyone at work asks, "How was your vacation? Did you do anything fun!?" And I say, it was too short. Which seems to answer both questions without actually answering them at all, but truthfully.

One of our charge nurses needs a vacation, or possibly a divorce. Certainly a little time with an EAP counselor. She's getting really obnoxious, contemptuous, snide. Projecting her fears on everyone else, so she's afraid of being lazy or incompetent and rude. She becomes what she accuses others of.

She has this thing about considering herself able by saying "I'm a mom." Which I've heard many women say, and it's wrong. Motherhood does not miraculously bestow upon a woman the ability to handle anything, not beyond criticism. Women who think this are often the worst of all.

I keep thinking of the woman in Basic, about my age, 26 at the time, maybe a year older. She annoyed everyone with the I Know Better Because I'm A Mom attitude. Condescending as hell, for a start. We were a bunch of tough women who'd joined the Army, she was not who any of us would seek out for comfort or advice. And she wasn't old enough to be mother to any of us. Mostly we ignored her.

A few times a week, we would finish up in the Day Room, getting mail, cleaning gear, chatting, as one Drill Sergeant stayed with us. Still had to address the Drill Sergeant at the beginning and end of every sentence with "Drill Sergeant", but it was more relaxed. Well, Private Mom was talking with our youngest DI, we figured out he was only 21, and corrected him and called him 'Dear.' The temperature in the room dropped, she was dropped to do push ups until HE got tired, the rest of us were sent off to bed immediately. I imagine sometimes she's still somewhere doing scissor kicks.

After that, she was a lot less pushy.

Motherhood may change women, as the Army changed us, as any huge experience changes people. But not all in the same ways, not always for the better, and not everyone is actually good at it. I've not found the women in my life who have children to be appreciably better at anything than women who don't have children. I don't think men as a whole are intrinsically much different from women, aside from stuff as easily explained by socialization as by genetics.

Ok, when men are cold, put a blanket on their feet, for women, one around their shoulders.

Dim Sum

Fitty-seben, and change.


Today, we took a friend to Hong Kong Tea House for dim summing it. He enjoyed it, we are still a little shy about the staff knowing us and our usual order. Well, Dylan's, I rotate through the dim sum. It's not that we go that often, but we are semi-regulars for many years, since they opened. One Grumpy Waitress even sometimes smiles, which is an improvement. We like her, she's very good, but... yeah, grumpy.

Moby's gut still sluggish, but enough movement that we are merely watching him. I give him an abdominal massage, which he seems ok with, the moment he looks back at me as if to say "Ok, enough. Stop it." I stop. He's eating enough of the pumpkin that we hope for improvement soon. Fibre.

Eleanor getting brushed repeatedly, at her insistence. Well, she jumps up on the washer/dryer (connected by a top rug to be cat-paw friendly) and mews at me, I pick up the brush and she hunkers down and seems to enjoy the thinning of her undercoat immensely. One day I will felt their salvaged fur. It's not taking up much room at the moment.

Last evening for mystery night, one friend was felting a project, and kept apologizing for the noise. Dylan said. "For a second, I though you were buttering toast for a very long time." Which is exactly the sound. At least then she laughed and said she likes her toast buttered perfectly. Nothing like a laugh to diffuse anxiety. And we seriously did not at all mind, we all have stuff.

Other friend, fiancee of, has his sister's wedding next week, involving dance choreography. We are all horrified at the idea. But I began pondering the use of wedding as performance. And in many, many cultures, over long periods, that is a THING. The stage, the church procession, flowers, dances, proclamations. For myself, as a very real introvert, who once thought of being an Actor! I can see both sides. We are a culture lacking in ritual and pomp, and humans need some theatricality. As a group, if not many of us as individuals. C last night mentioned missing all his college (BS,MS) graduations, but for the PhD - because grandma. He'd have preferred to miss all of them.

A former friend who married found the whole wedding-everyone-taking-photos-of-her to be extremely unsettling. I'm more or less of the opinion of "primitives" and Pratchett, that too many photos of oneself does steal part of one's soul. Ok, maybe for some people it's the opposite, but for me, not so much. Unless I take them myself, of course.

We, of course, kept our wedding to a bare minimum. The marriage was the vital aspect, and that was extant at the point of legal marriage, and still is. We'd been married for three years at the wedding, and have been married for 25 years since. There was no interregnum. We get on rather well.


Dylan got called in to work for a couple of hours. The last to be asked, so he figures it was a desperate situation, so he went in. Diffusing the acute Long Dark Teatime of the Soul on the last day of vacation. I'm finishing up laundry and running dishwasher. My mind on getting ready for Monday morning, being ready. I lay out my clothes and breakfast, make sure I have lunch ready, ID tag, bag, keys, set so I don't have to think first thing. Auto-start.

Didn't get as far as I'd imagined this week. Am feeling somewhat restored and rested. Feet prepared to soldier on. A rough patch, not so bad really.

Basta.

Free

We met with friends to eat at Chili Tepin yesterday, which is a very happy. They insisted on paying, which was wrong because we invited them, but b-days and shit. So, we didn't fight about it.

I grew up with the story that there was a blizzard when I was born, mom didn't care because she was in the hospital. I did some weather research, and the weather when and where I was born was... foggy, with a negligible amount of snow, no appreciable wind, not even all that cold for the area. Which tells me what I already know about my family relationship to objective reality. My brother, during the failed attempt at breaking the estrangement, claimed a paternal cousin claimed they were mafia. Which is so far... I mean, mobsters maybe, but even then. Not Italian, nor even Sicilian, but French speaking, just to start. And a murder by the eldest brother... no longer spoken of. Not impossible, still, given how my father would lie unconvincingly when the truth would have been just fine. Ok, I don't know. My mother's family seeeeeemed more stable, but only in comparison, and all their stories come into question. My maternal grandfather was not the 'orphan from Ireland' the stories claimed. My family, on both sides, were full of shit.

This is fine, since I'm clear of the lot of 'em.

Moby constipated, we are doing what we can. Not letting this turn into obstruction, again. He's starting to get things moving this morning. Mixed wet food half and half with pumpkin, which he's going for.

Reading a lot of CaptainAwkward, helpful. "... honesty is for safe people just like reasons are for reasonable people." And this post should be mandatory for all young people wanting to date anyone. Men, seek out women authors, musicians, directors.

Feeling like a full month off really would be ideal. Worked a lot, but didn't accomplish as much as I imagined. Like the last day of the move, and there is still too much to do, even though I'd been packing for a month. I get a week, though. One more day. Seriously not enough. Want to sleep more. Will have another week break in May.

Selling and giving away some of the excess today. The box of coaxial cable left by POs went last night, free.

Ogre

Katherine Helmond. Beyond character acting.




Still, 89 is a very good run.