I liked the tech who taught me, a lot. She was thorough, and smart about the task and how to communicate about it. And she clearly has a lot of heart. Her eyes were a little red, perhaps from allergies; somehow that endeared her to me more. Periodically she would grab her own skin somewhere and pull it up to show me how our skin isn't like cats', and that's why we get IVs, or something else about skin, ours or cats'. She shared a number of bonus techniques for such stuff as calming or stilling the cat, getting the flow to flow faster, figuring out quickly whether you've accidentally pierced all the way through the tent, knowing what leaks are to be expected, and possibly decreasing the post-fluidation leaks. She also spoke of imagining the cat's point of view in various ways, at various aspects of the procedure.
I feel well-acquainted with her hands.
The doc sent her to show me cuz she's the best one there at teaching people, says the doc. I'd wager the doc's right.
I've been watching the Star Wars movies. Hadn't seen any of them since high school, and am a little unclear on whether I've seen The Return of the Jedi. I took a tip from peteralway, who had a tip from someone else, about the ideal order in which to watch the films: IV (original), V (Empire Strikes Back), II, III, and then VI, skipping I cuz it sucks by all measures. Well I didn't skip I, unless you count some fast-forwarding during battles, I but otherwise I'm following the plan. Just finished I, in fact, and am glad to have it over with.
The idea of training for something keeps coming to mind. I wonder if that happens to others watching these films.
I'm also watching Ellen DeGeneres's old sitcom. They're piling up on the DVR. I hadn't realized there were so many seasons before the coming out part. Those post-coming-out ones I remember having a lot more dyke culture in them that I expected would make it onto the TV. Doesn't seem all that long ago, but I guess it was. That last season was going on 16 years ago. I was still in Baltimore. My mother had died, and Holly and I had spent much of the summer going back & forth to Salisbury to go through the stuff in the house. I don't remember exactly when she moved in with me, but it was that year. It was the next year we moved to Kansas.
The Toledo poet didn't want to come up tonight to see the poet who teaches in/on Grosse Ile, which I hear has a reputation for stoned and drunk teenagers. So I think of him teaching poetry to the stoned and drunk teenagers. I was curious about him from a card I found in a coffee shop almost a week ago when all vulnerable and fresh from talking about it, and needing to zip off to something I was almost late for, but now I can't remember what. I was waiting for my companion, who was driving us, to get come back from the ladies' room. I was looking into the industrial elevator. I was thinking how very very appealing an industrial elevator. Why is that, I might wonder, but don't. I just let them grab me. I just stare at them. I just love when one has a part in a movie. I just get into yanking their metal doors shut, and/or their hardcore diamond-sproing grid screens. I just dig their sounds, their slams, their creaks, their thuds, their groans.
As it turns out, I wasn't destined to attend that reading, and Liam Neeson wasn't destined to survive the boring light saber fight on the kind of bridges of the future that never have guard rails, and I foresaw that outcome more than the not going to the reading one, so maybe, though I don't much care about either one, I am somewhat in tune with The Force.
What shall I use it to train for? I ask myself.