Cat

It's been a while. I got sciatica, then I got nasty case of sniffles, meantime I was depressed, now I have bronchitis... well. About a month ago, I got a kitten. I was pondering getting a cat for long because I was essentially deprived of the Fat Meezer who is now generally referred as Grandma's Cat but parental units are what they are so I always saw a nice one in a shelter, asked a thing or two or not... until the little pointed kitten appeared out of nowhere. Actually, she was found with her tabby momma and tabby siblings, along with the whole collection of feline parasites and I was the first to ask for this genetic oddity.

These eyes only glow red, otherwise it's the garden variety pointed cat. I still don't have a stable name, she's going under Šiška which means, among more important and frequent things, Airhead, which she is.

And she's the most adorable kitten in the world. The pics are a few weeks old, now she's darker as pointed cats are darkening with age, bigger because kittens grow and plushier. And parental units are in love. Yes, my grumpy dad included. He shares his morning yoghurt voluntarily, even.

Parents were, obviously, furious. But, there is a thing about pointed cats. They're white and that always looks sorta cute, with cute dark paws and face and ears, and blue eyes. I'm positive that the blue-eyed beasts know their way around people, every owner of a full-bred Meezer, Siberian husky or something similar says that the sky blue gaze is just... something that makes the humans get up and fetch a snack.

Šiška is a basement cat. Not Basement Cat, just a cat that lives in the lower floor. Parents are worried that she could pee in their unguarded beds or eat the carpets so she's inhabiting the laundry room and the place that's called cellar but for practical purposes, it's a smokers' parlour. The cat already found out that a full ashtray is a great toy, and that everything is a great toy so the room will finally get tidied up from all the dad's dusty treasures covered in spider webs.

Hell yeah. Widdle white plushy kitty with widdle black feet and blue eyes.

Things

The white sweater has been on the needles since late 2012. It was meant to be something else, probably all in linen stitch, or with linen stitch details... or something. After five centimetres of linen stitch, I caved and switched to stockinette - unless it was planned and only then I discovered that linen stitch doesn't work as a decent hem. I possibly thought it all white. Or not.
At some point, I grabbed a book on folk costumes which has an extensive documentation of embroideries, grabbed a few motifs and made them mine. The local stuff is hardly ever red on white, it's usually white, yellow or sometimes black embroidery, placed differently on garments etc. But I needed a starting point so I used the general daisy shape. Foliage is mine. It all goes slowly and I lost the chart again. The current state is not really promising.

The basket was meant for yarns I intend to use very soon. Currently, it's a depository of yarns that were somehow around. It's getting fuller and fuller.

In all the Flash Your Stash debates, I would love to add a picture of my stash. It's dispersed in several rooms and stacked in various boxes so it wouldn't look pretty. However, due to memory impairment, I need to do an inventory (and chase the spiders away) so it may go as far as to have most of my stash spread out in one spot. I've taken up weaving and that eats up yarn rather fast. Or makes the stash grows fast, sources vary.

And then there's gift knitting. I would love to say that I have a bag, box or other receptacle with yarns carefully chosen for hats and scarves that will be given away but the lie may change the basics of relativity. It's the random yarn pile, a mixture of yarns I don't like but found its way to my stash (most often there was a batch of yarn on fleabay or somewhere that contained stuff I wanted and the rest was... stuff I wouldn't touch with a six foot pole under normal condition.), or leftovers, or yarn I liked but couldn't find a way how to use it for myself. Well, gift knitting. Makes people happy since who knows when.

Diagnosis of the day.

Ma'am magistra artium, your reflux is big as a swine. Your gastric juices spill like the contents of a kicked bucket and where there should be a hole tightly shut, your cardia is open wider than a barn door. Your oesophagus has better self-cleaning properties than an average cat because to my great surprise, there's no acid damage.

Excuse the bits of literal translation including the local abusive use of academic degrees of no major significance but I couldn't deprive you of the Monty Pythonesque sense of humour of my gastroenterologist. On paper, it said boring things like Massive GERD, no hernia. I got a script for A LOT of meds which they didn't have in my pharmacy because apparently, people are not supposed to use them by handfuls, a flyer that listed things to be avoided so I should deprive myself of the basic survival needs like coffee and the things that make life worth it at least for the time of consumation, such as wine, poppy seeds or chocolate. And I should prop the head side of my bed on a 4 x 4 so that the bucket contents stay where they should, which is not going to work because the headboard just reaches the lowered ceiling in one corner.
Tomorrow, I'm not seeing any doc so I should be just fine, I hope.

Advantages of bed rest

I finished a sweater.


The pic shows construction, starting from the hems and upper edge of the sleeves, decreasing and then... forget it, making it somehow. The sleeves got crocheted up and I'm finished now

My back keeps hurting, thanks for asking, and I'm slightly bored by all the bedrest. I went to pick a skirt from my dressmaker friend who lives two hundred metres away because I had an itch. It took me twenty minutes to walk there (well, the outing took an hour but we spent some time chatting at the fence) and while I got some fresh air, I admit that it wasn't the most brilliant idea. On the other hand, I apparently can run the hotel and do stuff over the phone, from my bed. Not bad.

Sciatica

So that you know what's up. Not that the depression et al. would be anything like solved but sometimes, an urgent trouble sheds a new light on life.

Yesterday, I got up, brushed my teeth, got halfway dressed, looked into the new sunny day, thought to myself Today will be a good day for cleaning, picked a piece of paper from my table, something in my lower back cracked and it hurt like a damn hell. I was standing by a bookshelf so I held onto it, my bag was at my feet and I guessed I could have some painkillers in it but I wasn't able to bend. My faulty memory however conjured an image of metamizole on my nightstand so I was all like Oh, great, I don't need to bend. Then, I realized that I can barely stand on my right leg. I shuffled and stumbled to the other side of the room, leaned against the wall and pondered what next. Meantime, mom came back from the grocery and for the first time in many years, I caled Mommy for help. Mom helped me to splat me on the bed two steps away and I was so happy about my lousy habit of basically living in bed because I had a laptop, books and some noms at hand. Prescription painkillers didn't help so I asked mom whether she still has her secret stash of tramadol - that's an opioid analgesic painkiller for those who are not pharma geeks - because IT HURT.
Opioids being what they are, I felt slightly better. We have my cousin and her son and her dogs over, aunt is staying at grandma's and coming to annoy on regular basis so I put on a skirt and brushed my hair because of personal dignity, grabbed my knitting and crawled downstairs. Mom got annoyed because I was wearing my only short skirt at hand, and one wears sweatpants when sick, not a woolen office skirt. I uttered a few expletives hinting that struggling with hose when one can't stand without holding onto a building with both hands, or when one can't bend or turn, is one of the more idiotic ideas, and spent the day splatted on the sofa. What offended mom even more was my tramadol high, it was unbecoming to giggle stupidly when I was in pain. Well, fuck pain and fuck such ideas.
The internetz differential diagnosis was either herniated disc or sciatica so I called my friend Doc, who is an ENT but still a M. D., he said that sciatica sounds more likely, that if it's sciatica, it will improve on its own, if it's slipped disc, it will worsen, that I can go to ER but if I wait until Monday to see my orthopod, er, orthopedist, it's just fine. (I will. I need more painkillers, mom refused me more tramadol.)

I'm utterly pissed. I organized a photoshoot plus makeup gal plus a hairdresser, cousin would drive me to Prague with a suitcase of clothes and 20 kilos of cat kibble that belonged to the late Hotel Kitty that got run over, I yet need to cancel my shrink appointment and I need meds and serious shit to talk about, I was to pick a kitten at a shelter. Dressmaker and her business can wait, work can always wait, I'll read my policy because I have some sort of accident/illness/loss of income insurance. But I need to find someone to refer me to a neurologist for my memory issues and I need to get my psych meds because while back pain and hip pain are metaphorical and partly literal pain in the arse, depression is the ultimate pain in the arse, metaphorical or not.
Today, pain metamorphed and I can't sit or bend and I'm afraid that in these two days, I've used up a whole yearly supply of curses.

Next time: more depression.

The shoe odyssey

I'm a simple person. I like stuff that works and I like when it works forever. Alas, my old Pentax gave up eventually and since I do a lot of photography, I finally scraped up the money and got a new camera. And, obviously, being who I am, I'm pretty pissed.
Yes, the shutter opens which is a great improvement but the sound is different and, more annoyingly, louder. I like my shit quiet, grrrr. And the buttons and knobs are in different places. The thing feels different in my hand. And it's just different, damnit.
On the other hand, my bespoke leather bag is still almost like new and will remain so for several decades so there's at least some equilibrium in the world.

I hate shopping. I mean, I'm fine with going to the bakery getting my bread. I hate going through shops and never finding anything I need. The other day, I needed to buy shoes. Ordinary black flats, size 42, US 12, black, flat, leather, decent quality. I had a bit of time so I went to a mall. In one store, they had various stuff made from a large choice of synthetics, up to size 41 and the clerks looked pretty annoyed when approached so I just left. At Bata, they used to have that little shelf with "oversize" stuff where one could find a few pairs of something sligtly boring by brands that tend towards the expensive side but on the other hands, leather, good fit, looks slightly boring but reasonable so I went to look. After not finding anything, I asked the clerk and she said that yeah, sure, but they had to restock the oversize corner all the time and it was too much hassle so they don't have it any more. I sighed, saying that I need some nice black flats in 42, is there a chance of finding something, the clerk replied, let me check, there's this in 42, and brought me a pair of brown pumps with 10 cm heels. I politely thanked, thinking that it's certainly vodka o'clock. In a nearby boutique where they do have my size on a semi-regular basis, I held up a nice black flat and asked Could I have this in 42?, the clerk went to rummage and said Sorry, sold out. After repeating this about three times, I asked Are there ANY black flats in 42; the clerk merrily explained that I must come at the beginning of the season when they have new stock because they send some choice of models and sizes from the central, and not everything arrives up to 42 and when it does, there is only one or two pairs and they get sold fast. I nodded wisely and asked why they do not restock the stuff when it's in demand? Well, the central doesn't like it, there's paperwork and extra hassle, you know. Something similar happened in another store with the gem of "These sell too fast and we had to restock them all the time so we don't carry them any more" and in another shop, the nice clerk was a bit apologetic and gave me the model numbers and told me to order them from the international website of the shoe company. At the Högl boutique in Prague, I said I want this in 42, the clerk looked at me via her nostrils and said This is made only up to 40, with the unspoken Go away, you poor scum.
Meanwhile in Austria... I wanted those Högl shoes. I went to hoegl.at, found out that the model in question is made up to 42, messaged my Vienna friend explaining that I absolutely need those shoes, can she do something about that. Said friend went to a Högl shop, said I want this in 42 for a friend, they said We don't have them in this shop but leave your phone number, please, we'll ask around. Someone checked around, they found out that not a whole heap of 42s in this model was made but there are some left, got a pair delivered from someplace like Salzburg boutique, called my dear Anna that the requested shoes are ready to pick. And that it would be better if I came to the shop to try them in person because even if I wear Högl shoes regularly, it's always advisable. Well, when I came to Vienna, my feet got so swollen that I could barely fit into my worn sandals.
Meantime, my dressmaker gave me the phone number of her shoemaker. I brought him the worn-to-death Marc Jacobs flats I kept at the bottom of the closet for the remote chance I would ever find an affordable shoemaker and said This fits great over my heels, make ones like that in black, thankyouverymuch. Some time later, I got lovely black flats that did scrape the skin off my heels but not any worse than anything off the shelf and the shoemaker promised to work on it. I'm saved. Also, I'll get green and burgundy Marc Jacobs lookalikes that fit better. And many more, because now I can go and get shoes instead of damn shopping for them.
Fashion spreads sometime later.

Mild and hesitant progress

It seems that my meds kicked in. Fluoxetine tries its best to turn my stomach inside out when eaten before meal and upturned my sleep schedule but some ten days ago, I felt almost energetic. I went to work and instead of feeling that on the next corner, I'd die of sheer exhaustion, I walked and enjoyed the air and the movement and it was all nice.
I'm far from okay, though. It's about two years of a steep downward spiral. I feel better but I'm still very tired. I'm also horribly out of shape which makes me even more tired when I try for some physical activity. I'm worried about emotions because I grew terribly indifferent towards most things and very emotional, even sentimental, about a few and getting back to baseline might be quite interesting, as in "better be observed from another galaxy". My body seems to be in a constant state of threat - I'm crouching, not moving to go unnoticed and such. My personal hygiene habits suffered badly. I got used to not talking because I have nothing to add to the conversation anyway so why bother.

Whatever. It's not time to party and not caring has advantages because I don't care. Meantime, while I feel like doing something, I'll do some cleaning and decluttering. Depression ate my short-term memory so I'm somewhat aware that I for example bought things but I am not too sure what they were and where I dropped them so I'd better go through the random shopping bags. I may well vacuum the dead flies, too. And if things go well, I'll have a shower, too.

Tasteful scarf

I wasn't in a mood for knitting in the last few months. Nor did I check much of my mail. Yet, one day I did check mail and saw a newsletter or handful from DBNY, checked what was up and discovered a batch of Cashmere Tweed in a colour I call carroty red; slightly orangeish shade of red I just don't like but it's totally my mom's colour.
My mother, as it has been noted repeatedly, disagrees with knitting. And I, being the silly naïve person, keep trying to persuade her that there's nothing wrong with hobbies. Lately, she's been complaining a bit less about my ever-present WIPs around the living room so I decided to go for it. And, everything can be redyed to black.
The yarn arrived, I showed it to mom and said that if she wants, I can make her a scarf because I thought she'd like the colour. She agreed under the condition that the scarf be tasteful.


I decided for linen stitch which is obviously tasteful and it doesn't look obviously knitted. Not sure what mom will think, should she whine, I'd get pretty pissed because this yarn is pain in the arse to rip and there's no way in hell I'd wear a red scarf.
We'll see.
More knitting content to be expected.
More content at all may be expected.

All the same

I must've mentioned many a time that I like when things are unremarkable. It means that there's no impeding disaster and being the boss, I am the one who solves problems. I hate dealing with problems caused by other people's stupidity and since my underlings are not the sharpest knives in the drawer, most of the problems are caused by negligence, lack of literacy (seriously, I can't believe that some of the folks passed the basic school) and several other sorts of idiocy not described by science yet.

My mother is having a tough time as well but apparently she's not losing good humour. She has a degree in theory of education or something along those lines and the stuff going on around here reminds her of a daycare for slightly retarded children. She thus promised to find me some courses in special education and social pathology to help me understand the mentality. I stopped planning to run away, not that I wouldn't want to but because I don't have enough mental capacity to plan something so complicated but from what I hear from other people, it's all the same all over the place with the exception of academia where one would need courses not in special education but rather cat herding and a double dose of social pathology.
Mom also wants me to make notes so that she could coauthor a book based on my experience. Which means that first, I'd need to move away, far, far away because the persons involved would recognize themselves and the persons not involved would recognize themselves too. If I get my caustic sense of humour back, though.

Seen my shrink and got new antidepressants. So far, I got a steaming helping of side effects so I sleep badly - not that I'd slept too well but there's always some space for worsening, right? - and I stopped eating almost entirely. Due to somewhat busy week, I've been nomming my dear benzos to prevent my head from exploding and I can't really judge my mental status. Or, I can, it's shitty but I haven't noticed any new variations of that shitty.

I'd add a gratuitous cat picture or something but my camera died and I can't afford a new one. Go and pet your own kitty.

News roundup

Grandma was diagnosed with breast cancer in spring. She's getting second round of pre-op chemo and she's allergic to it so every dose incluses anaphylactic shock.
Mom is doing major part of the care. Her siblings need to go holidaying and stuff and accompanying a rather boring old lady to the oncology ward is teh nuisance, and my uncle is retired so he has no time to hang around anyway, he needs to do all that relaxing.
Dad has his own health issues with bad legs - result of various accidents, injuries and neuropathy. It's understandable that it makes him cranky but he's grown intolerably annoying as of lately.
Poor mom is in the middle of this and I can't help her due to lousy job elsewhere and my own issues.
Speaking of my depression, it calmed down. I don't break stuff and cry, I'm rather resigned. I do change my sheets and clothes and have showers from time to time and I pretend to be functioning but it doesn't work.

And then there's the real Rio at work. The usual stuff is usual - imagine a long rant about how I hate dealing with people - and since we've been pretty full in the last two weeks, it's a sort of badly managed chaos. The highlights of the weeks were thieving staff and a nice talk to nice police officers and less nice talk to staff in question who didn't understand the wink, wink, hint, hint of Maybe the missing cash is just misplaced at first because they're morons but they came to the conclusion on their own or my dear deputy did more yelling than diplomacy.
Then there was a mutineering cook who made me yell at him in front of guests and staff - guests enjoyed the amateur theatre and staff is spreading the schadenfreude.
Next day, the other cook called in sick but then something happened and she came to work - I suspect that the injury of pride caused by the other cook (mentioned above, generally known as Fat Asshole, generally disliked) taking over the shifts would be more serious than some upper respiratory problems.
And then there was the angry guy with steel pipe.
I would like to start drinking. I have booze, I have reasons but I just don't feel like it. Horrible.

Lazy

I'm legitimately doing nothing.
No, I'm not relaxing in the psych ward, I just went to see a friend and I'm just sitting in someone's armchair, reading stuff and knitting.

It's all the same story. Stress, depression, stress, depression, just in different shades. I got a deputy of sorts, a person who does a part of dealing with idiots for me and she was off for a week so I needed to survive the communication with employees. So far for running a business in countryside. Half of the natives are inbred or something and the other half is no the dole and doesn't want to work. The whole district... well, I guess one should go Medieval on them and invite settlers from Saxony or Südtirol to cultivate the land, build roads that last and all that stuff as the kings did it back in the 13th century. The current residents might be shipped to North Korea, they vote for commies, nazis and iterations of thereof in every election anyway.
The who guessed that I don't like the general area was right.

Which is besides the point; summed up: work sucks as ever. Before leaving for Vienna, I was in a lousy mood, at which point I just try to be polite but not really cordial. I don't feel like talking because I don't feel that I have something to say, something that people may be interested in. And, I got into a rather nasty row with my mom. Due to foaming adrenalin, I fail to remember what exactly made me explode. She asked about work, I told her, complaining a bit but not much, I didn't really feel like talking, and then she started yelling at me that I'm just whining all the time and she had a dental surgery and says nothing, and her work sucks and she doesn't complain either, and that I'm a little lazy wimp. Well, at a point, I said that I refuse to listen to this, grabbed my glass and slammed the door to go and cry in the kitchen. Mom followed me, yelling stupid questions such as Who brought you up this way. I hate this because it's idiotic and accusatory and just manipulative and damn, I'm not going to say the expected Mommy dear, you raised me perfectly well but I decided to be mean, for which I sincerely apologize. Well, I answered, I think, along the lines of You should know the answer best. There was more to that and I didn't avoid the confrontation by saying nothing because I used up all my self-control to not throwing objects at my mother or just anywhere around, I just smashed a box of tomatoes.

At which point, I'm probably already deemed an intolerable piece of agressive shit and now everything is going to be my fault, which is strategically significant problem. Not that I'd be able to care too much. Not that I cared about this clash either, this happens from time to time, usually I break some glass and life goes on. It just generally sucks, this depression thing.
And then I went to Vienna, walked around the town, saw friends and did all that normal stuff I can't do in Middle-of-Nowhere where I work. My feet are swollen becuase apparently I've deteriorated so much that some windowshopping makes me exhausted.
Things have gone wrong. I just can't find a way how to fix them.

Excerpts from an inner monologue

Why the hell again.

The other day, I dropped to a recruitment agency to test the water, they gave me a card and told me to mail my CV. I mailed the only one I have, written by my friend Pete when I applied for a part-time teaching gig. It's full of interesting things - that I [sort of] know Eastern Old Norse and similar. Well, back in the day, I sort of knew some Eastern Old Norse.
Which is both reason and explanation why I should get my attention deficit and memory troubles treated.
I didn't hear back from the agency, maybe when I'm in the town, I'd throw the hard copy at them. Or maybe I should muster a version with shorter words.

Grandma has cancer and the relatives who generally care only when there's a party with a lot of free food are visiting both grandma and us, we live around the corner and there's free booze or something. Obviously, not all relatives are greedy jerks, and one of these is my cousin who is generally amiable... but one of those boisterous extroverts. I told her about my mental issues, both those that thrive on their own and those that are work-fed, when she was visiting around Giftmas. A week or two or three (I don't remember. Me and calendar - disconnected) ago, she dropped by, I didn't want to talk about work but she or my mom asked about something, I said it sucks. She told me moreless this:

So you're complaining that work sucks, that your nerves are on the go, and you're doing nothing at all. How many interviews you had, heh? None at all. Did you apply for some jobs? No. Did you try to do something-or-another? No. So I have to infer that you're actually happy about your current state of affairs. Maybe you should stop complaining.

Oh yeah, when depressed, one is always ready to spring into action, always alert and thinking sharp and clearly, sure about oneself so getting things done is so easy.
I'm lazy and it's no big secret.
Another publicly known fact is that I'm introvert, sociophobic and with long-term mental issues that just... well, sometimes I'm almost physically paralyzed and it takes a lot of effort to uncurl and go and do something. Sometimes I'm paralyzed mentally in a similar fashion. Add all those memory and concentration issues and there I am, sitting among piles of papers to be dealt with, desperate, because I don't know where to start, I know that back in the day, I was damn good in logistics and organizing, and now I don't know what to do. Two hours later, nothing is done, I'm just more guilty.


I mentioned to BossDad that I would actually welcome if he told me that he employed someone. That I somehow inferred it from the contracts to sign and file, mixed into a bunch of other paperwork, but I'd rather be informed beforehand. He started an exercise in blame shifting - I don't know it because I don't talk to my deputy, it's all my fault, obviously. I grumbled something, got scolded for grumbling and replied that, the hell, I'm doing the things as best as I can but I refuse to do any liking of my job or positive attitude or similar shit.
It wasn't the first exchange of this sort we've had, and as always, his general response was two-fold and basically Things are complicated even elsewhere and So what would you like, I'll make that job for you. I'm 35, for fuck's sake, I can find a job. I guess it would take me half a day to have a contract for something I'm capable of doing, better paid, with less responsibilities. Janitor, sales clerk, anything - not that it would be a dream job but at least minimum legal wage would mean an improvement, and the possibility to drop everything after 8 hours and go home and have an actual life. Okay, I'm repeating myself. And, yes, I do know that everywhere, there are issues. But, in this case, the issues just added up and overwhelmed me and I know I need a long sick leave to pull myself together, to start with. I stopped seeing the shrink for the usual reason - I think I'm not doing enough, I finished my meds again so I'm off them... and I feel too guilty about it to go and see him. I feel too guilty to talk to many people because I'm still annoyed and forgetful and generally a pain in the arse. I'm afraid my cousin isn't the only one who thinks it's just a bad attitude of mine.


Whatevs. I'll go and fetch some donuts, try to print herbary tags so that I can sort out my dried plant matter and I'm pretty sure that the work won't do itself meantime so what's the point.

Burnout

And at a certain point, you just lose the will to have a life.

Why go out when nobody is interested in my work stories. Why wearing decent clothes when people at work (be it underlings or guests) don't appreciate it. Why bother with anything at all when all the people I meet I hate - not each of them separately and for a reason, only in the collective sense of belonging to a group of employees which, in the year and half, became an equivalent to continuous nuisance and idiocy. Guests are even worse - snotty idiots, Captains Sweatpants (hey, I made a Big Bang Theory reference) who think that expensive sweatpants are good enough for going out, people who think that the receptionists or whoever are there only for them and their convenience... and people who just are, with all the side effects like making noise. So, why the burning hell I should bother to wash my hair when I'm surrounded by idiots I hate.

I realized that I'm in deep shit indeed when I started speaking in dialect. Not the dialect of the area where I work, my native dialect (of sorts, my mother is a linguist and always prided herself that our household speaks nice, not some contorted whatnots. Also, she hated said dialect, a heavy one, for that matter, although I'm not sure on what grounds, whether just because or because her first teaching gig was deep in the country and she couldn't understand the first-graders. Gotta research). Because, I'm from elsewhere, see, everyone, not here, I'm from that nice town that has an university and two theatres and actual places to go and things to do apart from navigating the swampy meadows and counting orchids. Not that I was going out too much but I could if I wanted, right? And due to that fucking work and fucking morons who needed to go holidaying so they pretended to be sick or something, I missed a concert of Paco de Lucía back at home and now he's dead, right, so I have no chance of going again. Yes, I might not be able to afford a ticket or I might not go but I could. And that's the point. But I digressed. I just distance myself both willingly and subconsciously from work and everything related. I would quit on the spot but I'm not one of them, falling sick when I don't feel like working (okay, marauders were already disposed of, not in the compost heap but told to go away voluntarily or else), I feel a moral obligation or two, such as not leaving people in deep shit as it's not nice and I don't really remember much from the days when I worked two shifts in the reception every day and had to do a shitload of other stuff and was sick of fatigue all the time. It's not done in the low country - or it is, maybe I just haven't met enough people but it's a nice stereotype to fall for, that the hard-working farmers actually worked hard and kept their word. Sometimes I'm not entirely cynical, cherish those moments, they don't happen often.

And then people tell me that everything is fine, right? Because, let's take people looking funny at me, they certainly don't mean it, they live in their own heads and I shouldn't worry. Problem solved, next! You dislike talking to people? You don't need to as you had to before a new receptionist was hired, everything is fine. Problem solved, next! You feel stuck up in the middle of nowhere? You should have learned to drive, your fault, suck it up, problem solved, next! Nowhere to go, nothing to do? Other people actually pay money to stay in the hotel, the view is nice, where's a problem, problem solved etc. See, there's no problems left, everything is fine, go out and enjoy life. Add optimists and rationalizers to the list of things I detest. Phew.

Just because

I may or may not have mentioned a friend of mine who is just... odd. In the way I am odd but those who know me know that my intellectual je ne sais quoi comes with an additional baggage of self esteem of a dead lab rat, depression, social phobia and no people skills to speak of but for wishing less than nice things to people.
While Pete is suave. Well-dressed, well-behaved, at home in every company, going to events, meeting people, not screaming at them, omgwtfddt, meeting people and going places with them and enjoying it. Somehow, we get on well together, which is a proof that the gods, or random movements of Universe, or whatever may be the reason why the world exist, is pretty wicked. So, this guy chooses to hang out with me from time to time although he could get better company by crowds even though he's already been subject to my outpours of nastiness.

He's a language freak, too, which is a thing we hold in common. Well, he has an actual degree in assyriology while I only got as far as to professors wondering why the hell I speak Florentine when I'm not a natural born one. As Pete would say, there is the special theory to it and the general one - the special one being the actual circumstances: I landed in Florence of all places without any prior knowledge of Italian, his department had too much funding so they opened a course of Yiddish just the semester when he had nothing better to do on Thursday afternoons. The general theory is general for both and all other cases: just because.

Hear hear, there is another person in the world who doesn't wink at my acquisition of tidbits of Catalan, Provençal and other Romance languages by howling along with Jordi Savall's Hespèrion (by means of which I learned of the existence of Cantigas de Santa Maria and other things that rock), and who actually considers it as perfectly normal. Compared to fellow Medievalists back in school who snarked at me for actually reading Medieval Latin poetry because I found it nice, or to muggles who don't know a thing and don't care... and no, I'm not being Captain Obvious. Just now, I could use some nice Fennougric curse, as Pete graciously sent me a textbook of Ingrian and double-sided printing decided to be my Nemesis. I have a colour printer in my office, because one of the ex-idiots ranted that it would be pretty if we could print our flyers, Teh Boss went off to buy a colour printer, then I threw some of the graphic art created by ex-idiot and said This or me, Teh Boss agreed that this would not work and I ended up with a colour printer I don't need at all. Asking me whether I could use some gadgets would result in saying Duplex printer, NAO, but nobody asked so I turn papers around to find the same page printed on both sides, and Fuck it all just doesn't cut it. But, I only ruined 40 sheets of paper, could be worse, pages 120 - 258 are just fine. The thing is, Pete sent me an Ingrian textbook and instead of doing my things, such as throwing objects at underlings or hiding under the table and crying, I'm printing it out. It's written in Russian which is another language I'm not fluent in, but one grows with their tasks. And finally, I'll have a greater joy in reading the Nykysuomen etymologinen sanakirja, known as That would be a cool blue doorstop. Because, comparing words to other words is fun. Hey, Amazon says it's out of print. Guess it was 60 euros well spent. Back in the day when my brain was turning inside out while being poked and prodded by Finnish, because language and thinking are one, and because I'm bound to think Indo-European, I decided that there is certainly more to it. And that I should learn more and observe how it gets learned, for the sake of science.

Another digression: I wonder how many people observe themselves thinking. Not many, regarding how many people are not thinking at all anyway.

And because Estonian is too mainstream... and then I mentioned it to Pete who is even worse hoarder of things and data, got the .pdf thrown at me. Well done.

Huh.

During the journey from Italy, I was slightly bored. Mom decided that I may get sick and pushed me to the front seat which prevented me from knitting (dad doesn't like seeing me knit in the car and driver decides about music and general ambiance) so I stared at the mountains, made a few mental notes, such as getting a book about those castles around Brennero, and taking the old road sometimes, and kept inventing curses.
The latter proved a productive... what's the right word again? Well, thing. Bear with me, I hope I'll be the old eloquent self again. First, it's a great fun to get the starting point at Let the fleas of a thousand camels feast in your armpits and go on. It's not as easy as I kept cursing the whole area so the curses had to be inclusive; Let your wife run away with someone cooler than you someplace cooler than where you live means that the runaway wife had some fun - and that's not the way to go. It has to be locusts and plague for everyone. Second, one can use the odder bits of one's vocabulary, but dear readership needs to find their own examples as I can't think of any.

There was some usual stuff. The chef not reading my email and deciding that he doesn't know what to do - he conjured up something entirely different from the first line and didn't bother to go beyond so the holiday aftermath was screaming about damn illiterate idiots. Parents said that I was overdoing it... and today morning, chef signed a mail with his name misspelled in a bad way. And the Ministry of Education shall send their special units upon thee; they will descend like angry and particularly angular hailstoneson you and beat you with hard-bound literature until you cave, you lazy morons. Those who will fail to get edumacated will be sold to North Korea.

And then I finally started writing the book of my hotel stories. The guys from the publishing forum had prompted me to, offering to actually pay for that. I'm on page 1 and it will be hard to assemble all the fragments I spread over the internetz, in my notebooks and wherever as I forget everything but things don't do themselves and one has to start somewhere. I may or may not keep you informed.

Jailtime coming to an end

Been saying it for quite a time that I'm not suited for the job. That, accidentally, I'm doing a job of 3 or 4 people. That it's not possible to do contradictory things, such as have the paperwork done the way it's required (takes at least 6 hours a day most days) and supervise people at the whole workplace all the time. That 100+ hour workweek is fine when it's one week but it's impossible on the long run (I'm not discussing that earning less than the gal with bucket and washrag is getting twice as much money for the regular 42,5 hours which include lunch break.)

Been saying it again and again for months. Been told that all I need is a bit of experience and patience, that I'm just overreacting, that it's not that bad.

Then, the last straw came. I was still being told to suck it up, it's not that bad because it can't be that bad, it needs a bit of experience and patience but in a less self-confident tone.

And, yesterday, I heard it said: Maybe you're just wrong person for the job.

The human mind is bizarre. So many people fasion themselves as logically and rationally thinking persons but when they're told things like Hey, I'm a sociophobic chickenshit with no people skills and I have papers from several generally recognized mental experts, unaffiliated among themselves, it's brushed away. I needed to scream hysterically that the gods better do a good thing and send ugly rashes to the faces of the filthy scum. Filthy scum being employees, clients and basically whoever work-related. Apparently, my series of eloquent and elaborate curses spiced up with a f-bomb here or there worked much better.

Powers that be admitted that my strengths lie elsewhere and agreed that things will be arranged otherwise, my last task being to instruct the newly hired filthy scum employees.


I served my time, release imminent. No idea what I will do later but that doesn't matter.

Stash

SABLE is an acronym for Stash Beyond Life Expectancy - with something for A which I can't remember now.

The last time I counted, I had ten years' worth of yarn if I counted one sweater per month and 800 g of yarn per sweater. The last time I counted was a long time ago and meantime, things got ripped and restashed, gifted, bought, spun, knitted up or generally shuffled around so at this point, I totally don't know. Which means:

Inventory time

Two hours later, I emerged from the attic covered in cobwebs and nothing much is accomplished. I threw away a few balls of yarn that sustained carpet beetle damage - attics contain dead insects and things that eat dead insects and other keratin so this is just inevitable. I'm keeping the bastards at bay by airing and bug sprays but they just happen.

Not finished doesn't mean that there are no results. I fished out several balls of lace yarns - I decided that I need to learn new things and since I got the book of Estonian lace patterns, I have a starting point. There are few bags meant for future sweaters. And a heap of stuff to spin.

Thinking of it, I hardly ever throw anything away, worn sweaters are ripped and recycled as long as it's possible so I might actually have stash beyond life expectancy.


This is not the whole stash, it's 10 percent at maximum. The storage method is however pretty characteristic.

I think I promised some actual knitting content the other day. Or not. But, I'm a knitter and this is my playground for displaying idiosyncrazies so, finished stuff. There you go.
I started the sweater back in 2012.

Sometime back in 2012 I scored one of my best buys on fleabay EVAH. 20 hanks of Japanese cashmere for the total of $50. The downside was the colours, mustard puke and weird hunter green. Two overdyes later, it's mostly black but there's still a way to go. And yes, it's black, not dirty grey, with mustard puke specks where the yarn was knotted and faintly green where the dye caught badly. The rest is dust and my lack of mood to play with camera and Photoshop


One of the points of digging in the depths of the stash was to kill some dermestids better known as carpet beetles or the fucking vermin that eats my cashmeres. Fucking vermin feeds on keratin, where there are dead flies, there are other thing that eat them, flies are made from keratin, animal hair of all sorts is made from keratin, attic is one big buffet table waiting for the feast. Well, I threw away one ball of organic fairtrade wool gathered by vegan maidens at full moon (or wtf. I just needed grey wool that would certainly felt) and some mohair of suspicious origin, other damaged stuff was kept in open air and full sun because dermestids prefer dark and calm places for their snacking. This mission was accomplished as much as it was possible.
The more important point was to go through the stash, bag the yarns by by type and to find out how much actually I have. This failed spectacularly but I at least bagged some of the yarns for the future projects.


Yes, self-imposed sweater club. This year's goal is to knit one sweater per month, as every year, and this year, I'm actually on time, it's March and three are already finished. Regarding that it takes me around two years to actually knit a sweater, which may or may not include ripping half of it five times, and that I seem to be running out of half-finished sweater, I guess I'll stall soon.

Another day in the woods

I called my psych doc last week, asking when the hell will I go to the hospital. He said that he doesn't know, that he just sent the paperwork and now it depends when they have a free spot

I feel like calling the psych ward directly. Not that I'd scream Take me NAO but... I have this week to sort out my papers and stuff and then... I don't care. I know that it will cause problems and I would be worried but I don't care. I've said that the job is killing me. Powers that be said that, well, underlings are bullying me and it's wrong. I can't do anything about it, my people skills are zero - which is why this happened, first of all, because I wrongly assumed that people are generally playing fair.

And, no, if I talk about things that could/should be done to make the hotel work better, it doesn't necessarily mean that I want to see and organize it in person. I'm able to analyze shit this way without any implications and since I play fair, I'm still working here so I'm doing my feeble best.

Yet, I'm still worried that I won't be able to hold back and I'll throw objects or cry all the time. It's not practical for many reasons and, well, mom is here. She's unhappy that I'm apparently distressed but she refuses to believe how deep is the problem. In fact, both parental units think I'm fine, just a bit distressed, and that I should keep calm. Yesterday mom saw my bottle of clonazepam and asked what for and continued ranting in ominous tone that we both know what's this all about. I said To make me sleep, to which she replied Ah, so there's where your moodines comes from. I shrugged and concentrated on poking my kefir grains around, there is no point to explaining psych meds to someone who doesn't believe in them and in psychiatry in whole. The blog, for some reason, works in Pacific Daylight Time, but I live in GMT + 1, blog says it's 23:33 but it's 07:33 in here and I should go to bed. Add 8 hours to see that my last blog post was written around 3 am, and that was because I was so agitated that I couldn't sleep. That's where clonazepam and zolpidem come to help, and if I have 10 hours, then there's one nice old-school allergy med that actually makes me sleep. I'm not just a bit distressed and I can't overcome it by breathing deeply and concentrate on joys of life.

I should get up and do something, which, unfortunately, doesn't involve jumping on the first bus going anywhere.

Breakfast or Tuesday afternoon

The other day, I spent half an hour rummaging among my craft supplies and tools, because the Lunéville hook would be either somewhere with the beads and embroidery stuff, or in that jar that contains mostly knitting needles, along with a few other elongated tools.

And then I stood in the middle of the kitchen, with this somewhat strange instrument, wondering what I was up to. No train of thoughts went through my head, nothing along the lines of If I intended to embroider, there would be tulle and frame. I just stood there, puzzled. Mom came to save me saying that there's TV to watch, I went around the corner towards my chair and there it was, my yellow throw with edge unravelled. I sat down, fixed the edging - machine done with a hook thingy but I don't have that tiny crochet hooks - and finally, after half a year of whining at the thread, I fixed it.

There it is, I'm barely able to decide what I want to eat and whether I want to eat or why the steaming hell I'm standing by the kitchen counter. Normal people would go and get a sick leave but the charm of a family business is that there're various emotions and other crap intertwined with work and as it happens, work of any sort gets usually more complicated than fixing a sandwich.

The other day, after a thousandth last drop, after I found and fixed further of the same mistakes caused by people ignoring my orders and instructions, I just started crying. I've been saying it round and round for at least half a year that I lack people skills and facing the horde of semi-literate morons, I'm just lost. Because, having the brains of three dunces doesn't mean that I'm able to fruitfully communicate with one. Especially if said dunce doesn't want to. So, they've been lying to me, ignoring assigned tasks, fucking things up and when I said something, the response was Oh, really, I wouldn't have thought so.

When BossDad returned from his skiing trip, and there have been phonecalls when I was screaming that I'm totally not going to put up against this so he was warned, I just said I'm leaving. That the guy was hired as an executive something so he can manage half a day in the reception with ten guests around. The guy wouldn't manage a chicken coop, by the way, I caught him writing to clients once, when it was too late, and had to made an idiot of myself explaining that the cook, against all instructions or permissions, had an urge to act, and that while his writing skills, especially when it comes to punctuation, are horrendous but he cooks reasonably well. Which was not very exact description, and after having seen the pots overflowing with strange sauces, I'll never eat out. I mean, nothing wrong with sauces but when he told me that sauces are the bestest and the more the better and everyone likes a nice thick sauce in large amount, om nom nom, I said 'xcuse me, I hate sauces of this sort you describe, sauce is a thing that comes by spoonfuls at max, and not necessary with everything. Then I ordered him to cook things that don't float in goop and was halfway ignored. Yeah, and he can't calculate a price of a meal, excellent if someone is to manage a kitchen. Semi-literate morons, I say.

So, since dear staff decided to ignore me, I guessed that the jerk of a receptionist won't be working on Saturday, I hung around, fixed his further fuckups, cried, threw some beer glasses and other things around, cried more, BossDad said to come in the morning so at 2 pm he appeared, I cried more, yelled at him that everyone should be shot in their knees, with particular attention to some people and that I want the fuck get out of there. After he asked who will be in the reception in the evening, I said that I don't care. I told The Guy - can't call him a chef as he can't cook beforehand so this was a bit of the show, bleeding pure adrenalin doesn't mean that I can't make a better point.


Haven't really talked to BossDad since. Actually, I've been avoiding him like plague. I'm probably acting silly but I just can't go on. I'm a sociophobe and I've had problems with strangers, phone calls, too many people in too little time... so no way I'm calling anyone I haven't encountered in person. Don't care who will do it, I won't.

I always fondly recall someone back at the Arts department claiming: Them managers. What an easy life full of fun. They drive their fat capitalist asses in Mercedeses and make phone calls all the time. Phew.


I don't know how to recognize nervous breakdown but I suspect that throwing things around and not caring is pretty close.

Speaking of Ukraine

Warning: My knowledge of current events is fragmentary at best and my reasoning capabilities are seriously lowered by various circumstances so there may be factual mistakes, misinterpretations and such. Feel free to correct me, I didn't bother with detailed fact-finding and it's 3 am and I should sleep. Nor am I an expert in politics of any sort. This is emotions speaking. You've been warned.


I generally don't discuss politics on the blog. I actually don't even say where I'm from or stuff like that because it's mostly irrelevant to my random pursuits in fibre or flora. Hear, hear, then. Somewhere deep in my heart, I'm an occupied Czechoslovak. Across the street where I was growing up, there was the university hospital and a military base and one of my less cherished childhood memories is the fear of fighter helicopters that nested there - the Soviet Army didn't bother to respect air traffic limitations with regard to inhabited areas. I know that an average Russian wants to live their normal life devoid of cold and hunger but as far as the international politics go, I don't trust them. Use google to understand the reasons, and there are the same reasons for the same distrust in half of Europe.

Now the matters are growing increasingly sour. European Union is politely hinting Tsar Vovka that it may be nice to reconsider the Russian involvement, if he'd be inclined that way. The Czech govermnent.... ewwww. Been increasingly ashamed of this country lately. Our dear President, sponsored by Lukoil, the Russian state-owned oil company, a renowned drunk, arrogant jerk and general asshole is worried that if someone said something in support of anything Ukrainian, it would be a disaster because the trade relations, the trade relations, and we the Czechs might lose some money on that. The former president, well, I only read the first three lines of that newspaper article before I stopped for my own safety and sanity, said that it's all the fault of the EU because they (meaning morons) sent a few lines of support to the Ukrainian opposition which made the street rabble go berserk and now poor Mr. Putin and his ilk has to act. If I wanted to show mercy, I'd say that he's a demented old man but I'm afraid that it isn't entirely true - and regardless of Mr. Klaus intellectual capacities, he's the same attention whore as he's ever been.

If I happen to watch the TV news, it's NHK World and I overheard something along the lines that Mr. Erdogan, the president, whatever-in-chief or what's the head of state of Turkey called, asserted that Turkey is willing to protect the Crimean Tatars and any other vaguely lukewarm Muslim in the area, should there be any risk of harm coming to them. I do not think that Turkey should be in EU (nothing personal, folks, it's cultural); nor should be Romania but that's yet another matter.

I'll digress from Turkey back to my home turf which is getting disgustinger and disgustinger. The vox populi has it that the filthy Ukrainians are just filthy Ukrainians who are stealing our jobs (especially those that the dignified Czech people wouldn't do as they would need to work hard in inclement weather or get up at dark o'clock or commute whopping 20 minutes a day) and beig as filthy foreigners as all foreigners are and we Czechs are poor enough so why we should send any humanitary help and after all, it's Russia's business on Crimea and if they want it, they should be allowed to take it and why interfere, the economy might suffer or something. Which says something about universal vote and general humankind.

I started to entertain an idea that if the Turks would want to keep their home turf, the Black Sea, reasonably orderly, which I find obvious and agreeable, they would sooner or later clash with the Tsarist army. Or they might go protecting that Crimean Tatar who'd get beaten in a pub brawl by Russians (I envisage that it's how bad conflicts start. Average Joe and Average Bill start fighting over spilled beer and someone says that it was racial, ethnic or whatnot... and there we go, next week we're in war.) and as Turkey is a member of NATO, which is the case of Czech Republic, we'd be obliged to help protect a fellow member. President Pigface Drunkensson I. and his spineless ilk would bow to the public opinion which would say Why should our people risk anything for filthy foreigners fighting against our great economical friend and generous owner of generous sponsors and the next day, we'd be exiting NATO.

In that case, I hope that there's a reasonable country that would accept me. Does Vienna welcome exiles as they did back in Mayor Zilk's time in the late 80's?

A loss

I lost a sweater. It was a new sweater I finished... well, I don't know when I finished it, I barely recognize Tuesday from my arse, to paraphrase Sergeant Colon. I only started wearing it despite those running stitches because a ganpi paper/silk combo is prone to ladders, because it was a light sweater.

I didn't leave the building since... it was Sunday or some other day long ago when I went to the next village to buy me a sausage. I think it was Sunday because the bus schedule was odd. Anyhow, since probably Sunday, I never got further than the employee parking lot to feed the cat. On Thursday I was doing the reception shift, oh my god, how I hate reception, and there were goods to put to storage and reasons to run around and I was cold and then I was warm so I was taking the sweater off, or it was getting in the way, and then it was not. It was a good sweater, with a nice drape.

I told the receptionist asshole that I'm missing a sweater and he said Okay, which probably meant Fuck you, but it's more likely that I've tossed it to a corner of my trash-covered office or my trash-covered room (not so trashed now, the maids did their job. And took all my hair brusings I kept putting aside for further spinning. I hate when people move my things, trash included. My trash, right?) or one of the storage rooms or... just anywhere.

I should probably go around the house and have a look here or there or I could tell the maids but that means I'd have to meet people and talk to them when I feel like, well, not talking to anyone, because everyone and everything irks me by their mere existence, and half of my underlings are ignorant semi-literate assholes which would be less of a problem if they did their job which requires things like reading and doing what they're told. Actually, I'm seriously worried that I'll snap and cause damages on health and property and the las tthing I'd need would be semi-literate asshole who's been driving me up the wall on a regular basis suing me over throwing a file at them.


No, I'm not very nice about my employees. Because, well, if I tell someone Do this thing please and they don't, and when I say it again, and then remind them that it should've been done yesterday and they're all offended that nobody ever told them, it gets somewhat annoying.If it happens ten times a day, and then over and over the next day, if I give it in written, first the paper gets lost, then it's pinned on the noticeboard but I'm denied is existence and when I point out that, excuse me, miss, but the instructions are here on your noticeboard, and since I put it in your hand, you had to pin it there, I get an Ooops, I forgot... I get somewhat irked. After a year of doing a job of four people while struggling with depression, I'm just fed up. And, to add insult to a long list of injuries, I can't find my damn sweater which is €80 worth of yarn.

Hitchhikers

I grow my own kefir.
I got kefir grains from a friend who kept going on and on about billions of pets working on her sauerkraut, ginger beer, pickled anything, sake, fermented anything and, well, kefir. The grains look rather like snot but kefir snot wouldn't sound so cool. I threw the stuff, grains or snots, into a jar of cream and let them do their thing. It tasted great, kefirs kept growing and multiplying, I tried various milks and creams. The fermenting friend mentioned that the gossip has it that coconut milk is the only plant-based milk-like thing in which the kefirs multiply, I gave it a try and the thing didn't turn to sour coconut milk but to something orange, partly furry, that stank to high heaven. A rampant case of hitchhikers.

Hitchhikers are bacteria, yeasts or other little buggers that get to places where they shouldn't.

Said coconut nastiness went down the drain, fermenting friend mailed me a new batch which I keep happy in high fat milk or cream - in general. Usually I have a few batches brewing.

I generally hope for a boring life. A friend, not the fermenting one, said that I'd be better off if I sold the goddamn place and used the cash to move to Aruba. The idea of sitting on a porch, staring towards the horizon and doing nothing is extremely appealing and although I could do it legally, I decided not to as it wouldn't be fair, and kept hoping for boredom happening here. At which point we got hitchhikers. The school trip brought a stomach bug along and all the kids and teachers kept, how does one say it, suffering from sudden inner disturbances. The last thing I ever wanted, or the last thing I ever wanted of Thursday, Feb 27, as I foresee something nasty happening soon, was a hotel full of vomiting people with runs. I had to act so everyone got their personal bottle of bleach, washrag and gloves and their job was to disinfect all the door handles.

I talked to the nice guy in the Public Health Office, epidemics department; the mixture of wry humour and useful advice, along with actually talking to someone both literate and sane, was of substantial help.

The whole house smells of chlorine - very hygienic, what stinks of chlorine is disinfected - I decided to clean up the fridge. The other day, I left some herbs macerate in oil but instead of fragrant oil for my salads, I got oil with something gooey in it. I was worried that it might clog the pipes but they got clogged anyway so I used the good old cheap sodium hydroxide... and then the solution presented itself. Oil + sodium hydroxide = soap. If I were mean enough, I'd make bars and sold them on Etsy as hyper super organic handmade locally sourced soap but I just wanted my jar clean... and the other one that contained creme fraiche morphed to something orange that smelled of rotting cheese. Folks, hydroxide is as good as acid when it comes to getting rid of nasties. Also, my dishes are fully done now so I can go to bed (yes, at 4 pm) and be as depressed and tired as it gets.

Ladies and gentlemen, hold your hats and prepare for the wild downhill ride.

Well.

This building needs yardarms, which, I am told, are those things on which mutineering and otherwise annoying sailors are hung for punishment. The yardarms can be used to hang sails, too; practical, I say.

The thing is, one of the employees was extremely rude to my mother. So rude that she admitted she hadn't ever heard some of the Klatchian and she had been teaching for 20+ years. She also refused to quote the diatribe. Said employee was just somewhat rude to me and then she stormed away saying that nobody will be telling her what to do (the memo that she was made the Director of the Universe must've missed me). Mom wanted me to fire her on the spot but the whole situation made me a trembling sobbing wreck.

Today, dad yelled at me, and I know he didn't mean it as badly as it sounded, but I feel shitty enough, well, he told me that I should finally learn to solve problems myself, that he's not going to do it for me and if I don't want to work, then I can just get out of here and there was some stomping and door banging (not me).

I really feel like wandering into the woods. Or jumping on the first long-distance bus that goes away from here, regardless of direction. Been telling BossParents that I'm not able to manage this place, that I don't have the capabilities and stuff, that I can't handle the daily contact with people. Just get over it, they say. Or It's not that bad, you need to tough it out. Or I wouldn't be able to live among these hillbillies without turning crazy, I don't understand how you manage.


The little nasty ssecret is that I'm not managing. I don't sleep, I eat badly, I keep constantly washing my hands because of all that hand shaking and other interaction with the damn bags of pathogens (also known as guests in the business) while I barely force myself to shower when I either stink or it itches.

And... it feels like my brain is going on an off uncontrollably. Or, rather, off and a little bit working, I keep forgetting things, I can't concentrate and I forget what's been said before the sentence is finished. (And then I'm crying and told to get over it. Hey, I'm getting over so many things that sometimes I can't take it any more.) And when it gets worse, I just stare blankly and struggle with every single line of a bill or something.

Disappointing

That's me, the disappointing one.

I was trying to declutter (with mediocre success but at least I took a bag of trash to recycling) and at one point, my mind produced a thought:

I'm staying at the Hotel from Hell only because it makes my dad happy.

He's so happy that I'm managing it well - he says I'm doing it well, I'm keeping my doubts - and he wants me to have it as a source of income and all I give back is a burnout.

I'm angry at grandma all the time. She's a terrible gossip and she forces me food all the time but hey, she's over 80 and she's showing affection that way and I'm the bad one for being impatient with her.

And... en route to grandma's, we stopped in a grocery and they had a whole jamón serano for half price. Mom was picking bread for a few seconds too long and I spotted a chunk of dried meat. Well, I grabbed it and then needed to carry it home. Just 8-ish kilos of ham and the added carving board and I was so damn tired. The obvious train of thought: I should have done something to prevent it.


I know that it's my brain acting up but it's annoying nonetheless.

There's something wrong with this world

First, a gratuitous kitty picture from my archives. Four Somalians waiting for something to happen, with an apparent hope that the photographer might explode into a rain of smoked salmon.


I spent the evening bartending. There was the optimum amount of guests - enough to keep me busy but not too many, I could chitchat a bit (and retreat to dishes if I didn't wish to).
As the evening went on, the alcohol level in guests' blood rose and I guess that some feel a bit embarrassed about now. They weren't rude, just silly. Aaaand, I got tips.

Some 200 euros altogether.

It's around 1/5 of the price of my upcoming surgery. Also, OMGWTFBBQ. Okay, now I'll need to invest 3-ish euros in an elastic bandage for my achy knee but there's still left enough.

The horror!

I'm getting a surgery in 11 days and in a month or so, I'll go to the mental hospital where I'll stay for a few weeks.

I wanted to be a serious person who plays fair and decided to sort out my shit, especially in the office and in the hotel room so that it's left clean and neat and understandable without a 4D origami map.
As anyone who ever did a large declutter knows, there's an early phase when the area looks as if it exploded. In my case, it's the second step, the first step involves picking all apparent trash from the floor and cleaning the visible bits of said floor, or, if possible, making a bit of space on which things can be placed. The amount of stuff on the floor waxes and wanes in the process and with a bit of luck, one ends up with clean floor, several bags for charity, recycling, non-specific trash and, from time to time, compost (1).

My situation is complicated due to commuting and staying in the hotel for prolonged periods of time so when I get home, to a town that has things like libraries, stationery shops, my friends and other hallmarks of civilization, I don't necessarily devote my time to cleaning. So, in one of the phases of high clutter, I took the memory card out of my computer to take a pic of something, or I took a pic and wanted to download it. One way or another, the card didn't reach its final destination and got stuck somewhere amidst of clothes, fabrics, books, papers and nondescript stuff.

At the time of finding out, it was the last straw. I had a lousy week of arguing with people, me who is not very fond of much interaction anyway, needed to cancel my therapy appointment, got yelled at by idiots, dealt with the wreckage caused by idiots... and that got topped by the diary frustration , yet another surgery in near future, then I forgot about the urine sample for the pre-surgery check-up and finally, my card went MIA.

I needed to find a super hyper important paper that was filed by the previous manager using the excellent method of Toss it on a pile and in irregular intervals, mix the papers randomly. My somewhat neatified office where my nicely labelled files are slowly taking over changed into a trash-sorting facility. Back to the beginning, then.
No, the super important urgently needed protocol wasn't found. What was found were several contracts - I meantime procured the copies, making a fool of myself because in any normal company, they have a file labelled Contracts where the contracts go, right?, various paperwork related to employees present and past, bills, notes, scribblings, things in triplicate that are probably a proof of someone's subconscious hate of trees, and all of these randomly inserted in folders or envelopes. This constituted half of the heap of shit in question, the other half were price lists, flyers, catalogs and the proofs of overt hate of trees in the advertising industry. The latter half of the godawful mess was already tossed, the rest will be filed or dealt with later. I already asked Teh Boss and Chief of Chiefs to get me a colony of termites to destroy the sensitive papers but I'm afraid I'll get an ordinary shredder at best.


I wanted to brag around with my new knits but as I can't take pics, there's a product of the habitat improvement:

A sweater from my knitterly beginning back at point zero. The yarn is pretty and not exactly cheap, if not exactly my colours either and now it's all back to stash, waiting for a better chance.

Also, a random kitty picture.


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(1) If you stumble upon a person who has a trash bin for compost and it's not in the kitchen or conservatory, in 99 % of cases I'd recommend to duck and run. I do have a compost bin, or rather a box, for herbary trash which is nicely dry, if not necessarily perfectly sterile... well, you know what I mean.

Mixed news

I had to get up before six to be at the clinic for the 0630 appointment and I had some medication to take which would keep me 'relaxed'. Apparently, relaxed means walking into walls. Well, general anesthesia, poking, prodding, now you can go home, Miss, take a lot of fluids, relax and ask your GP for 4 weeks sick leave. Dad sent me a taxi which should be by the building in ten minutes so I procured a takeaway coffee and slept for the whole day. Next day, mom asked why I'm not going to work. Them mothers. The pathology results were to be in last week. I managed to call the doc only yesterday.

"You should come on Monday, we'll talk about it in person," doc said. That's what they say so that they wouldn't need to say It's cancer, you're going to die, over the phone. In case the patient reacted wildly, they can... I don't know what they do but they can do it.
"Something bad, then?" I asked back.
"Erm, well, I have another patient in, come see me on Monday and we will discuss it."
"Okay, doc, simple question. Is it cancer?"
"Nooooope, lots of benign stuff that need discussion, tests and treatments and that may be related to your current medication."

I postponed working on my last will and went to open a bottle of wine. Not to celebrate. It was one of those days and I was totally drained. I just wanted to get drunk and sleep. Which I somehow managed only to wake into another disaster day.

Dear Ajasto: A5, wire-bound, one page per day

I'm a simple person. I hate to change shit that works.

To the category of shit that works, I used to count my Ajasto diaries. I got my first one umpteen years ago and it was perfect. Wire-bound so that I could flip the cover around and scribble while walking. One page per day, which provided me with enough space to scribble. A5 format which is good for scribbling and pressing smaller plants. And, the Ajasto stuff is cute.

I used to ask Juha and Kata to go and spend the 17-ish euros for my diary and I'd mail them some wine and stuff. So, I wanted to pick my diary, I checked the Ajasto website and... nothing. They just stopped making my good old reliable diary.

Call me annoying but this sort of diary works for me perfectly well. Why should I settle for Erm, this is not exactly offensive?

I checked the internetz. Nothing. I asked my friends in surrounding countries to check the local stationeries in case they bumped into the A5, wire-bound, one-page-per-day thingy but apparently, none exist in Austria, Czech Republic, Finland, Sweden and probably in a few other countries as well, haven't heard back from some people yet.

For the time being, I'm using an excuse for a diary that was added to some fashion magazine and left behind by a guest, it's good enough for random notes but it's not a diary proper.

Dear Ajasto, I acquired my first diary of yours back in 2009 at Hedergrens in Stockholm because it was, apart from the A5 and one page per day, which was my usual standard, it was pretty. I didn't care about the wire-bound back, it was you who made me discover the advantages. That diary for 2010 had a pattern of irises on the binding and said Kunglig hovleverantör. I know I'm not King of Sweden, I'm just a potty-mouthed blogger from somewhere south, but I fell for your diaries and stuck to them until 2013. I would use your diaries forever but you don't have them any more and one week per two pages is not enough for me.

I have a friend who works in advertising. I guess I'll resort to last resort and buy a random hard-bound diary and I'll have it re-bound, she'll be able to make it work.

Call me crazy or stuck in past or useless for the modern world whose other name is Change. I don't care. I want a diary that serves as a notebook which I can flip out on the top of a hill to scribble that I saw an exciting plant and then press said plant in the diary.

I signed up for the psych ward

The other day, I decided I had enough.

I tried to explain in a civil, polite and constructive way that I'm mentally somewhat off and that I'd like to make some arrangements to make my life more agreeable but BossDad said the usual stuff people say: Take it easy, cheer up, you look just fine, don't stress over things, you're overdoing it, the world won't bow to your silly little emotions. I've been licking the edge of nervous breakdown for longer than I'd appreciate so I got angry, called my doc and told him to please arrange it.

I wanted to write an intelligent entry in which I would explain in a manner easy to understand what's going on. I'm too tired and my brain is failing me. Dear reader, rest assured that I'm somewhat stinky because... erm, I either work or I just lie in bed, I don't have a single pair of jeans that would need unbuttoning when putting them on because food tastes weird most of the time and finding, fixing and eating food is too difficult to perform too often. I'm not mentioning the dishes to be done, preferably three weeks ago. I sort of wish my apathy reached the level when I won't be arsed about getting up, it seems to me that I have a sleep deficit of 30 000 hours.

And now excuse me, I'll try and sleep.

And now for some self-hatred

My eating habits would make a dietician weep. My lifestyle would make any doctor weep, which is why I don't tell them. During the last few months, I lost both weight and girth, apparently mainly in muscle. I'm all flabby and weak, my skin got awful and since I'm getting a surgery in around two and half weeks and inflammation at the incisions is a big no-no, I'm taking clindamycin to kill the acne. At day 3, it's not working at all and for some reason, I'm all itchy and I grow spots or inflamed hair follicles or what the hell it is in odd places. Acne-like things just shouldn't happen on one's shins. Anyway, I was scratching and looking around the surface. That lost weight means a nasty flab of skin, I poked it around and discovered several ugly wide stretch marks. I had a bad time. Yesterday, a drunk kitchen help-hand yelled at me for being condescending; it was my wishing her a nice evening that nailed it, I guess. Today, my deputy told the receptionists to tidy up and one snarked back that she's going to tidy up when she decides to and that my office is terribly messy and she doesn't tell me to tidy up either. BossDad arrived later on, told me that it's all basically my fault and when I sighted, he yelled at me that I'm lazy and spoiled and expect everyone to bow to my hypochondriac feelings. And then I discover stretch marks. I started crying.

Fix all the things!

For some reason, I was productive today. Cue sneezing from all that dust raised by my feeble attempt to get rid of the mountain of things on my table. After six or how many hours, the mail is in a bag, ready to be taken to the post office tomorrow, along with an overdue book for the library. Which is a thing, it took me several months to buy padded envelopes as several events needed to combine: going downtown, remembering that I need something, recalling what it was and being in a mood for shopping. I glued the loose stone in my necklace and loose magnet in my bracelet - it hasn't been mentioned yet but I finally got enough bracelets to keep me happy. The pile of ball bands is sorted out - and to those little perverts out there, a ball band is a stripe of paper with various relevant information, and it goes around a ball of yarn. I keep all ball bands and tags since almost forever, and every project has an actual file which includes the ball bands along with more or less information, depending on my momentary level of anal retentiveness. I've been knitting intensively since 2005-ish and the files would have their own shelf if I had one; now they sit on the floor in the attic. And, there were many individual files to deal with. I never throw anything away unless thoroughtly thought out (1) so all I needed to do was to sort out a pile of various pieces of paper into neat little piles and put them where they belonged. Speaking of filing, I don't have a method in yarn storage. The boxes are vaguely sorted by colour and one type of yarn may be grouped but no-one should rely on that. I would need a lot of shelves where I could fit boxes. Or something. Now I have an issue of leftovers because I've bought several yarns by bags in a consistent manner, not just what fleabay spat out, and there are actual leftovers. Not two metres kept aside for repairs, not a heap of somehting into which a little dent was made, but one and half skein of something from a bag of 10. Since these are positively leftovers, I'm hesitant to throw them into the wild biotope my stash is and I'm not a knitter of cup cozies and other dust catchers. And then I started ripping an old sweater which looks good in pictures but is a PITA to wear, because of the yarn. Mohair and some eyelash thing together. In the knitters' hell, they're sitting at a table and ripping an endless lace shawl in long-haired mohair, that itchy bastard which is hell to wear for some people but hell to unravel for everyone. I'm slowly making dents in my stash (2) but I need to do something about the sweaters I don't wear for some reason (some reason = made with some major fault, like using fuzzy mohair). Throwing away cashmere and silk blends is out of the question so throwing it away or donating to charity is out of question. You'd need to pry my yarn from my cold, dead hands. Not only yarn, anyway. It doesn't really look that way yet but things got more orderly quite a bit. Off to do more. ---------------------------------------- (1) Do not ask. Really. You don't want to know about all my little collections. Your life and attitude to me might be pretty shattered if you knew that I have kept all train tickets from my trips since I've been 19-ish and there are worse. Do. Not. Ask. (2) Before you start laughing at the joke: I've been knitting up more than I've been acquiring in the last year.

An upside

I'm not very fond of Giftmas but I had a few days off and I brought my cat. Tähti totally needs a buddy, she's not that old so that she would need to sleep 26 hours a day. Between the sheets.

The guests are offered a bed with an extra serving of cat hair. (Yes, the bed linen is horrid. I didn't pick it.)