One doesn't get many that important events in life

Which is what V. said when I apologised for ranting over and over again about my kidney.
"Sure," I replied. "I have a finite supply of kidneys and should I need to get rid of the other one, it would be an entirely different issue. Much more interesting."

There is actually something darkly funny about writing "get kidney removed" to the to-do list. In the last few months, everything seems to go wrong. Not abysmally wrong, just... I get some vague idea that matters are sort of settled, life can go on as usual, nothing exciting expected anytime soon. And, then things change enough to warrant some planning, rearranging and rethinking which needs time and energy, I plan, arrange and organise, dust settles, the first spark of a hint of a speck of idea that the dust might have settled and life is back to mundane, something changes again. Rinse, repeat... get kidney removed and finish rinsing and repeating when the pathology results are back.

My mother says that one should learn to find the positive side of everything and try to enjoy it as much as possible. She certainly did not mean gallows humour, I cannot even say that I still have one left or that in liver, it would be worse, it cannot be hacked off and they say that it is a pain in the arse to stitch it up.

Same shit, different place

I had a temp job at the main Erasmus office and whined to my boss and a long-time friend that I should do a German exam. And back in the day, at the high school, I spent four years of German classes with a psychotic teacher whose method was 50 % grammar drill and 50 % yelling that we're incompetent lazy stupid useless semiliterate chimpanzees who will never accomplish anything. I thus have a somewhat complicated attitude towards Goethe's and Schiller's language. Practically, I prefer to avoid it unless it has to be used and in that case, I prefer to find someone who would do the using for me, thank you very much.

(A few months ago, I was in Zürich and I found out that I'm not able to understand their variety of German at all. I decided that I can fight back and speak Italian because they should at least sort of know and it's them who will be ashamed. Which is better than me being ashamed.)

So, I did my bit of whining and said friend poured some more tea and said And why don't you go to Vienna? The Austrians are sorta cool, it's almost next door, let me see, your department doesn't have an agreement with the Vienna university, that's odd, one would think that they would, but you can go via some other department, try Theatre Studies or Archaeology, they've always had free spots in the last few years.

It has to be noted that at my department, they found out that I speak French. Not that it would be difficult, I list it in my CV, in very small letters because the only reason that I actually speak French is my lack of inhibitions, my level being somewhere between sort of passable and halfway Italian. The professors were enthused that there's finally someone who can go to École des Chartes. Not sure how happy they were when I told them that I'm going to Vienna instead but after all, it's useful because the Vienna University has courses in Latin papyrology and... anyway.
And the Theatre Studies guy was only too happy to sign my papers, basically saying that they get whined at for not sending any students over, good that there's someone at last.

The paperwork is a major pain in the arse.
I got a paper with a big round stamp that says that I'm an Officially Recognised Cripple, or a special needs student. It's entered in the information system that people are officially required to be nice at me or I may run away and hide in the shrubbery behind the building, just in more formal words. It has a great placebo effect - when things are getting on my nerves too much, I tell myself that I have that magic paper so what. I thus take the liberty to politely annoy people until I understand the effing forms and how to fill them in. It's good.

So, I did the Prague bit of my paperwork and now it's time for the Vienna bit. Oh, the good old days in Italy where nobody cared whether I actually registered somewhere and when I did, for a proof of income, a debit card was just fine. (No, I'm not going to try and find out what mind was behind this idea.) But the thorough and industrious red tape at least gives clear instructions - or has given them so far. I really liked the Vienna University application process - I got an email saying Follow this link and fill in your name. Do not enter any other data until further notice. A few days later, I got an email saying Follow this link and fill in your domicile. Do not enter any other data until further notice. You get the gist.
Thorough and industrious red tape at the Vienna University has a problem, though - I can't register for courses outside the department to which I came to study, which is Theatre Studies as per all the papers, unless I have an explicit approval of the relevant department.

I wanted to take some art history courses because I wanted to take some biology courses and as per the Erasmus rules, 51 % of my credits need to be from my home faculty. Not department, the whole Arts, I asked twice.
Actually, I was copying learning agreements of students coming to Prague and I happened to come across some such that read something like Medical Faculty, courses: virology, infectious diseases, other medical stuff I, other medical stuff II., Medieval French Literature. I remarked that easy credits are acquired from sports, no?, and the more experienced office workers explained the above mentioned requirement. And then I asked twice.
So, well, there were not many useful courses for me and for not that many credits compared to boatloads of damn interesting stuff at Natural Sciences. And most of the courses in botany are in English, even, which would make the whole studying affair a bit less frustrating, wouldn't it. So, art history courses would provide a few extra credits so that I don't get into some red tape mess.
To sum it up, I need an approval from three other persons. Sigh.

And I need to register with some other effing office. Which wants me to prove that I have funds/income/an affidavit from parents that they would cough it up for me equating to something like 1200 euros per month. No way in hell. At least I can go there up to three months after arrival so I can throw all money that I have, plus something from my family on a pile, show them the bank statement, not tell them to shove it up their arses, get my stamp and go home and return the money to where it belongs. (My financial institution called Cash in Cat Food Can works just fine, thank you very much. Feringa has pretty cans and the food rocks, if you add a bit of estragon and pull out those bits that look like arteries, you can serve it as a true unadulterated French delicacy. Just saying.)

I guess I should go and do a bit of accounting. But, there'll be more insane rants, promise. Sooner than in half a year.

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.

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.

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.

There's something wrong with the world

I'm having rather a bad time. It's the upcoming winter, busy season at work or just general meanness of the Universe but everything I do just goes wrong.

The other day, I fell out of a tram and splatted in the middle of the road. I wasn't even drunk.

I'm late with work, which is normal because I'm not the best person for the job, if I put it mildly. Actually it seems that I'm even more behind than usual. I'm certain there's a disaster in the making, if things seem to go moreless smoothly, there's always something to happen. I guess it's not necessary to list every little failure, nobody cares about sending the wrong papers to the wrong person and stuff like that.

I can't bring myself to be interested. Not that I was ever particularly enthused about working in a hotel but I had my little pleasures - organising stuff and the like and now I don't care. It needs to be done, it gets done. Slower than usual and probably worse than the usual bad.

Well, I'm just a pathetic loser. Unable to make my mind whether I want to join the party at work or not, or to find what I actually want from life apart from ten hours of sleep.

Life is out there

I had a four-day course which meant a business trip. To an actual city with paved sidewalks, trams, actual shops with things - hey, I bought a bottle of anti-dandruff shampoo on a whim, just because my head started to itch when I was passing by one of the many pharmacies. On Sunday I felt bad from the very morning. I finished my course, passed the test (killed only three people out of 40 or so) and then had a meltdown in public, in front of a bunch of strangers. I sat on the staircase, crouched and crying for no apparent reason... yesterday, I had a meltdown because I was going back to work, to that bunch of assholes less competent individuals to a place in the middle of nowhere. I pulled myself together somehow but I became painfully aware that the job from hell is just what it is. No way I can be a manager. I can't be managing people if I'm so scared or inhibited to yell at them or to tell them what to do, preferring to cover up for their mistakes and do what they should be doing because it brings less discomfort than actually telling someone that they messed up. On the other hand, carrying beer kegs is good for upper body strength.

Gods laugh when one makes plans

I hoped this would be a neat semibusy week at work. Three events in a row, a few random guests, nothing much to fuck up.

The Universe thought differently.

It actually started on Friday. Dad didn't really want to throw a birthday party but various relatives urged him so long that he caved. Mom decided to invite the smarter and nicer folks a day earlier for a bit of friendly chitchat, which did happen indeed. I was in a shitty mood because I'm simply not a party person, the evening dragged on, I was tired so I went to bed, stared at the internet...
When I decided that it's time for Ambien and some sleep, the receptionist called that the other receptionist is sick or something, that the ambulance are loading her in the car. Alright, I said, I'll be there in a second. The other phone rung, mom started screaming that the idjit called ambulance saying she got mushroom poisoning and where are the mushrooms from etc. I know my shit so I said Frozen Mushroom mix, delivered by Whatever Ltd., one kilo packages, yellow bag with pics of mushrooms, acquired around a week ago, kept in the freezer, thankyouverymuch, I'll be there in a sec.
Before I found my jeans and further brain functions, problem was solved, the ambulance drove away and mom said that when the docs heard that it wasn't some stuff picked at the back door but storebought produce, they wanted to drop the gal off; mom however told them to take her away. The idiot sneaked outside through the lobby full of people, didn't say a word and if it weren't for a waitress walking her dog, I'd ask about her when she wouldn't have shown up for work. Because, you know, telling someone is a tough job.
There are two sorts of mushroom poisoning. In the first case, one gets violently sick and throws up everything and more, been there, done that, morale of the story: don't trust a mushrooming botanist.
The other sort of poisoning makes you yellow and you'll need a new liver.
Nothing in between, as the three M. D.s, one nurse and one pharmacist who were sitting in the lobby, having a good time, explained.

On Monday, the maintenance alerted me that the room the receptionist was using was locked from inside. As she supposed to be in hospital, it was suspected that her boyfriend sneaked in. She had already brought him to the house, he got kicked out, she whined that it's not fair, they want to be together etc, I said No damn way... and there we went again. I banged the door a few times with no response, decided to let the intruder have ten diplomatic minutes for getting out of there in a discreet manner, lather, rinse, repeat... and then I called the cops. I also phoned the receptionist, asked her, Do you have your keys with you, to which she replied a resolute Yes! and when I remarked that incidentally, someone is locked in her room from the inside, she started muttering that she'll fix it or some such.
The officers did their door banging and the guy finally deigned to open the door. I asked him to go away now, to which he replied that oh why, he just dropped by to pick his girlfriends' things and it's so mean to call the cops and what's wrong with staying there overnight. The police told him to grab his things and get lost and told me that they had seen much better acting jobs.
Later on, the receptionist came to pick her stuff, with boyfriend in tow, and they wanted to 'discuss a few things'. It took around half an hour, during which I was accused of being Meany Meanersson because there's no damage or loss incured when the guy stays here, and, well, the insurance wouldn't cover any damages or injuries he might have caused or suffered but nothing happened so it's all okay, there's nothing wrong in borrowing workplace keys to one's buddies when it's meant well, and, most important of all, they both want work and lodging or they'll go elsewhere, and why not lodge them when there's a plenty of rooms and that I betrayed their trust by calling the cops on the poor Mr. Entitled.
My serfs obviously had Christmas in October, heard me yelling twice in one day and that's good, they think I'm soft and malleable and it's good to have them a bit scared that the next dose of shrapnel may hit them.
Then, I wanted to go and grab a drink but I wasn't in the mood.

Next time: The pig story.
PSI: While I kept the 'bunch of idiots' tag for a certain set of classmates from long time ago, I'm reviving it because it's a damn useful descriptor.

Breakfast of champions

Yesterday I did some cleaning. Or, to be exact, minor cleaning whose main part was to pick wine bottles and food gone bad to take it to the trash. I can't say I actually suffer from anorexia as I don't suffer. I just don't feel like eating most of the time and mommy keeps sending me food. It's a season of strawberries, green peas and such stuff which doesn't last as long as pretzels do; I do my best to eat it all up but it just doesn't work. I have barely any appetite. In my old life, I'd - oh shit, I called this awful episode of depression and work which I still fail to like 'new life'? - I'd be glad that I'm losing weight. These days, I don't really care unless the clothes get uncomfortable. I can't even bring myself to be happy that one day, I'll feel fine in general and about my weight loss. Also, no need to worry about my wine consumption, I usually have a glass in the afternoon, and half a bottle once upon a time. I just don't take the bottles away often enough. Well, my apartment is cold and wet. I went through my newest herbary acquisitions and most of them, basically all the thicker plants, dried too slowly, with chlorophyll decomposing, and turned brown. Even the green ones weren't properly dried and got more or less crinkled when exposed to air slightly less wet than the newspaper. I'm slightly pissed which is good, any emotion than sheer despair and let-me-die-now is good, and I've always prided myself for the aesthetic values of my herbary. The office is much warmer and drier, I'll press my plants here. See? The stereotype management works. Yesterday I had a shower, even washed my hair, ate four tortillas with something, herbarized for a while... well, not really, I'm still short on clean clothes, reasonable food intake and keeping sane. Today's a new day. For breakfast, I had half a glass of wine and a dose of psych meds. So it goes.

Balkanized

After less than comfortable night, I got up early, packed my stuff as neatly as possible and hung around, feeling grumpy for no reason (some theorists say that one can always find a reason to feel grumpy but I'm of a pessimist disposition so I do not need to go reason hunting, for me, life sucks all the time unless specified otherwise). Then I learned that several people were robbed. I sometimes feel like the last just and reasonable person and having had a few unlucky experiences in my life, I insisted that the afflicted individuals go to the police. Nobody listened. El Mínimo Líder decided that we're a botanical expedition, we go plant-hunting, we have no time to lose with minutiae, generously ignoring popular whine. At the end, he decided that we'll talk to the campsite manager, let's wait when she comes to work. I mildly protested, saying that even if the campsite wanted to deal with it for one reason or another, which is unlikely, they need to have a police protocol for reasons of insurance or whatever else and that it would be advisable, regarding the time constriction, to go to the police straight away. We hung around for a while, the manager came, said Go to the gendarmerie and that was it. I offered myself to go along, having dealt with a few less than user-friendly institutions (I briefly remembered how I yelled at an officer who told me that I had been my stupidity to get robbed that while stupidity is what it is, it's not a criminal offence and none of his business, while theft is, so could he please proceed and do his job NOW, thankyouverymuch). I had also rediscovered my ability to speak French, not good French but workable one. At the gendarmerie, we got some photocopied forms to be filled in, or, to be exact, “you can fill this in outside or elsewhere, you don't need to be here, full stop”, with a photocopied stamp. Nobody at the station spoke decent English or any other language than French so it was somewhat difficult. After three rounds of explaining that for purposes of insurance and stuff, we need an original stamp, we were repeatedly told that On le fait comme-ça en France. I and Minister went to ask to the Police Nationale whether this is indeed how things are done in France. Minister called his friends in politics and diplomacy, El Mínimo Líder called the embassy with the same question and indeed, things were confirmed to be done this way in France. Meantime, we filled in our papers and went back to the Gendarmerie to see what happens. The gal, erm, officer, signed them and that was it. I'll ask the afflicted persons how it went with their insurance companies and authorities, as some IDs were stolen, too. It seems that there's a lot of petty crime going on and that nobody cares. I'd imagine that this is how things work in, say, Romania. I never dealt with Romanian police and I fully intend not to but one hears stories. One also hears stories that France is actually civilized. Oh well.

Little white magicians

It was Nanny Ogg or one of the Ephebean philosophers who said that a jar of marmalade now is no biggie while a promise of a jar of marmalade somewhere beyond the horizon keeps people going on and on and on.

In my case, it's the botanical expedition in May. Long time to go yet and meantime I need to watch the goddamn cold white stuff falling and to deal with people.

My shrink kept prescribing anxiolytics, just in case, and sleeping pills, just in case. I guess that my internal system is set to a day which lasts 24 hours and five minutes because after some time, I have problem falling asleep and a bit of zolpidem not only knocks me off but causes silly dreams (which I probably don't dare to publish. On the other hand, half of my traffic goes from a discussion server where they've already been mentioned. Maybe one day).

The job is stressful, the bunch of idiots filthy underlings employees try how far my nerves will stretch, or maybe they're just dumber than a box of rock, who knows, who cares.

I bought another plant book, I knit and I keep nomming chemicals. I suspect that it's rather the placebo effect than anything else as I hear that good old benzodiazepins work the best but they're somewhat addictive. Well, I think that an addiction is just a mild discomfort compared to the feeling that blood and brain matter is gushing out of my ears after having to listen to some idiotic whine over and over.

Whine and thou shalt receive

It's around -14 (Celsius, for the information of my occassional stray American reader).

I was discontent with the mild winter and now there we are, it's damn cold as it should be in January.

My SAD is still acting up. There's still no snow to make the evenings at least semipleasant for walking home, it's unreasonably cold (I had to wrap my scarf around my head this morning lest my ears would fall off) and I'm stuck. Depression is physically debilitating to me first of all, I'm of bright mind, maybe grumpier than usual but that's beyond recognition to those who don't have finely tuned grump-o-meters or are just normal and don't bother to recognize. But, hell, I feel like lying like a piece of rag.

Which is the most likely reason why I gained weight. I'm at nice round 103 kilos and I'm totally pissed. I feel like curling up and waiting until spring. I feel like pulling some piece of clothing in size 40 and not eating until it fits excellently. I'm afraid that I'm going to do the latter no matter how rationally I can assess it as a rather idiotic thought because the human tendency to do things and think about the consequences when they arise, and if they arise at all, is present even in yours truly.

The gloomy mood caused by some family and work problems doesn't help either.

I wish very badly not to feel that bad but I just do. Le sigh.

WTF?

Mom leaves for work earlier than I do, at least in general.
I hardly ever go to the kitchen and general surrounding area, I even make packed lunches and forgot to pick one today.
It is generally known.

So, I came to work, BossMom was already sitting there doing whatevwer she's doing and asked whether I closed the terrace door. Nope, I said, I didn't go there at all so I didn't notice.
Boo hoo, you should have known, the cat wanted to go outside so I opened the door and you should have noticed, whinety whine you're so stupid, that the door is open. You mean that I should have left you a note in written? when it's so obvious that you should have read my thoughts that this time I didn't close the terrace door.
Yes, you should have left a note, I said. BossMom growled Don't talk to me and now she's sulking.
Not that I particularly regretted not talking to her, I can at least download my movies and do my fleabay shopping in peace (not really).

The real issue is sorta different, the cat does go outside but sorta supervised. She can't crawl under the fence because it's pretty low - unless she finds her way under the garage gate. She can't climb although the fence is so rotten that with a bit of trying, she could walk through at some places. She's microchipped and nobody in the general neighbourhood has a Meezer I'd know of. I just hope I come home and find the little barstud sleeping on the sofa.

First world problems

My feet are size 42. For most of my grown up life I wore 41 and it wasn't exactly comfy. I still sometimes get something in size 41 (Yes, I'm talking about those Beverly Feldman shoes from fleabay, but BF fits okay and one pair were thongs.) The Marc Jacobs ballet flats were cheap and 41. I decided they would work. They worked although it cost quite some effort to stretch them - and they are rather narrow than short as such.

When summer came, I started wearing thongs and sandals. Now I'm in Prague, I need to go to some discussion panel at the Ministry of Education so I took decent shoes with me. Said Marc Jacobs. On the first day, I decided that less than comfy is not a problem, I won't do any major walking etc. Today afternoon, I was highly inclined to go buy shoes NAO but it's rainy and I'm wintery-depressed and I had a problem with dragging my tired body to the metro station to go home.
During the Pilates class, my feet grew a few more blisters so I plastered and band-aided them and stumbled home, thinking that there's a shopping hell on the way so I'll act spoiled and go shoe-shopping at 9 pm. Shopping hell was open but the boutiques were closed. I fail to see a point of open mall with closed shops but I'm not your typical consumer.


The report on getting size 42 shoes in a country when normal range ends at 41 and the existence of abnormal is denied will follow.

I'd better be working.

Instead, I'm listening to some quarter tone jazz, shopping for fabrics and generally http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifprocrastinating.

And trying not to poke the roadrash on my elbow.

I'm taking the wager seriously, or at least halfway seriously, regarding my ever-enormous consumption of chocolate. Around a month ago, I scratched my toes against the curb and there're still some pretty thick scabs. Yesterday I cycled for a while. I wanted to ride across a small wooden bridge to see what's on the other river bank and in the middle, my brain caught up, screamed Eeeeeep, I iz scared of falling into the big scary river and I leaned against the railing. Railing made of un-de-barked wood. The problem of jeans with huge pink spot (it was wool dye, it shouldn't dye cotton, damn) and the question of spot removal was solved by tearing said jeans, I proudly showed my battle wounds at home, which mom commented that I should be getting band-aid in bulk.

I couldn't find the something-cain ointment in the morning and now I'm hurting.

But, I've lost some two kilos since the last time I checked. So what.

Dispatch from the waiting room

After pondering a bit, I decided that although my fatigue might be aggravated depression, it is very unlikely that it would also cause swollen eyes or fever. So, at last, I went to my doc friend, who got a bucket of blood drawn to test for any random bug that may cause not very specific symptoms.

The tests got back and I was sorta positive for a few bugs. Today, I finally read through part of the mail backlog and found an invitation to experiment on humans - a bunch of researchers at the university is testing students for toxoplasmosis and doing various psychologic tests to find out how toxo correlates with cognitive function. And, I possibly have toxo. If it gets confirmed, I'm going to be put on antiprotozoans (or whatever the anti-toxo meds are) because my doc decided just to bomb the bugs and see what happens because tests or not, I'm miserable enough. I mailed the researcher back with this, maybe I'll enter the literature as a nice case study of cognitive whatever while being treated.

Meantime, I feel crappy.

Random observations

I have cold. That nasty cold that blocked my nose for the night and I couldn't really sleep. Weren't it for my mom who called at 1008 to ask how I am, I'd be probably dozing off until now.

I made it to the 1030 doc appointment, though. I can act fast when it's needed and if it's not for too long.

Doc said that her qualification ends at 20mg of citalopram and that if I need more, I need to see a psychiatrist. I shrugged, thinking something unhappy, while she started naming local shrinks. Since I'm having depressions and related fun since I was around 16, and since this is a small town, good part of them were on the blacklist, such as Dr. Whatever, who didn't have any better idea than telling my mother, without my approval or knowledge, although I was legally sane and of age. Or Dr. So-and-so who is just a generalized jerk. Dr. Whatshisname who gave me antipsychotics for sick stomach, I wonder whether this dearie goes fishing with dynamite.
The problem is that I'm smart. I might be a blonde with painted nails but that doesn't mean I'm a brainless Barbie, puh-leeze. To illustrate what happens: it was a psychologist but the story is too cute. She showed me the Rorschach test images and asked me to tell her what do they remind me of. Vertebra, another vertebra, lumbar vertebra, alien vertebra, vertebra with some soft tissues attached... erm, are you okay, doc? Doc muttered something about morbid thoughts and how bad it is. If she had asked Why vertebrae?, I'd answer Yanno, I'm learning to draw. Anatomical drawings. After anatomy atlas, volume I, bones.
And nope, I have no clue what's so morbid about vertebrae. Also, I have no clue why the psychoworkers don't even suspect that the clients might be thinking creatures.
I spread the word, I still hold hope that there are thinking shrinks somewhere out there in the world.

To add insult to injury, herpes started to grow on my lip.

A bit of shameless bragging: I made a good geometric sketch for a sweater knit entirely on bias. Now I need to try whether it works in real.

Life sucks, why?

Disasters

Last Thursday, I ran out of coffee. Since I'm short of cash and it rained, I drank tea. Also, the idea of a sixpack of Davidoff at parents' prevented me from actually buying some. It was tough.

I got cold. It felt nasty yesterday, today it feels nasty, it hurts and I cough. Mix that asthmatic type cough, bronchospasm and that productive cough that expels goo from your lungs.

In attempt to relieve my sore throat, sore Eustachian tube and sore trachea, I decided that booze may work. It relaxes muscles, it's a vasoconstrictor so there should be less mucus to annoy. Another disaster struck, I ran out of Cordial Médoc.

Sigh.

The Perfumista challenge

On Tuesday, I think, the samples from Pat of Olfactarama arrived.
Also, I got my new laptop. Not that I needed one, we were just getting some new stuff and I was offered an upgrade. It took some time because I'm just a stupid blonde and the times when I knew all the technical details about all computers on the market are long gone. It must be noted that it was around 1992, when 'all computers on the market' meant four.
So, I stated that I need something that can be dragged around without too much care, something that will support my photoshop related needs and that it better be pretty. Upon hearing 'pretty', the boss made a disgusted face and sent me off with the IT guy to find something. The IT guy is a bit of a lazyass so he showed me a website of the local computer retailer and told me to pick somehting. I was rather lost so I decided to play the prank of pretty to the full and printed out something on the pink Asus, saying that I don't get the geeky stuff but, well, I would maybe like this one. The boss and I had a good laugh and off I went to do whatever I was to do. Meantime, the IT guy got his dose of being yelled at that he was to help me pick a laptop and he even didn't notice that I wanted a pink one. Alas, the IT type, who failed to grasp my sense of humour since the 15-ish years we know each other, took it seriously and now I'm known as the one who wanted a pink laptop.
Erm, well, I got an ordinary black one and then the troubles started. Not because the new lappy is black, so was the previous one, but...
Well, I've been around computers since 1992. A plain user but not an idiot. And, as a plain user and occasional graphic designer since pliocene, I hold Views. Like, that things should be simple and convenient. I saw the Windows Vista once and they nearly made me vomit because they were so full of pretty and cute and shiny. So imagine my terror when I saw my new computer with things installed and it looked like Vistas, including the floating and pulsing elements. I thought I had died and gone to hell but instead of screaming first, I simply asked what the fuck and if someone could take the thing away from my computer or else I don't touch it with a long stick. The IT type started explaining that I'm a Luddite and that everything evolves, win 7 are so exquisitely and unimaginably more user friendly than anything before, blah, blah, but I insisted that I don't care that it only looks like Vistas but inside, it's much better, that whatever it may be, I don't want to look at it and now excuse me while I bleach my eyes. I suspect that I surpassed the public notion of computer idiocy I had created with the pink laptop but apparently, IT type recognized that matters may be serious and changed the layout to something he claimed to be almost the same as XP and said that I was crazy.
Now, user friendly. I think DOS is user-friendly enough, just for the record. I want to go up from my folder, not back in search history, if I'm to have the win thingies. Also, I don't need my crap localized. Which doesn't mean Oh noez, you don't need to bother to find the local language settings for me, I'll manage with tears and suffering in English. It means Gimme my stuff in civilized language with civilized industrial standards that make sense, not that heap of shit translated by a demented chimpanzee.
I spent two days headdesking in utter frustration, not being able to find anything - obviously, the first thing I did was uninstalling firefox and then using Explorer for the only thing it's good for, downloading any other browser, in my case firefox in English (1) and then I was at least marginally able to function.
Still, I feel an urge to make a quilted cushion that says HEADDESK and place it next to my computer so that I save my forehead the worst.
Now, three days later, I'm still very unhappy. The wide screen is totally useless for weirdos like me who couldn't care less for 3D games, I'd prefer a high screen so that I can have something in photoshop... well, taller and bigger. I'll try to catch my architect friend who is more computer-savvy than our IT guy to check if he can make the win 7 look like xp. The thing is, I have very visual memory. In general, I don't have much clue how my folders and files are named. I only know where they are - visually. Mess up the looks of the filing systems and I'll be moreless helpless. So, if re-doing it visually doesn't help, I'm downgrading. Call me a fossil - I am one, after all. And I don't care.

Sure, I wanted to write about Pat's perfume creations but I got carried away. Sorry, next time.


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(1) I hear there are better browsers but firefox has better logo.

Best of 2010

My allergy worsened.
Welcome, corticoids. (1)


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(1) In other, clearer, words: Damn fucking shit.