I feel somewhat off place quite often. I haven't got used to it yet.
I play my card of I am another studip Erasmus student when around the university, mostly for myself because people don't generally want to interact with me.
And then there are the cultural differences.
I am clumsy so since... well, forever, my cellphones were of the sort that can fall from the 3rd floor and nothing happens. And I am not an iThing person, for various reasons, one being that them poseurs can stick their apple stuff up their posteriors - and this is quite a general opinion on my home turf. Also, why should I pay twice as much for something that will break in three days maximum, because it will take three days maximum until I drop my phone on the stone floor.
Which is beside the point. I have an android thingy which looks like carved out of an old tyre, I dropped it the moment I unpacked it, it jumped a few times and looked as happy as any other time, and it has a microUSB port. Which means that to charge it, I need a USB - microUSB cable. Of which I have plenty, there are several circulating around our household and obviously, I took one with me to Vienna.
One.
It survived a month.
I set out to find some place with USB cables. I live 100 metres away from Mariahilfer Strasse (*) and some months ago, I went to H&M and noticed that they have phone cables and dug through them to find a nice colourful cable for mom's iPhone that needs super special weirdo cable so I supposed I'd just go there, grab that damn cable and go home.
Did I say that I don't exactly thrive in new environments, and in places with too many people? Which is why I am not too adventurous and why asking someone is the last resort?
I ventured to Vienna's main shopping street... I got a scented candle in H&M - it had a sticker with a warning that it contains some-or-another aromachemical which may cause allergic reaction and shouldn't be eaten or whatnot, which is why I immediately liked it - but they only had iPhone cables. They had only iPhone cables even at the mobile operators' shops. At the end, I found one of those stationeries that has stationery and all sorts of other crap. The shop clerk warned me that this is not for iPhones and asked three times whether I am sure that I don't need an iPhone cable.
WTF.
Not that I wouldn't be able to survive without my phone for a week but I only have my public transport ticket in the app.
----------------
(*) I hereby state my intention to ignore the ß. The German orthography changed since my school days so I don't know where should it go and although this ligature developed from the sz digraph, today it stands for ss and it's developed from the ss digraph as well so I can happily apply some folk etymology and consider the ß a long s and s rotunda digraph... so... anyway...you get what I mean. [Insert slightly desperate handwaving.]
Showing posts with label rants. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rants. Show all posts
Monday, 1 October 2018
Friday, 31 March 2017
Growing a new brain
In November or so, I saw a friend and whined about how I could use some good therapy but therapists are few and far between, I'd need one who takes insurance or at least is affordable and doesn't do some quackery on the side because I wouldn't trust such a person... She said Oh, my friend is a psychologist, she works in the oncology ward but she can take outside patients, I'll mail her if she has a slot for you.
The therapist did have a slot, asked for a note from my shrink so that she could bill my sessions to the insurance and the limit for her is four hours per patient per day. Per day!!! Apparently, there're some different rules for the in-house therapists in the hospitals but I'm not going to look up the whys. It's good enough that I'm getting two or three hour sessions, during the usual one hour, one doesn't get deep enough into the problem du jour.
Something is working.
To start with, I developed emotions. Not that I hadn't had any at all but there was my cold, calculating brain, irony, sarcasm, lack of self-esteem, self-deprecation and occasional destruction of glassware. Then, others started happening. And my, I can't handle them. I've had more than two decades experience of keeping a straight face, pretending to be amicable and smiling at people when dying inside but now there's a shitstorm of something I haven't known. I started sorta liking people - I guess that I'll remain an introvert but not being scared of everyone is quite comfortable.
I decided to move away from parents, panicked at people for a few days and then I calmed down and started looking for a job and thinking about what to move first and I'm actually happy about it even though there will be a major conflict. I'm sure I'll manage it without actually throwing any glassware - note that I have never thrown any glasses at people, usually into the wall and then the Ikea glass was stronger than my office door and made a nice octagonal impression (*). I always turned my aggression towards ugly tableware or myself - and put this way, I did feel about as worthy as ugly tableware.
Speaking of ugly tableware, the other day, I looked at myself in the mirror, thought that I actually had quite a nice face and enjoyed the feeling instead of snarking back at myself. I'm growing self-esteem!
It feels weird and messy and scary. Especially when the damn brain gets high on dopamine or some such and I am unable to handle the storm. My mental templates do not work any more, the depressive patterns of thought are sorely lacking and I just don't have coping mechanisms. I tend to pile all that crap onto those few friends sensitive enough to listen and I feel so sorry for them... at a point, everyone will get a big box of chocolate, right? ------------------------------ (*) which was noticed by my mother who asked. I told her that I threw a glass but somehow, she didn't wonder why so I didn't get told off for being frustrated
The therapist did have a slot, asked for a note from my shrink so that she could bill my sessions to the insurance and the limit for her is four hours per patient per day. Per day!!! Apparently, there're some different rules for the in-house therapists in the hospitals but I'm not going to look up the whys. It's good enough that I'm getting two or three hour sessions, during the usual one hour, one doesn't get deep enough into the problem du jour.
Something is working.
To start with, I developed emotions. Not that I hadn't had any at all but there was my cold, calculating brain, irony, sarcasm, lack of self-esteem, self-deprecation and occasional destruction of glassware. Then, others started happening. And my, I can't handle them. I've had more than two decades experience of keeping a straight face, pretending to be amicable and smiling at people when dying inside but now there's a shitstorm of something I haven't known. I started sorta liking people - I guess that I'll remain an introvert but not being scared of everyone is quite comfortable.
I decided to move away from parents, panicked at people for a few days and then I calmed down and started looking for a job and thinking about what to move first and I'm actually happy about it even though there will be a major conflict. I'm sure I'll manage it without actually throwing any glassware - note that I have never thrown any glasses at people, usually into the wall and then the Ikea glass was stronger than my office door and made a nice octagonal impression (*). I always turned my aggression towards ugly tableware or myself - and put this way, I did feel about as worthy as ugly tableware.
Speaking of ugly tableware, the other day, I looked at myself in the mirror, thought that I actually had quite a nice face and enjoyed the feeling instead of snarking back at myself. I'm growing self-esteem!
It feels weird and messy and scary. Especially when the damn brain gets high on dopamine or some such and I am unable to handle the storm. My mental templates do not work any more, the depressive patterns of thought are sorely lacking and I just don't have coping mechanisms. I tend to pile all that crap onto those few friends sensitive enough to listen and I feel so sorry for them... at a point, everyone will get a big box of chocolate, right? ------------------------------ (*) which was noticed by my mother who asked. I told her that I threw a glass but somehow, she didn't wonder why so I didn't get told off for being frustrated
Thursday, 30 March 2017
And then, enough
My dear mother has been somewhat irritable. It shows, among others, that she gets easily offended by nothing. Today, we had the usual random editors' debate when doing some proofreading and corrections. The text said something about the Renaissance starting in the 13th century, I said It's crap because even Petrarca is not counted as early Renaissance, early Italian Humanism, yes, but that's not Renaissance, mom claimed that it must be right because the author is an expert, I replied Yeah, sure, whatever but still, it's a piece of crap, as emphatically as it gets in the 5827th debate only this year. Mother took offense and yelled at me how do I dare to use that tone! I'm being rude! and that I must be mentally ill to behave this way.
I shrugged it off. The last time, I had to be on drugs to use that tone! which was the last straw when I decided that I've been offended one times too many and decided to quit my job in the dear family business and move away.
Which was some three weeks ago. I got scared because parental units had me manipulated into not moving away or moving back to their house a few times already. I wasn't still very sure how depression-free I was. I talked to the few remaining friends and acquaintances (yes, I brought my father's hotel into black numbers and all I got was minimum wage, snarks, a burnout and my social life got almost entirely destroyed, what a bargain) about it and that I'll need all the mental support I can get. Everyone was pretty positive and when they said that I should have done it years ago, they said it nicely enough.
I started looking for a job and oddly enough, there are jobs where I could use my education and experience and I would get paid more than a cleaner, even! The original plan was to start in around September because I promised some business stuff to mother but then I discovered some ultra-cool openings. I already sent a pile of papers to one place and I'm working on another; it's not that secretary in a back office in some cushy government institution but nice managerial jobs at universities. And then I made another decision: bite it. If I get my nice university job, one of which would include one's own secretary and an office with a view, I'm just packing my purse and leaving. I should have done it years ago indeed.
I shrugged it off. The last time, I had to be on drugs to use that tone! which was the last straw when I decided that I've been offended one times too many and decided to quit my job in the dear family business and move away.
Which was some three weeks ago. I got scared because parental units had me manipulated into not moving away or moving back to their house a few times already. I wasn't still very sure how depression-free I was. I talked to the few remaining friends and acquaintances (yes, I brought my father's hotel into black numbers and all I got was minimum wage, snarks, a burnout and my social life got almost entirely destroyed, what a bargain) about it and that I'll need all the mental support I can get. Everyone was pretty positive and when they said that I should have done it years ago, they said it nicely enough.
I started looking for a job and oddly enough, there are jobs where I could use my education and experience and I would get paid more than a cleaner, even! The original plan was to start in around September because I promised some business stuff to mother but then I discovered some ultra-cool openings. I already sent a pile of papers to one place and I'm working on another; it's not that secretary in a back office in some cushy government institution but nice managerial jobs at universities. And then I made another decision: bite it. If I get my nice university job, one of which would include one's own secretary and an office with a view, I'm just packing my purse and leaving. I should have done it years ago indeed.
Tuesday, 14 March 2017
Sentimental
I studied somewhat erratically. Ended up with three stints at various universities and only one degree but that's besides the point.
In, erm, 2003, I enrolled for art history at the Bratislava university. For the heck of it. I spent only a year there because while the lectures were cool, the exam system was just awful and I decided that the pain in the arse of memorizing hundreds and hundreds of works of art, dates of creations and their authors and then guessing from bad black and white reproductions at the actual exams is not worth it and went elsewhere.
I liked Bratislava, it's not too big for me (I'm a small city girl, not big city girl) and it's just pretty. Interestingly, it was the only time and place where I had something like student life. Hanging out with people and doing that social life stuff, I mean. I lived at the dorms of the traditional sort which included mice, cockroaches and mean receptionists/chaperones/wtf, frequented a selection of cafés, ate at exhibition openings... it was good.
I had been planning to see the Dream x Reality exhibition and as it goes, I kept postponing it until it was almost too late. Meantime, the catalogue sold out, which pissed me because I have a thing for propaganda and the WWII bit of Slovak history is quite interesting for various reasons.
The Central Station is as ugly as it was in 2004 when I was there the last time. The passage to the trams stinks. The city got new trams, though. I wandered through the centre and, well, it was different. All the places where we used to go somehow disappeared. The Architects' gallery moved somewhere, elsewhere... oh, those were the parties! I happened there once and as I used to wear what was then called architects' uniform aka black from head to toe, they thought I was there with those guys who were exhibiting their works, I befriended some people so they would invite me to the following events, one of the architects had a winery so he would bring his own produce.... Then those moments of recollection - oh, we were in the old city hall with the Medieval seminar to see some bits of architecture, how could I have forgotten. And in the, was it Franciscan? church... The usual conclusion: I need to get back to my books.
It was sort of sad. Bratislava has become much more cosmopolitan in the bad way.
I love carnations. For whatever reason, they are totally out of fashion. For whatever reason, I keep telling people that I love carnations and hardly anyone pays attention enough to notice it - yes, I know, people live in their respective universes that revolve around their heads but that's why God gave us notebooks, to note shit down for later use - so when I get flowers, I get either roses which generally suck and wilt within two days or some ugly crap. Or orchids. For some reason, I find cut orchids somewhat pathetic and sad. However, we live in the century of Fruit Bat so ladies are allowed to procure their flowers themselves. And in Bratislava, there used to be a florist's which had carnations in an assortment of colours and they always had green ones. I would buy 10 or 15 of them when I was going home for a longer period of time. Haven't had green carnations for years, I discovered some once in a florist shop in Prague years ago but that was it. I didn't hold hopes but it was there!
In, erm, 2003, I enrolled for art history at the Bratislava university. For the heck of it. I spent only a year there because while the lectures were cool, the exam system was just awful and I decided that the pain in the arse of memorizing hundreds and hundreds of works of art, dates of creations and their authors and then guessing from bad black and white reproductions at the actual exams is not worth it and went elsewhere.
I liked Bratislava, it's not too big for me (I'm a small city girl, not big city girl) and it's just pretty. Interestingly, it was the only time and place where I had something like student life. Hanging out with people and doing that social life stuff, I mean. I lived at the dorms of the traditional sort which included mice, cockroaches and mean receptionists/chaperones/wtf, frequented a selection of cafés, ate at exhibition openings... it was good.
I had been planning to see the Dream x Reality exhibition and as it goes, I kept postponing it until it was almost too late. Meantime, the catalogue sold out, which pissed me because I have a thing for propaganda and the WWII bit of Slovak history is quite interesting for various reasons.
The Central Station is as ugly as it was in 2004 when I was there the last time. The passage to the trams stinks. The city got new trams, though. I wandered through the centre and, well, it was different. All the places where we used to go somehow disappeared. The Architects' gallery moved somewhere, elsewhere... oh, those were the parties! I happened there once and as I used to wear what was then called architects' uniform aka black from head to toe, they thought I was there with those guys who were exhibiting their works, I befriended some people so they would invite me to the following events, one of the architects had a winery so he would bring his own produce.... Then those moments of recollection - oh, we were in the old city hall with the Medieval seminar to see some bits of architecture, how could I have forgotten. And in the, was it Franciscan? church... The usual conclusion: I need to get back to my books.
It was sort of sad. Bratislava has become much more cosmopolitan in the bad way.
I love carnations. For whatever reason, they are totally out of fashion. For whatever reason, I keep telling people that I love carnations and hardly anyone pays attention enough to notice it - yes, I know, people live in their respective universes that revolve around their heads but that's why God gave us notebooks, to note shit down for later use - so when I get flowers, I get either roses which generally suck and wilt within two days or some ugly crap. Or orchids. For some reason, I find cut orchids somewhat pathetic and sad. However, we live in the century of Fruit Bat so ladies are allowed to procure their flowers themselves. And in Bratislava, there used to be a florist's which had carnations in an assortment of colours and they always had green ones. I would buy 10 or 15 of them when I was going home for a longer period of time. Haven't had green carnations for years, I discovered some once in a florist shop in Prague years ago but that was it. I didn't hold hopes but it was there!
Thursday, 9 March 2017
Something changed
Three and half years in a hotel in the middle of the woods. Also known as Job from Hell. I quit last April or so, burnt out, at the bottomest bottom of depression that far. Some basic recovery took a bit of time and antidepressants and suddenly, I got back to normal. Or at least normal-ish.Then, new problems arose. I guess the last time I wasn't depressed to that extent that I'd be actually able to do something long-term and reasonable was 7 or 8 years ago or even more - about the time I graduated and a bit after. Meantime, I got kicked out of the Ph. D. programme and another school, published two books - or it might've been only one and the other had been published before, I'm too lazy to go and look it up right now - and got persuaded into the hotel nonsense which seems to have eaten half of my brain.
I'm at a point zero and need to find out what to do with my life. I should move my ass away from parents' where I got stuck while working at the hotel and not being able to manage a place on my own. I should get a decent job or some such. I should get some friggin' self-esteem. And that's the main problem. I'd describe myself as 'can read, can write, can find her own ass without a map, knows nothing, never had a decent job' because three-ish languages, art history degree, having run a hotel, that doesn't count. Everything I do never counts because everything I do is a trifle any asshole could do. Also, I'm fat and ugly.
I have antidepressants that work (and that's a source of major fun as well but that's another story) so I have energy enough to deal with this shit and started getting some therapy. The therapist says that I seem to think in less messy ways but... well.
During those thee and half years in the middle of nowhere, I kept buying things and stacked them aside. Clothes in the size that will suit me best when I lose that extra weight (15 kilos down, 30 to go yet and I don't care if it's reasonable or healthy, I won't be 20 again but at least I can have the figure and common sense be damned), books, just stuff. In summer, I wasn't at home, in winter, it was winter but now I have daylight enough and still some time so I started throwing things away. Very cathartic, I highly recommend it. Also, no, I won't need 30 somewhat worn t-shirts useful for painting or other dirty jobs, one will do and one can always find some lousy clothes that can be tossed after one use. Nobody will ever need 20-years-old travel guides or trashy novels. The sound of stuff falling to the bottom of the dumpster is very refreshing.
Mom got the same idea, mainly because her office is moving to a smaller space and she wants to retire and she has her own furniture there and 20+ years ago, it was expensive furniture! so she can't throw it out and she likes it so she can't even donate it to some nice people. I hinted the city dump but she wasn't persuaded. Instead, she decided to remodel the so-called guest bedroom, her former office which has been a depository of shit nobody needed since around 1997. Cue trashy novels, random trinkets, a big box of plush toys because what if someone visited with children... We, and by that I mean a generic 'we', not me and mom, it was actually a cousin, neighbour and neighbour's son, moved the butt-ugly made-to-measure shelf to the attic. The neighbour who had built it those 20+ years ago offered to take it to the city dump but mom didn't want to - she will put things in it. The things are mainly her old books, dusty, moved to the dusty shelf in the dusty attic. "I'll throw some old bed sheet over the shelf so that the books don't get dusty," she said. The spare room will serve as my office until... well, I'll gather some courage and money and move away and I'll try to make it happen as soon as possible. I asked for two of mom's tables, I don't really like them but they are tables and they are free. I refused the shelves and I insisted, the tables are tolerable while the shelves and cupboards are butt-ugly.
My parents seem to be developing hoarding tendencies and it's making me nervous. Yes, I have a lot of shit. No, I don't know about all of my shit because during three and half years in the woods, I employed the retail therapy a lot and due to who-knows-what, I developed some memory problems so I don't always know what I have but I'm dealing with it. As in, actually sorting things, throwing away the bad stuff, donating whatever I won't be needing any more but may be of some use to someone else and mentally cataloguing the remains. It feels so good! Now I need to find a big box, I have some yarn to donate. (Some = ten kilos or so.) I'll still have a stash beyond lifetime but what the heck.
Off to dumpster diving, no way I'm buying a cardboard box.
I'm at a point zero and need to find out what to do with my life. I should move my ass away from parents' where I got stuck while working at the hotel and not being able to manage a place on my own. I should get a decent job or some such. I should get some friggin' self-esteem. And that's the main problem. I'd describe myself as 'can read, can write, can find her own ass without a map, knows nothing, never had a decent job' because three-ish languages, art history degree, having run a hotel, that doesn't count. Everything I do never counts because everything I do is a trifle any asshole could do. Also, I'm fat and ugly.
I have antidepressants that work (and that's a source of major fun as well but that's another story) so I have energy enough to deal with this shit and started getting some therapy. The therapist says that I seem to think in less messy ways but... well.
During those thee and half years in the middle of nowhere, I kept buying things and stacked them aside. Clothes in the size that will suit me best when I lose that extra weight (15 kilos down, 30 to go yet and I don't care if it's reasonable or healthy, I won't be 20 again but at least I can have the figure and common sense be damned), books, just stuff. In summer, I wasn't at home, in winter, it was winter but now I have daylight enough and still some time so I started throwing things away. Very cathartic, I highly recommend it. Also, no, I won't need 30 somewhat worn t-shirts useful for painting or other dirty jobs, one will do and one can always find some lousy clothes that can be tossed after one use. Nobody will ever need 20-years-old travel guides or trashy novels. The sound of stuff falling to the bottom of the dumpster is very refreshing.
Mom got the same idea, mainly because her office is moving to a smaller space and she wants to retire and she has her own furniture there and 20+ years ago, it was expensive furniture! so she can't throw it out and she likes it so she can't even donate it to some nice people. I hinted the city dump but she wasn't persuaded. Instead, she decided to remodel the so-called guest bedroom, her former office which has been a depository of shit nobody needed since around 1997. Cue trashy novels, random trinkets, a big box of plush toys because what if someone visited with children... We, and by that I mean a generic 'we', not me and mom, it was actually a cousin, neighbour and neighbour's son, moved the butt-ugly made-to-measure shelf to the attic. The neighbour who had built it those 20+ years ago offered to take it to the city dump but mom didn't want to - she will put things in it. The things are mainly her old books, dusty, moved to the dusty shelf in the dusty attic. "I'll throw some old bed sheet over the shelf so that the books don't get dusty," she said. The spare room will serve as my office until... well, I'll gather some courage and money and move away and I'll try to make it happen as soon as possible. I asked for two of mom's tables, I don't really like them but they are tables and they are free. I refused the shelves and I insisted, the tables are tolerable while the shelves and cupboards are butt-ugly.
My parents seem to be developing hoarding tendencies and it's making me nervous. Yes, I have a lot of shit. No, I don't know about all of my shit because during three and half years in the woods, I employed the retail therapy a lot and due to who-knows-what, I developed some memory problems so I don't always know what I have but I'm dealing with it. As in, actually sorting things, throwing away the bad stuff, donating whatever I won't be needing any more but may be of some use to someone else and mentally cataloguing the remains. It feels so good! Now I need to find a big box, I have some yarn to donate. (Some = ten kilos or so.) I'll still have a stash beyond lifetime but what the heck.
Off to dumpster diving, no way I'm buying a cardboard box.
Monday, 19 September 2016
Halp?
So I decided to be productive and decided that my closet needs decluttering. Because I apparently have a lot of clothes but nothing to wear. Which is due to the fact that I don't throw out things very eagerly, that I've gained quite some weight in the last few years and then some ten years ago but kept the clothes because they would be useful one day. Also, I lived in the damn hotel with some everyday basics and the rest stayed at home, vaguely remembered but not really used.
The stuff got sorted out by size rather vaguely and I stacked some of it in boxes in the attic. Upstairs I went... to discover rotting moldy floor. I picked up a few boxes which stood in the wet area - luckily it was yarn and I tend to pack my yarn in plastic bags anyway. The boxes happily disintegrated, I threw them away, relocated said yarn and phoned dad that the boiler is apparently leaking. A pic of destroyed parquet floor may follow, I made a few pics in case parents had some insurance to cover this (no they don't). Today I resumed digging in old clothes. All I managed is to spread a layer of random bits and pieces in the hallway and now I'm panicking. At least I have a small pile to throw away and another small pile to donate. Plus a major heap of rather nice stuff which is half a size smaller than yours truly - I'm approaching the pre-hotel weight (I might have gained around 13 kilos there due to stress and stress eating) so I'll keep it somewhere near the surface. It should feel good but somehow, it doesn't.
The stuff got sorted out by size rather vaguely and I stacked some of it in boxes in the attic. Upstairs I went... to discover rotting moldy floor. I picked up a few boxes which stood in the wet area - luckily it was yarn and I tend to pack my yarn in plastic bags anyway. The boxes happily disintegrated, I threw them away, relocated said yarn and phoned dad that the boiler is apparently leaking. A pic of destroyed parquet floor may follow, I made a few pics in case parents had some insurance to cover this (no they don't). Today I resumed digging in old clothes. All I managed is to spread a layer of random bits and pieces in the hallway and now I'm panicking. At least I have a small pile to throw away and another small pile to donate. Plus a major heap of rather nice stuff which is half a size smaller than yours truly - I'm approaching the pre-hotel weight (I might have gained around 13 kilos there due to stress and stress eating) so I'll keep it somewhere near the surface. It should feel good but somehow, it doesn't.
Saturday, 17 October 2015
Angst
My mother says that I'm a damn hoarder.
Well, I don't tend to throw things away. Not that I'd live three metres deep in used tissues but I have files of old bills, boxes of various paperwork, train tickets accumulated since around 2001 and similar stuff. For some reason, I like to have my life archived somehow. Let's admit, I'm not the most orderly person so a good part of those receipts, cinema tickets and opera programmes are just stacked around. But, they're there.
While browsing the internets sort of randomly, I came across an article in The Atlantic which describes the ephemeral nature of the internet. I didn't need to go and lie down for a while out of the horror that I may not be able to access this or that. I'm apparently anxious or paranoiac enough to download stuff I like and save it to DVDs which are another stack of some-or-another. (When I go to Ikea, I need to get more storage boxes.) I abhor the clouds, no damn way I'm storing my data somewhere out there. I had a computer to die a sudden death back in around 2008 or 2009 and I lost quite a bit of my files, and before, I had a computer stolen, along with the data that included my almost finished thesis; what saved me was my habit of printing out and photocopying everything. (I also need more bookshelves. My model, Norrboten, Norrland or some other Norr thingy ceased production. Judging from watching the channels, I guess that most of the production ended in soap opera sets. Now what.)
The other day, I got a bout of what-will-I-do-if and as I tend to hoard stuff, I started printing out all my paypal receipts. I got only to 2013, 6 years to go yet. It rocks in a way, I'm bookmarking all the book bills and I'll finally assemble the thing called The Book List I've been keeping since I was 16 or so. On paper torn out from a school notepad. I will be able to add a lot of info to my Ravelry files, too. And I may end up with a neat row of files full of neat stuff; I can live with the lacunae caused by thrown-out receipts from brick and mortar stores but I must say that the idea of one database (the bills) supported by other database (old diaries, with the exception of the badly missed one from 2008 that was left on a train to Rome) and a few more partial databases (those train tickets, for example) will be nice when I'll be getting demented. Or some future wacko may use it to build a museum collection of some-or-another.
Well, I don't tend to throw things away. Not that I'd live three metres deep in used tissues but I have files of old bills, boxes of various paperwork, train tickets accumulated since around 2001 and similar stuff. For some reason, I like to have my life archived somehow. Let's admit, I'm not the most orderly person so a good part of those receipts, cinema tickets and opera programmes are just stacked around. But, they're there.
While browsing the internets sort of randomly, I came across an article in The Atlantic which describes the ephemeral nature of the internet. I didn't need to go and lie down for a while out of the horror that I may not be able to access this or that. I'm apparently anxious or paranoiac enough to download stuff I like and save it to DVDs which are another stack of some-or-another. (When I go to Ikea, I need to get more storage boxes.) I abhor the clouds, no damn way I'm storing my data somewhere out there. I had a computer to die a sudden death back in around 2008 or 2009 and I lost quite a bit of my files, and before, I had a computer stolen, along with the data that included my almost finished thesis; what saved me was my habit of printing out and photocopying everything. (I also need more bookshelves. My model, Norrboten, Norrland or some other Norr thingy ceased production. Judging from watching the channels, I guess that most of the production ended in soap opera sets. Now what.)
The other day, I got a bout of what-will-I-do-if and as I tend to hoard stuff, I started printing out all my paypal receipts. I got only to 2013, 6 years to go yet. It rocks in a way, I'm bookmarking all the book bills and I'll finally assemble the thing called The Book List I've been keeping since I was 16 or so. On paper torn out from a school notepad. I will be able to add a lot of info to my Ravelry files, too. And I may end up with a neat row of files full of neat stuff; I can live with the lacunae caused by thrown-out receipts from brick and mortar stores but I must say that the idea of one database (the bills) supported by other database (old diaries, with the exception of the badly missed one from 2008 that was left on a train to Rome) and a few more partial databases (those train tickets, for example) will be nice when I'll be getting demented. Or some future wacko may use it to build a museum collection of some-or-another.
Monday, 5 October 2015
Another serving of depression
I'm halfway through second box of new psych meds; it seemed that it may have started working one way or another as in the first month using it, I consumed quite less clonazepam.
When I went to get my refill and for a monthly chitchat with my shrink, I found out that I had been scheduled to someone else. No chitchat (or, to be exact, whines), but I could read over the doc's shoulder to find out that, as per the docs' notes, I'm oriented, no hallucinations, not suicidal, show autistic traits and don't seem visibly depressed. Heh, I'm good in not looking very depressed. I'm chatty, especially when in stressful social situations, and I have brain enough to be entertaining and funny and coherent. As for autistic traits, well, could well be. I'll ask details. I know that I can't read social situations too well, for example, but I prefer to blame poor socialization in tender age and being called weird. I'll ask the doc.
I felt okay. Not excellent but when I take into account all the work crap, passably well. Regulars already know that work crap has passed various turning points, sank under the lowest low several times and now it's just an unending agony of routine, boredom and those sickening moments of surprise when someone, instead of doing their job, starts thinking without knowing how to and I need to fix the ensuing problems.
But, back to the next point: what stupid silly things can be triggering. I found a studio that had some dance classes, started doing contemporary, sort of hated every minute of it because I'm fat, ugly, out of shape and haven't danced in years so I had hard time taking it easy that I'm the clumsiest person around. And, then, trying to avoid doing something hurtful to my knee, I fell on my thumb and twisted it. Right thumb, obviously, and this way, I learned that one uses thumb of their dominant hand for more things than one notices. I've spent the week since blaming myself for being fat, ugly, clumsy and generally useless and the sassy blue bandage didn't really lift my mood. After all, it's a proof that I'm fat and clumsy.
And now comes the excellentest bit of logic. I'm fat, ugly and clumsy so I'd better hide under a stone instead of going and getting some exercise so I'll remain fat, clumsy and ugly, my life is a waste etc.
No way out.
When I went to get my refill and for a monthly chitchat with my shrink, I found out that I had been scheduled to someone else. No chitchat (or, to be exact, whines), but I could read over the doc's shoulder to find out that, as per the docs' notes, I'm oriented, no hallucinations, not suicidal, show autistic traits and don't seem visibly depressed. Heh, I'm good in not looking very depressed. I'm chatty, especially when in stressful social situations, and I have brain enough to be entertaining and funny and coherent. As for autistic traits, well, could well be. I'll ask details. I know that I can't read social situations too well, for example, but I prefer to blame poor socialization in tender age and being called weird. I'll ask the doc.
I felt okay. Not excellent but when I take into account all the work crap, passably well. Regulars already know that work crap has passed various turning points, sank under the lowest low several times and now it's just an unending agony of routine, boredom and those sickening moments of surprise when someone, instead of doing their job, starts thinking without knowing how to and I need to fix the ensuing problems.
But, back to the next point: what stupid silly things can be triggering. I found a studio that had some dance classes, started doing contemporary, sort of hated every minute of it because I'm fat, ugly, out of shape and haven't danced in years so I had hard time taking it easy that I'm the clumsiest person around. And, then, trying to avoid doing something hurtful to my knee, I fell on my thumb and twisted it. Right thumb, obviously, and this way, I learned that one uses thumb of their dominant hand for more things than one notices. I've spent the week since blaming myself for being fat, ugly, clumsy and generally useless and the sassy blue bandage didn't really lift my mood. After all, it's a proof that I'm fat and clumsy.
And now comes the excellentest bit of logic. I'm fat, ugly and clumsy so I'd better hide under a stone instead of going and getting some exercise so I'll remain fat, clumsy and ugly, my life is a waste etc.
No way out.
Saturday, 18 April 2015
The sage sweater
I'm known as somewhat fanatical knitter - and a slow one.
To be exact, I do not knit slowly, on the contrary. It just takes me time to finish a given piece, the main reason being that I have several on the needles.
.
.
.
I tried to count but the result was inconclusive. Around six unfinished sweaters/tops and similar amount of shawls, scarves, cowls and the like. One is missing a bit of sleeve, I run short of yarn and now I'm undecided whether to order the one or two balls I may be needing or a whole bag because the yarn is nice (and discontinued). The other needs some measuring done and possibly ripping. Another one was a bad yarn choice and now I wonder what to do next. I did finish one in 2015 though. I got the yarn, it's from the family of Katia's merinos (Merino Sport or Merino Soft), I got ten balls plus some nicely matching angora blend from Anny Blatt, knitted the body and thought about making something creative with the sleeves. At the end, after at least two years elapsed, I tossed said angora aside and substituted it by a Bluefaced Leicester yarn from somewhere-on-fleabay dyed using alum mordant and St. John's Wort.
It's the Dither pattern, a bit tweaked on the go and I'm sure to use it again someday soon.
And obviously, an unfinished picture. I fail to get finished ones, even less so pics of someone wearing the stuff. May work on it in future.
To be exact, I do not knit slowly, on the contrary. It just takes me time to finish a given piece, the main reason being that I have several on the needles.
.
.
.
I tried to count but the result was inconclusive. Around six unfinished sweaters/tops and similar amount of shawls, scarves, cowls and the like. One is missing a bit of sleeve, I run short of yarn and now I'm undecided whether to order the one or two balls I may be needing or a whole bag because the yarn is nice (and discontinued). The other needs some measuring done and possibly ripping. Another one was a bad yarn choice and now I wonder what to do next. I did finish one in 2015 though. I got the yarn, it's from the family of Katia's merinos (Merino Sport or Merino Soft), I got ten balls plus some nicely matching angora blend from Anny Blatt, knitted the body and thought about making something creative with the sleeves. At the end, after at least two years elapsed, I tossed said angora aside and substituted it by a Bluefaced Leicester yarn from somewhere-on-fleabay dyed using alum mordant and St. John's Wort.
It's the Dither pattern, a bit tweaked on the go and I'm sure to use it again someday soon.
And obviously, an unfinished picture. I fail to get finished ones, even less so pics of someone wearing the stuff. May work on it in future.
Friday, 17 April 2015
Hoarding cats would be worse, right?
And faithful readers know that I'd love to have at least half a dozen of them.
When it comes to perfume collecting, I have a few preferred brands for reasons that are not always rational. Lancôme because it brought me to vintages, albeit randomly (I think I liked the Kypre box back then, Gueldy, just because, and Shiseido for similar reasons.
I did a bit of shopping and here's the loot.
One Lorenzy-Palanca because it was for a pittance along with Conquête and the rest is Shiseido: Rose Royale in the blue bottle, Camellia Superieur in the box, some other Camellia in the green bottle and a 2012 anniversary thing in the orange-ish flacon.
When it comes to perfume collecting, I have a few preferred brands for reasons that are not always rational. Lancôme because it brought me to vintages, albeit randomly (I think I liked the Kypre box back then, Gueldy, just because, and Shiseido for similar reasons.
I did a bit of shopping and here's the loot.
One Lorenzy-Palanca because it was for a pittance along with Conquête and the rest is Shiseido: Rose Royale in the blue bottle, Camellia Superieur in the box, some other Camellia in the green bottle and a 2012 anniversary thing in the orange-ish flacon.
Monday, 23 March 2015
Photoshop vs. Photopaint or a short history of frustration
I've been working with images since time immemorial. Or actually since 1992-ish. Not sure when I started using PhotoShop but it was some time about then.
I got the Adobe Creative Suite 5.5, I think, which I cherish on my hard drive because now everything is on the clouds and one doesn't get their Adobe crap anymore, one can only rent it and I'm paranoiac, old-fashioned and a luddite. Now, my good laptop died (1) and the borrowed one has some weird screen resolution that doesn't cooperate well with a secondary screen and it's too small for any serious work. (2) The hard drive doesn't rock either.
Digression
I started messing with graphic design in around 1991. I remember CorelDraw v. 2.0 that worked in the wireframe only. We had the first computers with Pentium processors in this country in 1998, ordered directly from IBM and the folks in the computer shop came to look and be amazed. The glories of living in a company that started in one's kitchen. The first software I learned to use was said CorelDraw. Later on, Adobe stuff found its way into our kitchen and adjoining spaces. I never really learned to use MS Office and similar stuff because who needs Word when there's PageMaker or shitloads of cool typesetting software - and there's no way I'm producing documents that lack graphic design. Similarly, I don't throw lousy snapshots around. Every image that leaves my dirty paws is 'shopped. Because I have some standards which are so deeply ingrained that they'd need to be surgically removed.
end of digression
I'm photoshopless and because I just don't do lousy pics, and I have an urge to post stuff all over the place, I had to resort to installing PhotoPaint from the Corel suite. I'm constantly struggling to find tools that are there under unfamiliar names or maybe they're not there at all, who knows.
I finally got used to my new camera to an extent, spring light is inviting and I've had an urge to plague the world with pics. I'm warning ahead that they may or may not be up to my standard because the combo of unfamiliar camera, unfamiliar software and odd screens may produce suspicious results.
My memory card is full, that's why I'm bothering with sorting out pics, not leaving it for later, whatever a later may be.
(Let's not start on the heaps of films from predigital era which someone should scan.)
______________________________________
(1) No, it's not only resting.
(2) Been slowly going blind since 1988. I only get frustrated when the coupons are for frames and lenses although they say "all merchandise". I don't need new $1000 titanium frames. I don't need a replacement for the $50 ones I got on sale, for that matter, all I need is lenses. Fuck you, opticians.
I got the Adobe Creative Suite 5.5, I think, which I cherish on my hard drive because now everything is on the clouds and one doesn't get their Adobe crap anymore, one can only rent it and I'm paranoiac, old-fashioned and a luddite. Now, my good laptop died (1) and the borrowed one has some weird screen resolution that doesn't cooperate well with a secondary screen and it's too small for any serious work. (2) The hard drive doesn't rock either.
Digression
I started messing with graphic design in around 1991. I remember CorelDraw v. 2.0 that worked in the wireframe only. We had the first computers with Pentium processors in this country in 1998, ordered directly from IBM and the folks in the computer shop came to look and be amazed. The glories of living in a company that started in one's kitchen. The first software I learned to use was said CorelDraw. Later on, Adobe stuff found its way into our kitchen and adjoining spaces. I never really learned to use MS Office and similar stuff because who needs Word when there's PageMaker or shitloads of cool typesetting software - and there's no way I'm producing documents that lack graphic design. Similarly, I don't throw lousy snapshots around. Every image that leaves my dirty paws is 'shopped. Because I have some standards which are so deeply ingrained that they'd need to be surgically removed.
end of digression
I'm photoshopless and because I just don't do lousy pics, and I have an urge to post stuff all over the place, I had to resort to installing PhotoPaint from the Corel suite. I'm constantly struggling to find tools that are there under unfamiliar names or maybe they're not there at all, who knows.
I finally got used to my new camera to an extent, spring light is inviting and I've had an urge to plague the world with pics. I'm warning ahead that they may or may not be up to my standard because the combo of unfamiliar camera, unfamiliar software and odd screens may produce suspicious results.
My memory card is full, that's why I'm bothering with sorting out pics, not leaving it for later, whatever a later may be.
(Let's not start on the heaps of films from predigital era which someone should scan.)
______________________________________
(1) No, it's not only resting.
(2) Been slowly going blind since 1988. I only get frustrated when the coupons are for frames and lenses although they say "all merchandise". I don't need new $1000 titanium frames. I don't need a replacement for the $50 ones I got on sale, for that matter, all I need is lenses. Fuck you, opticians.
Saturday, 21 March 2015
At random
On Thursday, I got tickets to Paris. Mom is preparing in her usual way, reading travel blogs and noting down tips where to get something for free or cheap. I looked at a map of Paris and noticed that I lack a general idea what is where. Been there twice for a week or so but I failed to remember what's on which side of the river etc.
Work is busy and somewhat annoying. The house is full of kids and I hate kids even more than other people (for those who are new here or didn't notice yet: I'm a certified sociophobe).
It looks like spring but my office is colder than ever. I'll probably go and find a space heater before my toes fall off.
My camera refused to cooperate under the pretense of being full so I was forced to start sorting out pictures. I discovered things I already forgot about. Someone remind me that I remind my shrink to do something about my withered memory.
Work is busy and somewhat annoying. The house is full of kids and I hate kids even more than other people (for those who are new here or didn't notice yet: I'm a certified sociophobe).
It looks like spring but my office is colder than ever. I'll probably go and find a space heater before my toes fall off.
My camera refused to cooperate under the pretense of being full so I was forced to start sorting out pictures. I discovered things I already forgot about. Someone remind me that I remind my shrink to do something about my withered memory.
Tuesday, 20 January 2015
Mice et al.
The maintenance guy is so simple that it hurts but sometimes, he is one of the rare people who actually act reasonably.
Since the hotel cat was ran over by car (well, she might have suffered a heart attack in the curb, I didn't get the autopsy done and it was an old cat), there's nobody to deal with the rodents so we got a bit of mice infestation in the dry storage. The kitchen staff didn't say anything because they are too lazy to open their mouths and weren't it for the maintenance who told me about traps, baits and that mice prefer cheescake to bacon, I wouldn't have found out for a while because I don't check every nook and cranny that often.
I went to check because mice in food are no fun and the food safety inspectors would go ballistic if they happened to find the rodent turd which I found among packages leaking flour, oat flakes and what else so I went to do some yelling, to which the chef on duty said Oh, wee little mousies, isn't that cute and gave me hurt looks when I yelled more and ordered her to check everything NOW and whatever package is opened/broken but mouse-free will be put into a sturdy container. Which sorta happened but the mice still came and went. Maintenance guy said that one disappeared with the spring trap. (Rocky mouse, aparently.)
Two days later, I went to check the state of matters, found even more mouse dung, went to the kitchen and yelled more. The other shift gave me another series of hurt looks and chef said But I cleaned the place a while ago.
Yesterday, there was more of mouse dung and I just went ballistic and ordered the kitchen staff to remove everything from storage, check every package, yes, package, not crate, chase all mice, spiders and dirt away...
Maintenance found out that the anti-everything netting in the vent was not tightly set so he fixed it, did most of the shuffling and cleaning. However, the cooks' basic human rights were severely violated by all this totally unnecessary work because they needed to bend their precious backs, and who cares about excrements in their lunch. If I could press and preserve the moment when they gave me the look of kicked puppies, I would. Because, my cynical heart rejoices every time I remember it.
As the old story answers the question of how the mice eradication went: Two injured, three bruised and five seriously ridiculed
The maintenance artists are redoing my office. Moving the old furniture out was a bit of a task as it tended to disintegrate - which was the primary reason why I started this refurbishing adventure, I certainly do mind if the shelves threaten to collapse on me. I said that it's up to them to sort ouf which bits of the plywood and that sort of chipboard that's called compressed darkness around here could be useful for some shelving and to toss the rest. At which they pondered that the furniture looks quite good. After a few kilos of sawdust falling out of the solid-ish looking pieces, they caved. The IT guy came to check the wiring. After removing around five kilometres of cables that were not connecting anything, the place almost looked neat. But for the dirtiest carpet ever, which was ugly and dirt-coloured to start with.
It cost me around 130 euros to get a hardwearing carpet made most likely from recycled polyethylene bottles which is blue, pretty and will probably outlast the end of the world, cockroaches, Keith Richards and a very special cat that was recently rehomed from a shelter I know and whose name was Satan for several good reasons. Ikea post-giftmas sale provided the rest. The provisional workspace is truly Procrustean and I can't wait to get to an actual table. Coffee table with an orange crate (as used to hold oranges, it's actually mostly black, not that it mattered much) to lift my laptop to a reasonable working height is not the last cry in ergonomy and my back hints the same.
Since the hotel cat was ran over by car (well, she might have suffered a heart attack in the curb, I didn't get the autopsy done and it was an old cat), there's nobody to deal with the rodents so we got a bit of mice infestation in the dry storage. The kitchen staff didn't say anything because they are too lazy to open their mouths and weren't it for the maintenance who told me about traps, baits and that mice prefer cheescake to bacon, I wouldn't have found out for a while because I don't check every nook and cranny that often.
I went to check because mice in food are no fun and the food safety inspectors would go ballistic if they happened to find the rodent turd which I found among packages leaking flour, oat flakes and what else so I went to do some yelling, to which the chef on duty said Oh, wee little mousies, isn't that cute and gave me hurt looks when I yelled more and ordered her to check everything NOW and whatever package is opened/broken but mouse-free will be put into a sturdy container. Which sorta happened but the mice still came and went. Maintenance guy said that one disappeared with the spring trap. (Rocky mouse, aparently.)
Two days later, I went to check the state of matters, found even more mouse dung, went to the kitchen and yelled more. The other shift gave me another series of hurt looks and chef said But I cleaned the place a while ago.
Yesterday, there was more of mouse dung and I just went ballistic and ordered the kitchen staff to remove everything from storage, check every package, yes, package, not crate, chase all mice, spiders and dirt away...
Maintenance found out that the anti-everything netting in the vent was not tightly set so he fixed it, did most of the shuffling and cleaning. However, the cooks' basic human rights were severely violated by all this totally unnecessary work because they needed to bend their precious backs, and who cares about excrements in their lunch. If I could press and preserve the moment when they gave me the look of kicked puppies, I would. Because, my cynical heart rejoices every time I remember it.
As the old story answers the question of how the mice eradication went: Two injured, three bruised and five seriously ridiculed
The maintenance artists are redoing my office. Moving the old furniture out was a bit of a task as it tended to disintegrate - which was the primary reason why I started this refurbishing adventure, I certainly do mind if the shelves threaten to collapse on me. I said that it's up to them to sort ouf which bits of the plywood and that sort of chipboard that's called compressed darkness around here could be useful for some shelving and to toss the rest. At which they pondered that the furniture looks quite good. After a few kilos of sawdust falling out of the solid-ish looking pieces, they caved. The IT guy came to check the wiring. After removing around five kilometres of cables that were not connecting anything, the place almost looked neat. But for the dirtiest carpet ever, which was ugly and dirt-coloured to start with.
It cost me around 130 euros to get a hardwearing carpet made most likely from recycled polyethylene bottles which is blue, pretty and will probably outlast the end of the world, cockroaches, Keith Richards and a very special cat that was recently rehomed from a shelter I know and whose name was Satan for several good reasons. Ikea post-giftmas sale provided the rest. The provisional workspace is truly Procrustean and I can't wait to get to an actual table. Coffee table with an orange crate (as used to hold oranges, it's actually mostly black, not that it mattered much) to lift my laptop to a reasonable working height is not the last cry in ergonomy and my back hints the same.
Sunday, 12 October 2014
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 opioidanalgesic 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.
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
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.
Sunday, 14 September 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, 6 July 2014
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.
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.
Thursday, 1 May 2014
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:
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.
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.
Saturday, 26 April 2014
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.
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.
Saturday, 29 March 2014
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.
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.
Friday, 28 March 2014
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.
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.
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