Wednesday, 15 October 2014

Advantages of bed rest

I finished a sweater.


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

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

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 opioid analgesic painkiller for those who are not pharma geeks - because IT HURT.
Opioids being what they are, I felt slightly better. We have my cousin and her son and her dogs over, aunt is staying at grandma's and coming to annoy on regular basis so I put on a skirt and brushed my hair because of personal dignity, grabbed my knitting and crawled downstairs. Mom got annoyed because I was wearing my only short skirt at hand, and one wears sweatpants when sick, not a woolen office skirt. I uttered a few expletives hinting that struggling with hose when one can't stand without holding onto a building with both hands, or when one can't bend or turn, is one of the more idiotic ideas, and spent the day splatted on the sofa. What offended mom even more was my tramadol high, it was unbecoming to giggle stupidly when I was in pain. Well, fuck pain and fuck such ideas.
The internetz differential diagnosis was either herniated disc or sciatica so I called my friend Doc, who is an ENT but still a M. D., he said that sciatica sounds more likely, that if it's sciatica, it will improve on its own, if it's slipped disc, it will worsen, that I can go to ER but if I wait until Monday to see my orthopod, er, orthopedist, it's just fine. (I will. I need more painkillers, mom refused me more tramadol.)

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

Next time: more depression.

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.

Monday, 1 September 2014

Mild and hesitant progress

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

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

Sunday, 24 August 2014

Tasteful scarf

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


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

Sunday, 17 August 2014

All the same

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

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

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

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

Saturday, 16 August 2014

News roundup

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

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