I don’t mind smokers in a philosophical sort of way. I’m a Libertarian, which means that I think other people should be allowed to commit suicide however they please, as long as it doesn’t inconvenience others or bring traffic to a grinding halt. Thank you, overpass jumpers, I AM talking about you.

I DO mind when I have to work in close quarters with smokers. Never mind the fact that with a barely-functioning immune system and a fairly delicate respiratory system I find the scent of smoke pretty irritating in more ways than one.

Seems like some of my local smokers attempt to find the most disgusting coffin nails that man has ever rolled to light up. They come in utterly redolent of noxious odors. If I came into the office reeking of a different but similarly nasty scent, perhaps of garbage or offal, I would be politely asked to go home and shower and change clothing.

I wish I could have a rule made to have all smokers spritz themselves with some fabric cleaner when they come back into the office. Oh, the smell of chemically cleaned offensiveness; there’s nothing quite like it in the world. I doubt this will occur as some of my managers enjoy a toke or two themselves. Granted, the managers appear to smoke a better brand of cancer stick that doesn’t disturb me quite as much.

I do enjoy an occasional clove cigarette (or cigarillo, as I suppose we must call them now since the government decided it was illegal to sell such pleasant-scented little delights to consenting adults); I smoke them whenever I feel self-destructive. I wake up the next day with a sore throat and lungs and a scratchy voice, which reminds me why I usually stick to alcohol.

What some of my coworkers smoke are not cloves; these are not cigars even, although some smell worse than others. This stinks almost as much as skunky ganja — again, something I’ve unhappily experienced on the clothing of other people. At this point I’m almost ready to explain to some of these people that a bullet is faster and gunpowder has a less obnoxious scent…

Ever had someone offend you with their odor? What was it, and how did you react?

Tags: fibro, illness, RealJob(TM)

There’s a verse in the Bible that states “Thou shalt not muzzle the oxen when he treadeth out the corn.” I learned that from Charlton Heston in The Ten Commandments, by the way. I can apply that to my ultra-modern trip in the following way: I need to have my breaks at the same time every day.

The government has, in its stern “Big Brother” way, decreed that one must have at least one hour of breaks in an 8 hour work period; 2 fifteen minute breaks and 1 thirty minute lunch break. My RealJob(TM) in its infinite kindness gives me ONE WHOLE HOUR for lunch. Awfully sweet of them.

But sometimes they switch my breaks around. Mostly the first break is 2 hours into my day. Sometimes it’s only one hour and 45 minutes in. Sometimes it’s even 2 hours and 45 minutes in. Usually my lunch is at the four hour mark. If they put it even 15 minutes later I start twitching.

I can’t help it. Those of us who are differently sane like our regular schedules. I am guided and comforted by the sameness of it, supported by the rigidity of it. I know when to eat and when to take my meds. My body falls into the rhythm. It saves its natural demands until the appointed times. It’s much like being imprisoned, but the pay is better.

Most importantly, however, it makes the work day that much tolerable to split it into roughly equal increments. Something difficult to swallow is easier when broken into smaller bites. At the beginning of the day, I think “I just have to make it to the break.” At the break, I think “I only have to get to lunch.” At lunch I think “Half the day is over, all I have to do is get to the last break.” And at the last break I assure myself “The day is nearly finished; I just have to survive until I can go home.”

I can’t have any middle ground; I need either absolute schedule or total freedom. The quasi-disabled side of me looks forward to the rest of a more relaxed work day; the frosted side of me looks forward to getting up and taking a walk (or getting a drink of water or going to the damned bathroom or getting a snack or ANYTHING) whenever I freaking WANT.

I think it’s a simulacrum created by corporate world; in something as big and lumbering as a massive company you can’t be monitored or managed directly for the most part. All they can see is your time. Not how well you use it, but how much you check in.

I do have an objection to this method, however feeble — I’d love to believe that the quality of my work is worth more than the quantity of my hours. But that’d take more effort to judge, wouldn’t it?

Tags: fibro, illness, life, medication

I heard somewhere on the intarwebs that DST started as a joke by Benjamin Franklin. I think I can believe that, knowing the brilliant old rake had a biting and subtle sense of humor. As someone with Fibromyalgia, I absolutely despise Springing Forward — but oh, how I love to Fall Back!

The week before springing forward holds serious dread for me. I’m about to lose a precious, precious hour of sleep, and it will be darker when I wake up, which makes it more difficult for me TO wake up. And for the week after springing forward I walk around like a zombie, always wanting to go to bed one hour later than I do; always needing to sleep one hour longer than I will. Eventually I get used to the modified schedule, my body adjusts to the different sleep hours, and life goes on. I’ve always meant to do what has been suggested by various Fibro websites, which is to adjust my sleep time by 15 minutes every night for 4-5 days before DST but frankly I’m just not that organized when it comes to sleep and I wind up paying the price.

I couldn’t wait to fall back this time around. I’m beginning to believe I may have a touch of seasonal affective disorder — getting out of bed while the sky is dark seems almost impossible. I actually felt well rested on Sunday morning when I woke up and the sky was bright; since then it’s been easy to go to sleep at night (what with feeling like it’s later than it actually is) and then when I wake up the sun is shining through the curtains and is helping to burn away the sleepies of the night.

In Gluten-Free Triumph News, I tried a new GF food today that actually TASTED like what it was supposed to be. I’ve got a box of Kinnikinnick GF glazed donuts in the freezer and heated one up in the microwave and it was heavenly. Very spongy, and the glazing was perfect. Made me actually crave funnel cake, which I haven’t had since I went GF. We may have to work out a recipe.

Here’s what I’m *nominally* working on, all at once:

Pyramid Head
Bronx
SOMETHINGVERYPINK
Anubis
Set
Isis
Light Rook
Several quilt squares
A beautiful granny square jacket (for a change!)
An afghan for myself for the couch.

And here’s hoping I can finish up more commissions this weekend, in between doing some overtime for the RealJob(TM) and driving the husband to his weekly dose of swordfighting.

Tags: commissions, fibro, food, gluten, illness, life, sleep