So I’m still here. It’s been a bit, I know. I’ll try to be better about it in the future. Right after the new year we had to titrate my meds again (more crazy makes me need more meds) and that takes a bit to get used to. Plus I also had some sort of sinus stuff that tried to eat my face off. Sinus stuff + new meds = broke down worn out Vox fit for nothing more than forcing herself to go to the RealJob and then coming home and sitting on the couch and crocheting granny squares until her brains fall out.

But now I’m better. *twitch*

Anyhoo, since this blog is all about saying things that I want to say (other than those that will scare horses and permanently scar the family members that I like) I thought I’d review the opening themes of two anime series that I enjoy.

Read the rest of this entry »

Tags: anime, commissions, crochet, illness, medication, medicines

I woke up this morning and felt a bit of trepidation; I’ve got two commissions about 90-95% done, and one just started… and I need to have them all in the mail in 10 days or less. I CAN and WILL do it, but I do admit the impending deadline has me perturbed.

So I did what I always do when I’m nearly down to the wire: I cleaned like a mad woman. Today I’ve picked up, sorted, stacked, put away, wiped, washed, thrown out, and made up.

It started with organizing and moving things off our coffee table. Then I decided to pick up the floor around the table so that the husband could vacuum later. Then I started throwing things away that we don’t use often or that were damaged or beyond date. Then I picked up the books that need to go back on our (already overflowing) bookshelves to organize later.

An hour or so of hazy madness later, I have a surprisingly clean house.

I apologize if this entry’s a bit scrambled; I keep seeing things that I could adjust/organize/throw away and I interrupt my writing to do it.

All my stuff’s up off the floor; I’ve gotten rid of two bags of crap I wasn’t really needing. I’ve got a stack of books ready to be integrated. I’ve got things more organized than ever. I’m so domestic I’ve got a crockpot of no-peekie stew simmering on the counter, and I’m seriously considering making my family’s brunswick stew recipe (at 1/6th the volume; they used to make it for church lunches).

The husband’s been such a big help, as he always is. It’s so odd to have a partner who will clean and organize alongside me. I’ve just about worn him out with some serious labor today and I love him more than ever.

I do have to watch out for a tendency towards hoarding. The members of my family are prone to holding on to random and meaningless stuff, although we give different reasons for it. “Collecting.” “These might be worth something someday.” “I can’t throw it away now; I might need it down the line.”

Even a vague sense that we *are* our things. I know I once had that feeling.

When I was little I kept my room in a glorious state of clutter. No real trash and absolutely no food leavings, but my belongings were spread over every square inch of floor and horizontal surface. Even the bed was a zoo of stuffed animals.

Part of it was loving to see what all I had, to be inspired at any moment. Colors of toys or combination of light and shadow could send me off into a fugue, dreaming about everything and nothing in particular. Part of it was security device; if anyone wanted to bother me they’d have to do it over a mine-field of various slippery, sharp, pointed, loose objects.

I remember when various family members would come into my room and clean it. I remember sitting on my bed crying broken-heartedly as they patiently organized, removed, repatterned. To me it was an attack, an invasion and an assault. Other people… touching my belongings. Putting them back in an order that meant nothing to me. I wouldn’t be able to find things that I wanted until my fantastic haphazard filing method reasserted itself.

I recognize some of this as the start of mental illness.

What with better medication, better understanding of my own mind, and the love and support of someone saner than I am (or at least differently crazy) I have had only occasional clutter.

And now I don’t have even that. I have a Clean House.

There’s an Orange Clove candle burning on my coffee table. There’s the lovely smell of home cooking in my kitchen area. I’m a happy hooker.

Tags: cleaning, courage, hoarding, illness, life, medication, medicines

I was poisoned on Thanksgiving. I’ve been utterly sick and completely useless for at least six days because of this. I was given something contaminated with gluten, and I went through a pretty decent Hell because of it.

Thursday, day 1: Within 5 minutes of eating the contaminated food I was nauseated, cramping, and having brainfog and overall numbness. My fine motor skills were entirely shot and I was shaking so hard you could hear it in my voice. I couldn’t think to save my life; I spent the rest of the day on the couch under a blanket, playing easy DS games and watching mindless DVDs.

Friday, day 2 of severe glutenation: Nausea, migraine, shaking, stomach pain, fatigue and muscle weakness. Also, some paranoia. I was on my feet a total of eight times that day — once from the bed to the couch, three restroom trips, and once back to the bed from the couch.. It’s a short walk that took me about 5 minutes each way; my legs were so weak I can barely stand.

I could not drive, or walk, or stand up for an extended period. Early in the day I could not even hold a crochet hook because my wrists and arms hurt so badly.

Saturday, day 3: Still nauseated, weak and tired. I remember that this was the first day I was even strong enough to sit up unaided or without being propped up by pillows. That stunning achievement was reached midday, for several minutes at a time.

I was not able to walk or drive for any length of time. Thank gods a good friend of ours was able to come by and take the husband out to get groceries and other needful things for us.

Sunday, day 4: Still flu-like symptoms, short temper, still very weak. I did however have the strength (by the end of the day) to stand up long enough to take my first shower since the glutening. If you do the math, it’s not pretty.

Monday, day 5: My immune system and digestive tract are fired. Woke up sore all over; weak and in pain. I went to my doctor who made soothing noises (she is a joy and a comfort) and gave me steroids to stop the over-reactive immune response. My herbalist (also a joy and a comfort) gave me oregano to prevent a fungal infection — steroids have that effect sometimes — and peppermint oil for my ongoing nausea. All the driving nearly did me in, however. Went to bed early and happy about it.

Tuesday, day 6: Stuffed full of steroids. About 60% back to “normal”. Head hurt, thoughts racing, and crying jags like whoa. Fun! I think I made the right decision to stay home, no matter how worried about money I am. When a scene from “Death to Smoochy” makes me tear up, I’m in no condition to deal with the outside world.

Wednesday, day 7: Went to work, like the brave little toaster I am. Still pretty sore. Pretty nauseated (but the peppermint oil does certainly help). My head does weird things if I move it too quickly. I’m tired and I have no appetite — probably for the good.

All this peppermint is making me want Mint Chocolate ice cream, though.

It sounds so incredibly simple and trite when I write it all out like this. Nothing can describe a full week of feeling like I’m in a tumble-dryer full of rocks for hours on end.

And I can’t do this anymore. Luckily I will get paid for the holiday, but missing 3 days of work is a substantial amount and I can’t afford repeats of this happy little adventure. I’ve got to keep my food safely under my control. If that means not eating with family or not eating out at restaurants or not eating at work functions or parties with friends… then so be it. Any amount of transient personal embarrassment or even a little hardship between me and other people not as supportive of my condition is worth it rather than face a week of hell and another 4-7 days of discomfort.

I’m amazed that some people think that celiacs are doing this “just for attention”. I would like to give such ignorant savages some attention in return.

With a baseball bat. For a few hours.

Tags: crochet, gluten, illness, life, sleep

Sorry for the no posty for a bit; I was extremely poisoned at Thanksgiving. More on that tomorrow, but in the mean time I’d like to go ahead and include two cute links:

Well, you know how I love cats…15 Fascinating Facts about Cats. I especially like this one: “Both humans and cats have identical regions in the brain responsible for emotion.” I am glad to have it validated (by Random Internet Website with no References, however much that is worth) that my cats feel emotions in the same way I do. Much of the time with my cats I feel like I’m not a human having a relationship with an animal, but a thinking creature having a body-language interaction with another thinking creature who does not understand (for the most part) my spoken language.

Also, this link: Baby Rabbits in the Back Yard. This is a video whose title should be self explanatory. There’s no way I can describe in words how adorable this is. It’s head-explodingly cute.

Actual real content tomorrow and some updates of *GASP* the crochet I’ve been doing lately.

Tags: gluten, illness, links

So recently I’ve been rereading some of my favorite author’s work — Terry Pratchett. I’ve had a twelve year long love affair with all of his Discworld series and other works besides. Everything he writes has a lot of humor, a bit of snark, and a world of heart.

Frankly I’m a bit glad he phased out Rincewind. We’d followed old Rincey on many an adventure but he was truthfully a one joke character. I did like that in the last book of his (so far; he may be brought back later) he seemed to develop as a character and finally grow up from his perennial — and successful — cowardice.

I do like Pratchett’s later books more than his first books. You can see how the writing has gradually improved, making the characters more colorful, vivid, and three dimensional. Take for instance Lord Vetinari; originally a completely cold and humorless cardboard cutout of a character (yet incredibly cool for all of that). Now I find the Patrician of Anhk-Morpork to be a varied and slick individual with his own special brand of dry humor. He seems real, and it seems a shame that he doesn’t live in a real world that I could visit.

Likewise, Granny Weatherwax. I want to be her when I get physically older. I don’t say “when I grow up” because I don’t think she did and I don’t think I’d care to. A wise witchy woman who can take on a whole clan of vampires without it feeling totally cliched. A woman with her vanity, foibles, blind spots, and all too prey to her insecurity and depression. A woman always in combat with the powerful dark side of her nature. That is a woman I can understand and with whom I can identify.

Currently I’m rereading the two Moist von Lipwig books: “Going Postal” and “Making Money”. Moist (yes, unfortunately, it’s his real name and he’s heard ALL the jokes) is a man who was hanged just long enough under an assumed name and he awoke to see an angel… or at least, Lord Vetinari with an incredible offer. Either Moist would take over the ailing Post Office and make it an institution able to serve the bustling Anhk-Morpork, or he could walk out that nearby door and Vetinari would never trouble him again. Of course, the door in question opened onto a deep pit lined with spikes…

In the second book, “Making Money”, Moist has mostly broken the bucking bronco of the Postal Service and mostly won the heart of the dry-humored Miss Adora Belle Dearheart, who looks good in plain dresses, fights for the golem rights, and smokes one hundred packs a day. Now Vetinari has a new deal for him: put life back into the public banks while facing constant death and danger threatening from the family of the bank’s previous chairman. No more pits with spikes; Moist faces a wonderful placid life ahead with no challenge and a nearly goldish chain from the Merchant’s Guild.

I look forward to every new book with great anticipation, but I fear there may not be many more. The gigantic wit and brave heart housed in the body known as Terry Pratchett face the a grave threat. Some malicious god (and he knows who he is) has cursed Pratchett with Alzheimer’s. There are some treatments available, of course, but there is the growing potential that at any time his family and his millions of worldwide fans will lose him to the ages.

But he’ll go into the future with the love of hundreds of millions, and I think Death would certainly find that balance weighed in his favor.

Who’s your favorite author? Has their work changed for the better or worse over the years?

Tags: book review, illness, terry pratchett

I wish I had a flashlight.

If I had a flashlight, I could find my USB game controller and that way I could play Actraiser on my laptop. I wouldn’t have to turn on the light and risk waking the husband, who has a test tomorrow. I’ve got the actual Actraiser cartridge for SNES (around here in one of probably 20 boxes), but I would want to play it on emulation so I can cheat bawls off.

And I want to play Actraiser because I’ve got some of the music stuck in my head. I can’t remember if the song is from the Fillmore battle area or the Bloodpool battle area or even the very last battle area. But it’s driving and pretty, in only the way a Japanese 16 bit midi can be.

There’s just simply no way to play Actraiser without the controller, and the controller is in a tangled box of electronics and I have no flashlight. We used to have a small one that we kept beside the bed, but I don’t know where it went. And we used to have a big one that we kept under the bed, but it’s like 10,000 watts and I could flag down passing jets with it, so I would almost be less obnoxious by turning on the lights.

I *could* turn my laptop screen in the direction of the Box O’ Cords and try to navigate by its sterile yet comforting LED light. It’s a thought to be reserved.

There aren’t too many dolls to be made out of the Actraiser characters. There’s really only the Hero itself to
create. Hmm. Call this research?

*immediately goes to download screen captures of the hero*

Bad Vox. Add to the list of things you are Not Allowed to Make.

Hmm. Well, I could begin work on a personal project, due to the fact that I have an LED light-up crochet hook (NOW THAT’S GONZO!)… in fact, I might be able to use it as a flashlight.

Now there’s an interesting balance to find: should I play video games that I can’t use for design fodder, or should I crochet something that may take hours and bore me to tears (that being the voluminous petticoats of the Light Queen)?

Until I decide, I may just play solitaire and read a fan shrine to Actraiser.

Wow, Actraiser had some messed up monsters.

Now, let’s research medieval tapestries, being that I’ve wanted to do my own spin on them. Either make characters from tapestries into dolls, or make a crocheted tapestry (more on this later). Five minutes later, Google has given me more tapestries than I could ever work with in one lifetime — along with the dubious delights of Tapestry Masterpieces and Geoff. Chaucer as a private eye.

Your guess is as good as mine or probably better at this time of morning.

***

Another ten minutes pass; my solitaire game is sadly neglected. In the deep dark reaches of the night StumbleUpon is my best friend. The close dear friend that keeps me entertained and simultaneously lets me blame them for my lack of productivity.

Spent ten more minutes picking the perfect theme for my iGoogle page. We can go ahead and chalk that up to “rearranging workspace for greater ergonomic ease in use.” The Audubon Birds of Prey theme was beginning to bore me; I never saw them swoop on anything.

It’s 2:40 AM and I think my brain is melting.

*************

Here’s where the manuscript tapers off, with blurred references to eye-laser beams and “ladyfingers”. It’s best not to speculate on the final sanity of the subject.

Tags: actraiser, crochet, illness, insomnia, sleep

My psych, who is a lovely crusty old dame of about 70ish, gave me some meds and said “Take these if you have an anxiety attack or insomnia; but if you have to take them at work you’ll need to go home. They’ll knock you out.”

Yeah.

I’m beginning to believe she’s a mistress of understatement.

As in, I took it at 11PM one night, thinking it was supposed to be back out of my system in about 8-9 hours. I had my alarm set for 8. I wanted to get up and do work on the commissions in my oh-so-copious free time. Instead I was woken by my husband at 10 AM, who had to *shake me to get me to wake up*, and for the rest of the day I felt like someone had slipped me a ‘lude. Hard to get anything done when that happens. The only upside was that I had a ton of weird and vivid dreams. As it was, I spent all day in an utter fog, feeling as if I hadn’t slept at all.

Guess it’ll be the last time I mess with that. Being a fibromyte means that my sleep is a touchy and special thing. I need a specific type of sleep, and a certain length of sleep — and if I don’t get it, life is difficult and sad until I do.

Medicines have always hit me oddly. They gave me morphine in the emergency room once; I still don’t understand why some people take it for fun. It acid etched my veins before it knocked me unconscious. Thinking back I can still feel that awful sensation, in arteries I didn’t even realize I had. It was a frissioning boiling feeling, a very uncomfortable trip.

Percocet, however, has been a godsend for me. It’s the only thing that really cuts through the pain, with no side effects that I’ve been able to notice it. I can use it sparingly because it is effective. I don’t have to stack eight or twelve or even 16 ibuprophen and do some unknown amount of damage to my innards.

The biggest medication to affect me was Metformin. I was put on it because there was a possibility at the time that I had Poly-Cystic Ovarian Disease, or PCOD. My general practitioner let me know that there was a severe side effect called lactic acidosis but it was so rare that the likelihood of me getting it would be very small.

A week later I went back to my doc with a complaint of acute chest pain and all over muscle soreness. I asked my doc if there was a possibility of this being the rare side effect. They gave the answer of “Oh no, it’s much worse than this.”

Two months later and they were right — it *was* much worse!

Lactic acidosis is part of what happens to the body during the process of rigor mortis; in a way I was living and dead all at once. (A very novel feeling, but I do not suggest it to others.) It felt like my lungs and chest were turning to stone and set on fire and wrapped tightly in barbed wire at the same time. My muscles hurt all over; I was taking four and five percocet a day just to sit upright. But a day after stopping the Metformin, the symptoms began to fade and in four days they were gone.

Lactic acidosis has a hilarious fatality rate; I feel that I came very close to dying because of several misdiagnoses of the situation, and numerous doctors who failed to listen to me and my appraisal of my symptoms. Later that year I got a tattoo because of this experience — a human heart wrapped tight with barbed wire, with phoenix-wings of flame shooting from it. It got it out of my head and on to my skin, where I didn’t have to think about it so often.

Saint Cloth says that tattoos fade; I hope this one does.

Ever had a medication give you a higher effect than you were told it would, or a horrific side effect that causes you harm?

Tags: courage, dead, illness, medication, medicines, sleep

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