July 30th, 2015

2013, cyd, new

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2013, cyd, new

Maybe I'll find a nice documentary on Netflix to watch.

The laptop has been a good and true friend. The screen now comes on in one set of colors and then blinks to my color settings a couple of seconds later. That's not a good sign. Lucky I've got the back-up screen. But further, it keeps crashing. Doc actually played his game for who knows how many hours this morning with Photoshop and Windows Media Player open. Yeah, so as soon as I took control of it when I woke up from my nap, it had an ugly crash dump. Blue screen of nonsense and everything. I may have to acquiesce to Doc and reformat it. I'm really not enthused about the 18 hours of reloading the software, though. Some pirated, and has to be installed in a certain order to keep the software from "calling home". The real hassle is the legal stuff. Each with its own CD and passkey that take forever to run. The pirated stuff lives on a USB drive, it's a snap. The legal, not so much. 7 of the hours are taken up by the restoration CDs. See, we can't just reload Windows 7 on this, no, it was built in to the restoration CDs, so we have to restore the whole thing to factory and start from scratch.

But I need it to keep working. If he works a solid month, no days out, he can buy a new laptop, which he can defile with whatever browser and game he wants. I will continue to nurse this one. It's his fucking game that has wrought havoc on this machine. And he bitches about the machine. Do you see me in a strangling position?

He stayed home half the night last night. He slept the whole time. I missed Rachel Maddow, and Mr. Robot. He woke up at 11, grumpy and growling, so I took my meds and lay down. When I woke up at 12:30am, he was gone. I had a cigarette and went back to bed until 5 this morning. He seemed cheery this moring. Until I was catching him up on a news story and he cut me off, again, and told me I was being to emphatic, again, and told me to calm it down or stop talking, again. So I stopped talking, went outside and had a cigarette and lay back down for my nap. When I woke up to some shit he had on TV (note: he can watch whatever he wants at whatever volume he wants while I am asleep; but I am to keep the TV off while he sleeps) and got up to smoke a cigarette and have some Gatorade. He didn't say a word to me. Then I slept until 3. When I got up, he was asleep. Only two more hours until the real fun starts! Did I mention that I think I'm building up a nice case of PTSD from this vicious cycle? I start shaking at about 5. I have nightmares about waking up too late to wake him up on time and him freaking out on me. It's really suck.

At least tonight he will be gone the whole night. I really do want to try to record tonight.

Oh, speaking of, does anyone know where on the web (google has failed me, but I know you guys. *looks at Liliane*) I could hear a non-computerized voice say the word "angel" in Swedish? At the end of one of my new pieces, I want to add "Good night my angel" in Swedish. My Papa used to say it to me all the time. As a kid I could say it, I could say a lot of things. But now I can't remember the proper pronunciation of angel. And the google translate computer voice repeating it just confuses me more. Swedish is like a cross between German, Dutch and Finnish. I can only "do" one of those accents. Dutch and Finnish I'm not familiar with enough to emulate and adapt the accent to the words I need to apply them to.

In other news, Doc is stirring and making grumpy noises, so I am obviously typing too loud. Why don't I just move to a different room? Pure laziness. I would need to take the USB hub with me and all the cords attached to it and hook them up in my room and it's just such a hassle. And I don't have pillows in my room anymore (Bedbug invasion of 2012) so there is no place to do anything but lay down. He needs to go to his bedroom. He is the one putting all these rules down on the other person living in the living room. If I was doing the same, you can be sure he would demand that I move back to my room, post haste.

Maybe I'll find a nice documentary on Netflix to watch.
2013, cyd, new

before I became one with the internet

Ahh, the power company has let go its hold on our a/c for the day. It feels so nice in here. Finally. I don't so much mind the raised temps for three hours a day when it isn't humid, which is 98% of the time. But today it is take-a-machete-outside-to-cut-through-the-air day, so it got a little sweaty in here.

We've been having a problem with feeding Chewbacca. We've been through four kinds of kibble, finally settling on the expensive one, which he does, kind of eat. But not enough to live. He also jumps up on the cat cabinet and eats their food, no good. Impressive that he can jump that high without making a sound, but still, no bueno. So we've tried putting things on his kibble. We've tried bacon fat, it works, but is too fatty to give him every day. Doc chops up chicken and adds it to the kibble. I've tried low-salt chicken broth, with varying success. Finally, last night, after he begged and then cleaned my bowl of cottage cheese, it occurred to me to add cottage cheese to his kibble. I looked it up, and found out that cottage cheese, in its low-fat form, is actually kind of good for dogs, as long as they aren't lactose intolerant, which Chewy is not. So I added a teaspoon of cottage cheese to his cup of kibble and mixed it all up so every piece was coated with milky goodness, and presented it to him. He ate his kibble in record time. I just did the same thing, and got the same results. So now we have a solution to his not eating. Finally. I hated switching up kibble on him, for the potential tummy upset. But now we're set.

Doc and I left things fairly civilly. I tried to explain to him that when he asks me simple questions about an action (are his pants hanging to dry, for example), it is easier for me to look and see than it is for me to form the words to answer his question. He says I have to change that. I can't change that. It's the way my brain is wired! I'm finally coming to understand which deficits I can change, and am working on changing them, and which ones can't, and I'm trying to get him to work with me on them. He refuses. He simply says my explanation isn't good enough and I need to learn to communicate like a normal human being. OUCH. So, I have a great big chip on my shoulder and I'm harboring a big-ass resentment. So, yeah, you could say my hands are full.

He says he won't read the packet for care givers on cognitive and negative symptoms and how they work together to sabotage speech and time and emotions. He says if he reads it, it will just give me an excuse to behave "badly". Firstly, how could that happen with his reading it? I haven't read it, so how could it affect my behavior? And I resent my symptoms being labeled "behaving badly" and told to act "normal".

Oh, really? Is that all? Why did I not think of that all these years? Just turn it all off and not be schizophrenic anymore. Just stop it. Okay. I'm healed. Everything is fine. I don't see those figures in the hallway and Joan of Arc is not sitting on my patio waiting for me to go out and smoke so she can talk to me more. Not there, I'm normal now. My brain should be in perfect working order, once the pronouncement of being cured sinks in overnight as I sleep. By then, I should be completely regular again. I should get up with figures dancing through my head, ready to put my Executive Chef positions on my linkedin profile and start the job search for a grueling 80 hour work week in the heat of a kitchen, re-paying my dues because I have been out of the profession for so long. I'll cancel my disability payments and shrink appointments. I'll take down all this foolish internet stuff and focus on my chef career and do that until I burn out. Then go back to office work for my Golden Years. Pretend this art and writing thing never happened. Just be a regular person who gets spam and doesn't check her email often and is rarely online. I will be the perfect suburban childless housewife. You know, except for the missing teeth and heavily scarred part.

That's what he wants. Does he even know that's what I want, too? How fulfilling it was to be promoted to Head Pantry Chef for one of the most prestigious catering companies in south eastern PA and South Jersey. I organized and helped create salads, garnishes and hors d'ouvres for events ranging from 50 to 500 people. Then I went on-site to the largest events to oversee the dissemination of my food at the right time, to the right people. It was an all-consuming job. Sometimes I worked 24-36 hour shifts, with a great deal of driving during to get on-site and then back home again. I miss that.

I miss the cafe I was Executive Chef at. I created and implemented a new menu. I went in before dawn every day to make the muffins and the soups. Always home made soups. Then I'd cook the food all day while doing prep for the next day. I was the only kitchen staff unless I could rope one of my friends into washing dishes in return for a hot meal and all the espresso they could drink. That was a great job. It was me, alone, running the back of the house. Training the wait staff how to describe the food, training the owner to stay the fuck out of my kitchen and, for the love of god, not to touch the slicer. He cut the tip of his finger off one day and walked into the kitchen to ask me for help, and managed to spray blood all over my work surfaces, and the contents of the bain marie. After I got him situated and far from food, I had to shut down the kitchen in the middle of lunch and replace everything in the bain marie, and sanitize everything. I was so pissed at him for that. He also bled all over a 5lb. turkey breast, which was a complete loss and the only one we had in stock. I never did get paid a cent for the 7 odd months I worked there, but I loved that job.

Wow, I didn't mean to write over 1,000 words. I am all too aware of the "Tl;dr" (Too long;didn't read) and fear writing too much because of it. Bloggers, commenters, and such, are getting hit with the Tl;dr in their comments, and I dread the day I see that in my comments.

I believe I've ranted enough, and look, I've given you new insight into what I was before I became one with the internet.