(My sleeping pattern's weird lately. I go to bed in the afternoon, wake up for dinner, then sleep until half past four in the morning, fresh as a daisy.)
(Also: unless something happens or I've got major philosophising to do, I'm not going to bore you with my attempts at wittiness)
So the past few days have been pretty boring.
Iggy's still okay. He's even eating. I think he'd keep eating if we kept giving him stuff, but I'd rather have a dog than a jelly doughnut on legs.
My shoes still aren't shipped. If they don't get shipped today, I'm all out of excuses for the nice people working at the website. GIVE ME MY SHOES SO I CAN BE DISAPPOINTED, DAMMIT!
J. got new UV-light machines to harden gels. Technically, they only take one minute to harden out any modern gel, but she's not taking any chances with them. They're adorable, like little robot helmets. I've named them Biep-Biep and Wall-I. The names fit.
I knitted a pig hat for S., who was surprisingly happy to wear it. It was pink, glittery, and unmistakably pig-like. She's over twenty-five, but loved it. Go figure.
I said and understood a few things wrong. At some point I misheard 'electrical rotary tool ('fraser' in German)' for 'electroshock laser'. My surprise at the customer's calm aquiescence to have this used on her hands has kept people amused for days now.
I didn't know what a bike frame was, so I used the word 'skeleton', assuming people would know what I meant and correct me. J. took two minutes to recover from that one.
Shortly afterwards, I used my background in all sensible languages to assume 'repair' is 'reparation' in German. It's not. It's 'reparatur'. At that point, Boyfriend was called in to translate from Flemish (which he did admirably) what I was trying to say (the back wheel of my bike keeps rubbing the frame, the tire deflates surprisingly quickly, and I want to get it repaired, but I'm scared the repairs will turn into a complete bike overhaul costing several hundred euros if the bike repair shop doesn't understand my German) before J. developed a customer backlog. There are days I should just shut up.
Yesterday, we went to Bamberg, for whimsical shopping and inspiration. Well, I wanted blind-bag ponies and yarn. I found neither. I did get a pair of fresh leather thongs to turn into necklaces, a milkshake-y thing at KFC that definitely wasn't worth the three euros I paid and something whimsical. Something light. An STD.
I spent at least half an hour in the selection process. Did I want a parasite? A bacteria? A body cell? A virus? Which virus did I want? Then it was time for elimination. I'd hoped for the common cold, but it was either never in stock, or it had been sold out already. So that left Herpes or HIV.
Herpes was a nice, bright yellow and shaped like a flying saucer. Also, it had a little dent of a nose that was downright adorable.
HIV was black, had a support ribbon and was the same shape as my much-wanted common cold. It was fuzzy. Its little red eyes stared up at me all adorable like. It needed a home. It looked so helpless and precious and--
Yeah, I now have AIDS.
To prevent a rather urgent call from my mother, should this enter the family grapevine, let me explain to you that I bought a Giant Microbe. They're plushies, shaped like common and uncommon infections and/or cells, personificated somewhat, more or less acurately depicted and blown up to be about four inches high or long. (We also found a truly gargantuan Gonnorrhea virus, but it was a bit too expensive for what it was.) The things come with a card explaining what the actual version of the infection/cell did, how it survives, dies, gets treated, etc.
I learned, for example, that drying out fluids infected with HIV has a ninety to ninety-nine chance of killing the virus. Huh.
Should biology teachers be interested, the company also makes red blood cells, white blood cells, egg cells, sperm cells and beer yeast, in varying sizes and quantities.
And, to conclude, Barack Obama got another four years to try and make America a better place.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Sunday, November 4, 2012
The Improvement
So on Friday, I came home to find the house covered in brown pawprints, the dog with no appetite but otherwise fine and several bloody stools that hadn't been left by Boyfriend or me on the floor.
I had been planning on cleaning everything a day later, but Iggy made sure I did it faster.
Boyfriend took Iggy out, came back, and I cleaned. First to get the stains off. Dried diarrhea, even with hot soapy water and microfibre cloth, doesn't come off easily. I rubbed and scrubbed and soaked, and eventually there was no more poop on the floor. Then Boyfriend rinsed out my bucket and cloth, got me fresh water, and I went over it again to make sure it was clean.
We'd spilled some poo water on the bathroom mats, so those got washed again.
Then I prepared the shower, and Boyfriend and I washed Iggy. The spite factor in this was relatively minor. I'm not saying I wasn't partially thinking 'Ha! Serves you right!' at a sick puppy who doesn't like showers, but the main part of my brain was thinking 'blood in poo isn't usually a good thing' and that Iggy licks his paws and butt, which were covered in anything he pooped out. If the poop was infected, it was a vicious cycle and washing would, at the very least, lower the dose he got.
He predictably did not like the shower, nor that his usual ally seemed to have teamed up with me to rain down more misery on his already considerably bleak day. Then we took the blanket he'd spent all week breaking in, gave him a new one and put him in his basket. He stayed in there until long after he got dry. Either he was sulking, either he was scared, or he was simply exhausted. I'm guessing a combination of the three.
Then I washed all the towels we used, Iggy's blanket and the mop on a hot cycle. Die, bacteria, die.
Iggy continued pooping until deep into the night.
I eventually decided he'd pooped more than he'd eaten, since we somehow have a dog that is not interested in anything that isn't the dog equivalent of candy, and made him some rice. I know this is a valid dog thing to eat, since my host family's dog has a diet consisting for a large part out of rice. If his stomach was upset, this could go up to 100% rice for a few days.
To tempt him into actually trying some, I made sure the rice, when served, was warm, moist and smelled of beef. He'd never had beef before, but he's fascinated about the smell each time I make beef stock in soup or risotto. So I cooked the rice in beef stock and gave him a few spoonfuls on a small plate. He ate about a third before seeing through my deceit, but he'd gotten some calories in him, at least.
I wasn't looking forward to the morning, since we'd decided that any more liquid brown stuff meant a trip to the vet.
But he was clean. The house was clean. He'd peed in his litter box, but that was it. Outside, he knew he had to do something, so he walked around until he managed to squeeze out a trickle of pee. Then he walked over to me at the door and looked from me to the doorway until I gave in and let him in.
The dry streak has continued the entire day. He's eating. He's drinking. All that comes out is pee. No more or less than is caninely acceptable. He's turned downright adventurous, following me around as I do laundry (One week's laundry in one day!), dishes (All the dishes are done!) and cook (Finally made spaghetti sauce!) and reorganise the freezer. He comes very close to my chair, only fleeing when I move in his direction or stare too long.
Boyfriend is even less of a threat to him. Iggy comes to beg for cuddles or play time with him (Iggy's PLAYING), and he's even learned a trick. Now, I wish for tricks like 'sit' and 'down' and 'stay', but if Iggy wants to stand up on his hind legs and climb a hand at Boyfriend's whim, who am I to poke at a good thing?
So my scared, sick puppy has been healthy for a full twenty-four hours and is starting to learn that my sounding angry doesn't mean I'll do so for next six hours. Our home is clean and filled with the smell of basil and garlic and cooked tomato. I have groceries for fresh food for the rest of the weekend. I have most Christmas gifts planned out. Oh, and J. gave me a laundry basket full of mystery yarn. Yay.
I had been planning on cleaning everything a day later, but Iggy made sure I did it faster.
Boyfriend took Iggy out, came back, and I cleaned. First to get the stains off. Dried diarrhea, even with hot soapy water and microfibre cloth, doesn't come off easily. I rubbed and scrubbed and soaked, and eventually there was no more poop on the floor. Then Boyfriend rinsed out my bucket and cloth, got me fresh water, and I went over it again to make sure it was clean.
We'd spilled some poo water on the bathroom mats, so those got washed again.
Then I prepared the shower, and Boyfriend and I washed Iggy. The spite factor in this was relatively minor. I'm not saying I wasn't partially thinking 'Ha! Serves you right!' at a sick puppy who doesn't like showers, but the main part of my brain was thinking 'blood in poo isn't usually a good thing' and that Iggy licks his paws and butt, which were covered in anything he pooped out. If the poop was infected, it was a vicious cycle and washing would, at the very least, lower the dose he got.
He predictably did not like the shower, nor that his usual ally seemed to have teamed up with me to rain down more misery on his already considerably bleak day. Then we took the blanket he'd spent all week breaking in, gave him a new one and put him in his basket. He stayed in there until long after he got dry. Either he was sulking, either he was scared, or he was simply exhausted. I'm guessing a combination of the three.
Then I washed all the towels we used, Iggy's blanket and the mop on a hot cycle. Die, bacteria, die.
Iggy continued pooping until deep into the night.
I eventually decided he'd pooped more than he'd eaten, since we somehow have a dog that is not interested in anything that isn't the dog equivalent of candy, and made him some rice. I know this is a valid dog thing to eat, since my host family's dog has a diet consisting for a large part out of rice. If his stomach was upset, this could go up to 100% rice for a few days.
To tempt him into actually trying some, I made sure the rice, when served, was warm, moist and smelled of beef. He'd never had beef before, but he's fascinated about the smell each time I make beef stock in soup or risotto. So I cooked the rice in beef stock and gave him a few spoonfuls on a small plate. He ate about a third before seeing through my deceit, but he'd gotten some calories in him, at least.
I wasn't looking forward to the morning, since we'd decided that any more liquid brown stuff meant a trip to the vet.
But he was clean. The house was clean. He'd peed in his litter box, but that was it. Outside, he knew he had to do something, so he walked around until he managed to squeeze out a trickle of pee. Then he walked over to me at the door and looked from me to the doorway until I gave in and let him in.
The dry streak has continued the entire day. He's eating. He's drinking. All that comes out is pee. No more or less than is caninely acceptable. He's turned downright adventurous, following me around as I do laundry (One week's laundry in one day!), dishes (All the dishes are done!) and cook (Finally made spaghetti sauce!) and reorganise the freezer. He comes very close to my chair, only fleeing when I move in his direction or stare too long.
Boyfriend is even less of a threat to him. Iggy comes to beg for cuddles or play time with him (Iggy's PLAYING), and he's even learned a trick. Now, I wish for tricks like 'sit' and 'down' and 'stay', but if Iggy wants to stand up on his hind legs and climb a hand at Boyfriend's whim, who am I to poke at a good thing?
So my scared, sick puppy has been healthy for a full twenty-four hours and is starting to learn that my sounding angry doesn't mean I'll do so for next six hours. Our home is clean and filled with the smell of basil and garlic and cooked tomato. I have groceries for fresh food for the rest of the weekend. I have most Christmas gifts planned out. Oh, and J. gave me a laundry basket full of mystery yarn. Yay.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
The Shoes
I've decided not to do the Wrimo. Aww, sadness.
Instead, I spent the entirety of last night looking at shoes. That is not a happy thing for me. It's mostly a reminder that nothing fits and I can afford nothing that might, either. So I went to Birkenstock and its related daughter companies. They all have good arch support, if nothing else. Which inevitably led me to the Footprints website.
Footprints is Birkenstock's actual shoe brand. It's quality shoes: not too tight, good support at the ankle, arches, no insane heels, good materials. What's even more fun is that, for all the quality, there's options with a wide or a narrow footbed for under one hundred euros.
So I spent a few hours dreaming online until I stumbled over the model 'Riga'. It's no longer in the collection, but several stores still have enough of them left to have them in what I think is my size. For about a third of the price, I kid you not.
So there I was, with a shoe that looked my age, available in a range of colors and it might fit. For less than forty euros. I literally own flipflops with a higher price tag.
So I agonised over it for a while and ordered myself a pair of light green, leather sneakers. If they don't fit, I can return them. If they do fit, I will be beside myself with happiness.
On top of that, I'm currently trying out the treadmill desk idea. I put my laptop on a cupboard in the hall that's the right height, turned on the treadmill at the lowest setting and started walking.
It works, except I'm sweating like mad, and my pc is about twenty centimeters too far away from me to not bump into the start of the treadmill every so often. Typing is tricky, like I've gotten a new keyboard or something. They say you gotta keep it up for a week before it stops feeling like madness. I'll see if I can keep this up.
Instead, I spent the entirety of last night looking at shoes. That is not a happy thing for me. It's mostly a reminder that nothing fits and I can afford nothing that might, either. So I went to Birkenstock and its related daughter companies. They all have good arch support, if nothing else. Which inevitably led me to the Footprints website.
Footprints is Birkenstock's actual shoe brand. It's quality shoes: not too tight, good support at the ankle, arches, no insane heels, good materials. What's even more fun is that, for all the quality, there's options with a wide or a narrow footbed for under one hundred euros.
So I spent a few hours dreaming online until I stumbled over the model 'Riga'. It's no longer in the collection, but several stores still have enough of them left to have them in what I think is my size. For about a third of the price, I kid you not.
So there I was, with a shoe that looked my age, available in a range of colors and it might fit. For less than forty euros. I literally own flipflops with a higher price tag.
So I agonised over it for a while and ordered myself a pair of light green, leather sneakers. If they don't fit, I can return them. If they do fit, I will be beside myself with happiness.
On top of that, I'm currently trying out the treadmill desk idea. I put my laptop on a cupboard in the hall that's the right height, turned on the treadmill at the lowest setting and started walking.
It works, except I'm sweating like mad, and my pc is about twenty centimeters too far away from me to not bump into the start of the treadmill every so often. Typing is tricky, like I've gotten a new keyboard or something. They say you gotta keep it up for a week before it stops feeling like madness. I'll see if I can keep this up.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
The Empty Dog
Iggy's not feeling well. He's his usual scared, energetic, perky self, but anything that goes into his fuzzy little frame comes out liquid. And I mean anything.
It started sometime yesterday with just impaired structural integrity of what he was producing, and tomorrow I woke up to fecal-licious pawprints all over the apartment, with my parents there to witness it all. His blanket is soiled, his litter box was a mess.
The two most likely causes are too much treats and too much stress, or a combination of the two.
I got permission from J. to take the afternoon I'd said I'd work off to look after Iggy. He kinda left a brown puddle in the middle of the studio. In front of four customers and my parents. My mom freaked out. J. isn't exactly used to it, but she's a lot better at taking these things in stride. She was, in any case, convinced I wasn't playing on her feelings to get an afternoon of napping when I invoked the sick puppy clause.
So I spent the afternoon waiting for Iggy to get all nervous and pacy, which is Iggy's current way of indicating something's up, made sure he had plenty of fresh water, and eventually googling basic measures to take when your dog has diarrhea. The googling happened after the adjective 'explosive' became applicable and it took five minutes before Iggy wanted to sit on his butt after being taken outside.
The internet advised against any and all human medications (No, I was not planning on giving my three-pound dog a tablet that was meant for humans that weigh at least forty-five kilograms, but apparently this is something some people do) and to provide hydratation. I'd gotten that far myself. What I had forgotten was to take away his food bowl. Every time he chewed or ate something vaguely edible, it didn't seem to improve matters. So I took his pig ear, his chewing bone, his dentastix and his food bowl. He gave me the look he rarely gives Boyfriend and often gives me.
It's his 'Why are you being so mean to me?' look. He uses it when his food is taken away at night, his collar or harness is put on, his lead is taken off the shelf, he's put under a shower, his blanket is taken away for washing, one of my purses needs to be taken out of the drawer behind his basket and, lately, when the treats he sniffed and then left in someone's hand are not delivered to his spot. Oh, and when he's told to get off the couch. Though the couch thing has some confusion mixed in.
The frequency of pacing went down when I removed all edible things. His water intake increased. The amount of what's coming out went down. I'm hopeful that the end of the poonami is near.
The problem is that Iggy's still on edge. When Boyfriend's friends came in for a night of gaming, he tried to hide. Normally, he recognises them as 'The Guys Who Leave Me Alone And Occasionally Call My Name, But Don't Care If I Don't React'. Since my parents came over and he was taken in a car, walkies, in a car, in a store, in a car and home, with the strange man trying to get a rise out of him, he's been wary about people.
I'm going to see if a few days of peace and quiet and a less treats will improve matters. I'm hopeful.
It started sometime yesterday with just impaired structural integrity of what he was producing, and tomorrow I woke up to fecal-licious pawprints all over the apartment, with my parents there to witness it all. His blanket is soiled, his litter box was a mess.
The two most likely causes are too much treats and too much stress, or a combination of the two.
I got permission from J. to take the afternoon I'd said I'd work off to look after Iggy. He kinda left a brown puddle in the middle of the studio. In front of four customers and my parents. My mom freaked out. J. isn't exactly used to it, but she's a lot better at taking these things in stride. She was, in any case, convinced I wasn't playing on her feelings to get an afternoon of napping when I invoked the sick puppy clause.
So I spent the afternoon waiting for Iggy to get all nervous and pacy, which is Iggy's current way of indicating something's up, made sure he had plenty of fresh water, and eventually googling basic measures to take when your dog has diarrhea. The googling happened after the adjective 'explosive' became applicable and it took five minutes before Iggy wanted to sit on his butt after being taken outside.
The internet advised against any and all human medications (No, I was not planning on giving my three-pound dog a tablet that was meant for humans that weigh at least forty-five kilograms, but apparently this is something some people do) and to provide hydratation. I'd gotten that far myself. What I had forgotten was to take away his food bowl. Every time he chewed or ate something vaguely edible, it didn't seem to improve matters. So I took his pig ear, his chewing bone, his dentastix and his food bowl. He gave me the look he rarely gives Boyfriend and often gives me.
It's his 'Why are you being so mean to me?' look. He uses it when his food is taken away at night, his collar or harness is put on, his lead is taken off the shelf, he's put under a shower, his blanket is taken away for washing, one of my purses needs to be taken out of the drawer behind his basket and, lately, when the treats he sniffed and then left in someone's hand are not delivered to his spot. Oh, and when he's told to get off the couch. Though the couch thing has some confusion mixed in.
The frequency of pacing went down when I removed all edible things. His water intake increased. The amount of what's coming out went down. I'm hopeful that the end of the poonami is near.
The problem is that Iggy's still on edge. When Boyfriend's friends came in for a night of gaming, he tried to hide. Normally, he recognises them as 'The Guys Who Leave Me Alone And Occasionally Call My Name, But Don't Care If I Don't React'. Since my parents came over and he was taken in a car, walkies, in a car, in a store, in a car and home, with the strange man trying to get a rise out of him, he's been wary about people.
I'm going to see if a few days of peace and quiet and a less treats will improve matters. I'm hopeful.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
The Wrimo
(Why yes, I am compensating for not posting. I'm also putting off unpacking the last box of stuff. EPIC COMBO!)
I have a bit of a dilemma. Tomorrow is the thirty-first of October. That means that it's the last day to any prep for Nanowrimo.
Except I haven't done any prep.
I don't even have a story idea.
I haven't adjusted my settings since two years ago, so the website still thinks I live in Belgium.
But I kinda sorta wanna do it again. I miss the crazy 'Write ALL THE THINGS in the head' mode that happens in the middle of the month.
It's a bit like this blog, except I have to think even less about what I write down.
It's a bit like writing a paper with a word limit, since you suddenly start noticing things like words where hyphenation is optional get counted as two whenever you don't put a hyphen in them and your descriptions turn adjective-tastic.
I could do it in any language I like.
But then again... I also want to write in my blog during November. And maybe sleep at reasonable times. And there's the very real risk that I'll put on headphones and zone out Boyfriend until the writing quota for the day is met and/or the muse-moment has left me. And that I'll start to eat quick, easy meals.
Then again, I could write it on the treadmill.
...
Halp.
I have a bit of a dilemma. Tomorrow is the thirty-first of October. That means that it's the last day to any prep for Nanowrimo.
Except I haven't done any prep.
I don't even have a story idea.
I haven't adjusted my settings since two years ago, so the website still thinks I live in Belgium.
But I kinda sorta wanna do it again. I miss the crazy 'Write ALL THE THINGS in the head' mode that happens in the middle of the month.
It's a bit like this blog, except I have to think even less about what I write down.
It's a bit like writing a paper with a word limit, since you suddenly start noticing things like words where hyphenation is optional get counted as two whenever you don't put a hyphen in them and your descriptions turn adjective-tastic.
I could do it in any language I like.
But then again... I also want to write in my blog during November. And maybe sleep at reasonable times. And there's the very real risk that I'll put on headphones and zone out Boyfriend until the writing quota for the day is met and/or the muse-moment has left me. And that I'll start to eat quick, easy meals.
Then again, I could write it on the treadmill.
...
Halp.
The Knitting Plans
So I've got a few things I want to knit that are in the knit-making.
J. asked me to knit her a cowl. It's basically the one I made for Boyfriend with shorter ribbing and ribbing on both sides. The pattern is quite easy, except she wants it in bulky yarn. Bulky yarn knits quickly, but she wants a huge cowl, with a thirty centimeter diameter, forty centimeters long at least. If you want that in any yarn that's suitable for adults in my head, you're looking at a minimum of forty euro's worth of merino or alpaca. Provided you can find a yarn store with humane prices. This may shoot up to one hundred. She said she'll find the yarn. So, yeah, we'll see.
Then there's talk about somewhere in the studio, there being yarn J. doesn't want anymore. The general consensus is that it's pink. I'm thinking of knitting S. a butterfly beret with it. Unless I get all impatient and knit it from the multicolored Bravo yarn I have lying around for testing purposes. The pattern is interesting, yo.
Boyfriend wants a beard hat. I found a pattern that looks good, is fairly simple and might even be customisable should it turn out to look like crap. All I have to do is find yarn. Aran to bulky weight. No idea what color yet.
I also want to knit J. a hat, because she told me that, if I were to knit her something, she'd want something either in dark earth tones or grey, that is a bit more suitable for her age (by which she means: no antennae, no fins, no tails, no cat ears) and I wanna prove I can do it. I'm still looking for patterns and don't have any yarn in mind.
So yeah... A trip to the fabled yarn store a few towns over might be in order. I want to see their prices. I want to be inspired. I want to come home with so much loot I can roll around in all the colors of Bravo and several skeins of delicious superwash merino.
Oh, and the boxes my mom brought included a truckload of fuzzy blue acrylic yarn which I've never owned. Apparently, an old kindergarten teacher of my brother got wind of my knitting and sent a carload of things. Most of them are knitting books in Dutch, which would be nice, were it not for the internet having things like knittinghelp.com, knitty.com, ravelry.com and youtube.com. And then there's the fact that knitting patterns and explanations in any other language than English confuse the pee out of me. I've tried it, but it's all gobbledygook. And there's no modern, nice knitting books being translated into Dutch as far as I know. No wonder so many of my Flemish friends don't see eye to eye to me where knitting's involved.
Also in the boxes were my fabled number fifteens.
The blue yarn is going to become a fuzzy, fuzzy scarf, I think. I might even make Boyfriend knit it up.
J. asked me to knit her a cowl. It's basically the one I made for Boyfriend with shorter ribbing and ribbing on both sides. The pattern is quite easy, except she wants it in bulky yarn. Bulky yarn knits quickly, but she wants a huge cowl, with a thirty centimeter diameter, forty centimeters long at least. If you want that in any yarn that's suitable for adults in my head, you're looking at a minimum of forty euro's worth of merino or alpaca. Provided you can find a yarn store with humane prices. This may shoot up to one hundred. She said she'll find the yarn. So, yeah, we'll see.
Then there's talk about somewhere in the studio, there being yarn J. doesn't want anymore. The general consensus is that it's pink. I'm thinking of knitting S. a butterfly beret with it. Unless I get all impatient and knit it from the multicolored Bravo yarn I have lying around for testing purposes. The pattern is interesting, yo.
Boyfriend wants a beard hat. I found a pattern that looks good, is fairly simple and might even be customisable should it turn out to look like crap. All I have to do is find yarn. Aran to bulky weight. No idea what color yet.
I also want to knit J. a hat, because she told me that, if I were to knit her something, she'd want something either in dark earth tones or grey, that is a bit more suitable for her age (by which she means: no antennae, no fins, no tails, no cat ears) and I wanna prove I can do it. I'm still looking for patterns and don't have any yarn in mind.
So yeah... A trip to the fabled yarn store a few towns over might be in order. I want to see their prices. I want to be inspired. I want to come home with so much loot I can roll around in all the colors of Bravo and several skeins of delicious superwash merino.
Oh, and the boxes my mom brought included a truckload of fuzzy blue acrylic yarn which I've never owned. Apparently, an old kindergarten teacher of my brother got wind of my knitting and sent a carload of things. Most of them are knitting books in Dutch, which would be nice, were it not for the internet having things like knittinghelp.com, knitty.com, ravelry.com and youtube.com. And then there's the fact that knitting patterns and explanations in any other language than English confuse the pee out of me. I've tried it, but it's all gobbledygook. And there's no modern, nice knitting books being translated into Dutch as far as I know. No wonder so many of my Flemish friends don't see eye to eye to me where knitting's involved.
Also in the boxes were my fabled number fifteens.
The blue yarn is going to become a fuzzy, fuzzy scarf, I think. I might even make Boyfriend knit it up.
The Unpacking
(Note: There were no posts on the previous two days because just filling a few pages with a's and sticking 'h! Parents are coming/here and I'm too exhausted to be literate!' didn't seem very productive.)
So my parents arrived yesterday. I spent the day stressing about in the studio, eating pizza for lunch, unloading boxes, going to a few stores (Iggy now has more toys than he knows what to do with and has decided that all he wants now is a pig ear) and finally going to a restaurant. By then I was so exhausted, typing was no longer an option.
Today, my mom thought I had to unpack all the boxes all day, since they're taking the leftovers with them tomorrow. So they picked Boyfriend and me up this morning and we visited the castle. It was raining, so they couldn't take a walk, and it was museum with kids or shopping with my mom.
The castle was fun. Cold in some places, but fun. Afterwards, we had lunch in the restaurant. Boyfriend decided to once again demonstrate how he somehow fails to tick all the 'typical German' boxes by asking me 'What is apfelstrudel, anyway?'. Upon explaining, he thought it was a really good idea, so we had dessert. The restaurant showed howinsane skilled they were by offering homemade apfelstrudel which wasn't just flaky, but also delicious. Anyone who has ever tried to make traditional strudel knows what I'm talking about.
My darling sweet parents even asked if we needed to go grocery shopping. Y'know, raining, near-freezing temperatures, my winter coat somewhere in a box at home, quite possibly still in Belgium... Yeah, I abused the opportunity to pick out some wrapping paper for Boyfriend's birthday gift. I was going to go for something blue and neutral, but when I teasingly offered baby pink Hello Kitty paper, he was really enthusiastic. So yeah. His birthday and Christmas gifts will be easily recognisable. (Also: why isn't it questionable to his sexuality to give him girly wrapping paper, but giving him something everyone knows he collects is? Also, why would his dad think he's gay for receiving a gift when there's noisy sex above his kitchen at least once a week? Guy-logic makes no sense to me)
Then I procrastinated, and put it off some more and finally took a nap to not have to unpack the boxes. It was eight pm when I woke up. And the boxes looked like four hours of emotional turmoil and suffering. Yeah, trepidation was a word that particularly came to mind. So was 'sleep not allowed'.
Anyway, Boyfriend was going to make spaghetti sauce from scratch (We later discovered we still had some in the freezer) while I unpacked.
I got started and unpacked for an hour. All boxes except one got either unpacked or identified as booktasticness. So yeah... I'm currently on a break.
So my parents arrived yesterday. I spent the day stressing about in the studio, eating pizza for lunch, unloading boxes, going to a few stores (Iggy now has more toys than he knows what to do with and has decided that all he wants now is a pig ear) and finally going to a restaurant. By then I was so exhausted, typing was no longer an option.
Today, my mom thought I had to unpack all the boxes all day, since they're taking the leftovers with them tomorrow. So they picked Boyfriend and me up this morning and we visited the castle. It was raining, so they couldn't take a walk, and it was museum with kids or shopping with my mom.
The castle was fun. Cold in some places, but fun. Afterwards, we had lunch in the restaurant. Boyfriend decided to once again demonstrate how he somehow fails to tick all the 'typical German' boxes by asking me 'What is apfelstrudel, anyway?'. Upon explaining, he thought it was a really good idea, so we had dessert. The restaurant showed how
My darling sweet parents even asked if we needed to go grocery shopping. Y'know, raining, near-freezing temperatures, my winter coat somewhere in a box at home, quite possibly still in Belgium... Yeah, I abused the opportunity to pick out some wrapping paper for Boyfriend's birthday gift. I was going to go for something blue and neutral, but when I teasingly offered baby pink Hello Kitty paper, he was really enthusiastic. So yeah. His birthday and Christmas gifts will be easily recognisable. (Also: why isn't it questionable to his sexuality to give him girly wrapping paper, but giving him something everyone knows he collects is? Also, why would his dad think he's gay for receiving a gift when there's noisy sex above his kitchen at least once a week? Guy-logic makes no sense to me)
Then I procrastinated, and put it off some more and finally took a nap to not have to unpack the boxes. It was eight pm when I woke up. And the boxes looked like four hours of emotional turmoil and suffering. Yeah, trepidation was a word that particularly came to mind. So was 'sleep not allowed'.
Anyway, Boyfriend was going to make spaghetti sauce from scratch (We later discovered we still had some in the freezer) while I unpacked.
I got started and unpacked for an hour. All boxes except one got either unpacked or identified as booktasticness. So yeah... I'm currently on a break.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
The Existence of God
Now, the politics thing from earlier has nothing to do with this post. That had to do with someone earlier tonight trying to hold a conversation as if we had any say in whoever the nutters on the other side of the Atlantic like best by the end of next month.
This has to do with a specific guy.
He's a nice guy. He's well-spoken, has several degrees and has a sense of humor. If he didn't insist on keeping huge snakes in the house, being way too old for me and being attracted to dudes, he'd be my backup in case Boyfriend keels over and dies tomorrow. But, alas, he's too imperfect, so I'm stuck with the question if you can put 'intensive first aid course' on a Christmas wish list. Just in case, y'know?
The problem with the guy is that he can be outspoken. About things that most people don't realise are issues, or care much about. But if the planets align correctly, my facebook feed is suddenly inundated with things like 'government child support, ban or keep?' (He's single and childless) and whether or not to get rid of daylight savings time (with me wondering when it being dark outside mattered much in a society where any successfull corporation works in at least threee vastly different timezones).
Now, I can ignore the political stuff, because he doesn't run for office and these small things change with a higher frequency than my underwear, and my mother raised a very hygienic child in me.
But he has a big thing.
It's religion.
He's an atheist, and seems to think that anyone who isn't, does so out of evil considerations. At least once a week, I get a link or image or status update comparing raising your children religiously to threatening to hire a biker gang to come beat them up with studded clubs.
And it gets on my tits. Mostly because his statuses have a very... Judaïc viewpoint. Religions like Buddhaism where people focus on being good people don't really get discussed. Polytheistic religions where gods are closer to a paid service that influences the world around us aren't glimpsed.
Judaism, Christianity and Islam are the root of all evil, apparently. And those three things are the only options when you're religious.
Now, I've got no idea what I am, religiously. I'm not agnostic, I'm not as Christian or Catholic as is accepted as being religious about it, but since I believe in something, I'm not an atheist or a humanist, either, even if I do believe science and the universe are a thing. My religious life is mostly trying to be an okay person in the humanistic school of thinking, realising things like evolution and stem cell research help us gain a better understanding about the world around us, and believing in a higher power that steers it all. Not necessarily created it, or even mystical. It could be a force like gravity. I believe there's something that makes the universe tick and life something to be thankful and amazed about. My friend has classified this force as science as a whole. Others as nature or a concrete god or set of gods or a principle of living, all with a certain name.
I have no idea about the shape or name, but I've been raised in a Christian tradition (I spent a year more active in a protestant church than I ever was in a catholic one) and it's convenient to agree that 'God' is as good a name as any and that I take comfort in the everyday rituals surrounding it. Yes, I'm lazy, but prayers I've learned a child calm my nerves. I pay tribute to whatever drives all of this, because to ignore and dissect it seems wrong. Uncover it slowly, take your time and always, always be grateful.
Coming together, being grateful, being altruistic, being kind, offering no harm where none is given... That's not a religious thing. On the other hand, it's what I've heard most in churches. I like the idea of faith and religion as a reminder: I have consciously chosen to do these things, because I realise the world would be a better place if more people did them. I literally couldn't care less about what religion you choose to be a part of.
Now, there's also cultural things. Female circumcision, for example. That's never been a religious thing. Several atheistic facebook groups with mildly amusing and/or educational pictures have it down as a religious thing, though. But breast ironing, female circumcision and even castration were never a religious thing. Cultures depict non-mutilated women as whores. European castrati with a good child's singing voice could make more money than any education their parents could offer. There are cultures where you could get more respect as a transsexual prostituting yourself than as a married man raising three kids on two jobs.
I'm not saying these things are right. I'm just saying that godhood isn't involved in this. It's not done to honor or appease a higher power. It's done to either survive or work your way up in life
I'll admit that extremistic religious people are scary and dangerous. And that there's religious customs where you're quite sure it's morally grey at the very least, to downright wrong to do it. Chopping off a piece of skin from a boy's penis, slaughtering an entire animal, every year on a specific day, not out of hunger but to gorge the entire family on, forcing seven-year-olds to attend a service they have no way of understanding for an entire year under the threat of never allowing them into the community if they don't, killing other religious groups or even screaming at people that they're going to hell because, although they're from the same religion and denomination as you, they're not going to the same church as you, telling AIDS-riddled, religious areas that they're not allowed to use condoms if they consider themselves religious... No, I'm not down with that.
. But extremist atheists confuse me. Most extremist groups have a target audience and very rigid policies. Then I came to an extremist atheist group. There were a few funny pictures, several scientists were honored for their achievements... Yes, that made sense. What didn't make sense was where religions were condemned for swaying the minds of children, followed by a repost of a fourteen-year-old claiming to have found her life's faith via their page a few clicks later. Or the one image which was posted twice, about an atheist named Bob who didn't go around rubbing his life's philosophy in other people's faces. In the first, there was the comment 'good on you, Bob'. The second had a three-line outcry about how Bob was part of the problem with today's society and that he should at any cost rip the wool from the eyes of those foolish religious types. These two images literally had one page between them. The page wasn't called the 'Atheist Multiple Personality Disorder Sufferers Support Group', should you be wondering.
And I guess that's what's bothering me about it. I have a sensible, amazing friend, who's into something that knows what it believes in, but spends a lot of its time trying to entertain and/or sway the fence sitters. And faith, even the faith that there is no higher power, shouldn't be a popularity contest.
So that's what I wanted to say.
The next part is just a bit of idle philosophy.
If you were here to follow my train of thought as to why the hell I'm so frustrated at three in the morning after just checking facebook, you've reached your end destination and are free to leave.
The following loosely binds into it, but I've got it mostly figured out.
Your continued mental support in the shape of reading on is appreciated, but not mandatory.
You're absolutely sure?
Well, okay.
I can't stop you, anyway.
I like the Amish. Or I like my understanding of the Amish, since they're one of those denominations that's never quite the same. Like all religious denominations, they have their nutty things, like no music or art or modern technology. But they're quite forward thinking in some respects. They're not people who condone flaming rethoric to sway people to their cause. They live their lives and let others do the same. They respect their surroundings and realise they're interdependent on one another. And even if they raise their children religiously, there is often room for them to experience the modern world and normally unacceptable things before making the choice on how they want to live. As Amish people, as Buddhists or as the most popular Santa Claus impersonator in the Northern hemisphere. All they ask is that, when people with other beliefs come into their lives, these people not force them to go against their own beliefs.
Also, Facebook allows Amish as a religious choice. I abuse this option to make my personal information on that website as unbelievable as possible. Not very respectful, but very few creeps my age are into girls raised to see excessive alcohol use as distasteful, but who also support the British Monster Raving Loony Party.
This has to do with a specific guy.
He's a nice guy. He's well-spoken, has several degrees and has a sense of humor. If he didn't insist on keeping huge snakes in the house, being way too old for me and being attracted to dudes, he'd be my backup in case Boyfriend keels over and dies tomorrow. But, alas, he's too imperfect, so I'm stuck with the question if you can put 'intensive first aid course' on a Christmas wish list. Just in case, y'know?
The problem with the guy is that he can be outspoken. About things that most people don't realise are issues, or care much about. But if the planets align correctly, my facebook feed is suddenly inundated with things like 'government child support, ban or keep?' (He's single and childless) and whether or not to get rid of daylight savings time (with me wondering when it being dark outside mattered much in a society where any successfull corporation works in at least threee vastly different timezones).
Now, I can ignore the political stuff, because he doesn't run for office and these small things change with a higher frequency than my underwear, and my mother raised a very hygienic child in me.
But he has a big thing.
It's religion.
He's an atheist, and seems to think that anyone who isn't, does so out of evil considerations. At least once a week, I get a link or image or status update comparing raising your children religiously to threatening to hire a biker gang to come beat them up with studded clubs.
And it gets on my tits. Mostly because his statuses have a very... Judaïc viewpoint. Religions like Buddhaism where people focus on being good people don't really get discussed. Polytheistic religions where gods are closer to a paid service that influences the world around us aren't glimpsed.
Judaism, Christianity and Islam are the root of all evil, apparently. And those three things are the only options when you're religious.
Now, I've got no idea what I am, religiously. I'm not agnostic, I'm not as Christian or Catholic as is accepted as being religious about it, but since I believe in something, I'm not an atheist or a humanist, either, even if I do believe science and the universe are a thing. My religious life is mostly trying to be an okay person in the humanistic school of thinking, realising things like evolution and stem cell research help us gain a better understanding about the world around us, and believing in a higher power that steers it all. Not necessarily created it, or even mystical. It could be a force like gravity. I believe there's something that makes the universe tick and life something to be thankful and amazed about. My friend has classified this force as science as a whole. Others as nature or a concrete god or set of gods or a principle of living, all with a certain name.
I have no idea about the shape or name, but I've been raised in a Christian tradition (I spent a year more active in a protestant church than I ever was in a catholic one) and it's convenient to agree that 'God' is as good a name as any and that I take comfort in the everyday rituals surrounding it. Yes, I'm lazy, but prayers I've learned a child calm my nerves. I pay tribute to whatever drives all of this, because to ignore and dissect it seems wrong. Uncover it slowly, take your time and always, always be grateful.
Coming together, being grateful, being altruistic, being kind, offering no harm where none is given... That's not a religious thing. On the other hand, it's what I've heard most in churches. I like the idea of faith and religion as a reminder: I have consciously chosen to do these things, because I realise the world would be a better place if more people did them. I literally couldn't care less about what religion you choose to be a part of.
Now, there's also cultural things. Female circumcision, for example. That's never been a religious thing. Several atheistic facebook groups with mildly amusing and/or educational pictures have it down as a religious thing, though. But breast ironing, female circumcision and even castration were never a religious thing. Cultures depict non-mutilated women as whores. European castrati with a good child's singing voice could make more money than any education their parents could offer. There are cultures where you could get more respect as a transsexual prostituting yourself than as a married man raising three kids on two jobs.
I'm not saying these things are right. I'm just saying that godhood isn't involved in this. It's not done to honor or appease a higher power. It's done to either survive or work your way up in life
I'll admit that extremistic religious people are scary and dangerous. And that there's religious customs where you're quite sure it's morally grey at the very least, to downright wrong to do it. Chopping off a piece of skin from a boy's penis, slaughtering an entire animal, every year on a specific day, not out of hunger but to gorge the entire family on, forcing seven-year-olds to attend a service they have no way of understanding for an entire year under the threat of never allowing them into the community if they don't, killing other religious groups or even screaming at people that they're going to hell because, although they're from the same religion and denomination as you, they're not going to the same church as you, telling AIDS-riddled, religious areas that they're not allowed to use condoms if they consider themselves religious... No, I'm not down with that.
. But extremist atheists confuse me. Most extremist groups have a target audience and very rigid policies. Then I came to an extremist atheist group. There were a few funny pictures, several scientists were honored for their achievements... Yes, that made sense. What didn't make sense was where religions were condemned for swaying the minds of children, followed by a repost of a fourteen-year-old claiming to have found her life's faith via their page a few clicks later. Or the one image which was posted twice, about an atheist named Bob who didn't go around rubbing his life's philosophy in other people's faces. In the first, there was the comment 'good on you, Bob'. The second had a three-line outcry about how Bob was part of the problem with today's society and that he should at any cost rip the wool from the eyes of those foolish religious types. These two images literally had one page between them. The page wasn't called the 'Atheist Multiple Personality Disorder Sufferers Support Group', should you be wondering.
And I guess that's what's bothering me about it. I have a sensible, amazing friend, who's into something that knows what it believes in, but spends a lot of its time trying to entertain and/or sway the fence sitters. And faith, even the faith that there is no higher power, shouldn't be a popularity contest.
So that's what I wanted to say.
The next part is just a bit of idle philosophy.
If you were here to follow my train of thought as to why the hell I'm so frustrated at three in the morning after just checking facebook, you've reached your end destination and are free to leave.
The following loosely binds into it, but I've got it mostly figured out.
Your continued mental support in the shape of reading on is appreciated, but not mandatory.
You're absolutely sure?
Well, okay.
I can't stop you, anyway.
I like the Amish. Or I like my understanding of the Amish, since they're one of those denominations that's never quite the same. Like all religious denominations, they have their nutty things, like no music or art or modern technology. But they're quite forward thinking in some respects. They're not people who condone flaming rethoric to sway people to their cause. They live their lives and let others do the same. They respect their surroundings and realise they're interdependent on one another. And even if they raise their children religiously, there is often room for them to experience the modern world and normally unacceptable things before making the choice on how they want to live. As Amish people, as Buddhists or as the most popular Santa Claus impersonator in the Northern hemisphere. All they ask is that, when people with other beliefs come into their lives, these people not force them to go against their own beliefs.
Also, Facebook allows Amish as a religious choice. I abuse this option to make my personal information on that website as unbelievable as possible. Not very respectful, but very few creeps my age are into girls raised to see excessive alcohol use as distasteful, but who also support the British Monster Raving Loony Party.
The American Election
I am not consciously following the direction the American election is taking. To be honest, I'm trying to stay as far away from it as possible. I practically come apart at the seams trying to live with the knowledge my parents are going to come over at certain points in my life, I have to find and pay for Christmas gifts and my cauliflower soup might not turn out right. I'm not made to make global politics my hobby.
But I'm a denizen of the internet, and the internet wants me to care. So here I go, trying to form an opinion.
In my opinion, the system is freaky. America might have less levels of government than I'm used to, but by God can they organise a cat's cradle of a solution for a potential problem.
You have to register to vote, for starters. Because of voting fraud. The twenty-first century and there's no identity card system in place where you show who you are and your name can be on a computer in such a way it can be found and checked if you show up at a voting whatchamacallit.
Then there's the solution in place for when there's a tie in the votes. It's convoluted, full of bugs, unfair and, crazily, can still end in a tie. Voting again doesn't seem to be an option.
Not even all Americans vote. A lot of the screaming loonies on tv, newspapers and the internet will not get off their butt and take half an hour out of their day to vote. They'll cry foul and shame no matter what the outcome or possibilities, though.
I don't know why this offends me. (Note: It offends me equally in all nationalities.) I hate voting when I'm forced to. Voting isn't fun. But it's a right people fought for for at least three hundred years. If we can't, we raise hell that we want to influence our community, at least a little, by choosing representatives. And now one of the most powerful nations on earth (one who, subjectively, spent quite a lot of time raising hell to be independent, have a democracy, have a president, have voting rights for all citizens, all colors and all genders) hasn't had 60% percent of the available voters voting for ages. The turnout has, quite literally, been one of two egible citizens voting since the seventies. I thought it was 'Out of many, one'? Apparently, it's 'Out of half, one'. My bad, I guess.
This drives me up the walls more than usual, because the US presidential election has more influence over my life than, say, the Brazilian presidential election.
When it comes to the candidates themselves, both Romney and Obama seem like okay guys. Which isn't saying much. People with dirty laundry to be aired generally don't run for president. Those that try generally get shamed in withdrawing or lose. They choose someone who can charm the pants off of a crowd or guilt them into voting, as far as I can tell.
What Romney's religion has to do with it, I really don't see. True, Americans are generally seen as a religious people, but the only faith they seem honestly suspicious about is atheism. And, on a purely theoretical standpoint, America is a secular nation. The Founding Fathers, as a lot of memes, facebook posts and even some books I've read recently, were technical atheists. Several of the twentieth century presidents were even apalled at the idea of people voting on them because they were, for example, the only Catholic candidate in the running. I'd be offended, too. Thirty-something years old, probably over two decades of hard work trying to make the world a better place and people said you are right to run the country because of when and where and how your parents (in most cases) decided to pour water over your head, chop a piece of your whackadoodle, hold you upside down over a plate of steaming pasta or whatever the custom is. That's not voting. That's being a sheep.
Obama has done a good job, as far as I can tell. You can't move the planet out of orbit with political action in four years. As much as our current society would like it otherwise, it takes time to see effects. Some of his promises haven't been fufilled because of this, and people have taken offense. He is, however, not a president that is widely known as someone who needs an adult when his backside needs wiping. He is intelligent, he is well-liked. Most of his screw-ups have been relatively minor. To be honest, the only one I can really remember is where he didn't defend himself in a debate a few weeks ago. If he has an evil-masterplan (and he's a politician, so there will be some 'You never mentioned that part!' outcries after the election should he win), he's hiding it very well.
The novelty of a colored president has worn off however, so now he has to be a significantly better option than the white candidate. It's a harsh thing to say, but it's true. Success is a thing for white men in our society. Anyone else has to be twice as good at everything to be noticed.
Romney is less popular, and less liberal and more extremist in his campaigns so the internet has bombarded me with bad things about him. Some of them make me want to e-mail people and ask if they've taken their antipsychotics in the last week. I particularly remember someone claiming all he's done right was, and I quote, 'not eat any phallic foods during rallies'. Say what? You have to do more than resist the temptation of a public hotdog to run for US president, last time I checked.
Wait, let me check again.
Okay, so a quick skim of his wikipedia page says he organised a successful Winter Olympics, provided (the possibility of) health care for his state without Senate twisting his arm, usedwitchcraft economical smarts to find over a billion dollars for the government in this particular economical climate with a minimum of rioting, has a child with a crippling illness and jumped through all the loopholes set to him by the American government and its people (twice, even) before being allowed to run for president. It's not just politely declining burritos until you get the key to the White House, it seems.
Other things make me want to e-mail Romney instead. I'm not going to regurgitate all the bile I've had inserted in my youtube subscriptions, facebook feeds and Wii news channel. But when you have three people as a part of your campaign who say, basically, that there's no such thing as rape or that rape is anything but a bad thing... Well, even if you only have fifty to sixty percent of voters, you have to assume some of the men are going to vote for the opponent. Hell, that kind of stunt might make women voters turn up to vote Obama out of fear and/or spite.
I'm not even touching the snake's nest of gender-fuzzy marriage. I'm feverishly praying for silent majority issues muddying that particular no-brainer.
The last thing that confuses me more is the debates. I agree that politicians should debate and be interviewed on their viewpoints, and more agressively depending on the level of power they're aiming to receive. Germany could have done with a few debates around 1933.
What I don't get is that there's apparently a winner. And the winner changes, even though it's the same opponents and the same presidential race. And people base their votes on who wins? Do they really?
I see how your opponent will point out the flaws in your agenda that you're trying to hide. That's a good thing. And defending them, nuancing them, that's even better. Having it all caught on film is fantastic.
But, as any secondary school teacher will tell you, any normally developed human being, around the age of thirteen, fourteen years old, will have grasped the concept of thinking creatively to the point where different people offer different solutions to a problem. Some are better, true, some are prettier, but if both parties offer a solution that will benefit a sizeable chunk of the population, you can't really say that one party failed to do what was asked of it.
From what I can tell, the debates are mostly popularity contests and exercises in muck-raking just the same way a state rally is. I don't want a reality tv element to politics. I want the debate settled, without any media commenting on it. Assume your voters are smart enough to watch it, read transcripts, hear it on the radio and decide for themselves which seemed like the more elegant solution.
Hell, if I was Obama, I'd keep my mouth shut, too. He can come with a solution to remove all US debt and deficit that will work quickly, efficiently, but mean people will be slightly less comfortable for two years, and all Romney has to do is offer a solution that's less effective and/or durable, but means Americans don't have to consider their budget before supersizing their next hamburger menu, and the audience will press the button to drop Obama in the tank of piranhas as quickly as their pudgy fingers will allow.
Then again, maybe Obama has a death ray.
I'm concluding that the entirety of the United States seems to get LSD drips for every vaguely presidentially, electorally whoop-ti-doo that passes in front of a camera or microphone and I'm going to spend my time doing productive things, like blending my cauliflower soup. It should be done by now.
But I'm a denizen of the internet, and the internet wants me to care. So here I go, trying to form an opinion.
In my opinion, the system is freaky. America might have less levels of government than I'm used to, but by God can they organise a cat's cradle of a solution for a potential problem.
You have to register to vote, for starters. Because of voting fraud. The twenty-first century and there's no identity card system in place where you show who you are and your name can be on a computer in such a way it can be found and checked if you show up at a voting whatchamacallit.
Then there's the solution in place for when there's a tie in the votes. It's convoluted, full of bugs, unfair and, crazily, can still end in a tie. Voting again doesn't seem to be an option.
Not even all Americans vote. A lot of the screaming loonies on tv, newspapers and the internet will not get off their butt and take half an hour out of their day to vote. They'll cry foul and shame no matter what the outcome or possibilities, though.
I don't know why this offends me. (Note: It offends me equally in all nationalities.) I hate voting when I'm forced to. Voting isn't fun. But it's a right people fought for for at least three hundred years. If we can't, we raise hell that we want to influence our community, at least a little, by choosing representatives. And now one of the most powerful nations on earth (one who, subjectively, spent quite a lot of time raising hell to be independent, have a democracy, have a president, have voting rights for all citizens, all colors and all genders) hasn't had 60% percent of the available voters voting for ages. The turnout has, quite literally, been one of two egible citizens voting since the seventies. I thought it was 'Out of many, one'? Apparently, it's 'Out of half, one'. My bad, I guess.
This drives me up the walls more than usual, because the US presidential election has more influence over my life than, say, the Brazilian presidential election.
When it comes to the candidates themselves, both Romney and Obama seem like okay guys. Which isn't saying much. People with dirty laundry to be aired generally don't run for president. Those that try generally get shamed in withdrawing or lose. They choose someone who can charm the pants off of a crowd or guilt them into voting, as far as I can tell.
What Romney's religion has to do with it, I really don't see. True, Americans are generally seen as a religious people, but the only faith they seem honestly suspicious about is atheism. And, on a purely theoretical standpoint, America is a secular nation. The Founding Fathers, as a lot of memes, facebook posts and even some books I've read recently, were technical atheists. Several of the twentieth century presidents were even apalled at the idea of people voting on them because they were, for example, the only Catholic candidate in the running. I'd be offended, too. Thirty-something years old, probably over two decades of hard work trying to make the world a better place and people said you are right to run the country because of when and where and how your parents (in most cases) decided to pour water over your head, chop a piece of your whackadoodle, hold you upside down over a plate of steaming pasta or whatever the custom is. That's not voting. That's being a sheep.
Obama has done a good job, as far as I can tell. You can't move the planet out of orbit with political action in four years. As much as our current society would like it otherwise, it takes time to see effects. Some of his promises haven't been fufilled because of this, and people have taken offense. He is, however, not a president that is widely known as someone who needs an adult when his backside needs wiping. He is intelligent, he is well-liked. Most of his screw-ups have been relatively minor. To be honest, the only one I can really remember is where he didn't defend himself in a debate a few weeks ago. If he has an evil-masterplan (and he's a politician, so there will be some 'You never mentioned that part!' outcries after the election should he win), he's hiding it very well.
The novelty of a colored president has worn off however, so now he has to be a significantly better option than the white candidate. It's a harsh thing to say, but it's true. Success is a thing for white men in our society. Anyone else has to be twice as good at everything to be noticed.
Romney is less popular, and less liberal and more extremist in his campaigns so the internet has bombarded me with bad things about him. Some of them make me want to e-mail people and ask if they've taken their antipsychotics in the last week. I particularly remember someone claiming all he's done right was, and I quote, 'not eat any phallic foods during rallies'. Say what? You have to do more than resist the temptation of a public hotdog to run for US president, last time I checked.
Wait, let me check again.
Okay, so a quick skim of his wikipedia page says he organised a successful Winter Olympics, provided (the possibility of) health care for his state without Senate twisting his arm, used
Other things make me want to e-mail Romney instead. I'm not going to regurgitate all the bile I've had inserted in my youtube subscriptions, facebook feeds and Wii news channel. But when you have three people as a part of your campaign who say, basically, that there's no such thing as rape or that rape is anything but a bad thing... Well, even if you only have fifty to sixty percent of voters, you have to assume some of the men are going to vote for the opponent. Hell, that kind of stunt might make women voters turn up to vote Obama out of fear and/or spite.
I'm not even touching the snake's nest of gender-fuzzy marriage. I'm feverishly praying for silent majority issues muddying that particular no-brainer.
The last thing that confuses me more is the debates. I agree that politicians should debate and be interviewed on their viewpoints, and more agressively depending on the level of power they're aiming to receive. Germany could have done with a few debates around 1933.
What I don't get is that there's apparently a winner. And the winner changes, even though it's the same opponents and the same presidential race. And people base their votes on who wins? Do they really?
I see how your opponent will point out the flaws in your agenda that you're trying to hide. That's a good thing. And defending them, nuancing them, that's even better. Having it all caught on film is fantastic.
But, as any secondary school teacher will tell you, any normally developed human being, around the age of thirteen, fourteen years old, will have grasped the concept of thinking creatively to the point where different people offer different solutions to a problem. Some are better, true, some are prettier, but if both parties offer a solution that will benefit a sizeable chunk of the population, you can't really say that one party failed to do what was asked of it.
From what I can tell, the debates are mostly popularity contests and exercises in muck-raking just the same way a state rally is. I don't want a reality tv element to politics. I want the debate settled, without any media commenting on it. Assume your voters are smart enough to watch it, read transcripts, hear it on the radio and decide for themselves which seemed like the more elegant solution.
Hell, if I was Obama, I'd keep my mouth shut, too. He can come with a solution to remove all US debt and deficit that will work quickly, efficiently, but mean people will be slightly less comfortable for two years, and all Romney has to do is offer a solution that's less effective and/or durable, but means Americans don't have to consider their budget before supersizing their next hamburger menu, and the audience will press the button to drop Obama in the tank of piranhas as quickly as their pudgy fingers will allow.
Then again, maybe Obama has a death ray.
I'm concluding that the entirety of the United States seems to get LSD drips for every vaguely presidentially, electorally whoop-ti-doo that passes in front of a camera or microphone and I'm going to spend my time doing productive things, like blending my cauliflower soup. It should be done by now.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
The Cleaning Plan
We slept in today. Boyfriend has this thing where biorythms don't exist during weekends and he stays up until six am, takes out the dog, and goes to bed.
Somewhere between twelve and two we got up. I'm fuzzy about the details. Sis called, then we made sure we had to put condoms on the grocery list... Anyway, it was definitely afternoon by the time we got out of bed. Apart from lovey-dovey shenanigans, we'd come up with a game plan.
Boyfriend would take Iggy outside, then to his parents, while I cleaned most of the apartment. First he took the trash with him and sorted away some big things that needed tidying up, then he removed the dog from my brilliant cleaning equation.
I put up everything that could be put up, vacuumed, figured out how to use the cleaning system bucket Boyfriend has (once you know how it works, it's ridiculously practical and easy) and mopped all suspicious stains off the floor. All-in-all, it was about an hour's hard work. Even the bedroom is clean, and I very much doubt my parents will get in there.
I went downstairs to wait for it all to dry and chat with the in-laws, everything very pleasant apart from the fact that I was still wearing a bandana around my head to keep my hair out of my eyes and away from my neck. I looked silly, but the house was clean.
When we got back, Iggy was confused. His toys had disappeared. His blanket had disappeared. His basket has disappeared. Even his water bowl and food bowl were nowhere to be found in this clean, sparkly room.
While he was being confused, I was preparing the shower for some epic dog washing. Then I came out and tried to catch him. Yeah, I ended up chasing him around a chair, getting him into the middle of the living room and having him pee from fright there. Our dog is very much aware that I am unapologetic about getting his through necessary but unpleasant things.
Boyfriend cleaned up the mess while I put Iggy in the shower and washed him. All went well, until our freakish heating system decided hot water was a myth for two to three minutes. Iggy had gotten a small blast of icy coldness, and did not like the sitting around in the tub part of waiting for the water to come back so I could un-soapify him. He tried to climb out. He got panicky when I had no effort in pushing him back into the tub. He did not like being at a disadvantage with me. Then the hot water came back on and I rinsed him out, washing his little face last.
At that point, Iggy was so done with this 'shower' gig. He was getting out. So when I moved to the towel to shake it open and dry him, Iggy made his grand escape, leaving a drippy, watery trail over the apartment and then shaking himself when he was suitably far away. Boyfriend, hero that he is, mopped up the water while I caught thedemonic wet rat adorable little fuzzball and dried him off. Iggy did not like the drying off part, but since it appeared I wasn't going to drag him back to the soapy world full of water jets that randomly freeze you, he gave up and let me. Also, it appeared he was sitting on a nest made out of that big, yellow towel he'd tried to pull off the drying rack yesterday. Small victory at last!
We gave him a slice of ham (I felt guilty) and I cleaned up my mess in the bathroom. I threw all the dog washing implements in the washer with the mop's microfibre cloth and let Boyfriend clean the bathroom while I went shopping.
Now the house is clean, the things in our house that needed cleaning are clean, the dog is clean and we only have a little laundry to do. Also, we're going out for dinner later. And I'm making soup afterwards. Let's see if you can overcook cauliflower.
Somewhere between twelve and two we got up. I'm fuzzy about the details. Sis called, then we made sure we had to put condoms on the grocery list... Anyway, it was definitely afternoon by the time we got out of bed. Apart from lovey-dovey shenanigans, we'd come up with a game plan.
Boyfriend would take Iggy outside, then to his parents, while I cleaned most of the apartment. First he took the trash with him and sorted away some big things that needed tidying up, then he removed the dog from my brilliant cleaning equation.
I put up everything that could be put up, vacuumed, figured out how to use the cleaning system bucket Boyfriend has (once you know how it works, it's ridiculously practical and easy) and mopped all suspicious stains off the floor. All-in-all, it was about an hour's hard work. Even the bedroom is clean, and I very much doubt my parents will get in there.
I went downstairs to wait for it all to dry and chat with the in-laws, everything very pleasant apart from the fact that I was still wearing a bandana around my head to keep my hair out of my eyes and away from my neck. I looked silly, but the house was clean.
When we got back, Iggy was confused. His toys had disappeared. His blanket had disappeared. His basket has disappeared. Even his water bowl and food bowl were nowhere to be found in this clean, sparkly room.
While he was being confused, I was preparing the shower for some epic dog washing. Then I came out and tried to catch him. Yeah, I ended up chasing him around a chair, getting him into the middle of the living room and having him pee from fright there. Our dog is very much aware that I am unapologetic about getting his through necessary but unpleasant things.
Boyfriend cleaned up the mess while I put Iggy in the shower and washed him. All went well, until our freakish heating system decided hot water was a myth for two to three minutes. Iggy had gotten a small blast of icy coldness, and did not like the sitting around in the tub part of waiting for the water to come back so I could un-soapify him. He tried to climb out. He got panicky when I had no effort in pushing him back into the tub. He did not like being at a disadvantage with me. Then the hot water came back on and I rinsed him out, washing his little face last.
At that point, Iggy was so done with this 'shower' gig. He was getting out. So when I moved to the towel to shake it open and dry him, Iggy made his grand escape, leaving a drippy, watery trail over the apartment and then shaking himself when he was suitably far away. Boyfriend, hero that he is, mopped up the water while I caught the
We gave him a slice of ham (I felt guilty) and I cleaned up my mess in the bathroom. I threw all the dog washing implements in the washer with the mop's microfibre cloth and let Boyfriend clean the bathroom while I went shopping.
Now the house is clean, the things in our house that needed cleaning are clean, the dog is clean and we only have a little laundry to do. Also, we're going out for dinner later. And I'm making soup afterwards. Let's see if you can overcook cauliflower.
Friday, October 26, 2012
The Weird People
There's a few nutters running around in this town. And I'm not talking about the guy who sings at the top of his lungs whenever he rides his bike. I'm talking about the total and utter psychos, bordering on the criminal.
Today, three of them decided to pop up in studio conversation.
There's a beauty salon which is apparently quite good around here. They're affordable, and pleasant and generally good people. They have the option where they do fingernails, though, and that's where it gets freaky.
I admit, making nails from scratch takes longer, is riskier and more stressful than renewing the gel. I dread the day J. asks me to take on a brand new customer. I admit it makes no sense to invest in fingernail stuff up the wazoo when you have other avenues of revenue. What I don't get is offering only white french manicure for the basic price. The basic price being nearly twice whatJ.'s studio charges for white french with no frills. The same for starting from scratch. They're not using the crazy-expensive gels (they're using a different brand of equal quality, as advertised in the window), they're relatively slow when it comes to fingernails and they're asking customers to pay through the nose for it.
Now, J.'s studio is among the most affordable in town. Affordable isn't the same as cheap. And then there's people, half a kilometer away, charging prices that I've only heard of happening outside Germany. Now, you have the right to charge what you want. But when most studios have their sites listing charging rates and you basically ask a newborn child for the simplest things... That's slightly kooky, in my opinion. Their other prices are sane to downright cheap. Their customers are happy about the other services. I have no idea what they were thinking with the fingernail thing.
There's also a gang of girls who's taken to comparing Sis and her friends to famous fictional aliens. Some complicated teenage girl stuff happened, now they're all closer to thirty than eighteen and only half of them have grown up. Now, facebook blocking and mean in-jokes are no problem. You can ignore them. What the problem is, is that one of the girls has decided to wreck Sis' reputation. In public. In the city where Sis has a good name and customers to lose. But unless there's unrefutable proof, there's no way to sue for slander.
The next level is an ex-employee from the studio. J. taught him everything, then hired him, then he proceeded to be rude to everyone, customers included, refuse certain reasonable requeststs from paying clients (like colors) and steal things. Then he got his own studio, taking a few of J.'s customers, most of which he lost until the point where he now works from home. S. used to work under him, until Sis met his brother and J. offered better working conditions to her. The running gag is that he put a curse her table so that nothing technical works for her (UV lamps regularly refuse to work when plugged in at her table and her cleaner pump has recently entered its death throes), but it's starting to wear thin. It appears we are the kind of people who get tired of pretending sad individuals have the power to wreck our lives with their thoughts.
And now there's a freakish rumor going around. Some women have heard, directly from this man, that anyone who works for our studio, before being hired, has to sign a document that they will never open their own nail studio of a certain size in the city, and that's why he works from home. Not because he hasn't got any employees or he's gotten a reputation around town after being foul to people for several years, no. J. forced his hand when he was young and inexperienced and struggling to find his own identity. Also, J. is apparently too fat and too old to deliver quality work.
Once again, no proof, no way to sue the pants of this psycho.
We joked around with it a bit to make light of it, and I admit I'm not proud of some of the low comments I made today about someone I've never met, but I've already received punishment.
I'm a worrier. I thought I was fine with it, until I took a nap. Then stuff happened, and I dream I did a thing that hurt the feelings of a friend of the male psycho, and S. got the blame and was going to go to jail, but I was too scared to confess I did it.
Yeah, I'm going to try to stay as far away from this particular clusterfuck as possible.
Today, three of them decided to pop up in studio conversation.
There's a beauty salon which is apparently quite good around here. They're affordable, and pleasant and generally good people. They have the option where they do fingernails, though, and that's where it gets freaky.
I admit, making nails from scratch takes longer, is riskier and more stressful than renewing the gel. I dread the day J. asks me to take on a brand new customer. I admit it makes no sense to invest in fingernail stuff up the wazoo when you have other avenues of revenue. What I don't get is offering only white french manicure for the basic price. The basic price being nearly twice whatJ.'s studio charges for white french with no frills. The same for starting from scratch. They're not using the crazy-expensive gels (they're using a different brand of equal quality, as advertised in the window), they're relatively slow when it comes to fingernails and they're asking customers to pay through the nose for it.
Now, J.'s studio is among the most affordable in town. Affordable isn't the same as cheap. And then there's people, half a kilometer away, charging prices that I've only heard of happening outside Germany. Now, you have the right to charge what you want. But when most studios have their sites listing charging rates and you basically ask a newborn child for the simplest things... That's slightly kooky, in my opinion. Their other prices are sane to downright cheap. Their customers are happy about the other services. I have no idea what they were thinking with the fingernail thing.
There's also a gang of girls who's taken to comparing Sis and her friends to famous fictional aliens. Some complicated teenage girl stuff happened, now they're all closer to thirty than eighteen and only half of them have grown up. Now, facebook blocking and mean in-jokes are no problem. You can ignore them. What the problem is, is that one of the girls has decided to wreck Sis' reputation. In public. In the city where Sis has a good name and customers to lose. But unless there's unrefutable proof, there's no way to sue for slander.
The next level is an ex-employee from the studio. J. taught him everything, then hired him, then he proceeded to be rude to everyone, customers included, refuse certain reasonable requeststs from paying clients (like colors) and steal things. Then he got his own studio, taking a few of J.'s customers, most of which he lost until the point where he now works from home. S. used to work under him, until Sis met his brother and J. offered better working conditions to her. The running gag is that he put a curse her table so that nothing technical works for her (UV lamps regularly refuse to work when plugged in at her table and her cleaner pump has recently entered its death throes), but it's starting to wear thin. It appears we are the kind of people who get tired of pretending sad individuals have the power to wreck our lives with their thoughts.
And now there's a freakish rumor going around. Some women have heard, directly from this man, that anyone who works for our studio, before being hired, has to sign a document that they will never open their own nail studio of a certain size in the city, and that's why he works from home. Not because he hasn't got any employees or he's gotten a reputation around town after being foul to people for several years, no. J. forced his hand when he was young and inexperienced and struggling to find his own identity. Also, J. is apparently too fat and too old to deliver quality work.
Once again, no proof, no way to sue the pants of this psycho.
We joked around with it a bit to make light of it, and I admit I'm not proud of some of the low comments I made today about someone I've never met, but I've already received punishment.
I'm a worrier. I thought I was fine with it, until I took a nap. Then stuff happened, and I dream I did a thing that hurt the feelings of a friend of the male psycho, and S. got the blame and was going to go to jail, but I was too scared to confess I did it.
Yeah, I'm going to try to stay as far away from this particular clusterfuck as possible.
The Easy Bake Toilet
I forgot to tell you guys something.
Our bathroom in winter is a sauna. It doesn't have windows, but it does have one heater. And as soon as the boiler downstairs gets turned to a certain level, that heater is stuck on high no matter what we do, ninety percent of the time. It's currently, technically, turned off and it's still at least thirty centigrade in there.
Now, we have been running around like little chickens with our heads cut off for the past two weeks or so, so no toilet cleaner was bought and/or used since the heater decided to do it's own interpretation of what hell would feel like if it was done all in white tiling. Except Boyfriend bought some, and used some. Last night, to be precise.
You know how you're supposed to let that stuff sit for a while? We did, and we did.
So after an hour, I decide I'm allowed a pee. I do my thing, try to flush it down with all the blue stuff and--only my pee disappears.
Our toilet bowl has had time to adjust to the ambient temperature and is not really cool to the touch. There is no way to cool the room and all things in it down, unless we leave the door open, but Iggy's going through a kleptomaniac phase lately, so we couldn't. Well, we could, but then we'd wake up to find our three-pound puppy has stolen a giant towel, two bathmaths and tried to get the laundry out of the hamper through the holes again.
We now have bright blue toilet cleaner effectively baked to our toilet. We've flushed a couple of times since, mostly because we used it, since flushing to see if that helped was mostly ineffectual. At the moment, there's a small dent in the blue layer. We could try scrubbing tonight, or we could try using the toilet until the blue goes away. We'll see.
(Side note: I finished my Christmas wishlist! I found a website where I can add items, even show where they can be found--not that that's mandatory--and have both registered and non-registered users buy stuff, potentially as a surprise, while other visitors can see what's been bought already. It's got 53 items on it, 29 of which are books, 7 of which are jewelry and 4.5 things are knitting related. Oh, and one thing's a box of 100 fortune cookies. I like fortune cookies. People who know where I live can e-mail me for a URL, should they want one.)
(Second side note: Yes, this was meant to be a 'yay, finished Christmas list' post, but, frankly, I thought the toilet was more relevant than me demanding to be bought stuff)
Our bathroom in winter is a sauna. It doesn't have windows, but it does have one heater. And as soon as the boiler downstairs gets turned to a certain level, that heater is stuck on high no matter what we do, ninety percent of the time. It's currently, technically, turned off and it's still at least thirty centigrade in there.
Now, we have been running around like little chickens with our heads cut off for the past two weeks or so, so no toilet cleaner was bought and/or used since the heater decided to do it's own interpretation of what hell would feel like if it was done all in white tiling. Except Boyfriend bought some, and used some. Last night, to be precise.
You know how you're supposed to let that stuff sit for a while? We did, and we did.
So after an hour, I decide I'm allowed a pee. I do my thing, try to flush it down with all the blue stuff and--only my pee disappears.
Our toilet bowl has had time to adjust to the ambient temperature and is not really cool to the touch. There is no way to cool the room and all things in it down, unless we leave the door open, but Iggy's going through a kleptomaniac phase lately, so we couldn't. Well, we could, but then we'd wake up to find our three-pound puppy has stolen a giant towel, two bathmaths and tried to get the laundry out of the hamper through the holes again.
We now have bright blue toilet cleaner effectively baked to our toilet. We've flushed a couple of times since, mostly because we used it, since flushing to see if that helped was mostly ineffectual. At the moment, there's a small dent in the blue layer. We could try scrubbing tonight, or we could try using the toilet until the blue goes away. We'll see.
(Side note: I finished my Christmas wishlist! I found a website where I can add items, even show where they can be found--not that that's mandatory--and have both registered and non-registered users buy stuff, potentially as a surprise, while other visitors can see what's been bought already. It's got 53 items on it, 29 of which are books, 7 of which are jewelry and 4.5 things are knitting related. Oh, and one thing's a box of 100 fortune cookies. I like fortune cookies. People who know where I live can e-mail me for a URL, should they want one.)
(Second side note: Yes, this was meant to be a 'yay, finished Christmas list' post, but, frankly, I thought the toilet was more relevant than me demanding to be bought stuff)
Thursday, October 25, 2012
The Filling In
So W. asked me to fill in a few forms, so he could officially register me as working for him, which I've been doing since the start of the month. I finally had some time today, so I took a pen, filled in the lines for 'name' 'birthdate' and... Yeah, then the German got so confusing we had to go downstairs and ask W. himself about what was meant there.
But W. hadn't made the forms. Noooo. The German authorities had. There were several empty spaces where he went 'skip that for now'. After skipping a page and a half of the two forms, we called his tax advisor, who'd sent the papers.
Some things, we had to leave blank because I'm foreign. Others should have been taken care of, but no one told me to take care of them. So it was two in the afternoon and I suddenly needed registering for taxes, health insurance and, to top it all off, my bank had somehow misplaced the scans they'd made last week and wanted me to pop by and fill it all in again, since I was getting no bank account until they had them.
Here's a fun fact about Germany. Office hours are rigid. They're strict. And they usually stop at four pm. All places I had to go were nowhere near one another. I looked up a few things and figured I could make the bank and the tax authority building today, and then I'd see about the rest. I was lucky it's Thursday. Some offices close ridiculously early on Wednesdays, then stay open late on Thursdays.
The tax thing was so confusing that even the people working there had no idea what was wanted. I explained everything I knew, and they did their best.
Then, I took Boyfriend's bike and tried going to the bank. Everything was fine with it, Boyfriend said, except it felt really slow when riding it. I got on it and had to fold myself like a pretzel. The tires were the consistency of melty taffy. Oh, and the gears were cranked up to the highest setting. I kid you not, there was a child between eight and twelve riding a bike at the same height of steering wheel and seat as I was.The gears, I could adjust. I did not have time to crack out my toolbox and bicycle pump and cue the A-team theme tune. It's on my to-do list, though.
I eventually got to the bank by moving my knees in tiny circles about four inches in diameter. The official entrance, which had been under renovation in the last four months, was re-opened. The old entrance was out of bounds. I was really confused. There was a small tea party being held inside to celebrate, meaning that the tellers were a bit understaffed. Hey, I'd be knocking back Caprisuns, too, if I had the choice between that and servicing some sweaty foreigner holding three different pieces of identification (the city says I have to) and a letter saying 'Error in data entry'. But eventually it was my turn. I got a different person this week, who was stunned that I was sent to enter data that was entered in an online form that does not get processed when it's incomplete. He admitted it made very little sense. I admitted I was getting used to the German bureaucratic system freaking out every time I lifted a pen.
By the time I got back to the middle point of my little triangle of places to demand registration from (better known as the two houses where J., W., Sis, Boyfriend and me live), it was getting dark. Boyfriend's bike has no lamps. My bike has lamps, but a back tire that is going flat faster and faster every time I pump it up. The insurance building was three kilometers away under perfect circumstances, and I wasn't sure I had enough time to walk there and still get service.
W., when we crashed his party earlier that day, had been knee-deep in paperwork.
So I snuck into the studio to see if J. was done early today. She had work until at least six, and the insurance company closed at half past five today and three tomorrow. The earliest I could possibly get there would be Tuesday if I didn't make it today.
I didn't consider asking Sis. She sold her car two days ago. But J. asked if she had a lot of work left, and Sis said she'd happily drive me in fifteen minutes. J. sent me to fetch some ID photos from home, since there was a good chance I'd need some. Fifteen minutes passed and I wasplaying with the wobbly stalks on the apple-shaped lip gloss containers ready when Sis' last customer walked out the door.
There were road works. Freaky, freaky road works that made the trip even longer. Also, Sis had changed insurance companies a few years ago, and hadn't been to the building in ages. Google insisted we only had to drive for six minutes. A realistic estimate would have been fifteen.
A nice lady at the desk asked why we were there. I said I was a foreigner looking for health insurance so my boss could fufill his legal duty and pay for it, which meant my job registration could be fufilled. She called a colleague and directed us to a desk.
The colleage showed up within thirty seconds. I opened my mouth and started talking. The very pleasant woman asked where I was from. I told her and she apologised profusely and asked if we'd mind terribly moving across the very big room to another desk, where she had the forms for that.
I was feeling so downright pessimistic at that point, I decided we wouldn't be out of there before closing time. The tax officials themselves had no idea what certification had what name, banks failed to ask for information they legally needed... Why would Germany's largest health insurance provider be any different?
Well, because they're Germany's largest health care provider, and for good reasons.
The woman knew exactly which forms were needed, where they were and what information was necessary. The other woman in the cubicle scanned my identifications while our helpful angel looked up where W.'s company was in the database, which pieces of insurance paperwork things I still needed done ('everything' was an adequate answer, fufilled by ticking all the four boxes on the form) and we were done. I got a card, should any problems arise, with the lady's contact information, and both Sis and me got a towel. I was slightly baffled by this, but it was nice nonetheless.
Sis drove me home, where I realised I didn't have any more paperwork that needed doing right now. At least until Monday, I don't believe I can do anything by writing or so.
Which means I get to prepare for my parents visiting. Yeah, that realisation lit a fire under my backside.
So far, I've showered, folded laundry, started doing laundry, did the dishes, cooked dinner and brought it to my heart of hearts and sorted out the trash. I'd bring it downstairs, but my brain, after three months, still thinks green is for organic waste, black is for all waste and paper should go in bright blue. The color code is different in Germany, and it won't stick into my head. I'm going to have to ask Boyfriend to take it down later today or tomorrow. And the weekend will probably be dedicated to vacuuming, scrubbing floors, dusting, tidying and tackling the dog so we can put him under the shower. And, of course, more laundry.
But W. hadn't made the forms. Noooo. The German authorities had. There were several empty spaces where he went 'skip that for now'. After skipping a page and a half of the two forms, we called his tax advisor, who'd sent the papers.
Some things, we had to leave blank because I'm foreign. Others should have been taken care of, but no one told me to take care of them. So it was two in the afternoon and I suddenly needed registering for taxes, health insurance and, to top it all off, my bank had somehow misplaced the scans they'd made last week and wanted me to pop by and fill it all in again, since I was getting no bank account until they had them.
Here's a fun fact about Germany. Office hours are rigid. They're strict. And they usually stop at four pm. All places I had to go were nowhere near one another. I looked up a few things and figured I could make the bank and the tax authority building today, and then I'd see about the rest. I was lucky it's Thursday. Some offices close ridiculously early on Wednesdays, then stay open late on Thursdays.
The tax thing was so confusing that even the people working there had no idea what was wanted. I explained everything I knew, and they did their best.
Then, I took Boyfriend's bike and tried going to the bank. Everything was fine with it, Boyfriend said, except it felt really slow when riding it. I got on it and had to fold myself like a pretzel. The tires were the consistency of melty taffy. Oh, and the gears were cranked up to the highest setting. I kid you not, there was a child between eight and twelve riding a bike at the same height of steering wheel and seat as I was.The gears, I could adjust. I did not have time to crack out my toolbox and bicycle pump and cue the A-team theme tune. It's on my to-do list, though.
I eventually got to the bank by moving my knees in tiny circles about four inches in diameter. The official entrance, which had been under renovation in the last four months, was re-opened. The old entrance was out of bounds. I was really confused. There was a small tea party being held inside to celebrate, meaning that the tellers were a bit understaffed. Hey, I'd be knocking back Caprisuns, too, if I had the choice between that and servicing some sweaty foreigner holding three different pieces of identification (the city says I have to) and a letter saying 'Error in data entry'. But eventually it was my turn. I got a different person this week, who was stunned that I was sent to enter data that was entered in an online form that does not get processed when it's incomplete. He admitted it made very little sense. I admitted I was getting used to the German bureaucratic system freaking out every time I lifted a pen.
By the time I got back to the middle point of my little triangle of places to demand registration from (better known as the two houses where J., W., Sis, Boyfriend and me live), it was getting dark. Boyfriend's bike has no lamps. My bike has lamps, but a back tire that is going flat faster and faster every time I pump it up. The insurance building was three kilometers away under perfect circumstances, and I wasn't sure I had enough time to walk there and still get service.
W., when we crashed his party earlier that day, had been knee-deep in paperwork.
So I snuck into the studio to see if J. was done early today. She had work until at least six, and the insurance company closed at half past five today and three tomorrow. The earliest I could possibly get there would be Tuesday if I didn't make it today.
I didn't consider asking Sis. She sold her car two days ago. But J. asked if she had a lot of work left, and Sis said she'd happily drive me in fifteen minutes. J. sent me to fetch some ID photos from home, since there was a good chance I'd need some. Fifteen minutes passed and I was
There were road works. Freaky, freaky road works that made the trip even longer. Also, Sis had changed insurance companies a few years ago, and hadn't been to the building in ages. Google insisted we only had to drive for six minutes. A realistic estimate would have been fifteen.
A nice lady at the desk asked why we were there. I said I was a foreigner looking for health insurance so my boss could fufill his legal duty and pay for it, which meant my job registration could be fufilled. She called a colleague and directed us to a desk.
The colleage showed up within thirty seconds. I opened my mouth and started talking. The very pleasant woman asked where I was from. I told her and she apologised profusely and asked if we'd mind terribly moving across the very big room to another desk, where she had the forms for that.
I was feeling so downright pessimistic at that point, I decided we wouldn't be out of there before closing time. The tax officials themselves had no idea what certification had what name, banks failed to ask for information they legally needed... Why would Germany's largest health insurance provider be any different?
Well, because they're Germany's largest health care provider, and for good reasons.
The woman knew exactly which forms were needed, where they were and what information was necessary. The other woman in the cubicle scanned my identifications while our helpful angel looked up where W.'s company was in the database, which pieces of insurance paperwork things I still needed done ('everything' was an adequate answer, fufilled by ticking all the four boxes on the form) and we were done. I got a card, should any problems arise, with the lady's contact information, and both Sis and me got a towel. I was slightly baffled by this, but it was nice nonetheless.
Sis drove me home, where I realised I didn't have any more paperwork that needed doing right now. At least until Monday, I don't believe I can do anything by writing or so.
Which means I get to prepare for my parents visiting. Yeah, that realisation lit a fire under my backside.
So far, I've showered, folded laundry, started doing laundry, did the dishes, cooked dinner and brought it to my heart of hearts and sorted out the trash. I'd bring it downstairs, but my brain, after three months, still thinks green is for organic waste, black is for all waste and paper should go in bright blue. The color code is different in Germany, and it won't stick into my head. I'm going to have to ask Boyfriend to take it down later today or tomorrow. And the weekend will probably be dedicated to vacuuming, scrubbing floors, dusting, tidying and tackling the dog so we can put him under the shower. And, of course, more laundry.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
The Reading
(I just noticed I've posted six posts every day for the last two days. Eek!
On an equally random note: I picked up a takeaway menu today where the German beer type 'pils' is misspelled 'pilz'. Which means they deliver half litres of either mushrooms or fungus. Or that the menu was written by someone not entirely proficient in German, since they have a little blurb stating that all food is made with only the freshest of additives, and German menus don't allow that kind of sarcasm, not even in the fast food industry.)
I love to read. I've been re-reading books I've taken with me over the past few weeks, I've torn through the Hunger Games in about three days, and my Christmas wishlist is going to consist of something along the lines of yarn store gift certificates, hopeful hints about jewelry I like to Boyfriend and a posting of my amazon.co.uk wishlist with a tiny note that, while amazon.co.uk charges shipping to Germany, Book Depository and Play.com do not.
But enough about me. Let's talk about Boyfriend.
See, Boyfriend's interested in reading. It's just that he gets distracted, easily. Some people say he has ADD. If he does, he has a very mild case of it in my opinion. But since he had the reaction of people lacking AD(H)D brain chemistry to medication for it, I'm skeptical. It got him out of military duty, because Germany is kind of nervous as to who it learns to handle weaponry and potentially put in war zones. You do not need someone to go 'Receiving enemy fir--Oh my GOD, that missile's dust cloud looks like a Transformer! I swear, dude, it's like a 3D movie in the sky!' in a foxhole.
But, like I said, easily distracted. He want to read Dracula, and I recommend he does. It's a fascinating read. We also have Fight Club, should he want to start short, and Emma by Jane Austen if he wants a total and utter mindfuck with a feminine twist. He's fascinated by it all.
I've been watching the BBC series Merlin for the last few weeks, and have a smattering of knowledge about Arthurian legend. So when I go like 'Gawain's a total horn dog' and Boyfriend argues that he's not even looking at Guinevere's bosoms when he flirts with her, I pull out my Longman Anthology of British Literature, volume A, found 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight' and told him that the book had medieval porn in there. With violence and crossdressing and magic and everything.
That interested him, too. When I told him what an anthology of literature was, and that we had four of them (Well, two volumes of the Longman and two Nortons), his mind was blown. Interesting bits from books and literary works, short stories, from different times, perspectives, all in one handydandy volume? Awesome. (I receive regular confirmation that choosing Boyfriend was very much the right thing to do with my life.) He turned very careful when I told him how much the Longman was worth and how hard it was to get a hold of, but he still wants to read Sir Gawain.
And lately he's wanted to read. So he was directed to Amazons of all nationalities and a few key titles, most of which had the 'look inside' function. For those of you not into literature, it's the reading equivalent of crack. You read, get into it, get to page eight, and the preview stops mid-sentence. His Christmas list has since gained several titles that aren't in any way related to the current number one on Amazon.de top one hundred of video games (At the moment, it's Landswirtschafts-Simulator 2013).
But, like crack, you do not want to wait for your fix. So like an addict newly born, he ordered some books. One was a comic, because he likes comics and there's nothing wrong with doing so. The other was the true tale of a man doing nine thirty-day experiments and what he learned from them, which happened to be part of a four-book series that are loosely related to one another. I want ALL four. Boyfriend was interested in just that one.
The only problem is that I nabbed the book the day it arrived as Boyfriend was napping, spent the entire afternoon reading it, finished it, and now have to wait until he reads it and try to to give away any spoilers, despite the fact that my laughing at the last chapter was probably heard by anyone without a hearing aid in the building.
I might be in trouble.
On an equally random note: I picked up a takeaway menu today where the German beer type 'pils' is misspelled 'pilz'. Which means they deliver half litres of either mushrooms or fungus. Or that the menu was written by someone not entirely proficient in German, since they have a little blurb stating that all food is made with only the freshest of additives, and German menus don't allow that kind of sarcasm, not even in the fast food industry.)
I love to read. I've been re-reading books I've taken with me over the past few weeks, I've torn through the Hunger Games in about three days, and my Christmas wishlist is going to consist of something along the lines of yarn store gift certificates, hopeful hints about jewelry I like to Boyfriend and a posting of my amazon.co.uk wishlist with a tiny note that, while amazon.co.uk charges shipping to Germany, Book Depository and Play.com do not.
But enough about me. Let's talk about Boyfriend.
See, Boyfriend's interested in reading. It's just that he gets distracted, easily. Some people say he has ADD. If he does, he has a very mild case of it in my opinion. But since he had the reaction of people lacking AD(H)D brain chemistry to medication for it, I'm skeptical. It got him out of military duty, because Germany is kind of nervous as to who it learns to handle weaponry and potentially put in war zones. You do not need someone to go 'Receiving enemy fir--Oh my GOD, that missile's dust cloud looks like a Transformer! I swear, dude, it's like a 3D movie in the sky!' in a foxhole.
But, like I said, easily distracted. He want to read Dracula, and I recommend he does. It's a fascinating read. We also have Fight Club, should he want to start short, and Emma by Jane Austen if he wants a total and utter mindfuck with a feminine twist. He's fascinated by it all.
I've been watching the BBC series Merlin for the last few weeks, and have a smattering of knowledge about Arthurian legend. So when I go like 'Gawain's a total horn dog' and Boyfriend argues that he's not even looking at Guinevere's bosoms when he flirts with her, I pull out my Longman Anthology of British Literature, volume A, found 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight' and told him that the book had medieval porn in there. With violence and crossdressing and magic and everything.
That interested him, too. When I told him what an anthology of literature was, and that we had four of them (Well, two volumes of the Longman and two Nortons), his mind was blown. Interesting bits from books and literary works, short stories, from different times, perspectives, all in one handydandy volume? Awesome. (I receive regular confirmation that choosing Boyfriend was very much the right thing to do with my life.) He turned very careful when I told him how much the Longman was worth and how hard it was to get a hold of, but he still wants to read Sir Gawain.
And lately he's wanted to read. So he was directed to Amazons of all nationalities and a few key titles, most of which had the 'look inside' function. For those of you not into literature, it's the reading equivalent of crack. You read, get into it, get to page eight, and the preview stops mid-sentence. His Christmas list has since gained several titles that aren't in any way related to the current number one on Amazon.de top one hundred of video games (At the moment, it's Landswirtschafts-Simulator 2013).
But, like crack, you do not want to wait for your fix. So like an addict newly born, he ordered some books. One was a comic, because he likes comics and there's nothing wrong with doing so. The other was the true tale of a man doing nine thirty-day experiments and what he learned from them, which happened to be part of a four-book series that are loosely related to one another. I want ALL four. Boyfriend was interested in just that one.
The only problem is that I nabbed the book the day it arrived as Boyfriend was napping, spent the entire afternoon reading it, finished it, and now have to wait until he reads it and try to to give away any spoilers, despite the fact that my laughing at the last chapter was probably heard by anyone without a hearing aid in the building.
I might be in trouble.
The Birthday Calendar
I forgot my mom's birthday this year.
This is a small part of the reason why I'm nervous about my parents visiting. The other parts are that my mom is a teacher, and teachers believe in pointing out mistakes so people can learn from them, and I have a great many of them. Also, my dad's sense of humor is kind of whacky at the best of time, and his German is best described as 'improvised', but J. loves him and now several people want to meet him. Eek.
But back to the birthday thing. I mentioned this to J. J. is an understanding and kind person, but not where birthdays are concerned. Birthdays are to be celebrated, with food and gifts and family. If this cannot be arranged, a phone call with a 'happy birthday' slipped in casually should be provided, on the pain oftorture and death a firm talking to.
My mom's birthday was three and a half weeks ago, and Sis' and W.'s were coming up.
So I got a birthday calendar.
Birthday calendars are one of the hardest things to find once you enter October. Especially if you have an accent, and people assume you're looking for a calendar for the next year. I wasn't. The store I eventually found it in had calendars on three of it's four floors. One floor was entirely calendars. All of them were for 2013. There were day planners and family calendars and tear-away-and-read-the-joke calendars. There were make-your-own-calendar calendars. If I'd have been looking for one, I'd have found one within five minutes of searching.
The birthday calendars were a crumpled mess of leftovers, hung up next to the random gift and plushie section, hidden behind a rack of shiny children's 2013 calendars.
On the plus side, the calendar I eventually found to suit my needs and budget in these dark and troubled times right before the holidays, was cheap, had cute but acceptably adult illustrations and could be hung up by balancing a butter knife on a shelf above the television.
Boyfriend thought that it looked unsafe, and probably was. I argued that the suction cup hooks we'd bought had either been put to un-missable use or disappeared. He went out and bought me a new packet. I hung up the takeaway menu and the calendar side by side on the fridge.
There's no birthdays next month. In December, there's at least four, on top of the one for Baby Jesus and Baby 2013. January is going to be a six-birthday month, I believe. God save me. Or at least make Skype phone subscriptions cheaper, so I can call people who have cell phones, too.
This is a small part of the reason why I'm nervous about my parents visiting. The other parts are that my mom is a teacher, and teachers believe in pointing out mistakes so people can learn from them, and I have a great many of them. Also, my dad's sense of humor is kind of whacky at the best of time, and his German is best described as 'improvised', but J. loves him and now several people want to meet him. Eek.
But back to the birthday thing. I mentioned this to J. J. is an understanding and kind person, but not where birthdays are concerned. Birthdays are to be celebrated, with food and gifts and family. If this cannot be arranged, a phone call with a 'happy birthday' slipped in casually should be provided, on the pain of
My mom's birthday was three and a half weeks ago, and Sis' and W.'s were coming up.
So I got a birthday calendar.
Birthday calendars are one of the hardest things to find once you enter October. Especially if you have an accent, and people assume you're looking for a calendar for the next year. I wasn't. The store I eventually found it in had calendars on three of it's four floors. One floor was entirely calendars. All of them were for 2013. There were day planners and family calendars and tear-away-and-read-the-joke calendars. There were make-your-own-calendar calendars. If I'd have been looking for one, I'd have found one within five minutes of searching.
The birthday calendars were a crumpled mess of leftovers, hung up next to the random gift and plushie section, hidden behind a rack of shiny children's 2013 calendars.
On the plus side, the calendar I eventually found to suit my needs and budget in these dark and troubled times right before the holidays, was cheap, had cute but acceptably adult illustrations and could be hung up by balancing a butter knife on a shelf above the television.
Boyfriend thought that it looked unsafe, and probably was. I argued that the suction cup hooks we'd bought had either been put to un-missable use or disappeared. He went out and bought me a new packet. I hung up the takeaway menu and the calendar side by side on the fridge.
There's no birthdays next month. In December, there's at least four, on top of the one for Baby Jesus and Baby 2013. January is going to be a six-birthday month, I believe. God save me. Or at least make Skype phone subscriptions cheaper, so I can call people who have cell phones, too.
The Day
(I got 40 pageviews today so far. I feel like a surprise party was organised while I was napping, and I've walked into the living room in my underwear.
Also, most of you are from the States. I know like five people there. Who are the other twenty-nine of you interested in someone who gifts things which might be interpreted along the lines of 'I think your daughter should come with a warning symbol of some kind'?)
I haven't been talking about my days a lot lately. Not that nothing's been happening. I just have paperwork to do, J. had me working extra while Boyfriend and I talked until deep into the night for the past four nights, people want my Christmas wish list yesterday and I'm preparing for an invasion visit from my parents.
Monday was fairly uneventful, apart from doing J.'s nails. I'll be filing off the loud pattern and doing the green-red one on there on Friday, so the boss has two identical hands and a pattern more suitable to her stage in life.J. God has decided, and so it shall be.
Tuesday, Sis was alone in the studio, with back-to-back appointments from nine am until four pm. I was there for helping out, by which is meant scavenging for colors, refilling containers and helping discover that the phone has broken down to the point where it might hurt business. I talked way too much, but neither customers nor Sis seemed to mind.
Today, J. was running behind on her appointments by about twenty minutes. Not all customers appreciate that, but it's not something you can magically undo. I could make footbaths to shave off a few minutes, I could fetch drinks to placate customers and, at some point, I was promoted to toddler entertainment system due to a cute little baby requesting some visual and auditory stimulation as politely as all children below twelve months old can.
Language didn't matter, the person didn't matter, as long as they had a pulse, made eye contact and could make funny noises and gestures and pick up dropped shoes. I got told I'm great with kids and should get some. I pointed out that I eat pig-shaped candy and potato chips for dinner on some weekends. It only swayed them slightly. I do not want kids. I can barely handle Iggy.
Then J. wanted a set of shelves cleaned out, the contents moved to a smaller shelf, and all nail polish collected in a box. There was about two and a half liters of nail polish, all in glass containers of about eight mils. Yes, I'm aware that's over three hundred bottles of nail polish. J. made me count them. There's still about a hundred other ones in the studio, which is about fifty more than is warranted for the studio's size, in my opinion, but I'm not in charge.
Next, we cleaned the shelf out, got out the loose parts and put it to the side. Then a sofa was dragged down from the most unsafe staircase in the history of stair cases (Please note: the landlord of the studio does not care about regulations much, to the point where there's a biohazard in the basement and Sis' apartment has no insulation to speak of. The stairs haven't even made the list so far.), cleaned and put in the hall. It takes up more floorspace, but the room feels roomier without fifteen kilograms of beauty products in different colors, brands and functionalities screaming at you as soon as you come in.
Boyfriend was called in at this point to move the shelf to a different building, with me there to open doors. We moved the shelf, the loose bits and the nail polish to J.'s house and I got back to business of pouring drinks and hatching a devious plan as S. kept saying she should really stop smoking before the year is out.
The problem with delays is, they get bigger if they're big enough. Sort of how a snowball that's projectile size has more chances of staying on a slope than a twenty kilo ball of ice and slush. Eventually, the delay gets noticeable.
J.'s customer before the last one came in exactly when she had an appointment. J., at that point, was just done with building gel on a customer that wants a certain wow factor in her nails, rather than just a white tip. I. had gone home, Sis and S. had customers of their own. At which point I thought I'd be funny and offered to file off the gel for the waiting customer. J. actually asked this sweet, young woman if she was okay with the rookie coming at her with a file. She was fine with it. I refrained from asking if she was on crack only because I don't know how to politely phrase that in German.
It was quite possibly the most terrifying thing I've done all month.
I know how to file nails. Theoretically. I'm not fast at it, and sometimes I take a while to get the positioning right, but there's professional nail artists who do more damage than me at this point.
I asked at least three times to please tell me if I hurt her. I had a near heart attack when I noticed I'd rubbed a certain spot to redness. The skin was still there, but it wasn't happy skin. There was a square millimeter of pure anger and dustlessness, which is the filing equivalent of a flashing light and a siren before you risk being sued for bodily harm.
Okay, so maybe it wouldn't have gotten there, but I was extra special careful when filing. I checked for air under the edges of the gel (you can be an artist of epic proportions, after a few weeks the gel will slowly start to lose the fight against showers and handwashing), filed it away when it was there and realised that when J. was ready to take over that I'd rubbed the file against my own thumb nail until it felt brittle and thin. Yes, I'll put nail hardener on later and try and remember to wear file protection next time.
On a happier note, the mailman came a day early with my order of fifty fish eye buttons. Also, Boyfriend is working extra days this week as well, due to skivving at the casino. This means I got to knit his birthday hat to completion without him noticing, so there's at least a small element of surprise. I've hidden it somewhere in the apartment where he rarely looks. And since he reads this blog, I feel compelled to say, "It's not the dishwasher, babe. Stop searching."
I also put eyes on the hat for I.'s grandchild, but then decided it needed something extra. Raging pink and supersonic orange aren't enough to communicate screaming prepubescent femininity. So I knitted a tiny bow and stuck it on with a safety pin. The bow can be repositioned, removed, put on a bobby pin and worn... Whatever is needed. At the moment, the fish is a girl fish. I don't think five-year-olds care much about what their fashion choices say about their views on gender emancipation. I'm pretty sure Barbie would have been taken off the shelves if it were the case.
But the arrival of the buttons/eyes means I've run out of knitting projects. I want to knit hats for Christmas for everyone except Boyfriend, proper hats out of superwash merino, as said before, but it makes me want to limit my knitting for now a bit. Also, my yarn choices are getting limited. I've got a truckload of dark colored Bravo, but don't want to make boring hats out of cheap yarn. There's still quite a lot of fingering weight yarn (I know it when you're giggling, people, but it's the technical term for it) that Boyfriend gave me for my last birthday, but the sock-and-glove mood hasn't struck so far.
So I browsed the internet for horrific and socially unacceptable side effects of smoking. I can't bother people who don't want to stop smoking, but S. admitted she needs some kind of push to start the stopping process, and she's friended me on Facebook. So I found a Youtube video of how much tar gets sucked into your lungs over the course of 400 cigarettes. S. smokes about three to five a day, I believe, so that's three, four months' worth of cigarettes, reduced to a bubbling black sludge hardening inside your lungs and causing all kinds of diseases. Hmmm, delicious. I shared it with S.
But tar is mentioned on the package. I went on Wikipedia and discovered that there's a German page for hairy black tongue. This happens to (some) smokers with their oral immune system compromised. S. happens to care about her appearance, as all people working with the general public tend to do. Your tongue developing some chest hair for a few months seemed like the right thing to tell her about a few hours before bedtime. So I did.
Now, I'm not completely evil. And I know shock is hard to induce in smokers. Smokers who don't know about the risks are practically nonexistant. So I also shared a website with slightly less known little factoids. I got on a trusted German health website and shared the page on how your body detoxifies after your last cigarette when you're a regular smoker. It starts after twenty minutes, and then gets rid of the most immediate dangers in your body in the first forty-eight hours. On a purely physical level, quitting smoking is something your body is hugely in favor of. Brain chemistry usually makes it hard, but it's hard to sell 'kick your addiction' when everyone is like 'once you start, stopping will be pure misery'. No one mentions that your breathing is noticeably better by day three. You're not back at full lung capacity, but most if not all people agree that better breathing is a good thing.
Then I stopped terrorising her, since there's a fine line between ribbing and digitally shaking someone by the shirt and demanding they stop their wicked, filthy ways. I said goodnight and got a message back that I am liked. Yay.
And if the smoking thing didn't work, the hats get thrown out, J's furniture falls over and kills Cindy... Well, I made one person smile today. The fact that she couldn't yet successfully operate a sippy cup is irrelevant.
Also, most of you are from the States. I know like five people there. Who are the other twenty-nine of you interested in someone who gifts things which might be interpreted along the lines of 'I think your daughter should come with a warning symbol of some kind'?)
I haven't been talking about my days a lot lately. Not that nothing's been happening. I just have paperwork to do, J. had me working extra while Boyfriend and I talked until deep into the night for the past four nights, people want my Christmas wish list yesterday and I'm preparing for a
Monday was fairly uneventful, apart from doing J.'s nails. I'll be filing off the loud pattern and doing the green-red one on there on Friday, so the boss has two identical hands and a pattern more suitable to her stage in life.
Tuesday, Sis was alone in the studio, with back-to-back appointments from nine am until four pm. I was there for helping out, by which is meant scavenging for colors, refilling containers and helping discover that the phone has broken down to the point where it might hurt business. I talked way too much, but neither customers nor Sis seemed to mind.
Today, J. was running behind on her appointments by about twenty minutes. Not all customers appreciate that, but it's not something you can magically undo. I could make footbaths to shave off a few minutes, I could fetch drinks to placate customers and, at some point, I was promoted to toddler entertainment system due to a cute little baby requesting some visual and auditory stimulation as politely as all children below twelve months old can.
Language didn't matter, the person didn't matter, as long as they had a pulse, made eye contact and could make funny noises and gestures and pick up dropped shoes. I got told I'm great with kids and should get some. I pointed out that I eat pig-shaped candy and potato chips for dinner on some weekends. It only swayed them slightly. I do not want kids. I can barely handle Iggy.
Then J. wanted a set of shelves cleaned out, the contents moved to a smaller shelf, and all nail polish collected in a box. There was about two and a half liters of nail polish, all in glass containers of about eight mils. Yes, I'm aware that's over three hundred bottles of nail polish. J. made me count them. There's still about a hundred other ones in the studio, which is about fifty more than is warranted for the studio's size, in my opinion, but I'm not in charge.
Next, we cleaned the shelf out, got out the loose parts and put it to the side. Then a sofa was dragged down from the most unsafe staircase in the history of stair cases (Please note: the landlord of the studio does not care about regulations much, to the point where there's a biohazard in the basement and Sis' apartment has no insulation to speak of. The stairs haven't even made the list so far.), cleaned and put in the hall. It takes up more floorspace, but the room feels roomier without fifteen kilograms of beauty products in different colors, brands and functionalities screaming at you as soon as you come in.
Boyfriend was called in at this point to move the shelf to a different building, with me there to open doors. We moved the shelf, the loose bits and the nail polish to J.'s house and I got back to business of pouring drinks and hatching a devious plan as S. kept saying she should really stop smoking before the year is out.
The problem with delays is, they get bigger if they're big enough. Sort of how a snowball that's projectile size has more chances of staying on a slope than a twenty kilo ball of ice and slush. Eventually, the delay gets noticeable.
J.'s customer before the last one came in exactly when she had an appointment. J., at that point, was just done with building gel on a customer that wants a certain wow factor in her nails, rather than just a white tip. I. had gone home, Sis and S. had customers of their own. At which point I thought I'd be funny and offered to file off the gel for the waiting customer. J. actually asked this sweet, young woman if she was okay with the rookie coming at her with a file. She was fine with it. I refrained from asking if she was on crack only because I don't know how to politely phrase that in German.
It was quite possibly the most terrifying thing I've done all month.
I know how to file nails. Theoretically. I'm not fast at it, and sometimes I take a while to get the positioning right, but there's professional nail artists who do more damage than me at this point.
I asked at least three times to please tell me if I hurt her. I had a near heart attack when I noticed I'd rubbed a certain spot to redness. The skin was still there, but it wasn't happy skin. There was a square millimeter of pure anger and dustlessness, which is the filing equivalent of a flashing light and a siren before you risk being sued for bodily harm.
Okay, so maybe it wouldn't have gotten there, but I was extra special careful when filing. I checked for air under the edges of the gel (you can be an artist of epic proportions, after a few weeks the gel will slowly start to lose the fight against showers and handwashing), filed it away when it was there and realised that when J. was ready to take over that I'd rubbed the file against my own thumb nail until it felt brittle and thin. Yes, I'll put nail hardener on later and try and remember to wear file protection next time.
On a happier note, the mailman came a day early with my order of fifty fish eye buttons. Also, Boyfriend is working extra days this week as well, due to skivving at the casino. This means I got to knit his birthday hat to completion without him noticing, so there's at least a small element of surprise. I've hidden it somewhere in the apartment where he rarely looks. And since he reads this blog, I feel compelled to say, "It's not the dishwasher, babe. Stop searching."
I also put eyes on the hat for I.'s grandchild, but then decided it needed something extra. Raging pink and supersonic orange aren't enough to communicate screaming prepubescent femininity. So I knitted a tiny bow and stuck it on with a safety pin. The bow can be repositioned, removed, put on a bobby pin and worn... Whatever is needed. At the moment, the fish is a girl fish. I don't think five-year-olds care much about what their fashion choices say about their views on gender emancipation. I'm pretty sure Barbie would have been taken off the shelves if it were the case.
But the arrival of the buttons/eyes means I've run out of knitting projects. I want to knit hats for Christmas for everyone except Boyfriend, proper hats out of superwash merino, as said before, but it makes me want to limit my knitting for now a bit. Also, my yarn choices are getting limited. I've got a truckload of dark colored Bravo, but don't want to make boring hats out of cheap yarn. There's still quite a lot of fingering weight yarn (I know it when you're giggling, people, but it's the technical term for it) that Boyfriend gave me for my last birthday, but the sock-and-glove mood hasn't struck so far.
So I browsed the internet for horrific and socially unacceptable side effects of smoking. I can't bother people who don't want to stop smoking, but S. admitted she needs some kind of push to start the stopping process, and she's friended me on Facebook. So I found a Youtube video of how much tar gets sucked into your lungs over the course of 400 cigarettes. S. smokes about three to five a day, I believe, so that's three, four months' worth of cigarettes, reduced to a bubbling black sludge hardening inside your lungs and causing all kinds of diseases. Hmmm, delicious. I shared it with S.
But tar is mentioned on the package. I went on Wikipedia and discovered that there's a German page for hairy black tongue. This happens to (some) smokers with their oral immune system compromised. S. happens to care about her appearance, as all people working with the general public tend to do. Your tongue developing some chest hair for a few months seemed like the right thing to tell her about a few hours before bedtime. So I did.
Now, I'm not completely evil. And I know shock is hard to induce in smokers. Smokers who don't know about the risks are practically nonexistant. So I also shared a website with slightly less known little factoids. I got on a trusted German health website and shared the page on how your body detoxifies after your last cigarette when you're a regular smoker. It starts after twenty minutes, and then gets rid of the most immediate dangers in your body in the first forty-eight hours. On a purely physical level, quitting smoking is something your body is hugely in favor of. Brain chemistry usually makes it hard, but it's hard to sell 'kick your addiction' when everyone is like 'once you start, stopping will be pure misery'. No one mentions that your breathing is noticeably better by day three. You're not back at full lung capacity, but most if not all people agree that better breathing is a good thing.
Then I stopped terrorising her, since there's a fine line between ribbing and digitally shaking someone by the shirt and demanding they stop their wicked, filthy ways. I said goodnight and got a message back that I am liked. Yay.
And if the smoking thing didn't work, the hats get thrown out, J's furniture falls over and kills Cindy... Well, I made one person smile today. The fact that she couldn't yet successfully operate a sippy cup is irrelevant.
The Knitting Crazies
I've been knitting more lately. As a matter of fact, I might have gone a bit knitting crazy.
First there was the hat Iggy chewed on, just because I wanted to knit something. Except the pattern, while deceptively simple, was frustrating. I had it memorised witin minutes, but it still was very unforgiving towards mistakes. One stitch missing, one too much, and it broke down completely.
So I asked I. if her granddaughter needed a hat for autumn, got a yes, and made a fish hat that's even louder than the one I have. Mine is blue, green and neon orange. I.'s granddaughter, should she choose to wear it, will be rocking fluorescent pink, sunny yellow and neon orange. I showed it to I's daughter, who looked a bit intimidated. Then again, I'd be intimidated if someone asked if they could put an eyeless fish on my daughter's head. On the other hand, Boyfriend wants a fish hat for his birthday, please. In my trademark screaming color scheme.We must be terribly in love.
I couldn't find the right buttons, though. I found the perfect ones way, way back in Brussels, so I knew that somewhere out there, stores could theoretically stock 38 mm, white clown suit buttons. I just couldn't find any. I combed through the German Amazon. Zipp. The British Amazon, however, had exactly my buttons. For a higher price and eight pounds sterling in shipping, no matter how many I bought. Some quick calculations showed I could get them cheaper than even the prices in Brussels if I bougt what can be kindly described as 'a few more'. My shipment of fifty fish-hat-eye buttons should be arriving around Thursday. Buttony perfection.
During the fish hat and normal hat time, Sis teased me mercilessly. I mostly wear silly hats I've knit myself. Some people smoke, I appear in public with a stocking cap with over a dozen 3D eyeballs on it. My quirk is less harmful to others. I've got a fish hat, and a normal knitted hat on which I've grafted two little knitted horns. I've got my merino leftover hat, which is stripy, with tasseled ties and has a color scheme best described as 'ecclectic'. So I get some people who are amused, out loud, at what's on my head.
Except Sis' birthday was coming up (it was last Thursday) and she'd dropped the words 'owl hat'. The owl thing is a bit of a running gag. She'd like some owl plugs she couldn't find anywhere in her size, which I just stumbled across available in pretty much every size, then she got a ring, and her birthday card had cute little cartoony owls on it. Her gift was a gift certificate, which I thought was boring. It needed some original wrapping.
So I knitted a purple-with-bright-green hat with a cute, if slightly large owl worked in in stranded colorwork. Chances of her wearing it are small, since she likes having big hair and works from home, but she got a kick out of it. J. stole it for a moment, tried it on and loved it.
I've learned a long time ago to knit whimsical hats out of cheap yarn, in case the whimsy wore off. Then I learned that, if the whimsy doesn't wear off and the yarn is too cheap, and thus too low quality, it causes sadness, because the hat frizzles up, gets little clumps of worn off yarn material and gets all ugly. It took me not very long to find a compromise. If anyone else is struggling with the same problem, go for a good-quality acrylic from a good company. I use Bravo from Schachenmayr. It comes in a myriad of colors, has multi-colored, self-striping and even thicker varieties available, and it will stand up to a few washings. It's not the cheapest of cheap yarns, but it's definitely below 'reasonably priced' on the yarn cost totem pole.
Also, and I know this makes me sound stingy, some people are genuinely happy with an easy-to-maintain hat in bright colors and a slightly whacky pattern. I actually knit a few people things for under five euros, gifted them due to no time to go shopping, and gotten happier responses than people who shelled out fifteen or twenty euros. I've had people pay me to knit them things out of cheap yarn, admitting I only wanted the yarn cost, which was usually about two or three euros. Some of them paid five. One person, who got two children's hats, paid fifteen. (Small disclaimer: I didn't accept the extra money if I was using a pattern someone else released. The fifteen euros were way too much in my opinion, for a pattern I'd doctored out myself, but they were wired to me under the guise of I-insist-on-delivering-you-your-€-3.40-but-never-get-to-see-you and didn't know how to wire money over my eBanking at the time)
Also, remember the pizza episode? Yeah, I got annoyed with our pot holders. I've been annoyed with them for a long while, but the discovery of easy to make homemade pizza sealed the deal. I wanted an oven mitt. A thick, nice oven mitt. A big one, that protected me further than my wrist. I wanted one this weekend. So I took the yarn I won (I've still got some left), which, as mentioned before, is 100% wool, which doesn't melt the way acrylic will. Also, it's feltable. Felting seals up all those nasty little holes thick knits tend to have, and which are safety hazards on oven mitts. But there were several patterns to choose from. I went for the big, manly oven mitt, knitted in less than three hours, threw it in a washing bag and tossed it in with the laundry.
Have I mentioned how much I love my new washing machine? The mitt felted beautifully in two cycles, one of which was at a relatively low temperature. I know the friction from the other washing helped the felting process, but I'm still happy.
And the mitt works. We tried it out before it was completely dry (important safety tip: wait until all felted oven mitts are completely dry before bringing near heat, as the water will get hot and hurty within 30 seconds), and it worked, provided we didn't hold the baking tray for too long. I'm pretty sure it's fine now. And, unlike pot holders, it protects the entire hand from all of the oven, not just the palm of the hand from what you're trying to move.
Now all I have to do is knit Boyfriend's birthday gift while he's not looking. And I think J. and W. are getting hats for Christmas from me, too. Merino hats, in at least partly sensible designs. Because I realise some gifts need some investment other than just time and love and laughter.
First there was the hat Iggy chewed on, just because I wanted to knit something. Except the pattern, while deceptively simple, was frustrating. I had it memorised witin minutes, but it still was very unforgiving towards mistakes. One stitch missing, one too much, and it broke down completely.
So I asked I. if her granddaughter needed a hat for autumn, got a yes, and made a fish hat that's even louder than the one I have. Mine is blue, green and neon orange. I.'s granddaughter, should she choose to wear it, will be rocking fluorescent pink, sunny yellow and neon orange. I showed it to I's daughter, who looked a bit intimidated. Then again, I'd be intimidated if someone asked if they could put an eyeless fish on my daughter's head. On the other hand, Boyfriend wants a fish hat for his birthday, please. In my trademark screaming color scheme.We must be terribly in love.
I couldn't find the right buttons, though. I found the perfect ones way, way back in Brussels, so I knew that somewhere out there, stores could theoretically stock 38 mm, white clown suit buttons. I just couldn't find any. I combed through the German Amazon. Zipp. The British Amazon, however, had exactly my buttons. For a higher price and eight pounds sterling in shipping, no matter how many I bought. Some quick calculations showed I could get them cheaper than even the prices in Brussels if I bougt what can be kindly described as 'a few more'. My shipment of fifty fish-hat-eye buttons should be arriving around Thursday. Buttony perfection.
During the fish hat and normal hat time, Sis teased me mercilessly. I mostly wear silly hats I've knit myself. Some people smoke, I appear in public with a stocking cap with over a dozen 3D eyeballs on it. My quirk is less harmful to others. I've got a fish hat, and a normal knitted hat on which I've grafted two little knitted horns. I've got my merino leftover hat, which is stripy, with tasseled ties and has a color scheme best described as 'ecclectic'. So I get some people who are amused, out loud, at what's on my head.
Except Sis' birthday was coming up (it was last Thursday) and she'd dropped the words 'owl hat'. The owl thing is a bit of a running gag. She'd like some owl plugs she couldn't find anywhere in her size, which I just stumbled across available in pretty much every size, then she got a ring, and her birthday card had cute little cartoony owls on it. Her gift was a gift certificate, which I thought was boring. It needed some original wrapping.
So I knitted a purple-with-bright-green hat with a cute, if slightly large owl worked in in stranded colorwork. Chances of her wearing it are small, since she likes having big hair and works from home, but she got a kick out of it. J. stole it for a moment, tried it on and loved it.
I've learned a long time ago to knit whimsical hats out of cheap yarn, in case the whimsy wore off. Then I learned that, if the whimsy doesn't wear off and the yarn is too cheap, and thus too low quality, it causes sadness, because the hat frizzles up, gets little clumps of worn off yarn material and gets all ugly. It took me not very long to find a compromise. If anyone else is struggling with the same problem, go for a good-quality acrylic from a good company. I use Bravo from Schachenmayr. It comes in a myriad of colors, has multi-colored, self-striping and even thicker varieties available, and it will stand up to a few washings. It's not the cheapest of cheap yarns, but it's definitely below 'reasonably priced' on the yarn cost totem pole.
Also, and I know this makes me sound stingy, some people are genuinely happy with an easy-to-maintain hat in bright colors and a slightly whacky pattern. I actually knit a few people things for under five euros, gifted them due to no time to go shopping, and gotten happier responses than people who shelled out fifteen or twenty euros. I've had people pay me to knit them things out of cheap yarn, admitting I only wanted the yarn cost, which was usually about two or three euros. Some of them paid five. One person, who got two children's hats, paid fifteen. (Small disclaimer: I didn't accept the extra money if I was using a pattern someone else released. The fifteen euros were way too much in my opinion, for a pattern I'd doctored out myself, but they were wired to me under the guise of I-insist-on-delivering-you-your-€-3.40-but-never-get-to-see-you and didn't know how to wire money over my eBanking at the time)
Also, remember the pizza episode? Yeah, I got annoyed with our pot holders. I've been annoyed with them for a long while, but the discovery of easy to make homemade pizza sealed the deal. I wanted an oven mitt. A thick, nice oven mitt. A big one, that protected me further than my wrist. I wanted one this weekend. So I took the yarn I won (I've still got some left), which, as mentioned before, is 100% wool, which doesn't melt the way acrylic will. Also, it's feltable. Felting seals up all those nasty little holes thick knits tend to have, and which are safety hazards on oven mitts. But there were several patterns to choose from. I went for the big, manly oven mitt, knitted in less than three hours, threw it in a washing bag and tossed it in with the laundry.
Have I mentioned how much I love my new washing machine? The mitt felted beautifully in two cycles, one of which was at a relatively low temperature. I know the friction from the other washing helped the felting process, but I'm still happy.
And the mitt works. We tried it out before it was completely dry (important safety tip: wait until all felted oven mitts are completely dry before bringing near heat, as the water will get hot and hurty within 30 seconds), and it worked, provided we didn't hold the baking tray for too long. I'm pretty sure it's fine now. And, unlike pot holders, it protects the entire hand from all of the oven, not just the palm of the hand from what you're trying to move.
Now all I have to do is knit Boyfriend's birthday gift while he's not looking. And I think J. and W. are getting hats for Christmas from me, too. Merino hats, in at least partly sensible designs. Because I realise some gifts need some investment other than just time and love and laughter.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
The Urge to Cook
J. kind of called me out on something a few weeks back. I was baking a lot. And then wondering why I got fatter.
Now, I love to bake. It's a fantastic way to spend some time and end up with way too much sugary goodness than you could feasibly eat in a short timespan.
Over the summer, it were flourless peanut butter cookies. Then I tried cupcakes in September. When I came to brownies that were so dense and sticky, they wouldn't come from the pan, J. pulled the emergency brake and I didn't bake anymore.
Which doesn't take away that the dishwasher is an amazing tool in making cooking less of a hassle.
I like making things in the kitchen (except frying, I have an irrational fear of spraying cooking fat) and not baking sort of put a crimp on that.
We order out. One of my non-baking kitchen creations is a little binder with all take-out menus, which we can hang on the fridge. Ever since I bought the little paper thing, perforated it and stuck some pictures on there, we haven't had to look for the Chinese menu anymore. We'd gotten so used to having the menues scattered merrily across the apartment and disappearing when we tidied that Boyfriend actually went 'Have you seen the menu for the Itali--Wait, nevermind' the first time we ordered after I made it.
Which doesn't mean we don't cook.
There were bean burgers. They didn't taste like beans, but they had the structure of papier maché when you bit through their exterior baked shell. They were tasty, but I'm a horribly picky eater. It doesn't just have to taste good. It has to has the right structure, too. There's a reason I don't eat nutella straight from the jar, and it has nothing to do with nutella's tastiness.
Now, there's recipes I tried that tasted plain nasty. I checked to see if wholewheat flour porridge with raspberry coulis tasted nice. It very much did not. The hint of raspberry did not distract from the fact that I was shoveling paper-flavored paste into my mouth. With pips in there. 'Ew' didn't quite cover it.
But I discovered a few, non-sweet recipes that work. I also discovered spices and tomato paste.
There's the baked mushroom risotto that Boyfriend will eat and I think I already talked about. It tastes of mushrooms, but also of thyme. The combination is quite nice.
If I need garlic for something (and sometimes if I don't) I turn to dried garlic. The main reason for that is that I know myself. I'll buy fresh, use a few cloves and then find the bulb remainder all fuzzy and blue a few weeks later. Dried garlic is less risky. Also, less washing up to do.
There's my spaghetti sauce, which works quite easily since the recipe's instructions basically come down to 'fry, dump, stir, simmer'. A five-year-old with adequate common sense and a supervising adult could pull it off. Also, the recipe's customisable. We can make it a meat bonanza, with a token chopped up carrot, or we can admit we should be healthier and chuck in vegetables.
Speaking of which, I've looked in three major supermarkets so far for soup vegetables. Only two of them stocked any, and both only had one kind. I did not want brussels sprouts, so I ended up with a bio mix of 'chuck every available vegetable in there and freeze'. I used some in the spaghetti sauce. It was tasty, but the combination was downright weird.
And then there's soup. Soup, I've discovered, is even more foolproof than spaghetti sauce. Fry two onions per liter of stock, add veggies, add stock and spices (and tomato paste, hmmmm), let simmer until tender and blitz. If you can fry onions without burning them too horribly, you can make soup. I've let it simmer for half an hour, I've let it simmer for one hour. There is no discernable difference. The soup made from my soup vegetables is weird. First it was transparent and orange, then green, then yellowish... It's rainbow soup in natural tones. Looks weird, tastes great. I've made pea soup with bacon, throwing in the bacon before blenderising the whole. This was the first time I thought 'I've got a stick blender, I don't need to chop up the onions finely'. Strangely enough, the bacon had turned invisible after blending, but there's still that hint of dead pig that makes pea soup awesome.
I freeze what I can, too. It's saved us once or twice from I-don't-wanna-go-to-Mc-Do-but-we-don't-have-anything-in-the-house syndrome. What really annoyed me, though, was how inhumanly long it took to defrost on the stove. Soup, spaghetti sauce, creamed spinach... Turning the heat on high means burned things, turning it on a setting which defrosts is agonisingly slow. And then Boyfriend proposed we froze what we made ourselves in small chunks, in ice cube trays.
I was skeptical, but the internet said it was possible. So I sent Boyfriend to find some cheap ice cube trays, made some soup and froze it. Well, I waited for it to cool down. I doubt ice cube trays like hot fluids, to be honest, so I thought I wouldn't risk it. Also, we only had two trays for the experiment, and my smallest soup pot makes four trays and a plate of soup. It took the better part of the day to freeze it all, unmold it and put it in the freezer.
But it works. I made a bowl of soup by going to the freezer, filling my bowl with frozen soup cubes and nuking it for five minutes. Lo and behold, I had soup. The cubes are an awkward shape, so a full bowl of soup cubes only makes half a bowl of actual soup, but I can have soup without waiting for half an hour. Amazement.
Oh, and I'm making vanilla extract. The price of the stuff in Germany is, like most places I've visited in my life 'one firstborn child for three teaspoons'. Then one supermarket offered vanilla pods for ridiculously low prices, so I thought I'd make some sugar free extract rather than use vanilla sugar in my baking, on top of my actual sugar. It's a small step, but it's a step.
So I got eighteen vanilla pods, scraped them out, and put the seeds and husks in a bottle of vodka. Then I wallpapered the bottle in stickers with happy, cheerful messages like 'drink this and die', 'poison', 'danger' and a skull and crossbones. Oh, and one that says 'shake me'. If I shake it daily, and I worked cleanly enough, I'll have about 7 deciliters of pure vanilla extract by early December. For under fifteen euros, mind you.
When last weekend turned around, I wanted to bake again. Or cook. Or justify eating junk food without wondering how much trans fat had been pumped into my meal. We had tomato paste. We had a few pizza toppings. I theorized there must be recipes for pizza dough without yeast and rising times. Then I sent a passive agressive text to Boyfriend. Something along the lines of 'If only we had cheese and salami, then we could have fresh pizza tonight'. It worked.
The internet provided me with a pretty straightforward recipe for baking powder pizza dough. A bit of searching later, I'd tweaked it a bit to not include oil and instead have herbs baked into the crust. Basil pizza base is delicious, by the way. 600 mils of flour, a teaspoon of salt, a packet of baking powder (15 gr), however much dried herbs tickle your fancy, 200 mils of water. Make base (or little bread balls) and bake for 15-25 minutes at 200°C, depending on toppings, thickness and ovens. My ham-and-salami creation was done quicker than Boyfriend's salami-and-fresh-bacon extravaganza. I didn't have to worry about salmonella as much, and the oven I used was still hot from Boyfriend's pizza.
I rolled out the dough between two sheets of baking paper with my bottle of what at the moment is heavily vanilla infused liquor. Surprisingly effective. Who needs rolling pins, anyway?
Oh, and since it takes less than five minutes to make the dough, we checked if we could make little pizza dough bread balls from the stuff. We could. They're amazing.
Now, I love to bake. It's a fantastic way to spend some time and end up with way too much sugary goodness than you could feasibly eat in a short timespan.
Over the summer, it were flourless peanut butter cookies. Then I tried cupcakes in September. When I came to brownies that were so dense and sticky, they wouldn't come from the pan, J. pulled the emergency brake and I didn't bake anymore.
Which doesn't take away that the dishwasher is an amazing tool in making cooking less of a hassle.
I like making things in the kitchen (except frying, I have an irrational fear of spraying cooking fat) and not baking sort of put a crimp on that.
We order out. One of my non-baking kitchen creations is a little binder with all take-out menus, which we can hang on the fridge. Ever since I bought the little paper thing, perforated it and stuck some pictures on there, we haven't had to look for the Chinese menu anymore. We'd gotten so used to having the menues scattered merrily across the apartment and disappearing when we tidied that Boyfriend actually went 'Have you seen the menu for the Itali--Wait, nevermind' the first time we ordered after I made it.
Which doesn't mean we don't cook.
There were bean burgers. They didn't taste like beans, but they had the structure of papier maché when you bit through their exterior baked shell. They were tasty, but I'm a horribly picky eater. It doesn't just have to taste good. It has to has the right structure, too. There's a reason I don't eat nutella straight from the jar, and it has nothing to do with nutella's tastiness.
Now, there's recipes I tried that tasted plain nasty. I checked to see if wholewheat flour porridge with raspberry coulis tasted nice. It very much did not. The hint of raspberry did not distract from the fact that I was shoveling paper-flavored paste into my mouth. With pips in there. 'Ew' didn't quite cover it.
But I discovered a few, non-sweet recipes that work. I also discovered spices and tomato paste.
There's the baked mushroom risotto that Boyfriend will eat and I think I already talked about. It tastes of mushrooms, but also of thyme. The combination is quite nice.
If I need garlic for something (and sometimes if I don't) I turn to dried garlic. The main reason for that is that I know myself. I'll buy fresh, use a few cloves and then find the bulb remainder all fuzzy and blue a few weeks later. Dried garlic is less risky. Also, less washing up to do.
There's my spaghetti sauce, which works quite easily since the recipe's instructions basically come down to 'fry, dump, stir, simmer'. A five-year-old with adequate common sense and a supervising adult could pull it off. Also, the recipe's customisable. We can make it a meat bonanza, with a token chopped up carrot, or we can admit we should be healthier and chuck in vegetables.
Speaking of which, I've looked in three major supermarkets so far for soup vegetables. Only two of them stocked any, and both only had one kind. I did not want brussels sprouts, so I ended up with a bio mix of 'chuck every available vegetable in there and freeze'. I used some in the spaghetti sauce. It was tasty, but the combination was downright weird.
And then there's soup. Soup, I've discovered, is even more foolproof than spaghetti sauce. Fry two onions per liter of stock, add veggies, add stock and spices (and tomato paste, hmmmm), let simmer until tender and blitz. If you can fry onions without burning them too horribly, you can make soup. I've let it simmer for half an hour, I've let it simmer for one hour. There is no discernable difference. The soup made from my soup vegetables is weird. First it was transparent and orange, then green, then yellowish... It's rainbow soup in natural tones. Looks weird, tastes great. I've made pea soup with bacon, throwing in the bacon before blenderising the whole. This was the first time I thought 'I've got a stick blender, I don't need to chop up the onions finely'. Strangely enough, the bacon had turned invisible after blending, but there's still that hint of dead pig that makes pea soup awesome.
I freeze what I can, too. It's saved us once or twice from I-don't-wanna-go-to-Mc-Do-but-we-don't-have-anything-in-the-house syndrome. What really annoyed me, though, was how inhumanly long it took to defrost on the stove. Soup, spaghetti sauce, creamed spinach... Turning the heat on high means burned things, turning it on a setting which defrosts is agonisingly slow. And then Boyfriend proposed we froze what we made ourselves in small chunks, in ice cube trays.
I was skeptical, but the internet said it was possible. So I sent Boyfriend to find some cheap ice cube trays, made some soup and froze it. Well, I waited for it to cool down. I doubt ice cube trays like hot fluids, to be honest, so I thought I wouldn't risk it. Also, we only had two trays for the experiment, and my smallest soup pot makes four trays and a plate of soup. It took the better part of the day to freeze it all, unmold it and put it in the freezer.
But it works. I made a bowl of soup by going to the freezer, filling my bowl with frozen soup cubes and nuking it for five minutes. Lo and behold, I had soup. The cubes are an awkward shape, so a full bowl of soup cubes only makes half a bowl of actual soup, but I can have soup without waiting for half an hour. Amazement.
Oh, and I'm making vanilla extract. The price of the stuff in Germany is, like most places I've visited in my life 'one firstborn child for three teaspoons'. Then one supermarket offered vanilla pods for ridiculously low prices, so I thought I'd make some sugar free extract rather than use vanilla sugar in my baking, on top of my actual sugar. It's a small step, but it's a step.
So I got eighteen vanilla pods, scraped them out, and put the seeds and husks in a bottle of vodka. Then I wallpapered the bottle in stickers with happy, cheerful messages like 'drink this and die', 'poison', 'danger' and a skull and crossbones. Oh, and one that says 'shake me'. If I shake it daily, and I worked cleanly enough, I'll have about 7 deciliters of pure vanilla extract by early December. For under fifteen euros, mind you.
When last weekend turned around, I wanted to bake again. Or cook. Or justify eating junk food without wondering how much trans fat had been pumped into my meal. We had tomato paste. We had a few pizza toppings. I theorized there must be recipes for pizza dough without yeast and rising times. Then I sent a passive agressive text to Boyfriend. Something along the lines of 'If only we had cheese and salami, then we could have fresh pizza tonight'. It worked.
The internet provided me with a pretty straightforward recipe for baking powder pizza dough. A bit of searching later, I'd tweaked it a bit to not include oil and instead have herbs baked into the crust. Basil pizza base is delicious, by the way. 600 mils of flour, a teaspoon of salt, a packet of baking powder (15 gr), however much dried herbs tickle your fancy, 200 mils of water. Make base (or little bread balls) and bake for 15-25 minutes at 200°C, depending on toppings, thickness and ovens. My ham-and-salami creation was done quicker than Boyfriend's salami-and-fresh-bacon extravaganza. I didn't have to worry about salmonella as much, and the oven I used was still hot from Boyfriend's pizza.
I rolled out the dough between two sheets of baking paper with my bottle of what at the moment is heavily vanilla infused liquor. Surprisingly effective. Who needs rolling pins, anyway?
Oh, and since it takes less than five minutes to make the dough, we checked if we could make little pizza dough bread balls from the stuff. We could. They're amazing.
The Youtube Subscriptions
I've been watching more Youtube videos lately.
Not randomly (much), but I have, after a few months of inactivity, started rummaging through my subscriptions and deciding to watch some stuff again. Most of it's science, cooking and philosophising about the 'now' in the life of two brothers. It sounds sophisticated until you realise it's things like why your mother could be carrying DNA of several other people inside her, how to cook an omelette from food scavenged from a forest where dogs are walked frequently and, at some point, playing hungry hungry hippos in honor of the Hunger Games movie. And there's a channel with hairstyles that make me itch to get long hair again. Maybe in six more months or so, but it's not happening right now. In the mean while, I salivate.
Some of what I watch is serious, but there's very few channels in my subscription list that are purely business. Even TEDtalks occasionally have titles like 'Why chickens are dinosaurs' (spoiler alert: because scientist say so).
I haven't started watching TEDtalks again, mostly because I got very tired of being reminded every other day that the planet was dying, politics are horribly inefficient and people get tortured. I know all that without someone demanding I watch ten to twenty minutes of someone drilling the point home. Again. Maybe I'll go over it one of these days, but so far, I can't be bothered unless the title is really catchy.
I also haven't started watching the channel offering sexual advice. Before you run screaming, I subscribed before they went totally off the rails and started insisting they had revolutionary ideas twice a week about what I should do in the bedroom and how I could seduce truckloads of women by parting my hair a certain way. Right now, if what they say wasn't obvious to non-psychopaths, it's downright creepy advice. The only reason I don't unsubscribe is because I like the earlier videos, dealing with the problems of actual people, finding the right kind of condom and things like not using butter as a lubricant. Mistakes you can see actual people make. I want to review those videos once in a while. The ones about how anal sex should be loved by all and will improve my relationship because their new sponsor asked them to do so are less interesting.
Epic Meal Time, while excellent in its own right, is another channel I only sporadically watch. Most of the time when it updates, I don't want to be yelled at with the curse words bleeped out by bird cries. I'll watch little packets of updates as the mood strikes, but apart from that, I let it be.
What I do watch is British comedy. There's a few shows out there which are updating weekly and which are easiest hunted down and watched on Youtube. For some reason, Germany doesn't block me from watching them (and Germany loves it some Youtube video blocking, oh yes), so I watch shamelessly. Then there's David Mitchell's Soap Box, tiny little blurbs of life made amusing for the promotion of a product. Books, soap, a computer... So far, I haven't bought any of them, but it doesn't stop me from enjoying a five minute exposition on marmite.
Not randomly (much), but I have, after a few months of inactivity, started rummaging through my subscriptions and deciding to watch some stuff again. Most of it's science, cooking and philosophising about the 'now' in the life of two brothers. It sounds sophisticated until you realise it's things like why your mother could be carrying DNA of several other people inside her, how to cook an omelette from food scavenged from a forest where dogs are walked frequently and, at some point, playing hungry hungry hippos in honor of the Hunger Games movie. And there's a channel with hairstyles that make me itch to get long hair again. Maybe in six more months or so, but it's not happening right now. In the mean while, I salivate.
Some of what I watch is serious, but there's very few channels in my subscription list that are purely business. Even TEDtalks occasionally have titles like 'Why chickens are dinosaurs' (spoiler alert: because scientist say so).
I haven't started watching TEDtalks again, mostly because I got very tired of being reminded every other day that the planet was dying, politics are horribly inefficient and people get tortured. I know all that without someone demanding I watch ten to twenty minutes of someone drilling the point home. Again. Maybe I'll go over it one of these days, but so far, I can't be bothered unless the title is really catchy.
I also haven't started watching the channel offering sexual advice. Before you run screaming, I subscribed before they went totally off the rails and started insisting they had revolutionary ideas twice a week about what I should do in the bedroom and how I could seduce truckloads of women by parting my hair a certain way. Right now, if what they say wasn't obvious to non-psychopaths, it's downright creepy advice. The only reason I don't unsubscribe is because I like the earlier videos, dealing with the problems of actual people, finding the right kind of condom and things like not using butter as a lubricant. Mistakes you can see actual people make. I want to review those videos once in a while. The ones about how anal sex should be loved by all and will improve my relationship because their new sponsor asked them to do so are less interesting.
Epic Meal Time, while excellent in its own right, is another channel I only sporadically watch. Most of the time when it updates, I don't want to be yelled at with the curse words bleeped out by bird cries. I'll watch little packets of updates as the mood strikes, but apart from that, I let it be.
What I do watch is British comedy. There's a few shows out there which are updating weekly and which are easiest hunted down and watched on Youtube. For some reason, Germany doesn't block me from watching them (and Germany loves it some Youtube video blocking, oh yes), so I watch shamelessly. Then there's David Mitchell's Soap Box, tiny little blurbs of life made amusing for the promotion of a product. Books, soap, a computer... So far, I haven't bought any of them, but it doesn't stop me from enjoying a five minute exposition on marmite.
The Canine Update Report
First of all, it appears Boyfriend is allergic to dogs. Not Iggy. No, he's allergic to short-haired dogs and their shedding ways. Basically, he's allergic to his mother's love puppy and got told to buck up. It's not manly to admit you get sniffles and pressure headaches from four pounds of ego with a glittery collar.
Iggy, on the other hand, appears to be a type of dog that doesn't shed. His dandelion fluff just gets longer. J. occasionally manages to clip the hair around his face for hygienic reasons, but apart from that he's unaltered. He's a fuzzy, fuzzy thing.
And he's making progress.
He's still cautious as a shell-shocked veteran, but he forgets when he's in J. and W.'s apartment. There he goes crazy as only a puppy can. He annoys cats, dogs, steals food and is very aware that J. will allow him to do anything on account of his cuteness. He's squeaky and fast and not always house-trained.
In our apartment, he's house-trained. Most of the time. Accidents are few and far inbetween.
He is very much aware of who wears the canine pants in our household. Turns out, it's me.
He walks on a leash. With a fitting harness, it took fifty yards of dragging before he gave up and walked and found out that it was easier. He freaks out when strangers pass by, bouncing out of the way with all the calculability of a squirt of lemon juice, but apart from that, he's a dream dog to walk. He rarely if ever pulls on the leash, keeps up and enjoys the journey rather than sniffing at every other lamppost.
At first, he tried resisting Boyfriend's attempts at walking him. Boyfriend is more lenient with him, which means Iggy is more playful around him and raises a racket whenever Boyfriend leaves him alone or comes home. It also means Iggy was fairly sure, and correct, in his assumption, that Boyfriend would be reluctant to pull and walk on the leash if our bundle of joy decided to dig in his heels. He was right for the first trip. The second one, Boyfriend realised that Iggy was perfectly unharmed by walking on a leash and if he decided to pull, he only had himself to blame for having to catch up.
If we had to wait, Iggy, who has what J. kindly calls 'a deep respect' for me, even goes so far as to realize people don't bother him when I make him sit between my legs. When he's put there, he lies down and watches the world go by. No one messes with a fat girl wearingstomping boots hiking shoes.
We thought Iggy was coming along nicely.
And then he started teething.
It started with my knitting. I was making a hat, just for the sake of hatness. I was making this on needles from the States that come from a 72 euro set that takes ages to arrive and might be taxed by customs. Then I come home and find it my knitting in the hall, on the floor, covered in dog hair, with the ball tangled beyond rescue and reeking of dog spit. The needles were fine, but it took some self-control to not yell at the dog who was so happy so see me come home. I cut off the tangled mess, attached a new ball, finished the hat, washed it, washed my needles and made note to leave my knitting out of canine reach.
Next were the treadmill and a plush toy. The frog plushy, with its pupils worn out of the safety eyes, looked positively demonic with half its head missing. The treadmill lost resale value due to Iggy trying to find release from teething by chewing off the handle's foam. He didn't eat it, just tore it up.
We put up the treadmill so no chewables were near and thought that solved it.
Then Iggy started chewing the wallpaper. Lady tried this once, making the fatal mistake of doing it within sight of my mother, who'd spent a week wallpapering the kitchen and living room. Lady did not try a second time. Iggy, however, gets his freak on in private. We couldn't catch him right away.
We cleaned up the mess and vowed to get chew toys.
The wall-chewing continued to the point where I stopped waiting until someone with a car had time to drive us to the affordable pet supermarket. I got up early one Saturday, ran some errands, and went into the horse equipment store that also stocks some cat and dog paraphenalia, buying everything chewable in Iggy's weight class. Luckily, Iggy is in the rare weight class of 'Are you feeding this dog?' and I only had two options, paying almost double the worth of what I was buying. A chew rope, for soft chews, and a cow hide bone, should he desire some hard things.
Being home had the added advantage of hearing him if we were in the bedroom and he decided to savage the walls further. It took a few tries, but the threat of me popping up going 'BAD, EVIL DOG, GET OUT OF THERE!!' out of nowhere seems to work.
I thought that was it with the shenanigans. Silly me, forgetting we have a dog and not a video game character that doesn't learn new things when left alone.
Next trick: the sofa.
We have a Wii, as said. Wii games have starting screens, which get left on for whimsical reasons like finding out what someone is doing in the bedroom for so long (I was organising Boyfriend's part of the wardrobe) or taking a toilet break. Lately, if we dare leave it on, Iggy jumps on the couch, gets comfy and watches television. It's not a vacuum tube screen, so I think he can actually see what's happening rather than that he's just listening to the repetitive tune of Animal Crossing. He'll even jump on the couch next to Boyfriend if he thinks he can get away with it. That's how he learned that, when pushed and encouraged by me, even Boyfriend can tell him no.
At the moment, he isn't on the couch when we're around. But Iggy's a dog and the sofa is comfortable. I have no illusions about what he's doing when we're out.
And then he discovered laundry with silly things like ties and trouser legs. He hasn't done anything to it, just like he wasn't much into the actual knitted part of my hat, or the T-shirts he slept on as a scared little Iggy. He just seems to enjoy winning tug-o-war from my good shirt and Boyfriend's jammies.
To end with a positive notes, there's treats. Iggy is starting to realise treats are better than fear.
And I use the term 'treats' loosely.
Okay, that's not fair.
Boyfriend wants to give Iggy only dog treats. Then I show up with ham about to go bad and give half a package to Iggy. Or give him a piece of my apple. Or sandwich. A leftover, cold hamburger patty. Or, in my last particularly decadent mood, three rashers of bacon.
Iggy has understood this quite well. What he also learned was that I give treats in handy-dandy mouthfuls. If he eats it, and comes back, there's a fair chance there will be a new, tasty piece waiting.
Yes, I'm bribing my dog to feel appreciated by him. That, and if he gets a bit fatter/bigger, we can fit him with a harness meant for dogs rather than cats and bunny rabbits.
Iggy, on the other hand, appears to be a type of dog that doesn't shed. His dandelion fluff just gets longer. J. occasionally manages to clip the hair around his face for hygienic reasons, but apart from that he's unaltered. He's a fuzzy, fuzzy thing.
And he's making progress.
He's still cautious as a shell-shocked veteran, but he forgets when he's in J. and W.'s apartment. There he goes crazy as only a puppy can. He annoys cats, dogs, steals food and is very aware that J. will allow him to do anything on account of his cuteness. He's squeaky and fast and not always house-trained.
In our apartment, he's house-trained. Most of the time. Accidents are few and far inbetween.
He is very much aware of who wears the canine pants in our household. Turns out, it's me.
He walks on a leash. With a fitting harness, it took fifty yards of dragging before he gave up and walked and found out that it was easier. He freaks out when strangers pass by, bouncing out of the way with all the calculability of a squirt of lemon juice, but apart from that, he's a dream dog to walk. He rarely if ever pulls on the leash, keeps up and enjoys the journey rather than sniffing at every other lamppost.
At first, he tried resisting Boyfriend's attempts at walking him. Boyfriend is more lenient with him, which means Iggy is more playful around him and raises a racket whenever Boyfriend leaves him alone or comes home. It also means Iggy was fairly sure, and correct, in his assumption, that Boyfriend would be reluctant to pull and walk on the leash if our bundle of joy decided to dig in his heels. He was right for the first trip. The second one, Boyfriend realised that Iggy was perfectly unharmed by walking on a leash and if he decided to pull, he only had himself to blame for having to catch up.
If we had to wait, Iggy, who has what J. kindly calls 'a deep respect' for me, even goes so far as to realize people don't bother him when I make him sit between my legs. When he's put there, he lies down and watches the world go by. No one messes with a fat girl wearing
We thought Iggy was coming along nicely.
And then he started teething.
It started with my knitting. I was making a hat, just for the sake of hatness. I was making this on needles from the States that come from a 72 euro set that takes ages to arrive and might be taxed by customs. Then I come home and find it my knitting in the hall, on the floor, covered in dog hair, with the ball tangled beyond rescue and reeking of dog spit. The needles were fine, but it took some self-control to not yell at the dog who was so happy so see me come home. I cut off the tangled mess, attached a new ball, finished the hat, washed it, washed my needles and made note to leave my knitting out of canine reach.
Next were the treadmill and a plush toy. The frog plushy, with its pupils worn out of the safety eyes, looked positively demonic with half its head missing. The treadmill lost resale value due to Iggy trying to find release from teething by chewing off the handle's foam. He didn't eat it, just tore it up.
We put up the treadmill so no chewables were near and thought that solved it.
Then Iggy started chewing the wallpaper. Lady tried this once, making the fatal mistake of doing it within sight of my mother, who'd spent a week wallpapering the kitchen and living room. Lady did not try a second time. Iggy, however, gets his freak on in private. We couldn't catch him right away.
We cleaned up the mess and vowed to get chew toys.
The wall-chewing continued to the point where I stopped waiting until someone with a car had time to drive us to the affordable pet supermarket. I got up early one Saturday, ran some errands, and went into the horse equipment store that also stocks some cat and dog paraphenalia, buying everything chewable in Iggy's weight class. Luckily, Iggy is in the rare weight class of 'Are you feeding this dog?' and I only had two options, paying almost double the worth of what I was buying. A chew rope, for soft chews, and a cow hide bone, should he desire some hard things.
Being home had the added advantage of hearing him if we were in the bedroom and he decided to savage the walls further. It took a few tries, but the threat of me popping up going 'BAD, EVIL DOG, GET OUT OF THERE!!' out of nowhere seems to work.
I thought that was it with the shenanigans. Silly me, forgetting we have a dog and not a video game character that doesn't learn new things when left alone.
Next trick: the sofa.
We have a Wii, as said. Wii games have starting screens, which get left on for whimsical reasons like finding out what someone is doing in the bedroom for so long (I was organising Boyfriend's part of the wardrobe) or taking a toilet break. Lately, if we dare leave it on, Iggy jumps on the couch, gets comfy and watches television. It's not a vacuum tube screen, so I think he can actually see what's happening rather than that he's just listening to the repetitive tune of Animal Crossing. He'll even jump on the couch next to Boyfriend if he thinks he can get away with it. That's how he learned that, when pushed and encouraged by me, even Boyfriend can tell him no.
At the moment, he isn't on the couch when we're around. But Iggy's a dog and the sofa is comfortable. I have no illusions about what he's doing when we're out.
And then he discovered laundry with silly things like ties and trouser legs. He hasn't done anything to it, just like he wasn't much into the actual knitted part of my hat, or the T-shirts he slept on as a scared little Iggy. He just seems to enjoy winning tug-o-war from my good shirt and Boyfriend's jammies.
To end with a positive notes, there's treats. Iggy is starting to realise treats are better than fear.
And I use the term 'treats' loosely.
Okay, that's not fair.
Boyfriend wants to give Iggy only dog treats. Then I show up with ham about to go bad and give half a package to Iggy. Or give him a piece of my apple. Or sandwich. A leftover, cold hamburger patty. Or, in my last particularly decadent mood, three rashers of bacon.
Iggy has understood this quite well. What he also learned was that I give treats in handy-dandy mouthfuls. If he eats it, and comes back, there's a fair chance there will be a new, tasty piece waiting.
Yes, I'm bribing my dog to feel appreciated by him. That, and if he gets a bit fatter/bigger, we can fit him with a harness meant for dogs rather than cats and bunny rabbits.
The Sinusitis
Remember how I inhaled nail polish remover in the last post?
My only advice is that I do not recommend it. Not ever, but especially not when it's germ season.
It started with an understandably sore throat. Then my nose clogged up, my body temperature spiked enough to make customers worry about my dress sense, but not enough to trigger a fever alarm, and I got a pressure headache. Everything above my shoulders that wasn't hair was feeling awful.
I don't know what possessed me not to call in sick on Friday. Friday did not help at all. I blame my upbringing. Unless a medical professional says you can't go, you go. That's how I was raised. My hands functioned, I wasn't actively dripping (yet), I didn't feel too faint. So I went.
The rest of the weekend was spent in a glorious pity party focused on rest and healing. This morning, I felt great. Seriously. Awesome.
I've now spent a day in dust, evaporated cleaner, nail polish remover and disinfectant, and I feel slightly bad again. So far, I've popped two aspirin. I either have a migraine on top of whatever possessed my cranial orifices, or I wasn't quite better and should have pretended to have the plague for another day.
Can't recover tomorrow either, because Sis is spending the day alone in the studio (no one else has appointments) with back-to-back customers, and needs me to come in. And I still feel better than on Friday, and I'm not sure I can provide her with a doctor's note for under fifty euros or more. And that's a bit steep for what's probably a head cold. And I've already said I'd be there.
My only advice is that I do not recommend it. Not ever, but especially not when it's germ season.
It started with an understandably sore throat. Then my nose clogged up, my body temperature spiked enough to make customers worry about my dress sense, but not enough to trigger a fever alarm, and I got a pressure headache. Everything above my shoulders that wasn't hair was feeling awful.
I don't know what possessed me not to call in sick on Friday. Friday did not help at all. I blame my upbringing. Unless a medical professional says you can't go, you go. That's how I was raised. My hands functioned, I wasn't actively dripping (yet), I didn't feel too faint. So I went.
The rest of the weekend was spent in a glorious pity party focused on rest and healing. This morning, I felt great. Seriously. Awesome.
I've now spent a day in dust, evaporated cleaner, nail polish remover and disinfectant, and I feel slightly bad again. So far, I've popped two aspirin. I either have a migraine on top of whatever possessed my cranial orifices, or I wasn't quite better and should have pretended to have the plague for another day.
Can't recover tomorrow either, because Sis is spending the day alone in the studio (no one else has appointments) with back-to-back customers, and needs me to come in. And I still feel better than on Friday, and I'm not sure I can provide her with a doctor's note for under fifty euros or more. And that's a bit steep for what's probably a head cold. And I've already said I'd be there.
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