The Very Tired Writer

Tonight, I'm very tired. Why, you may ask. Well, because I went to bed at four am and had to get up at eight thirty. I know, pure genius on my part. Add to this that I spent the entire day either in a car or on my feet, speaking my fourth language, and you should understand why you can currently wipe the floor with me.

We went to Leipzig today. I thought it'd be closer than it was, which it very much wasn't. The five geocaches on the way there did not exactly help to make it a shorter drive. And the seven deciliters of water making their way to my bladder did not make it much easier. Roadside toilets in Germany, for all its talk on efficiency and such, are as rancid as they are anywhere. I was very happy I'd packed my shewee, and I mean utterly delighted. Nevermind that I got asked why I went to the bathroom with a bag full of plastic parts. I miss my shewee case.

But we were on our way to the Geogames, a smallish geocaching convention and quite a big event, so the geocaches could sort of be shoehorned into the theme of the day. By the time we arrived in the early afternoon, there was no longer an option to pay a higher coverage fee and get event coins. They'd run out of coins.

By the time we arrived, the sun had also reached its zenith. It was over thirty degrees. I do not own any shorts outside of pajama shorts too short for public decency. From the waist down, I had a very good idea of how women in burqas must feel. But I had my running shoes with special shock-catching insoles in them on, so I could at least walk. I now have another woman in my life who tells people 'she takes off and she's just gone!'. I thought I was strolling. For my mother's pace, I would have been terribly slow. What does it say when the girl with healing shin splits is the fastest in a group of four?

So yeah, we watched the games. And window-shopped. My fingers itched to buy a cache and hide it, except I have no idea where I could do that, so I resisted. Until I found a short adapter for my iPod for three euros. Yoink, that was mine. A cool and cheap T-shirt to commemorate this day? Why, don't mind if I do. Oh, and you know those cotton neck 'warmers' to catch sweat that can also double as a hat? Yeah, I own two of those. Both got left in Belgium somewhere. After about an hour I was willing to look silly enough to buy one and put it on my head. No more sweat on my forehead, no more burning sun on my scalp. Heaven for five euros.

Eventually I got hungry, and like I said, it was hot. I paid event prices for an ice cream to join the strawberries I'd had for lunch, before I'd been really hungry and still willing to think healthy.

In the midst of it all, I was the only one who'd thought to bring water that's easily carried. I had two of my precious bottles full of room-temperature H2O in my purse, which had seemed like enough that morning. J. was envious. I was halfway through my second bottle when I realised I hadn't packed nearly enough for the day.

Afterwards, we went to Leipzig train station. Not because we came by train, or because it's such a breathtaking piece of architecture, but because it's got shops. Lots and lots and lots of shops. It has a mall, essentially, that's about as big, if not bigger, than the trainy part of the station. And it's open til nine pm on a Saturday in Germany. By the standards of people looking for STUFF at six pm during the weekend, that's the holy grail. So we windowshopped some more, now shielded from the sun's evil rays, and bought some more things. I got some peanut butter and some emergency rations strawberry fanta. I hope the peanut butter is as tasty as the one I bought in the local supermarket. Oh, and we got condoms and sticky putty. We'd run out of both, though not simultaneously and during the same event. Boyfriend and I aren't that kinky.

By that time, the ice cream had been digested. Boyfriend was hungry too. J. and W. had proposed they pay for our food and join us for dinner, which we had gratefully accepted. We ended up at Pizza Hut. It's still overpriced in Germany, though not to the same criminal leven as in Belgium. It's still greasy. We got large soda waters with apple juice and cheesy crust pizzas, and I demonstrated once again that I was raised in a family that believed in clearing your plate and not ordering stuff in a restaurant you weren't going to finish. Boyfriend was raised to eat until your body said 'no more' and then take leftovers to the fridge. He got three pieces and still fit into his jeans upon leaving, I was struggling not to look six months pregnant.

And then came the ride back. Because it's so hot, windows could be opened without seeming rude, so you are spared the rant on smoking in small spaces for tonight, dear reader. Though I did have an epiphany.

If you live long enough with people who revere quiet as a way of life, eventually, some of their behavior seems like a natural thing to do. Like turning up the volume on the loudest radio channel at ten pm. You don't do that in my family, because we spent a long time having sleeping kids in the backseat, some of which turned into hypersensitive teenagers by the time the youngest grew up. My first thought when I realised a) it was probably how W. was staying awake and b) I wanted to shout 'turn that down, there's people trying to sleep in here' was 'oh no, I turned into my mom while I wasn't looking'. A terrifying thought at age twenty-two, let me tell you.

It started to rain by the time we got home, cooling down our overheated piece of planet a bit. Heavenly, when you're not walking through it. We stripped out of our sweaty clothes as soon as we got in, hoping against hope that it would somehow make the sweat evaporate quicker. It revealed two things to us. We need to do laundry tomorrow and we both got sunburned.

And now I'm going to shower to try and cool off.

The Peanut Butter

Since I'd done most of my duties as a good responsible adult today (look for job, study for J., get some things from the store, turn on dishwasher, control chaos), I decided I'd live up to expectations for once. Boyfriend is working hard and long today, so I am left to my own devices when it comes to entertainment. And I have a blender, oh yes.

So I experimented in the kitchen.

See, a few days ago, I found this baking blog featuring lots of chocolate and peanut butter. I'd never had, bought or owned peanut butter before today, but I figured it was worth a shot. For two euros, I'd be entertained for at least half an hour. There's carnival rides that cost more and last not half as long.

I started out fairly safe. Blend some oreos, add some liquid, mix, receive delicious spread. It seemed so easy. Except my blender is not... How to put this delicately? It's not the strongest horse in the stable. And I failed to remember that and break up the cookies before I chucked them into the blender and turned it on high. There was lots of scraping, noise and poking with a fork involved, and halfway through, the kitchen work surface was covered in oreo crumbs despite the fact that I'd kept the lid on during blending. Next, I added some cream and a hint of oil. I turned the blender on again and... It didn't quite blend what I wanted. So I scraped it out into a jar and mixed it by hand with a fork. Despite my clumsiness, the result is pretty tasty. I put it in the fridge so I wouldn't wolf it all down before boyfriend arrives back.

I'm now pretty sure the blender is most suitable for making smoothies.

Next came the peanut butter. The recipe called for what passes for an entire jar of peanut butter in Germany (or at least in our supermarket). I licked the excess of the lid to see what it tastes like, and it's pretty tasty. Not something I'd have all the time, not even sure I want a sandwich of it, but it's good. So I put it all in a mixing bowl with some sugar, eggs and baking soda and mixed. Then I added chunks (and I mean CHUNKS) of chocolate. It's dough for flourless chocolate chip cookies, and it tastes wonderful! I put that in the fridge too. Partly because it's a hot day, partly because I don't trust myself around ovens and am going to ask boyfriend for help baking them, and baking trays don't fit into the fridge.

Another thing I did is buy two more drinking bottles. We're going on a trip tomorrow, it seems, and the weather calls for more than 0,7 l of water. Seeing as there's a lot of summer left, I'm assuming the situation might come up again, so now I have two bottles for use during the day and two backups in case of breakage or dishwashing occuring when in use. Oh, and I could lend people a drinking bottle, should they need it. I now have all the colors the supermarket offers and am only missing the black/grey one to complete the set. I don't really like that color, but who knows. With the things costing only four euros each, I might just let my inner perfectionist out and buy the grey one somewhere in the next few months. Yes, I am very much in love with my bottles.

Things I still need to do? Uhm... Write two application letters, get my picture taken, print out and send the application letters with my CV attached, study some more for J. and, of course, drag my butt across the street for some bike chain oil.

Why the last one? My bike chain is dry as the desert. The chain jumps and creaks and so far has embarrassed me once in public by locking up and nearly catapulting me into a bus stop. Luckily, my previous bike occasionally threw off its chain, it was so well lubed up, so I was raised, bike-wise, to always be paranoid prepared. My bike bag always has a fluorescent vest in it and always, always, always has disposable gloves in stock. They're a small investment that goes a long way and saves you from looking like you dug out mutant entrails on your way to your destination. I'm still on my first package, which cost me a grand total of one euro. Boyfriend even seemed slightly impressed with my ability to not stand around looking hopeless when I asked him to lift my bike up by the back and wriggled the chain back into position. I'm not a mechanic, but bike chains are fairly simple mechanisms.

And now I'm going to lie in wait at the door until Boyfriend comes back and tries some of my cookie dough.

The Klepto Postman

I ordered a package at a website I trust. It even has delivered to Germany for me on two occasions. Both orders arrived promptly and undamaged, with everything I ordered in it.

When did I order? Today, a month ago. Normally they deliver within a week. It has to come from the Netherlands, but it's a very prompt service.

Now, there were some problems with TNT at the time of ordering, so I allowed for an extra week. Then I sent a e-mail. They asked me to wait one more week. I did, then sent another e-mail when it still didn't arrive. They made a new package with my order and sent it. A week and a half ago. It's still not here.

Boyfriend doesn't have a mail box, but in that case, the postman usually delivers to the establishment on the ground floor, since that's where Boyfriend works. They didn't receive anything. Occasionally, the postman gets confused and delivers to Boyfriend's mom's nail studio. I believe they're planning to strangle us in our sleep, we've called to often to ask if anything came in the mail.

The only thing I did different from last time was order with my own name instead of Boyfriend's. It now seems this was a fatal mistake. I might never see my 19 euros and 8 cents worth of jewelry (I traded in some saved credit and there was a sale).

So now I have two theories. There's a new postman on the route, and he eats silicone lobe eyelets and jojoba oil. Or my package, which should have come in a bubblewrap envelope, got delivered to somebody else's mailbox.

So I got out my best German and wrote a note, then stuck it to the entry door five minutes ago. 'Did you get a package for [Wolk]? Please ring at [Boyfriend]'s door. Thank you!'

I might turn into a front door goblin, waiting for someone to ring our strange-sounding doorbell, but it's the last shot I've got. After that, I'm waiting until I have a job and ordering the stuff all over with my first paycheck. In Boyfriend's name, this time.

The Start of the Quest

I haven't gotten around to looking into the nail binder or watching videos, but I'm planning on doing that tomorrow. What I have been up to for the last few days, apart from making a jelly pudding in the shape of a gummy bear, is searching the internet for jobs and translating my CV.

The translation was fairly easy, and I let Boyfriend read it through, but we sent it to his dad anyway for further scrutiny. I'm still waiting for a reply, even though he said he'd look at it today.

In case you're wondering, job hunting fairly sucks without a degree. Even those not requiring at least a bachelor require that you studied Economics in high school. I did Latin-Sciences. It seemed like a pretty solid combo at the time. What it does is make you a jack of all trades, master of none in the eyes of employers, it seems.

So for my many hours and hours of searching, there's two job offers that I might be suitable for so far. One fits me to a tee, the other not quite, but I'm willing to learn, dammit. I'd like to send them an e-mail, but I'm not sure if my CV is good enough, so I can't. Bummer.

It'd also help if I had, say, any clue where these places were, but one chose to remain anonymous for some reason and the other looks to be a company with several sites. They both say they're in Coburg, so in theory I should be able to get there on my bike.

In the mean while, the weather in Coburg remains glorious. After the rains of last weekend, there's been only one vague threat of rain clouds in the distance, but they skulked off as soon as W. lent us an umbrella. The sun is shining its happy little heart out. Biking weather has been excellent, and I've been so enthused about it, I'm dreaming about my very own bike computer to see how far I'm actually going. True, it'll probably end with me disappointed, but a girl can dream.

And tonight, of course, it's football again. Boyfriend and I looked it up out of sheer curiosity. Something about a quarter or half final. The conclusion was that we'd see the last of it at the latest next week. Even if I have a little German flag happily flapping away on my bike, I'll be glad to see the end of the honking in the middle of the night. Tonight's even a schoolnight, but football fans seem to know no respect for children's (or my) night's rest. They didn't last time, anyway. Who knows, Germany could lose. Boyfriend has predicted blissful quiet for the night should it occur.

Inbetween searching, Boyfriend and I did groceries. I might just be in love with the freezers at the supermarket. They stock cheap popsicles. And frozen elements for dinner. Tonight, we're eating schnitzel shaped like dinosaurs.

The First Damage

There were two monsters in the house today. Well, technically yesterday, but I haven't slept yet.

By monsters I mean the usual kind. Smaller than me, more than four legs. One of them even was a moth. I have undergone a lot of therapy to not scream my little head off and go into hysterics at the sight of a common house fly, but part of that therapy was taking solace in the knowledge that I am not required by any law to appreciate creepy-crawlies. Leptidopterans especially hold a very special and dark place in my heart since an episode I'm sure my family would appreciate I didn't share with the internet. I shared it with about fifty people who were very confused at the hollering child in what, objectively speaking, was quite a safe, warm and cozy place.

Boyfriend doesn't like bugs lots, but he doesn't mind them as much as I do. He doesn't even kill them, whereas I go after them with either a heavy shoe or a vacuum turned to full power. So the insects were escorted off the premises without incident. If anything shows up near where I sleep, the neighbours will be woken, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

The damage I wreaked (wreaked? wroke? wrecked?) didn't even have anything to do with bugs. It had to do with the little piggy bank I bought today for 30 cents. I wanted someplace to get rid of all the coppers that keep bulking up my wallet. Boyfriend was wondering how we were going to get it out. He turned it upside down and shook it. I reached over to indicate how we could cut a hole in its little belly to facilitate the coin removal, and in the process knocked over my green drinking bottle.

Which landed flip-cap first on the treasure chest Boyfriend built for my twenty-first birthday and dripped water down the gap between our desks. Underneath which Boyfriend's computer stands. Yeah. Boyfriend didn't immediately appreciate me flipping the power switch on the socket box, thereby killing the power to his pc, but he came round rather fast. My laptop was safe on its stand, and there wasn't enough water to reach Boyfriend's keyboard, but the floor was soaked, the treasure chest was bleeding paint onto the white desks and we had to throw out a few soaked papers that had been lying around. We mopped up the water and triple-checked everything before turning the power back on to the sockets.

But my bottle got damaged on the treasure chest's lock. There's a scrape on the flip-top. And now I'm sad, because my perfect bottle is no longer perfect. Boo.

The In-Laws

So Boyfriend's Mom, J., was feeling better today.

She was in the throes of some kind of evil blood-pressure-yoyo virus for the past week or so, and preferred peace and quiet all around. So no Sunday dinner, no visits and no spoiling the pets.

But today, we went. I had to talk to her about possibly working for her, and I wanted to be generally sure I wasn't carrying the mark of Cain and killing every matriarch that stood in my path she would be okay. So we talked lots. There was the procedure of officially moving to Germany, in which I discovered I need to send several more e-mails, what is expected of someone working in a nail salon, marrying, if we really weren't going to provide grandchildren (I will pop out screaming poop factories twice the size of the hole they're crawling from, carrying 50% of my shitty genes when hell freezes over. Yes, I put it in more polite terms than that) and how she wanted me to at least try and get a job elsewhere. The entire world seems convinced that I have talent for something. They're not sure what, but it's something more impressive than nail stylist, it seems. In case someone has concrete ideas, or--better yet--concrete job offers, please leave a comment.

The guys watched someone get peppersprayed in the face on television and then comment on the experience, then compare it to being tazered. Occasionally, I used Boyfriend's handy-dandy Homework Function extensive knowledge of English-to-German translation to help me when my sleep-muddled brain insisted words like 'blød' and 'prest' were German.

So I am going to bury myself in the job market. I'm going to send e-mails to embassies. I probably will even translate my CV to German and let someone with more experience read it through before I start using it. I will study manicure and nail modellage online and in huuuge binders J. has lying around. On Monday, I can come and look around at how the salon works for an entire day and ask annoying questions. I have no idea what I'm going to wear. I'm already exhausted, though that might also be because it's late and I've finally regained a normal day rythm that has me thinking bedtime was an hour ago, no matter what Boyfriend says.

Oh, and I was once again reminded why I am in favor of illegalising smoking worldwide and in all situation. W. smokes, and I was raised to not give one peep about people smoking in their own homes, so I sat through it quietly. Eventually, my lungs believed the lie that I didn't need that much oxygen in the air I was breathing, but the longer I sat there, the more my eyes were making me think I have a serious cat allergy. I also get the same symptom of AAAARGGGGHHHH!!! EYES ON FIRE!!!! when I sit in W.'s car for too long without fresh air, and he doesn't let the cats in there. Oh, and I have a marvellous headache. Thank you, nicotine addiction. Nothing quite says 'normal human habit' than having those not regularly exposed to it want to install an eye shower in the bathroom for after visits to those indulging.

Then there was the 'welcome to nighttime Coburg' talk. There were stabbings, beatings, drugs and gay bashings galore. They all circled around people who like going to parties, bars and discotheques. I don't drink and I don't party, but I didn't get a chance to point that out. I am, however, now half-scared to walk down to McDonald's after dark. I'm sure the drop in McFlurrys and McChicken burgers to my diet will be beneficiary for my weight, health and bank balance, but I'm not quite grateful. I like my weekly one day of fast-food. It makes it easier to choose fruit over chips in the grocery store.

And then there were the fuzzies. J. has figured out I'm more of a dog person than a cat person (mostly because I don't get cats and their apparent indifference to being trapped by people they don't really seem to care about), but was still baffled when I wouldn't pet (read: reward) her favorite dog after practically shoving another one off the sofa. I can live with dogs being allowed on the sofa, even though I wouldn't do it that way. I can live with other people liking and keeping smaller dogs. But no one is going to tell me I have to follow the every whim of two pounds of fur with an ego problem. Now, I am being harsh, and I normally love Cindy (Cindy being the two pounds of fur), but Leon, the dog I was petting and that Cindy chased off, was finally warming up to me and then she stole my moment of victory, so I'm a little pissed at her tonight.

Also, Leon has the unique ability among the In-Law pet household of understanding a few commands. They all understand 'come', 'food' and 'outside', but Leon actually makes connections to getting cuddled when I go 'sit' and he sits, or say 'paw' and he puts his paw in my hand. He's not brilliant at it, but compared to Mousy and Cindy, he's 'Leon, Pet Wonder!'. Mousy understands you want something from her, but she's old and arthritic and has never had to listen in her life, so she just sort of stares at you while she tries to breathe. Cindy, the runt and darling of the litter, has been conditioned to respond to attention with 'adorable' behavior, and demand attention when she's not getting any. You don't get any of her obedient attention, either, like Mousy can at least show you. I know I'm probably mostly pissy because my head hurts, my throat is scratchy and my eyes are only slowly cooling down, but I know that even when I'm my normal self, I prefer dogs behave in a way that is acceptable for all sizes. A Great Dane or Bordeaux Dog bulldozing into your legs or shoving at people you're talking to until you pet it isn't cute, it's dangerous. I don't see why smaller dogs should get away with it.

Cindy was adorable at first. The fact that she doesn't understand 'no' made the cuteness wear off quite fast. Even Tim, an elkhound with a similar people strategy as Cindy, listened when you told him to shove off. He'd try again ten minutes later, but he was never agressive in his approach. He'd been taught to be the doggy version of polite because he's bred to tear out an elk's throat and weighs ten to twenty times what Cindy does. I just don't see why Cindy gets a pass to misbehave.

The cats are similar. One's well-behaved, if half-shaven most of the time, the other happily goes wherever it wants and destroys a leather couch that probably once was worth as much as small car. Yes, the destructive one is the more streamlined and easthetically pleasing of the pair.

I want a dog that I'll have trouble tripping over. One that has an inkling about what a leash is and is willing to trade obedience for cuddles and treats.

I managed to be polite enough to keep my opinions about how pets should behave to myself. I've been raised to be respectful towards elders who deserve it, and J. and W. are amazing people. They raised two great children, the youngest of which I claimed as My Man. They're willing to help me, a virtual stranger, for no other reason than that I make their son happy and mind my P's and Q's, and despite the fact that I occasionally have sushi on my lobe plugs and a stud in my nose. They regularly invite me and Boyfriend over, not just to their home, but to events they think we might enjoy. They look out for people they care about, they rescue animals from shelters and give people a chance.

I could have ended up in much worse places than this. What's a little smoke and a tiny dog with a non-agressive attitude problem compared to that?

The Test Run

So I rode my bike some. I'm totally not used to riding a men's bicycle, as was witnessed by half of Coburg half a dozen times when I tried to get off it yesterday. Oh well, practice makes perfect, I guess.

I tried taking off the lock, but it's not as easy as it first seemed. Yes, the tiny bolts came off easily enough, but there's one last bolt, stuck in the most awkward position ever. It looks like I have to remove my brakes if I want to get rid of the lock, and I'm not confident enough in my own abilities to do so. Right now, I'm hoping my dad will visit during July and know how to fix it. Otherwise, I'm waiting til I have a job and am paying someone to get the blasted thing off. It's getting on my nerves in the worst of ways.

But I took it out for a spin. We needed bread and shampoo, which is about a minute from the house by bike, but somehow I ended up near Kaufhof. Oops. ;-) Yes, the pajama pants were calling to me. Yes, I got them. Yes, they're loud and comfy. They even have a pocket. Oh, and I got a potato peeling knife. Fifty cents for exactly what I want? Check. It's currently undergoing trial by fire in the dishwasher. I'm praying we don't have to scrape molten plastic off the machine again.

I looked at their biking section, too, hoping for a rain cover, which they did not have. They did have a gel seat cushion, which might solve Boyfriend's bike's problem of a very hard seat for little money. I didn't buy it, but told him about it when I got back. He said he'd come look at it sometime this week. So now I'm nagging at him to go get his bike so we can go go go go! Impatient, who me?

Downstairs in the mall, there's still a display of nationalistic pride. Germany making it to the world football cup is the only time, it seems, where Germany is allowed to be proud in its Germanness without the rest of the United Nations starting to squeal about fascism and neonazism. So the country is enjoying decking everything out with flags and black-red-gold colors, mostly cars. Now, I know those car flags are hell on fuel economy and such, but I bought one anyway. I don't have a car, and the attachment system works on my bike's luggage rack as well. I now ride around waving a tiny German flag as I go. It makes getting on and off even more difficult, but I'm willing to make sacrifices for my sense of whimsy.

I eventually made it to the supermarket, where I spent some a lot of time picking out a shower gel. Unlike in Belgium, I had options if I wanted to be frugal. Prices didn't start at two euros seventy in the grown-up selection of soapy goodness, and the cheapest brand was also the most plentiful. In the end, I went with something fruity. I recognised fruity. I have no idea what the 'African Savannah' one is supposed to smell like. What if I end up smelling like lion pee?

Bread, I knew where to find. I didn't even look at the selection of chips and candy. Honest. Does the ice cream display count? Whoops. I managed to resist temptation, though. Something about Calippos in the freezer at home, and lots of other frozen treats boyfriend had brought with him in Friday. But since I get an upset tummy from ice cream, I'm sticking mostly to the popsicles. They're lower in calories and they're safe. Also, they're cheap as mud. Once I polish off the brand-name things, I'm going back for the generic ones that had popping candy in them.

I looked in at the biking store across the street when I finally made it back, but they were closed early for some reason. I came back today and bought a rain cover for my saddle. It's been raining a lot, and I don't like walking around with a wet butt.

Of course, now I've found the thing and wrapped my white seat in clashing black faux-leather, the clouds are clearing, the sun is shining, the weather is screaming at me to go out and explore with Boyfriend, but Boyfriend is busy making packages and selling things, so I have to wait.

I guess I'll go make myself useful and tidy up the bedroom while I do so.

The Thing Boyfriend Does Better Than Me

Boyfriend has this thing where he has a lot less junk than me. Case in point: I have stuffed two bookshelves with STUFF. Boyfriend's contribution was a small dinosaur model on top of one, because we have this dinosaur thing going on. I had a huge IKEA bag full of stuffed toys I couldn't say goodbye to. I think Boyfriend had maybe five.

So he's tidier than me. He knows where his stuff is and never has to dig through oodles of junk to find what he's looking for. Don't get me wrong, I'm relatively organised, but Boyfriend simply doesn't need to be. If it's not in its place, he's either using it or it's not there. Simple.

But he still has a video game habit, a NERF gun habit and a varying trading card game habit. Oh, and he likes to paint miniatures and go skateboarding with his friends.

He manages to not cram his house full of stuff maintaining those, though.

How? He can let stuff go before it's decrepit and broken. If he finished playing a game and it didn't wow him enough to replay it or share with friends, it goes on the internet. If a NERF gun didn't live up to his promise or got broken modifying it, it gets sold, either as a whole or in parts. And once he tires of a trading card game, the cards get sold, too.

He has a better understanding of how the Western economy works. Yes, he might lose money (or make it, but that's more rare) selling things, but not as much as he would have lost letting it get old and dusty. He knows that if he wants a gaming console, sometimes an older model will do, or waiting a few weeks until the new one comes out will make the one he has his eye on drop in price. He's patient. I want instant gratification.

So he's selling most of his NERF collection now. Because he's stripped these of all the parts he wants. That way, he'll have more money to invest in the newer models coming out in August. I get attached and won't let go.

I have two NERF guns. Both are quite good. One was cheap and is the most powerful currently on the market, because I wanted to try it out. The other's a good basic model, in a special edition to keep it apart from the one Boyfriend has. Boyfriend has offered to modify my neon green special edition. I have told him I will hurt anyone who touches my precious. I'd like a better gun, but... Well, it's mine, and I'll be sad if it breaks. Also, I'm a girl. I grew up watching Barbie movies on how to love things and people for what they are. No one is going to lay a finger on my shiny, shiny gun. It doesn't mean I don't use it--it's easily reachable and loaded in case my man (or, more realistically, me) gets any funny ideas while I'm at my desk--but it means that Boyfriend's gun loads faster and will soon shoot further and harder than mine.

The one thing he doesn't get rid of are his solid basics. Like, for painting miniatures, he needs good brushes and paints. Those don't get sold, even if he isn't painting for weeks or months at a time. It's not attatchment so much as it is good sense. They might come in handy at some point, so they get kept. When his first skateboard turned out to be crappy, it got returned and replaced with one that is more solid and durable. And it gets used, don't ever doubt that.

I occasionally feel like I can't even get that right. I like writing with fountain pens, but I have yet to spend any real money on a Parker pen or something like that. No, I'd rather write cheap pen after cheap pen into oblivion, listening to it scratch rather than flow on the paper. I bought a very good basic knitting kit... Provided I never want to knit socks or gloves. For those, I have one or two sets of good knitting needles, and the rest is all crappy. My go-to yarn is an acrylic meant for experimenting, even though I love the far more durable and higher quality superwash merino. Sometimes it's a matter of expense, sometimes it's sheer laziness on my part to look harder or save more.

So my Boyfriend does some things a lot better than me. It makes me happy. I can sometimes tempt him into buying something whimsical, like model dinosaurs, and he can rein me in and point out I can get better for less money with a bit more patience, a bit more work. It's compromise at its best.

The Bike

So, yeah, uhm... We called the Mystery Store. It's actually a secondhand store. Go us! The lady who owns it was happy to open up for us. I practically skipped there, though I did withdraw some money on the way. I'm optimistic, but not optimistic enough to think it'd be free.

The bike was in excellent condition. It was washed, its seat was comfy, sixty euros. The price seemed fair enough, so I forked over my hard-saved money. Once we were outside with it, we looked it over one more time. It seemed fine, except that its tiny pump had been stolen and it had been standing around someplace for so long, the tires were flat. And I mean really flat. Couldn't ride it flat.

Luckily, my dad had refused to take my bike with us to Germany in favor of packing actual other things in the car. My Belgian bike takes up most of the trunk space in a Volkswagen Touran, and that's quite a spacious car. He told me to get one second hand, so I did take my bike paraphenelia with me. A very heavy bike lock, which I got when my bike moved to a student town and can also be used to whack would-be muggers with. My bike bags, which I love, adore and can't bike without. You can shop til you drop with those. Heaven. Oh, and I took my bicycle pump. My full-size, lightweight bicycle pump. It came in handy right now. What was even handier was that I'd used it before, so I knew how it worked.

Boyfriend wanted to be manly and pump up the tires, flicked up the lock and was promptly confused on how the valve wouldn't fit into the slot. I undid the lock, put it on the valve, locked it tight and let him pump. The 'new' bike has skinny tires, so it took all of three pumps to get them to useable thickness. Two more pumps to get them nice and taut, and done we were.

Then I discovered a built in lock. I tried it once, twice and--it got stuck. Like, really stuck. A bit of fiddling got it unstuck, so I tried again. Turns out, the lock isn't that reliable. If it works, it's a great lock. If it sticks, you can unlock the bike with your bare hands, if you're willing to get a bit of oil on them. So the lock is basically taking up space on my precious, precious new bike. As soon as I find a tiny wrench, the blasted lock is coming off, just watch me.

Next, the bike bags came on. I keep thinking it attaches to the third spoke on the luggage rack, instead of the rack itself. It attaches to the rack itself, so the fact that the carrier only has two spokes was no problem whatever. It attaches with a few straps, so once you figure out the under-over-under routine, it's easy enough to mount.

So now I have a fully tricked out bike. Gears, brakes, lamps, bags, the works. It's light, it's silver and it doesn't look like it's the latest new model, which will detract from its steal-a-bility. Sure, it's a men's bike, but I don't often wear skirts to go biking, so I can live with it.

Tomorrow the shops are open. I'm going to go hunting for shower gel on my brand new, awesome, secondhand bike.

The Mystery Store

There's a house down the road (Not the McDo road, the supermarket road. We live on a crossroads, so there's lots of roads to go down.) that caught our attention today. It's got a flea market going on inside, even though the official sign says it stocks Russian specialties. It's open when you call it, any day, and there are lots of different and random things you can see through the windows. We tried calling, but no one answered. Too bad.

One thing caught my attention. It had a bicycle inside. A bicycle with a luggage rack. It even seemed to be in good condition. So now my head is full of bicycle. I want one. I want to explore the city on it. I want to fit a bottle holder on it, put my drinking bottles in it and let the wind catch my growing hair. Because bicycles are freedom. I guess cars are, too, but bikes are all I can legally use, and they're much cheaper to maintain. 

Boyfriend's eye was caught by the Matrosjka dolls. He loves the things, the way the little women fit into the bigger women and come out and come out and come out until you end up with a teensy-tiny Russian lady. He has one set, but they're nowhere near as big as the ones he saw in the store. So he is dreaming of those. We still have room on top of one of the living room bookshelves, so I don't see why he shouldn't be allowed his dreams, too.

I wonder if we'll go back to the store tomorrow and try calling again. Maybe they'll be there. Maybe the bike will be cheap. Maybe it will be mine. I'd love for it to be.

The Weekend Shenanigans

So one of Boyfriend's buddies came over last night for some male bonding. It made for a welcome break from having a living room full of laundry. I just put on headphones and tried not to interrupt on how it was an obvious flaw that the videogame's hero's arms didn't fly from their sockets after that particular trick. Even though they really should have. Like rockets fired from an F-16.

What I'm trying to say is, it got late last night. Very late. I stumbled to bed at some point, played Pokémon on the Nintendo for a bit more and then fell asleep like I was on something. We woke up around noon. And I wanted to DO STUFF today, dammit. Because tomorrow, all of Germany is closed. By the time we made it out of the house, it was four o'clock and lots of stores were closed.

Kaufhof wasn't, so I proposed we go look at the kitchen supplies. I promptly got distracted by comfortable looking pajama pants and then by the toys section. I'm a firm believer in the we-grow-old-because-we-stop-playing philosophy. They had My Little Pony blindbags for a steal, so we each got one. Mine is sparkly, Boyfriend's is metallic pink. My man is very secure in his masculinity.

Eventually, we made it to the kitchen department, where I found the knife I was looking for earlier this week for fifty cents. We'd already bought a knife set that didn't quite do what I wanted for two euros and some change at IKEA. I'm seriously considering sneaking out next week and splurging on that fifty cent knife. They also had the nifty ceramic knives like the one we borrowed from Boyfriend's mom, but they didn't come with a handy-dandy protective sheath, which lowered their attractiveness by a lot. Yes, I like the pretty colors and the knives are really good, but they're hard to use if you cut yourself each time you reach for them.

We got out at some point and wandered further along the streets. We somehow ended up in C&A. And it's dirndl season. They had 'cheap' ones, starting at 99 euros. I proposed I try one on. Boyfriend thought it'd be a laugh, so off we went.

There was a very thorough color selection process--Boyfriend pointed at one and said 'that one', to be exact--and a bit of epic stupidity where I didn't find a zipper, so I just put on one size bigger. The result is the very attractive picture you see above. I only knew you tied it to the side, not which side meant what, so I tied it any old how. Wikipedia says I was advertising my romantic availability.

We didn't end up getting it. Partly because it's expensive and you can wear it about once a year, partly because I didn't like the colors and the way it made me look 50 percent wider than I'd like to think I am. We did take the picture and send it to Boyfriend's mom, though. She's sick, so we thought it'd cheer her up. It did.

So, what do you guys think? The dirndls stay in the store for another few weeks. Should I go get one in a different color scheme and wear it to every semi-formal event?

The Kitchen Oopsies

You know how you buy something you think you know, but then end up with the wrong thing?

Yeah, that happened to me. First time it happened in Germany, we were looking for baking powder and bought yeast. Nothing that broke the bank, but... Well, now we have yeast. Oops.

Then I asked Boyfriend to bring home some chocolate to bake something with. I occasionally forget people don't know everything I know. Such as that milk chocolate alone is not a good ingredient to make brownies or chocolate cake with. I didn't have the heart to tell him, so I let it be. I mean, it's chocolate. No  woman in her right mind complains about her man coming home with chocolate unless it's for another woman, she has allergies or it's a huge stain on a silk item of clothing. So we have about half a kilo of milka milk chocolate. Oops.

Then I made an oopsie. I thought a storage jar would hold a kilo of flour. It held about 800 grams. 200 grams of flour, mere days after I found out what happens if you don't store it in a dry, dark place, away from... Well, your own kitchen. Oops.

So I had to use up the flour. As soon as possible. What could I make?

I opened my new baking book  and came up with bread. Yeast, flour... I could even throw in some chocolate chunks for extra tastiness. What could possibly go wrong?

Yes, famous last words.

The dough went easily enough. Then throw in chocolate, no problem. Let it rise for forty minutes in the sunshine, under a towel, easy as pie.

But then I baked it, and it went horribly wrong.

You see, milka chocolate chunks aren't heat resistant chocolate drops like your baker uses. And bread bakes a lot longer than, say, chocolate chip cookies. So it melted and burned all over the crust of the  bread and the baking paper.

Oh, and I used regular flour instead of bread flour, and quite possibly not enough yeast and salt. The bread was dense and flavorless except for where a few chocolate bits had gotten protected by the dough. The protected bits tasted like heaven.

So I've learned from this. Use enough yeast. And salt. And the right flour. And protect your filling from heat unless otherwise indicated. Oh, and next time, bake a cake. Even if it means going to the store and maybe coming back with salted butter instead of regular.

The Bottle

So I used to have this drinking bottle. It was made out of nalgene, pink, dishwasher safe and it never, ever, ever leaked. It fit into most of my bags, held just enough to keep the thirst at bay and was absolutely perfect. It was even cheap, or so I thought at the time. Fifteen euros. I'd bought it over the summer in Germany.

Then, one day, I knocked it over from a shelf. I'd thrown it about lots, so I thought it was pretty indestructible, but the clip that closed it needed something to cushion its fall apart from the cap. The axle broke, and my perfect bottle closed no more. I tried looking for it online, but I didn't have a brand name since I ripped off the sticker as soon as I got it. I thought I found it several times, but I didn't.

Not until yesterday.

I had to go buy groceries. We needed baking soda and dishcloths and storage boxes and ingredients for dinner. And then, I saw them. They were in the supermarket. A display of drinking flasks. In familiar colors. In familiar shapes. It was a Culinario display. There was my drinking bottle again. My perfect drinking bottle, for five euros a pop. But the other models were there, too. So I considered briefly, then bought two. The model was different, this time hopefully without the weak axle, and in green and purple. It holds slightly less liquid, but I can live with that. I've got trust in the brand.

And now I know which brand it is. I know their website. I even stored it in my favorites. If you want to look at what they've got to offer, just google it. It's a company based in Berlin.

Some women can't live without lipstick, I can't live without a decent water bottle. I tried just getting one liter bottles of water, but the shapes vary and they're clumsy to drink from. And they don't always fit in a bag. These are longish, thin, the size of a pocket umbrella, give or take half an inch. And they're nicely thick. They can take a few scratches without me having to worry about leaks. The model I have now, the Flip Top, even comes with a handy drinking spout. And they're easy to clean. Throw in the dishwasher, let air dry if they're still wet, and you're set to go again.

The only problem I have now is this temptation to complete my collection and get another two bottles in pink and blue.

The Butts

Boyfriend and I just finished the last bookcase. It was the biggest of all the bookcases and covered our bedroom in sawdust. Don't worry, we cleaned it up. We had fun doing it, since it's daytime and no neighbours call to complain about our hammering noises during business hours. We even made sure the door still opens, even with the extras we put on there.

What extras are this, you may ask. Well, we wanted a place to hang our clothes. And the cheapest hooks at IKEA are the ones called BÄSTIS. The ones shaped like dog butts. The ones we bought far too little of. The two we have are blue, and we had more fun than is grown-up putting them on.

"Where do you want the butts?"
"I think our butts should go higher."
"Do I hammer the butts or screw them?"
"I think screwing the butts is best."
"You measure out where the butts should go."
"Our butts should go very high up."
"Oh my God, these butts are tight!"

And so on and so forth. Boyfriend screwed in the butts hard. I don't think our jeans will be falling down any time soon.

He did hurt his elbow while working, so while he took a well-deserved break from work, I vacuumed the bedroom. And seeing as we're mostly done now, we even took some pictures. I'll be sprinkling them all over my last blog posts later, once Boyfriend sends them to my pc.

In the meanwhile, the laundry machine is temperamental. We lost about two hours waiting for it to start working, and we have about four loads of laundry still waiting to be done. I think we'll be drying clothes for two more days at this rate.

And from under the chaos of setting up house, only a few things remain. I still have two boxes of books, a few stuffed animals, those will probably find their home in or on the bookcase. The hallway could do with a few hooks or a hatstand. The bicycle needs a new seat and a luggage rack. There's a pile of pictures waiting to be hung...somewhere. But that's pretty much everything.

So we're taking a short break. I'm considering a sinfully hot shower, boyfriend is checking the couch for videogaming suitability. And after that... Well, we do need groceries.

The Home

We have a home. There's bookcases with books and space for more. We have a sofa. The kitchen is currently a mess, but no longer a I-didn't-unpack-yet mess. More like a I-cook-in-here mess. Boyfriend and me put everything together, worked hard and now we have somewhere to live without having to shift stuff every time we want to use a different room. We even have mood lighting.

As we speak, our first load of laundry is drying. It's just towels, but we were running short on those. The rain soaked all the dry ones for the kitchen, so we can't do dishes. Hence the mess. Once they're dry, I'll sort out the clothes and do those. Yes, I'll call mom before washing my favorite bra. I'm only just starting a home, I'm not omniscient yet.

Of course, it's not perfect yet. There's still a power drill where I want to put my knitting project. There's a box set of dvds wandering around the living room. We discovered we should have bought a few more hooks than we did and there's still posters to hang up, too. The pile of kassett boxes I brought and emptied, I don't know what to do with. They got damaged in transit, but not enough to warrant throwing them out. I don't want to use them in the brand-spanking-new bookcases either, because they scratched up their previous bookcase to hell and I paid good money for these. And, yes, the bathroom might need a bit more organising, too. There's still winter sheets on the bed. I still have a purse with purse-junk I want to get rid of. My medication has not found a home yet. I desperately need a shower before I'm permanently sweated stuck to something.

But those are all little things. Things that can be done quickly. The big things, the ones we couldn't do alone and that took longer than half an hour to do, those are done.

My knitting and books have a place to sit. My desk is only missing a mouse pad. The cubby closest to the kitchen has plenty of room for more cooking books. (okay, honesty, baking books) I can make cakes and jelly pudding in the kitchen once we do the dishes. The cutlery fits into the kitchen trolley, which means there's more room in the kitchen cupboards. There's a comfortable chair for knitting and reading in the living room corner, close to one bookcase and out of the direct line of sight of the sofa in front of the tv. The sofa is looking gorgeous and fits absolutely perfectly in its place against the wall and the weird beam that dissects the room. All it needs is a few men playing video games on it to make the picture perfect. Boyfriend has a new desk chair so he can sit properly in front of his desk rather than slumped into the old couch chair he was using. We have fruit in the house, and the blender is finally clean and ready for some epic smoothie-making. My clothes are finally all fitted into the wardrobe since yesterday. Boyfriend's mom has been in to see after we finished the sofa and approved whole-heartedly of our efforts.

Now all I need to do is talk to Boyfriend's mom about a job and find a bicycle. That can't be that hard, right?

The Hard Work

We built a lot yesterday. I thought we'd start today, seeing as it was evening by the time everything got upstairs, but most of it could be done quietly. Most of it... But not the bookcase. Boyfriend broke out the hammer for that. At half past eleven pm. Yes, we got a call kindly asking us to take a look outside and notice that it was nighttime and people might be asleep. It was ther last thing we built. I loaded it full of books and we went to sleep.
 
So we didn't start building right away today. First, I did the dishes by hand while the dishwashing machine chugged away at part of the heap that was dishwasher safe. We finished the kitchen-trolley thing we bought last night, so I had room to put it once it was dry. It was sunny, so I opened the window and left my dry dishes in the sun.

Then I offered to try and see if the baking sheets could be cleaned. I gave it my best, but it was me against a few years of dirt. I took a shot at the oven, too, but there's only so much you can do with water and dishwashing soap. At some point, I'll try again with a paste of baking soda and water, but probably not today.

We had some lunch and decided to take a siesta. It started raining quite badly, which meant the roof was leaky, but Boyfriend had put down a container for that, so no worries. At least, no worries until Boyfriend leapt from bed cursing. He had left the room last, so he blamed himself for the worryingly large puddle of water creeping over the floor where I'd left the window open. We mopped up the mess, dried off what had gotten wet and my clean things are waiting to be washed all over again as we speak.

Then the red couch that has been getting on Boyfriend and my collective tits got disposed of. No one wanted it anymore, it was broken and it was just sitting obnoxiously in the living room, taking up the space of a bookcase and the new sofa. Boyfriend even broke it into smaller pieces. To break them off, he jumped on them with what I suspect was a sadistic glee. To say it in his words: he 'killed the couch, finally, after all these years!' Ding-dong, the couch is dead. No one's mourning. The couch is dead, long live the new klippan sofa!

What's also dead is the space underneath the couch. The thing weighed half a ton with ease and was L-shaped. You couldn't really move it to clean under it if no one had the decency to remove the bathroom wall first. We found a bottle of water, nerf gun darts and a stress ball underneath there. No one had noticed, and if they had, they'd forgotten about it. And of course, there's dust bunnies there. Dust bunnies so impressive, they've gone feral. Boyfriend is cleaning them up while I'm typing.

Later, there shall be the construction of a new couch. And probably the last two bookcases, which I shall fill with my babies. And some rearranging of furniture, so we can walk in our cozy little apartment without tripping over stuff.

And, yes, I'll do the dishes again. Soon.

The Swedish Furniture

You know how things go at IKEA. You go in, you wander around for way longer than you ever remember being there, you get distracted and you come out with more things than you were planning on. Oops.

It went the same for us. Sure, we first had lunch, but apart from that, it was a typical day at IKEA. Except for the bit where we bought three carts of stuff and got it all home.

At least, I think we're getting it all home. Packing was no problem, but somewhere in the wonderfulness of cheap furniture, we forgot that we live on the second floor. And bookcases and sofas are heavy. Oh, and there's still a sofa planned for a much bigger room sitting in our living room, eating the space of a chair, a bookcase and the new, smaller sofa. My strong, handsome boyfriend and his dad are lugging it all upstairs with a lot of groaning and panting and 'does-this-one-have-numbers-on-it?'s. I am not sure, but I think that at some point, they're going to remove the big couch as well.

Now, my mom told me not to spend much. I know that. But we needed more furniture. And some hooks. And a smaller couch, for God's sake. Okay, maybe the stick-on space invaders and the new pots and pans weren't technically a necessity, but we're sharing the stickers and the temptation of pots and pans that could go into the dishwasher without any risk was too much. Why? We already melted something in the dishwasher. Something of mine, which was dishwasher top-rack safe and ended up in the bottom rack, right above the heating element. A new one will cost me about twelve euros, which means it'll have to wait a few months. Oh, and the pots and pans sort of fit the scale of the apartment better. And can go into an oven. Sortedfood recipes, here I come. :)

So it's all slowly trickling upstairs while I sit here typing and wondering how we could buy more than was on our list, and pay less than the list said it would cost. I'm not complaining, I'm just wondering what on earth we got for free. The proof of payment has disappeared, as far as I can tell. I thought it went into our bag, but it's not there. I'll go downstairs and ask Boyfriend's mom if she has it once I'm sure I won't cause any helping hands to topple over and be crushed under part four of a large EXPEDIT bookcase.

I already cleared the couch and helped put things to the side, so the guys could put the sofa-in-the-making right into their own path (I have been raised not to argue logic with men on IKEA furniture until they've finished with the screwdrivers and cursing) and bring in all the rest. I'm going to see what I can unpack from the bag, maybe load some things into the dishwasher once I'm done writing. Oh, and I have been told I'm allowed to help build a few things. Boyfriend is terrified that I'll hurt myself somehow while figuring if part G goes into slot 7. I'm more confident in myself, but my dad's voice is going through my head telling me 'don't touch', so I'm staying away from the things that can squish me. But a chair should be doable, right?

The Cell Phone

So I told you about my new phone yesterday. I just spent the better part of an hour setting it up. It has nothing, so it assumes people have one phone number, don't need bluetooth and generally is quite easy to work with once you turn off the dictionary item. It has its quirks, like a weird alphabetical order and no camera, and instead a flashlight (which I've yet to locate), but so far, I like it.

First there was the thing of getting a SIM card. In Belgium, I go into my local Mobistar center, say I want a pay as you go card and they set it up, so it works within seconds. In Germany, you select which provider you want (T-Mobile, in my case) and they offer you a contract, which confused me, since I'd asked for a card without one. No, I just wanted the simple one. Yes, I was sure. Then they register it, as per usual, and then you have to wait an hour before it works. It's one of my nationality's less favorable habits, but I want to buy something that works NOW.

I tried switching it on. It told me my SIM card wasn't working. I waited another half hour, then it worked.

First things first, call the boyfriend with an unknown number. I take a sick and twisted pleasure in hearing people do that half-frightened 'Hello?' whenever someone calls them with the new number. The boyfriend did not disappoint.

Next, switch the language to English. I don't want to hear the complaints, I like my electronics in English. It makes internet instructions on how to do stuff a lot easier once you can't find something.

Then I tried messing with the settings, pressed a wrong button and undid most of what I'd put the way I liked it. Oh, well, I'd do it later. First some numbers.

The man from the store called me to make sure my phone worked, since I didn't have an alternative number to give with which I could call to say all was well. He did this while I was trying to enter my phone book into my phone, so I nearly dropped it. The thing has a frighteningly powerful speaker. But yeah, my first German cell phone conversation went well. Yippee.

There is no handy-dandy copy-paste function for the phone book, so all had to go by hand. It turned into a chaotic mess. So I started using land codes, which helped. Then I realised my German numbers (three so far) were spread over the entirety of my phone book and I'd never find them. So I figured out how to edit names I'd given and stuck a 1 in front of everything. Much better.

Next, I wrote a message saying I got a new phone number and who I was and forwarded it to everyone I thought might need it. If you didn't get it, or want my phone number, e-mail me or send me a personal message with your number on the site you know me from. I'll send it to you.

In the mean while, I'm going to coo over the awesomeness of my Nokia 100 a bit more. And maybe see if I can wrangle a few more phone numbers together.

The football

I think Germany won at something football related. I'm not entirely sure if it's football, but I'm pretty sure it's something that touches a nation in that special place that makes them go crazy.

We caved and went to McDondald's. We remarked on how very, very little people were out tonight. We had our meal, provided McDo can be considered that, and were about to go order ice cream. Then about a dozen cars started circling the building, honking their horns.

My first thought was: drunk people get hungry too.

Then we got our ice cream and went out. The entire city of Coburg and their families have hopped into cars bedecked with German flag and flag-like objects, decided to see repeatedly if their horns still worked and let everyone not driving have at it with vuvuzelas. I am not exaggerating. I am not making this up. Outside, it's a cacaphony of cars, horns and happy noises.

I asked the boyfriend about it, who just sort of shrugged and said 'probably football'.

Is it a world cup year? Did Germany qualify? Was today the finals? I have no idea. I know there was a match on, because McDonald's authorised a newspaper to give out vouchers for free breakfast the day after matches, and tomorrow's one of those days, but the importance of it is sort of lost on me. It's twenty-something twenty-somethings running after a leather sphere and kicking it away when they get to it. If a dog were to do that, they'd call it easily amused and a bit dim-witted. If people do it, it's apparently a matter of national or regional pride. It's a weird double standard and I'm not sure I get it.

In the mean while, the noise has died down a bit. I hope they'll all go to sleep soon, so we can get some sleep too.

The unloading

Oh God, I've moved. And it's not sinking in, at all.

There was a long, long, drive. And the boyfriend-parents, who were nice, as usual. And dinner, delicious dinner, with the saltiest fries in the entire galaxy. And snuggles, and kisses, and more.

So I woke up around six this morning. I went to bed around ten, I was exhausted. I'm at a more or less normal schedule, now.

By seven, we were unpacking. Or, more precisely, sorting boxes. As in 'these are clothes, they go to the bedroom, these are books, they go on the pile.'

The clothes, we packed away. My shoes went on the rack (When did I get so many shoes?) The food, we put in the kitchen. The utensils for the kitchen went in the dishwasher so we would have until they're clean to figure out where there was room for them (it's going to involve magic, I'm afraid). The  books are currently on a pile almost as large as the fridge. We have frames waiting to be hung. We have a sofa full of things waiting for more furniture.

The furniture we still need is mostly shelves, maybe a few containers. My boyfriend's mom claims she has two desks we could use, but we still need to check those out. If they fit, great, if not, more stuff from IKEA to put together. I hope the desks fit. I'm currently sharing a desk that's too big for one person, but too small for two.

And I forgot my laptop's inclined plane, the only thing I forgot so far. Luckily, IKEA sells those, too, but it means I have to develop a crick in my neck and wrists until Tuesday. Boo!

Halfway through the unpacking, we ate some breakfast and discovered that there's not that much food in the house. It's also Sunday, which means nothing is open in Germany. Let's hope we last until tomorrow. If we get desperate, there's a McDo down the street. But I'm trying to be healthy, dammit, and I don't like salad!

Oh, and my phone is definitely broken. I can text fine, and I can receive calls, I just can't hear the people on the other side. Poo. I have a new phone waiting for a German SIM card, though. It's all pretty and pink (no one steals a pink phone) and does absolutely nothing more than it should. It was dirt cheap. People who want my number can e-mail me, and I'll send it to them as soon as I've got it. I hope they have an easy number to remember.

In other news, I dug out my collection of plugs for my stretched earlobes from one of the moving boxes. I've been wearing my awesome glass plugs for a few weeks now and thought it was time for something new. I'm insanely happy: I can wear double flared plugs! My ears have relaxed enough for them to be stretchy enough to let the big flares through. My entire AOP wish list is fair game now, muahahahaha! Until I have a steady income though, it's going to have to wait. I have ten pairs of plugs waiting their turn, so for now, spirally black-and-white it is.

So until tomorrow, there's not much to do. Except maybe this handsome man sitting next to me. ;-)

The small miracle

I take back every bad word I ever said about my mom. She's wonderful and I love her, yes, but she's also a genius. Maybe it comes to you together with pooing yourself as you give birth, a sort of give-and-take situation.

About forty-five minutes ago, I got yelled at for checking facebook. It was only for two minutes, I swear. I've been ignoring that site royally the past few weeks. I just wanted to collect a daily bonus, but dad said 'no'. I was to help packing. The entire house being asleep was not a good enough argument not to.

My mom was still wearing the same clothes she did last night. I'm wondering if she slept at all. She would arrange everything into the car and it would fit. I have to admit that the phrase 'famous last words' came to mind. I am, however, grown-up enough not to let them pass my lips. I dragged everything upstairs with my dad, completely sure that in about half an hour, we'd be asked to help unload part of the car because the laws of physics dictate that two bodies with mass and volume cannot occupy the same space, and space inside a car is finite.

But she did it. She puzzled everything into the car, with room for everyone to sit and her and dad's luggage. There was even--gasp--space left. Did I want to take a small box of anything else?

Yes. Yes I did.

So I dove into the Palace of Empty and Full Boxes basement and found a medium-sized box. Then I loaded two more series and a few loose books into it. Mom puzzled them all together and put them in the car. I am amazed. I literally am leaving behind less than thirty books, and all that without having to strap me to the roof of the car before we hit 150 km/h on the autobahn.

The car is mostly packed. We still have fifty minutes left. I'm not sure, but it could be we are, in fact, going to leave at eight am as planned.

I didn't pack everything my mom wished me to, but enough to mollify her from 'I'm throwing everything left in the trash' to 'I'm throwing everything left in a box'. Maybe because, as it stands, everything left might actually fit into one box.

So we're leaving. No more emergencies, no more funerals, no more delays. I'm definitely going to Germany.

Now I really am excited.

The sunshine

So I'm leaving tomorrow. I'm all excited.

Or I was. This morning.

In the mean while, I've packed more stuff (none of which will fit in the car), realised just how bad I'm going to miss my books, reprimanded the dog while my mother nearly peed herself laughing and realised I'm still not done packing.

We should, at this time of night, be done loading the car, but we haven't started yet. It's raining, and dad doesn't want to pack in the rain.

I'm sulking in my room at the moment. I don't want my mother to come along tomorrow, because she'll try and make a holiday out of what will basically be unloading, eating, sleeping and leaving, and be disappointed when she fails. I do want to load the car, but the chairs are still in it and I don't know how to remove them. I want to take all my books, but I know I can't, and that makes me sad.

I'm also hungry and would like some ice cream, except last time I had it, I got sick. And the time before that. And before that. And before that. I'm slowly starting to see a pattern and don't want to spend my last night praying at the altar of the porcelain gods.

So I should look for tiny rays of sunshine in this raincloud that won't go away.

I found a baking book yesterday, for a reasonable price. The one I wanted had gone to a third of its size since my mom bought the first print, so I looked around and found another one which looked promising. It's the Libelle Bakboek, and I'm not sharing it with my mom until I'm safely in Germany and it can't 'accidentally' stay behind. It's mine.

In Germany, there will be a bright pink cell phone, happily waiting for me to buy it a shiny new SIM card with a German phone number, so I can start making friends and calling them. (Yes, I still have to pay back the boyfriend for it, but sunshine, dammit!)

I noticed this morning I lost 3 kilos. It's probably going to come back, but I'm enjoying the half-inch of extra space in my jeans while it lasts. And, who knows, I might lose more. Maybe I'll keep going until my excess weight permanently packs its bags and I'm at a healthy weight. I'll never be a stick, and I accept that, but it'd be nice to go into a doctor's office and not have to hear that I'm in the best of health, BUT... So yeah. Positive.

It's summer. With all its downsides, it also means fruit is in season. My grandpa has strawberries in his garden. The supermarket is stocking nectarines. Soon, the apples will be harvested and I can go apple-cake crazy. Oh, and berries! Mustn't forget the berries.

I have some posters I was sad to leave. After a short discussion with the boyfriend, it turns out he wants them in the entryway. I decided not to argue. They're not heavy, they're framed, to Germany they shall go!

And there's still one day for my missing online order to turn up. It has lots of things I've wanted for a long time in it, and it should have arrived weeks ago, but who knows. Maybe tomorrow is my lucky day.

Tomorrow will be better than today. If nothing else, I have been promised pizza. And snuggles. And kisses and hugs and sleeping cuddled up to my boyfriend at night. And, yes, he's my boyfriend and I haven't seen him in several weeks. You fill in the blanks on what that means.

In the mean while, I'm going to see if we really can't pack while it's raining. I want to make sure we leave on time tomorrow.

The knitting

Oh my goodness, I forgot to check my mail for a few days. How could I be so careless? Around this time of year, I ought to be glued to my inbox, frantically refreshing, until the internet gives me my loot for the next three months.

But in all the excitement, I forgot. Even worse, my knitting stash, usually available in a riot of acrylic colors for whimsical projects and hats, is at an all-time low. I'm working on a sweater and I have some birthday yarn left. Maybe there's a ball of sock yarn hiding in there, but that's it. No more. I think there's even--gasp!--room to spare in my box of knitting paraphenelia. Unheard of!

So now the new Knitty is out, and I have no yarn. There's a toddler's outfit that promises to be easy to knit and take care of, and a friend of the boyfriend will be a dad soon. There's a scarf without purling, but with interesting edging. There's socks knit sideways without seams. And there's oodles of cool knitting stuff that makes me want to have a temper tantrum featuring the word 'want' as its main subject.And the articles--oh, Lord, the articles!

I haven't even read through it all at the time of writing. I'm just brimming with too much excitement to focus on it all, so I thought I'd share it with you. And because I already spouted off enough of my greediness on the internet for today, I'm programming this post to come to you tomorrow morning. It's called cheating on a 30-day challenge.

I want to read Franklin's article, and see how that scarf works. I want to dig through my stash and see if I can come to an understanding with the knitting gods that will not break the bank. I want to cast on seven different projects, and be better at grafting and lace and cables.

But I really should just work on the sweater. It's got a chaos cable in it, which is good practice for actual cables, and my ribbing on it actually looks halfway decent for a change. There will be decreases and increases and it will be my first actual garment and I'm excited about working on it, too. The Knitty is just a knitterish toddler screaming for attention NOW, but it has to wait. I want to finish this. Truly.

The only problem is that, as much as I want to knit, another want is throwing a bit of a wrench into that plan. Remember my last body modification? Yeah, it's still sensitive. Especially since I soaked off the crusties this morning. I knit high on my chest, and rubbing fresh piercings is a good way to irritate them.

So I'm putting my needles down for another few days, until things calm down. Maybe by Saturday, I'll be able to knit in the car, on my way to my new home.

In the mean while, I have some things in my room to tidy up (as soon as I get a box), to which I am not looking forward. So I'm procrastrinating. With a book.

The pet I want

(Now, before I type out my 'I wanna wanna wanna' post here, let me point out that I know I still have to move and learn and get a job before I'm anywhere close to acquiring a pet. I know pets need care, attention, food and things that cost money.)

My last dog, my mom picked. It was the art of compromise: I wanted a dog, she liked only one breed, so we got a red, female English cocker spaniel.

I want something that's lazy indoors, but energetic on walks. I want something big enough to pet and play with without risking that I'll fail to see it and launch it four feet into the air or squish it. I want something grown up, so at least some of the rough edges will have been taken off of it. I want something bred to listen to commands.

I want a sighthound.

At first I thought a greyhound or a whippet would be relatively easy to find in a dog pound, but Germany hasn't got a dog-racing culture. So I looked on. Germany does have Spanish greyhound (better known as galgo español) rescues. The dogs get taken from a shelter in Spain, where they have limited means to take care of all the dumped hunting dogs, and put in host families in Germany to be rehabilitated. They have a temperament similar to a greyhound and look eerily like them, even though it's fairly sure no greyhounds were involved in the creation of the breed. They have the needs of all short-haired sighthounds and they're tall enough to not be overlooked. And they're trained for hunting, which means they're trained to obey.

I think they're adorable. They have these warm, soulful eyes, these pointy, floppy ears, these faces that seem to express emotion so well and sleek, streamlined bodies. They want to lie in a warm, soft spot indoors and go for long walks outdoors. They come in a million billion coat colors and variations. Their hair isn't ruined forever and ever and ever if you fail to brush them one week. They like people they know, but aren't agressive to strangers.

Then again, I have to be realistic.

I need to keep my eyes out for a dog that can be alone for a few hours a week. One that doesn't expressly need other dogs around, because the apartment is small. And while both the boyfriend as me are animal lovers, I'm not sure if we could take care of a dog with a chronic disease or a disability.

And I still don't have a job, so I'll have to put this particular dream on ice for at least another few months.

The dog

This morning, I got asked to clean up after my dog.

Now, don't get me wrong. She's far past puppyhood and the phase where she didn't loudly complain when she had to go outside. What her problem is, is that she loves people. So occasionally, stupid things happen. There's grooves in the hall at the front door where we had to hold her back from jumping people, you can't not have her under the table when there's several people eating there, and she likes the cleaning lady. A lot. So much, in fact, that she padded through the hallway after her while it was still wet. I didn't see the paw prints, but my mom insists they were there and that everyone with eyes in their skull would notice and somehow excommunicate our family from society for it. I think they'd just notice we had a dog, but that's probably just me.

A second thing the lovable lump does is sunbathe. I had to mop the hallway and the entry hall, which faces east and has a gloriously glass front door. The dog had decided that she was going to soak up the sunshine that morning, but I had to clean before my little sister came back from school. She was utterly baffled that she suddenly wasn't allowed to lay motionless in the sunshine, not bothering anyone, and had to move. I cleaned and she went to lie on her doggy bed in the kitchen, to watch doggy tv.

There's no television in the kitchen. There's just a door that leads to the patio and is open when it's dry and sunny, and there's a side window that faces the neighbours' driveway. Our cocker spaniel is fascinated by the show we call 'Neighbours', and she loves the one where she watches her back yard for hours and hours on end.

You know how, when you have a pet, it's mental, no matter how cute everyone says it is? It's like that with every pet that ever came through this household. Every fish we ever got were live-eating cannibals, my sister's rabbits were rampantly homosexual and rampantly homophobic, respectively, the cats never grew up to cat-size and sleep in hay and our dog is simply crazy. She loves dragging empty toilet paper rolls and flattened plastic bottles around. She drags slippers and socks and (if she can get a hold of it) clean underwear to her nest and falls asleep on top of them. She's afraid to be on grass alone. She wants to climb every ledge she sees, like some kind of floppy-eared, long-haired mountain goat with teeth. She refuses to eat in the dark. She likes lying spreadeagled on her back. She tries to be psychic and guess what you want from her as soon as you're holding something she knows is a treat. Oh, and she eats fruit and vegetables. If it has a distinct flavor, or juice, she'll gobble it down. Carrots, strawberries, grapes, apples, potatoes, bananas, tangerines... If you're eating one, she wants it.

My mother occasionally says loudly how she's going to sell the mutt so she'll be rid of it and my little sister who swore up and down that she'd help take care of it loves to point out that it's MY dog. Both won't let me take her to Germany. There is no argument that will sway them. I can't take my own dog with me. The fact that my blisters will heal and my ankles are getting better and you're allowed to bike with a dog in Germany, so she'll get more exercise, don't count. The idea that I might feed her is ludicrous, apparently. My boyfriend might be wrapped around her paw to the point where I joke he has two girlfriends, but she is staying where she is.

I have lost my own dog.

My boyfriend's parents have offered a solution, though. Their favorite dog, a tiny little mixed breed with a diva attitude the size of Jupiter, is very likely pregnant. The puppy, or maybe even puppies, are expected to be born in late July, early August. They're accidents, and promise to be adorable as heck. I'm not so sure, though.

They're the offspring of tiny dogs. This has three very big downsides to me. Firstly, they're toy breed and I can't think of any toy breed that was bred for obedience rather than adorableness. If I get another dog, I want one that has the ability to listen to me. Secondly, the puppies will be tiny. As much as I love my dog, I hated her stature as a puppy the size of these puppies' mom. Grooming, correcting, rewarding, teaching... You have to do it while bent over double, and still be authoritative. Not a small feat and not one I have fun in accomplishing. Thirdly, the grown dogs will be tiny, and I trip over small things. Yes, I am a klutz, but I'm aware of the fact. In the battle of gravity vs 70+ kilo woman vs 2 kilo dog, the dog loses.

And I'm not sure I want a puppy again. Yes, they're cute and adorable and every time I see one, the words 'I want one' gush out of my mouth unbidden. But they also need to pee every hour, destroy all you hold dear while they're teething (my dog even tried to go for the walls at some point) and no one appreciates your attempts to socialise them to not beg for the attention and cooing of random passer-bys.

Oh, and the boyfriend wants a pig. Or a rabbit the size of a duck-tolling retriever. Or an indoor cat. Or a puppy, sure. If we had the room, he'd want all four, maybe more. But the apartment is tiny and not on the ground floor and I'm not much of a cat person. So he's asked me what I want.

I think I know what I want.

The insomnia

In case you hadn't noticed, I tend to not sleep at night lately. Instead, I'm up on the internet, trying to stay entertained. By the time morning comes around, I collapse and sleep the day away, to the annoyance of pretty much everyone around me.

Today, this glorious plan was nefariously thwarted by my friend Elly. She called last Thursday to ask if she could come over sometime before I moved. I said, sure.

I've known her since fifth grade. She's cool. Not everyone sees it, because, sadly, not everyone is awesome. She has the unique gift of being able to laugh at herself from time to time.

She, like most people in university, has exams around this time. So when I was informed she had an exam on Monday, I foolishly assumed this meant we would meet later this week. Turns out, it meant she was visiting me on her way home, with her boyfriend.

There wasn't really any planning to it. She arrived to find me with an epic case of bedhead and sleepy-face, still in my pajamas, with as much furniture as possible in the house not on the floor. The house gets cleaned on Mondays.

We chatted a bit in my room. They snuffled through the books I hadn't packed while I got dressed. We decided to hang out in town a bit. We looked in a handful of stores, the others being closed on Mondays. We talked. Elly had to pee, so we got a drink and let her use the facilities. We talked some more. I got hungry, so I got something sugary and chocolatey from a bakery. We talked some more. My mom had asked if I could make some time to pick up some grocieries. We got the groceries (and some whiskey for Elly's man's collection) and spent the trip back to the house wondering if I picked the right package. I still don't know. We spent some time talking loudly in the kitchen, to the annoyance of my little sister trying to study in her room. Then they left.

At the moment, they're probably driving home in one of the first summer storms. Rain is pouring, thunder rumbling, lightning flashing. It's a kind of weather I find comforting. It makes me feel safe and cozy in the house.

Maybe I should try sleeping some more now.

The boredom

All the excitement is over. My family's slowly going back to normal and I'm still stuck in moving-limbo.

So I'm looking for things to do. They can't be expensive, because I need to watch my money, and they can't be far away, because all I have is a bike and public transport. Oh, and I've accumulated some blisters in the last few days. On the soles of my feet. It takes a special kind of dedication and lousy footwear choices.

Most of my shoes are packed and I'm too stubborn to get them out. The ones that aren't and are comfy are too well-hidden for me to find. I offered to try and go biking with the dog, but for some mysterious reason, it's illegal to do so in Belgium. Go figure.

So I've gone down the dark and twisty road I was on when I was fifteen. To gaiaonline. It's not the most entertaining website, nor has it the most fun games, but there's people there who are equally bored as I am. You can chat a bit, play a bit and I can distract myself enough to get some knitting done in the meanwhile.

Oh, and you get to dress up. I've decided to only put in stuff that is less than 2000 gold a pop, or things I get given or find randomly on the site. So far, the picture above is my goal. I'm only missing the squiggles for my arms, which happen to be the most expensive things on my list. I need two. For just being squiggles, they're really too expensive, but they've got 'gold' in their name, so the price gets upped. Artificial pixel inflation, I call it.

At the moment, I have 1000 gold in my pocket. I've won some more, but the person who hands it out is offline and I'm in no particular hurry to get done with this.

The avatar simulator has gotten a lot more confusing in the past few years. There are hundreds and hundreds of items to sift through, some which do more than one thing. I have a shirt that can turn my face into a cat's head, for example. I got it for free and no one asked me if I particularly wanted to turn my face into a cat's head. Or wear a cat shirt.

In other news, my dad confirmed that Saturday is D-day, barring any new hiccups or sudden deaths. Grandpa is doing fine, if a bit shaky on his legs and disoriented thanks to a worn out eardrum on one side. All the rest of the family looked healthy the last time I checked.

And it's still hayfever season. One day, I'm going to figure out what I'm allergic to and get me some of that fancy antihistamine stuff. Today the pharmacies are closed, though, so I'm stuck sniffling behind my pc for a bit longer. Oh well, there's worse things in life. I could be bored, for example.

The funeral

Everything yesterday wasn't, today was. There was getting up early and having company for breakfast. There was a mass full of nice, comforting things said and done. There was my first coffee table.

I think I found some peace.

Yes, some people cried, but there was a sense of togetherness that I missed yesterday. I don't understand why the two services were so different. Do they serve different purposes?

Today was better than yesterday. There was a bit of laughter and warmth, which made the day more palatable.

I couldn't walk very well with my right foot cramped up, for example. There was a white stain on my black dress. A final addage to the service confused the grandchildren. There were a few misreads. The priest gave his own interpretation of the last chunk of the service, confusing a handful of people a bit. One of my cousins wore his Vans under his Sunday best. Another had her hair parted any which way. Someone learning to drive effectively blocked about a dozen cars trying to get to the cemetery. I spent an inappropriate amount of time praying my hayfever wouldn't make me sneeze on the Host. A few cousins worried about the exams they were facing. Nobody ate the breadrolls with filet américain. Someone needed to be reminded where the Middle East was located.

But rather than make me angry, it reminded me that everyone was human and fallible. My 'little' cousins are growing up, but they stay themselves. I'm not as grown-up as I'd like to be. The adults don't even seem to be as grown-up as they'd like to be.

I realised for what seemed like the first time that my parents are children, too.

It struck me during the service, when the booklet said 'a few words from the children', and I wondered why no one had mentioned this to me. It took me moments to realise they meant my grandmother's children. My aunts and uncles, my parents, they were all children once. I even thought about my great-grandmother, my grandmother's mother, who once must have held the woman who held her hand above my head at the font with all the fierce love and protection mothers are capable of.

It's sad in a good way that I took this all for granted. I know I am blessed. I know I have a safe haven, a home, no matter what shenanigans I get up to. I am loved, and to be aware of it is a wonderful feeling.

The wake

My grandmother's wake was today.

I didn't know most of the people there and I wonder if that's a bad thing. From the people who were there, I wonder how many of them knew my grandmother. I get that colleagues and friends to my family want to show their support and offer condolences, but I don't see why they have to do so by watching my little cousins cry. Some of them even came to greet the body.

Another thing I don't understand is why the person who led the service had to select such strange texts and songs. The tale of how Lazarus died because Christ was two days late in coming didn't cheer me up. A plea for God not to abandon his followers, even when put to music, is not my idea of offering comfort to a grieving family.

I've never seen my grandfather look so small. He never was a tall man, like my mother's father was, but I grew up thinking of him as a rock of a man, unmoveable and strong. Now the woman he loved is gone and all he has to show for it is a house full of her things and a pacemaker. It seems like an unfair trade.

My parents argued in the funeral home after the strangers had left. My mother thought someone had been forgotten. My father said she would have come if she wanted to. I just sat there and felt uncomfortable.

My grandmother has been dead for over a week. It seems cruel to say, but it shows in her body. It still has the same proportions, but the skin has sunk down and dried out, and where I expected the soft, faded contours of my father's mother, I just saw the harsh lines of a corpse. If it weren't for exams in the family, she would have been buried sooner, before all her children and grandchildren had to witness the start of her fading from this world in the physical sense.

I'm still not sad for losing my grandmother, my godmother, for being a little more alone in this world. I am very sad to see my family hurting and to find myself with only two hands and two arms to contain all that pain. I can hug one person, hold the hands of two, maybe speak comforts and distractions to a third, but my family is much bigger than all that. One husband, five children, thirteen grandchildren... I feel utterly helpless as I watch them all grieve.

And rather than take comfort in the faith that meant to much to her, I am livid at the church. Not once did anyone say she was in a better place. All I heard was that we will join her when it's our time to die, and that it's important to believe in God. That's not comfort. That's propaganda. Perhaps the burial service will be better, but I am dissatisfied with what I saw today. I want to scream at the priest for not being there. I want to shout at someone for hiding away the songbooks and making us sit in vague discomfort as a choir of elderly ladies sang about walking in darkness. I want someone to take over the work of my aunts on the verge of tears, but none of the volunteers stayed after the service was over.

I wish I was back in Norway and could ask my host father, a Lutheran priest, why faith in Belgium is so cold to me when it's warm and alive in a church not my own and a country so cold it hurts to breathe in winter.

The piercing wars - cont'd

I had to go buy pantyhose yesterday. Mom gave me money and everything. So I had a legitimate reason to take a small detour and get myself a little something with my own money, right?

I got the hose first and then figured out how they had detoured the buses to Turnhout at the depot. They had detoured them in the most complicated way possible, provided you took them on a Thursday (market day). Luckily, the bus driver was nice enough to open the doors again for me, and I had bought my ticket with my phone.

Really, I'm delighted with the system. You send a text message on how long you want to be on the bus (1 hour or 2) and get one back saying your payment was received, which counts as a ticket. The prices are cheaper than buying it on the bus itself and only slightly more expensive than figuring out where you can buy bus tickets in advance. For people like me who take the bus once in a blue moon, it's a wonderful solution. All you have to know is how long you'll be on the bus, which it says on the bus stop pole thingy.

I was on the bus for seventy-four minutes, according to the pole. My watch agreed, more or less, and taunted me with the fact that I was about half an hour early for Pirate Piercing to open. Poo.

I'd put on heels, so I had slowed myself down, and I wasn't exactly sure which way to go, either. Oh, and there was a vending machine selling drinks and a bench in the sunshine on the way there, so I killed a few minutes with that, too.

It didn't change the fact that I was ten to fifteen minutes early. I looked at the display cases in the store window (tiny window, small display), I checked if the door was really, really closed (it was) and in the end just waited like some kind of depraved junkie at the door.

The apprentice piercer eventually opened. Would I like to come in? Would I, ever!

The piercers weren't in yet (I suspect because the universe likes to deny me instant gratification at times), but I could look around (oooooh, pretty!) and fill out the forms already. Which color jewelry would I like? What was I allergic to? Okay, no problem, we can work with this. Male or female piercer? I said it didn't matter. Could he watch the process for learning purposes? Of course, no problem.

The piercer was still not in.

I asked if they had some black spirals for my stretched ears. Of course they had those. Ten euros later, I had them. I decided it would be poor form to put them in immediately, and I had bought them not because I'm tired of my glass tunnels (I love my glass tunnels) but because aquatic blue holes in your ears are generally frowned upon by elder members of the clergy, and I had two church services to attend in the following two days. If I wear them backwards, they look like exotic ear hoops at first glance. If the priest noticed, I could tell him staring was rude.

The piercer, Lucas, arrived. He had more piercings in his face than I had in my entire body and his stretches trumped mine by at least 44 mm. He was the nicest piercer I'd ever had. He was also the first to ask me if I liked the placement of the dots that said where the piercings would go. I liked very much.

Let me say this. Getting your nipples pierced is a bitch. Not so much as getting your septum pierced at a large gauge, but definitely more unpleasant than, say, a belly button piercing. Nevertheless, the result was gorgeous and I was happy.

I got aftercare product and a leaflet with instructions, plus a few more leaflets on things I might be interested in doing the following weeks. I paid and said thank-you and rushed to catch my bus.

I missed the bus, because coming home in under five hours for getting some panty hose in a store less than twenty minutes away by bike would be too inconspicuous to happen. I decided not to let it bother me and went to get a snack. I admit to peeking at my chest in the mirror of an abandoned bathroom. It was still everything I'd imagined, except my nipples wouldn't relax. Was I stuck with pointy nipples for the rest of my life? Anyway, better catch that second bus.

Another thing. Bus suspension on public transport sucks. I don't know if the driving philosophies of bus drivers everywhere kill it within weeks or if people who design buses install it only as an exclusive optional extra. I'd been brained on a bus in Norway and thrown to the floor a few times in Belgium. I felt every bump on the way home, more specifically in my chest area. Anyone who's been on Belgian roads know how well they're kept in shape. It was like riding a jackhammer for over an hour.

My bike ride home was a lovely diversion. My ten-year-old city bike was designed with extreme cobblestone riding in mind. I have to go pretty crazy before I notice I'm driving over something uncomfortable. The thing cost less than 250 euros when new, too. I'll be sad to leave it.

Once I got home, dad asked where I'd been so long. I debated very briefly between telling the truth and facing the music or evading the question and putting off the inevitable. I said 'here and there, y'know' and went upstairs.

There was a blood stain in my bra. I'd hoped to avoid it, but I hadn't. Luckily, I've been bleeding from various cuts and scrapes since early childhood. I know how to get out fresh blood, and the bra needed washing anyway. I taped off the piercings, checked a few websites, and took a nap.

The piercings have behaved wonderfully since then. No more bleeding, bearable afterpain, they even relaxed sometime during the night. At the moment, they're still sensitive, but I'd be sensitive too if I'd been clamped down and cut through. I love how they look. I love how they sparkle. I love the fact that they're all mine and I don't have to share it with anyone I don't want to.

I feel awesome.


Disclaimer: At the time of writing, I recommend Pirate Piercing in Turnhout for your modification needs in Belgium. They're helpful, clean and correct in their conduct. They have an excellent selection in jewelry and their tattoo artists deliver nice pieces. I'm not being paid or bribed to write this, it's just my conclusion.