The Ouchie

I showed the bug-induced ouchie on my foot to J. yesterday. It's turning funny colors and such, and I was worried. Also, she's Boyfriend's mom and moms know everything. Ask anyone. She told me to go to the doctor AT ONC--Oh, wait, the doctor wasn't seeing anyone in the afternoon.

So we looked up when the doctor was seeing people, and it turned out the doctor is on holiday for another three weeks. Then we napped for hours wracked our brains trying to come up with a solution. When none presented itself, we called J. and asked what now. J. had the number of a different doctor.

We called it, and looked up where the doctor was located and got an appointment for tomorrow afternoon. If it turns out this is nothing serious, I'm going to feel really silly.

The Not-Sleepy-Syndrome

I didn't sleep last night. I wasn't tired.

I'd woken up really late, so when bedtime came round, I just kept going. The bottle of spezi I was emptying might have been a factor.

I went to the fun fair with Boyfriend and had fun with duckies and crossbows and cotton candy. Okay, so the crossbows was mostly Boyfriend while I cheered him on, but still. I'd put in my septum moustache. Most people ignored it, a few looked up, but puppies passing by still were more interesting than me. It's a fun fair. People do funny things there.

Then came the night. Not much happened, including sleepiness. So I just stayed up.

When it was time to go to the studio, I still wasn't tired, so I went, happy and energetic. It was a lot of fun. There were new things to be learned and nice customers and a dog that actually fetched things. Just imagine. Fetched things. Nail files and Boyfriend's hats and everything. It was amazing.

I even did the four nails I'd destroyed for being too crappy to live with. One of them I still don't like, but the other three are cute. I now have an array of animals that are easy to fingerpaint on my nails. A lady bug, a fish, a turtle, a doggy and, of course, the sheep. Nevermind that I spent over twenty minutes on each. Half of that or more was usually time spent hardening out. Half of the remaining time was filing down and correcting my ground layers so I didn't burn my skin. I may have used several bad words under my breath as I worked, but still. 85% of my work looks the way I wanted it to. The way I wanted it to doesn't look very professional, but the point was to practice shapes with the swirl tool, not to create a masterpiece. I'm satisfied.

By the time I got home, I'd forgotten to eat again and I'd been up for almost twenty-four hours. I was  a bit sleepy, so after a snack I decided to take a short nap. Yeah, I crashed. Boyfriend tried to wake me up at some point, but I mumbled something including the words 'eight pm' and 'sleepy'. Eight pm came and went, Boyfriend sleeping as well. By the time he woke me up, it was ten and we were both hungry.

Is it too late to make spaghetti sauce?

The Laundry Basket

Our laundry basket is full. Partly because we didn't do laundry all week, partly because we have bedsheets to wash. Lots and lots of bedsheets. And we don't wanna.

First, there's winter bedsheets which have been lying around the apartment for a month and a half. They're new and colorful and promise to ruin anything old we dare wash with it. Also, they're huge and are tricky to dry with one drying rack.

Then there's the winter bottom sheet we just removed. It's new and a contrasting color to the aforementioned bedsheets, and even bigger. Groan.

There's the second half of bedsheets Boyfriend loved, which are stinking up our bedroom. I want to wash them, but we're not really getting around to it, though Boyfriend might be changing sheets as we speak. We could wash those, if we ever get around to it, but they're still pretty big and make our drying rack look like we have a tent in the living room. Not a fun tent, either, because it's too small for anyone over five to have adventures in.

And then there's my pillow covers. I'm a pillow whore of the highest category. If I have less than four pillows in a bed, I get this feeling of emptiness in my chest. I can only use two, three at the most at a time, but Boyfriend needs to sleep on some if we're in a big bed and I need a buffer from the wall if I'm alone in a small one. The problem is that bedsheet manufacturers rarely cater to my whims, and so I bought pillow covers at IKEA. These now have a month's worth of drool stains on them and really need washing. They're small and can be dried easily, but they're also new and bright green and don't fit any of the other new stuff.

Oh, and I think we need to wash the new, pale summer sheets we got to 'tide us over with', too. On half of it spent three weeks on our bedroom floor and I slept in the other. It's polyester microfibre. It's smooth and has an interesting texture, but in high summer, nothing beats good old-fashioned cotton for sweat absorption and coolness. We now have some cotton, but, yeah, washing.

And on top of all that bedwear, we still have a load of pales, coloreds and half a load of darks that need cleaning too.

We're leaving on holiday on the 5th. Something tells me we're going to spend a lot of time laundering before we leave.

The Cuisine

Boyfriend and I cook most days. Contrary to what my writings here sometimes convey, we do not in fact live on chocolate ice cream and toaster schnitzel.

We do have a few solid habits that have developed. At least once a week, there's spinach with mashed potatoes in there somewhere. Another day, we'll probably have pasta pesto. Once a week McDonald's, once we order out from an Italian place and most of the time we have pizza in the freezer for a quick dinner. We may deviate a bit, but usually we're not eating ready-made food.

For breakfast, it's usually cereal. Lunch, if we notice it, is whatever will fill our bellies. But dinner, we usually make something. It's usually something easy, something with a very low screw-up potential. You can't overcook bolognese sauce. It's very hard to make mashed potatoes too mushy. True, you can overcook pasta and burn pizzas, but Boyfriend's second girlfriend is his phone, and it has a timer.

We cook together. Boyfriend is in charge of pans and ovens, I'm in charge of pots. Chopping and peeling usually is a toss-up, depending on what it is. Boyfriend is a great cook, even if he doesn't believe it, but he's also a perfectionist and a teensy bit clumsy. If he drops something to the floor, I learn new and interesting words. If I drop something to the floor, he's more forgiving. I don't care who drops what, since we never cook for an army anyway. Yes, it's a mess, but it's very rarely a big mess. We have sponges and soap and cloths and water and, on rare occasions when someone (okay, me) misses the bowl while handling sugar, a vacuum cleaner.

And I love baking. Peanut butter-smartie cookies are becoming a glutenfree staple in the household, just because they're easy to make and I love the smell of the dough. That, and they're delicious. Then there's cupcakes and cakes and the ill-fated chocolate bread. We usually have some stuff that's starting to go slightly stale by Friday, but that's when Boyfriend's friends come over, and they seem to be omnivorous.

Our burgers were delicious. My carrot mash got complimented by Boyfriend's friends, even if the idea got some funny looks. Boyfriend has gone off store-bought rice pudding since he tasted the stuff I can make from scratch. I have amazed with my ability to bake cakes without store-bought mixes or adding oil.

But we do cheat. Instant mash happens frequently. I don't bash pork into submission for schnitzels, I get those things from the store's freezer section. We usually cook meat that's either ground to a pulp or cut in small pieces, mostly because we want to make sure it gets fully cooked. And our sauces are usually a powdery mix with some ingredients added.

But we do make the effort of cooking. We have the time and we're willing to develop the skills for it. Never mind that we've killed a few utensils by leaving them in hot pans or putting them in the dishwasher when they weren't supposed to. Yes, sometimes things turn out crispier than expected. When you fail, you can always have a nutella sandwich.

Or chocolate ice cream.

The Green Nails

I went to the studio today, as per usual. I even chickened out to the point where I was just wearing a retainer in my nose, just in case.

There was laughing. There was chat. There even was knitting when the only client was there for a pedicure, which is not my responsibility. There was no eating. I forgot. Again. Now I'm ravenously hungry.

But J. pointed out I should try to gel my nails again. Customers ask questions if you work on nails when yours are all natural.

So in the last hour of the week, I decided to practice some more. On me. Okay, just my left hand, but dammit, I get points for taking initiative here.

First of all, I took a pointer from a customer, who pointed out that you don't see if gel lets go if it's a solid or dark color. So I painted my nails lime green. Three layers (ouch, hot!) later, I'd messed up my hand more than a little, but you couldn't see my natural nails any more. So far, mission successful.

Then, I decided just green was too plain. On the other hand, stamps are hard work and I was starting to feel that I hadn't eaten since a quarter to nine in the morning. I wasn't going to have the patience to pick out a stamp, wrestle it on my nails in a color that might or might not work and then work in accents with glittery gel. Hell, the polish remover smells like fruit. I might try drinking it to fill my belly.

So I collected a bit of white, a bit of flesh tone and grabbed a swirl tool, dotting and swirling as I went, hardening the gel inbetween stages of my project. After I was done, it was missing something. I needed black.

I asked Sis if there was any, and she said there was. I hadn't seen it so far, but apparently, it was in the studio somwhere. 'Somewhere' being inside Mt. Mix-Boxes. I asked if there was anything else I could use for two tiny dots, and she lent me her personal stash of black gel. I put on eyes and tha-da! I'd painted a sheep on my thumbnail.

It's not a very in-focus or detailed sheep, but it's unmistakably a sheep. My canvas was fifteen by fifteen millimeters, it wasn't going to be a Mona Lisa.

Everyone was delighted. I got a frowny face from J for the amount of gel on my skin, but the sheep got a thumbs up, no pun intenden. S. and Sis squealed happily over it, so I was happy too.

So now there's nothing to do but to let it frolic happily over my keyboard on its green background for the rest of the weekend, and try not to file it all off by tonight. Wish me luck.

The Package

I told you I re-ordered the stuff from the package(s) that never arrived. This time, my thing were here practically before I could spit. Neatly packaged, slightly abused by the German postal system, sporting a stamp featuring an overpierced cartoon character. Boyfriend was up before me today and woke me up with it.

Yes, I managed to get out a good morning and I love you before I threw myself on the cardboard and cellotape with a victorinox product.

Inside were goodies. So many goodies.

There was jojoba oil. There was a new case to store my goodies in. There were silicone hider plugs and steel tunnels and skin eyelets. I may or may not have gone out later and bought myself some padlocks to wear through the eyelets. It's surprisingly comfy, even if I broke one of the cheap things already.

And there was a lot of loot for my septum. I've been trying it all out.

One of them, a captive bead ring, I can't open. I don't have steel ring openers and my plastic ones aren't sturdy enough for anything above 2 mm. It promises to be pretty in a semi-subtle way, though. If only I had money for a ring opener. Sigh.

There's a steel retainer that's comfy, not too big and has no sharp corners like my glass one has. Heavenly.

There's a delicate little pincer that looks a teensy bit more aggressive than I bargained for. It's also hard to get in place, so you need the O-rings that got delivered with it to make sure you don't dislodge it whenever you sneeze.

And then there's the labrador of the pack: a fun, huge circular barbell. It's got two big balls on it, it looks sort of clumsy, but it stays where it's supposed to and it's very comfortable. I wore it practically all day and discovered that licking ice cream cones with it is a bit tricky, but apart from that, I'd wear it all the time, unless the CBR proves equally comfy.

Problem: it's a bit very much 'in your face' on the scale of piercing subtlety. My mom doesn't know I have my septum piercing yet, but that'd mean only hiding it when I see her. The real problem is job interviews, job agency applications (note: all job agencies in Coburg that are where Google says they are, I've applied to. It's a grand total of one) or 'helping' in the studio.

If I get a job there, I'd spend a lot of time sitting very close to people who perhaps aren't comfortable with it. If people ask to be served by someone else because of the huge ring in my nose, I don't get many customers. Not many customers means J. will eventually have to let me go.

So I've gone for the slightly more subtle pincer for tomorrow. If J. asks me to take it out, I'll take it out. I usually make sure to carry a retainer in my wallet anyway. If it goes well, I'll ask if it'd be okay if I wore something a bit more 'daring' when there's a lull in the customer flow.

I can wear what I want on my own time, but J. is helping me on her own dime. It'd be disrespectful to give her studio the reputation of being full of pierced hooligans just by being stubborn. If she demands I stop wearing piercings when I'm outside the studio (highly unlikely), there's going to be words, but inside her firm, she rules supreme.

Then again, I could just let my freak flag fly and wear my black, glass, foppish moustache tomorrow. If nothing else, it'll make Sis and S. laugh.

The Bugs

Today, the house was invaded for the first time. It will not be the last until winter comes.

I'm not just talking about the summer heat either. I have my fan, I will live.

No, I'm talking about bugs. You see, most Germans don't believe in bug screens for windows. W., who owns the apartment, never had any made. So we don't have any. At night we can choose between cooling down the place or being bug-free. Of course, there's the third option of sleeping, but even that wouldn't be completely bug-free.

Like I mentioned before, I'm not fond of creatures smaller than me with less than two or more than four legs. It used to be a hysterical fear, of which my family can tell many, many stories that involve screaming, holding my pee for six hours and staying inside all summer long with the windows closed and the blinds down. It got so bad, my mom got me into therapy. I guess seeing your daughter cry for the umpteenth time when her father announces the family is eating outside asks for some kind of action to be taken. Eventually, I even decided it was getting a wee bit out of hand and went along with it.

Therapy did wonders, but it's not a cure-all. I'm currently sitting in a room with the certainty that there's bugs in here. I can see them. Some of them are even flying right in front of my screen, and I'm on a laptop, so the screen is less than a foot away from my face. I'm relatively calm. Five years ago, I'd have been screaming.

On the other hand, if they'd be bigger, or noisier or on me, my heart rate would spike. Boyfriend says that there might be bigger ones coming in August. There might be squealing. If I start getting bitten, I might get less charitable than I am now. If my knitting gets eaten, woe on them.

Yes, I require Boyfriend to save me from the monsters, but that doesn't mean I can't get mad at them. Mad is a slightly more productive emotion than scared. How much do screen windows cost, anyway? Also, can't we just tack old curtains in front of the windows? Would that work?

In the mean while, as long as it's not moths or butterflies and the ones that do get inside remain small and refrain from getting on me, I'm strangely fine with it. For close to ten years, I didn't believe it'd ever be possible for me to be at peace in the situation I am now. My fear isn't gone, but it's matured to something that is less phobia and more quirk.

I'm scared of being stung and creatures that can sting me, because I know there's a fair chance I'll have an allergic reaction to it and I don't know how big it'll be. I freeze up around creatures that haven't stung me in a while, but I rarely scream anymore. That's not unreasonable. My fear of butterflies is unreasonable, but that's because I got shown that the thing I'm afraid of, in some shapes, can grow as large as my face, and hairy too, and feasts on rotting flesh and sweat. It's an unreasonable fear, but my reaction to it has lessened to unreasonable but manageable.

So let the harmless little bugs zoom around the lamp all they like. If they scare me, there's someone close by and willing to save me from them.

Also, we have a strong vacuum cleaner with a long nozzle. I am armed.

The Cell Phone (Part 2)

Anyone remember my pink cell phone?

I used to be so in love with it. It's pink, so no one will steal it. It's German, so Germans can call me and text me. It's cheap, so I can afford it. It all sounded so wonderful and simple.

Then it turned out it's an instrument of torture that I'm sure goes against several rules set up in the Geneva convention.

You see, I'm still applying for jobs, apprenticeships, basically anything and everything that vaguely looks like it'll have me without breaking my fragile little body or mind. Preferably with a pay of 400,01 euros or higher, so they pay part of my insurance, which is about double the price of the insurance for alternate universe me, who is in exactly the same situation, but he's a dude. I wonder if people who have no ovaries, breasts or uterus anymore get manly rates. Nah, probably not. Insurance companies are cruel beasts.

But back to the cell phone.

I put its number proudly on my CV, and I fill it out wherever I need to. I still don't know it by heart, but shush.

The downside of this is that companies can call me, and they do.

The first time, it was to arrange a job interview, so I thought 'yay, they think I'm qualified'. The person on the interview had not read very far past my cell phone number, though. I wasn't qualified. They didn't have any job for me.

Yesterday, I applied for two apprenticeships. Both seemed interesting, the company was reputable, I was surprisingly answering to almost everything in their list of requirements, since I had everything except references. I applied while praying the deadline for apprenticeship applicants had not been met yet. Today found out, all on my own, it had.

Then I looked at my phone and saw a missed call. A missed call with most numbers answering to most numbers in the company's phone numbers. I mentally prepared for the thanks-but-no-thanks conversation and called back. I got a colleague. The calling woman was in a meeting, but she'd be back in twenty minutes. Twenty-three minutes later, I called back. I got a woman. Oh, no, her colleague had left for the day. I was ready to strangle the phone at this point, but it wasn't done with me yet.

Was I the girl who'd applied for two apprenticeships? Yes, yes I was. I was expecting to get politely chewed out for wasting bandwith twice, but I wasn't. The woman processing me had apparently mentioned me enough that the woman on the phone knew what I'd applied for. Golly gee whiz. She said her colleague probably wanted to know which one I preferred. I said I was more interested in IT than economics when I was being completely honest with her, so she put me down for that.

Oh, and I might get a call back tomorrow.

To be honest, the problem's not the phone. The problem is too much Disney movies and wonderful parents raising me to never give up hope and remain optimistic. I'm currently sitting here, hoping against all common sense, cultural knowledge and warnings of those more knowledgeable than me, that this major German company will make an exception. That they're thrilled to have a girl wanting to go into IT. That it's only shortly after the deadline, and anyway she's foreign and couldn't know and we don't have enough people who want to get 'trained by solid name in German economy' on their CV.

Anyway, you little disaster tourists you, keep checking back to watch that hope being crushed, bouncing back and getting crushed all over again. It's a resilient little thing. It might take a while to stay crushed.

Edit: Yeah, turns out I applied for next year's apprenticeships. I'm an idiot.

The Little Nothings

Not much happened today, but on the other hand, so much did.

I learned lots at the studio about filing and pigment in neon-colored hand-mixed gel (It glows, rave-stylee, under UV lights). We established the first rule of Nail Studio (You do not talk about Above all else, try not to injure the customers), the second rule of Nail Studio (Leave some natural nail to put gel on) and the third rule of Nail Studio (Make sure the gel sticks: don't put gel on skin). We also remodeled and thoroughly cleaned part of the studio, but not before I studied a congealed hand cream, asked J. why it smelled funny, got the reply that it needed shaking and ended up cleaning the shelf because the tube had burst some weeks before and no one noticed until J. shook it. It smelled like hand cream that had gone off, unsurprisingly, and not black cherry and orchid.

Next I discovered a few more places I could send my CV to, which I did swiftly. Here's to hoping it's not too late yet and they love me. Fingers crossed!

Oh, and I ended up ordering piercing jewelry. Mostly for my septum, as I quest for the most comfortable jewelry possible for it without looking like a cow. I also got some jojoba oil and some lobe jewelry, just because. It ended up being piercings instead of knitting stuff because I prefer financial security to knitting. I'm not completely fiber-mad yet. So I ordered last night and it got shipped tonight. It should be here next week the latest.

Then we made burgers. That is to say, I read out the instructions while Boyfriend did all the work. They were delicious, crunchy on the outside, juicy on the inside, not burned whatsoever. Omnomnom. Boyfriend had less fun doing it, because he's worried about his theory test. He registered for it today, it's next week and he's already worried he's going to fail. It made him distracted and short-tempered, which he mostly took out on himself and innocent buns. The fact that our 'bacon flipper thongs' had gotten destroyed sometime last week, to the sadness of us all, did not help. I did stop him when he tried to take freshly fried bacon out of the pan with his fingers. He was so mad he forgot about the existence of forks. It happens. Yes, we put bacon on our burgers with bacon bits inside. Don't judge us, pigs are delicious.

Now we're both relaxed and full of bacon cheeseburger, with nothing whatsoever to do. Except maybe more laundry.

The Allergies

I have allergies. I react to bug bites, I have hay fever and I wage a constant war against soaps and cosmetics.

Take last Sunday. I got bitten by something. For the last week, the thing has been itching on and off, which is what's to be expected. It's also swollen my foot a bit and it's purple. Not irritated, not red, imperial purple. Friday, it drove me nuts enough to point it out to Boyfriend. That's when he started worrying a bit.

Yesterday, I had the sniffles. The hayfever sniffles, it turned out. By evening time, I had a headache and a blocked nose. Later I got hot flashes, which turned into cold flashes, and back. Those don't usually come with my hay fever attacks, but I put on the awesome jacket, turned on the fan and told Boyfriend. The worst thing bothering me is the fact that all the sneezing and blowing my nose has irritated my septum piercing to the point where it's comfiest if I wear my biggest retainer (I have two: a delicate one and one reminiscent of the horns of Satan), to accomodate the swelling and avoid any corners that might make it tricky to maneuver out should it get worse. Also, I keep the thing flipped down, or I have to do some kind of weird contortionist moves with my nostrils to blow my nose. If I gel my hair and find me some black plugs with skulls on them, I look like I'm into heavy metal and poking people with flick knives.

Now, Boyfriend took the news with a bit less cool than I did. Could it be the bug bite? I jokingly told him maybe it was Lyme's disease and then had to assure him I didn't have the bulls-eye rash that comes with it.

And when Boyfriend starts worrying... I get paranoid. Which worries Boyfriend, which makes me more paranoid...

I checked my pupils to reassure myself that my headache combined with drippy nose wasn't my brain swelling, made sure I wasn't getting another paresis (Boyfriend: Are you checking for a stroke? Are you having a stroke?!) and promised myself that if it got worse, I would, by Jove, wake up J. and W. and beg to be taken to an ER.

Needless to say, it's been going on for about five hours and I haven't been rushed to the hospital. It's not getting better, but it's not getting worse, either. Boyfriend is allergic to wasp stings, not pollen, so he has no antihistamine lying around in the apartment and I'm fresh out. We have some aspirin, but the stuff tastes so vile I usually need a pretty epic headache to even consider taking them. We looked for a pharmancy selling tablet aspiring yesterday, but we set out at four, when most pharmancies close at two. There are no pharmancies in the vicinity open on Sundays, and I'm too embarrassed to go to the pharmancist on call to ask for over the counter allergy suppressants and some paracetamol.

If it were an epi pen I needed, or if my allergy involved projectile vomiting, or anything that either threatened my life or could inconvenience other people, I'd go right now, drag a doctor, a pharmancist, anyone from their beds and solve the problem. I don't play with my health. But it's hayfever blocking my sinuses and giving me a headache. On the seriosity totem pole of medical emergencies, it ranks somewhere slightly above a scraped knee.

The last time it gave me trouble was in Vienna, where it got so bad I was holding up the entire group I was travelling with. I thought I was seriously ill, it was so bad. A friend suggested it was allergies since my eyes were burning. We asked for five minutes to get some antihistamine. It couldn't hurt to try, and the fever/headache medication I'd taken that morning had lasted for all of an hour. I was willing to try LSD if it promised relief at that point. Fifteen minutes later I felt human again and was no longer running out of tissues at an alarming rate. Boyfriend just hasn't seen me go through this particularly charming aspect of being me yet, and this is a relatively mild, if annoying episode.

At the moment, he's worried because he's seen me type the words 'paranoid' and 'ER'. The fact that I'm one of those people who refuses to suffer in silence as long as they can still moan, whine and complain doesn't help. Yes, I am a drama queen. Yes, I have been huddled on the sofa feeling sorry for myself. I occasionally got up to hang up laundry, put in a fresh load and help load the dishwasher, reminding myself that as grotesque as I make this look, there's a ninety to ninety-nine percent chance that it's not lethal or even dangerous.

To Boyfriend, it must look like I'm dying of the flu, the way I'm acting. I'm puttering through tissues, snuggling in a pile of pillows and indulging in my chocolate habit. I'm drinking lots of water, but that has more to do with the fact that it's hot than the fact that I'm losing fluid through my nose.

The only thing I'm doing to battle the headache is re-washing the washed sheets J. gave us today. They're comfy, but I can't stand the smell that came with them. It's possible they stayed in the laundry machine a bit too long after they got washed. I don't know what it else to compare the scent to. It was driving me up the walls. Boyfriend doesn't smell anything. Just like he didn't think it smelled that bad when he wore a shirt I'd left in the laundry machine too long and he left the house in a three-foot cloud of Eau de Anaerobic Bacterium. Yes, I divested him of the shirt as soon as I noticed and rewashed everything that went through that particular cycle. They say girls smell better than boys, but maybe I'm just fussy.

Oh, well, while I wait for either my allergy to die down (Rain, dammit, I need rain) or Monday to come around so I can go to a pharmancy before 'work', I'm going to continue feeling sorry for myself, drinking chocolate milk and knitting my jacket.

The Felt

Remember that yarn I bought from my winnings last weekend?  Yeah, that yarn.

I've been knitting with it. It comes in hanks of 100 grams, I already figured out where to buy more, and it's become a much-loved commodity in the house. Of the eight skeins I bought, I've already used two. I figure I need two, at most three more to finish the jacket-thing I'm working on. Which leaves me with about three skeins, maybe four, left.

It's untreated wool, and it felts. How do I know it felts? Partly because it says 'hand wash only' on the label, along with 100% pure sheepswool, which is usually a big hint, and partly because I tested it when I came to the end of my first ball of yarn. For the first time in my life, I did a felted join.

It's one of the least wasteful joins in knitting, requiring you give up one, maybe two centimeters of your fresh yarn. It requires no weaving in, no cutting, just a bit of spit water and some elbow grease as you rub it vigourously together. You can do it at the beginning of your row, the end of your row or even in the middle of it. It's glorious. I'm in love. The sad part about the felted join is that only works on yarns that can felt. Which means pure, animal (or human) fibre. The only chemicals allowed are colorants, any superwash treatment effectively kills the magical felting abilities.

And the yarn was cheap. I mean really cheap. It calculates up to two and a half euros for fifty grams. We're currently living in a paradoxical universe where it's cheaper to buy superwash than untreated yarn, unless you're willing to spin it yourself. True, Coburger Fuchsschaf, the golden-fleeced ball of joy that grows this magical yarn, is by no means an alpaca. The yarn is definitely not for those allergic or looking for something to wear close to their skin. But neither is the feltable yarn I saw in the stores today, which is thicker (less patterns for it) and more expensive.

I may have looked up a pattern or two (or three, or four) for feltable projects. And reread the article on how to felt things you've knitted. Oh, and hunted down the website for buying more of the yarn and other sheep-breeds' yarn online. Their prices are just unbeatable.

Which cannot be said for the two knitting paraphenalia I've been drooling over for the past week or so. A ball winder and a Denise Kit2go. I love my pink Denise needles, which were the best 70 euros I've ever spent on a hobby. They get used, abused, reused and savagely protected, so I thought a little travelling kit might be nice. And a ball winder, I've wanted for ages. I mean as soon as I ever saw one. And nearly a hundred dollars, shipping to Europe not included, is a bit... steep. But I've saved this month, and I can either buy knitting stuff or jewelry. Keep tuned for that one.

So now I'm already looking at feltable projects. There's indestructible dog toys, there's slippers and there's little felted bowls with bumps and nupps sticking out. I want to knit them all.

In other news, the gel nails had to succumb to my wish to have short nails. I savaged the gel off last night and cut them, feeling immensely relieved. Today I bought a nail file to buff off the damage I inflicted when doing that.

And while we were in town, we bought a second summer duvet. Boyfriend and I have not exactly been fighting over the one we have, but Boyfriend admitted he likes sleeping under it and I like sleeping wrapped around it when I'm hot and under it when I'm cold. One duvet, two people who want to sleep under it, no room under it for two people. You see the problem. The one we bought was only eleven euros (yay summer sales), and will serve to guarantee bedroom harmony in our little household. If it ends up sucking, I'm ordering more yarn and knitting a felted dog bed with the duvet for stuffing. I can't lose.

Another thing that happened is that Boyfriend bought me the most romantic present ever! (Okay, maybe the most romantic present of the month) Remember my collection of bottles, which gets rotated and used and is still as perfect in use as it was when I got my first bottles? He bought me the gray/black one. I have all the colors now. A complete set. There is a sense of peace settling over me as I think back on it. Aaaah.

The Treasure

So I slept horrendously bad last night. Against my better judgement, I went to bed at nine. Unless I'm worn out to the bone, that makes for a very bad night's sleep for me. And, sure enough, I slept wondrously for four hours, then spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, gave up on sleeping around four, was exhausted by six and by the time I had to wake up, I was nowhere near ready to take on the day. It was so bad, I decided not to go yawn rudely at J.'s clients for the rest of the day and try sleeping it off.

Sleeping it off worked marvelously and when I woke up, I was only a shower away from being human again. Contrary to popular belief, I do shower. I've just been raised to do it in under fifteen minutes and my hair is currently so short, all evidence of wetness has disappeared within half an hour. So you can miss it.

I was even waxing poetic about how much I love the apartment by the time I was toweling off. It's just so perfect. It's small, so it cleans fast and easy. It's close to the city, so I can go wherever I need to on a bike. It's small, so I can check for axe-murderers in my more girly scared moments before I start feeling silly. It has Boyfriend, which is so awesome it lacks description. It's small, so it takes a while before it starts feeling empty. And it's an apartment, which means there's no garden that needs tending. Like I said, perfect.

But on to the treasure. Remember the pile of laundry Boyfriend found somewhere in the last week? There was a jacket in there. It belonged to a friend of Boyfriend's half a decade or more ago. It was dusty and sweaty and so we washed it while discussing who it belonged to. The point was moot, really. Ninety percent of all Boyfriend's friends have outgrown the jacket, including all likely suspected owners. And no one asked for it back, so the chances of them missing it are small.

Which left us with a jacket, now clean, that didn't fit any guy in Boyfriend's life at the moment. It has a pretty, plant-like pattern on it and no profanity as far as I can tell. It's black (turned grey) and white, so it goes with lots of things. It has a hood.

'Dibs' may or may not have been invoked.

It fits me rather well. It cuts off just above my backside, it has the long-sleeve thing where my wrists are kept warm going on, and I love that, and it's cuddly thick and warm. Dibs indeed.

I'm currently wearing it, just because it feels like wearing your favorite blanket and because the weather is a bit bleak at the moment. It rains, the wind howls, and then the sunshine comes for a moment just to raise your hope to the point where it hurts when it gets snatched away again by the next rain cloud. The jacket is helping. I'm not taking it off until I'm too hot to function, which might be a while, since I can open the window as long as it's not raining.

Does this count as stealing, or is it repurposing?

The Repair

Our laundry machine is working again. Apparently, it was only a small problem in direct proportion to the leak we had. It doesn't change the fact that we are now in a state of WASH EVERYTHING, just in case the repair goes horrendously wrong and we have to cut off the water to the machine again or flood the entire apartment. We're even washing stuff Boyfriend found at the bottom of a pile next to the cleaning supplies. Just because.

I'm in a cleaning mood, today, which is weird, since it started last night and a sinfully, gloriously long night's sleep didn't squish it like the despicable thing it should be. The fact that we made a huge mess while making chocolate cake last night might be a factor. So we're on our third load of laundry in twenty-four hours, the first load is dry and folded and at some point, I'll probably pick up the vacuum cleaner and get rid of any cake crumbs and sugar crystals remaining from last night's rather cartoon-esque activities in the kitchen, which spread through the entire living room.

My domestic aspirations soared last night, when I decided enough was enough and looked up how to repair the front door.

Oh, yeah, the front door. It has a thing where it wouldn't be pulled shut from the outside, so you had to combine a rather loud banging with the right positioning of house keys, followed by frantic locking action, to get it safely closed. It's been like that for years. It also is a good way to trap keyless friends into the house, provided they're responsible enough to not want your television to get stolen. Or, you know, there to play video games and thus in need of said television later.

 Boyfriend and his dad tried repairing it with different screws several times, but the holes were stripped and the screw-holes in the doorplate were only so thick. The door handle stubbornly refused to attach to the door.

Last night, I pretty much lost my patience and looked up how to fix it. I knew you could fix the problem on spinning wheels by narrowing the hole with one or two toothpicks, but we don't have any toothpicks and the door isn't a spinning wheel. The internet in all its omniscience said the principle was the same nonetheless, and matches with their heads trimmed off would work, too.

So we got out some matches, trimmed them to fit the loose hole, and forced the screw back in. Wonder of wonders, it stuck. Huzzah!

I tried pulling the door closed and--the other hole turned out to be loose as well. We just hadn't noticed before because the first one was so loose it really didn't matter. This hole hadn't been widened and deepened by other screws as much, so the matchsticks we'd prepared were too long. Some more trimming, poking them in with a screwdriver and screwing later, the door was fixed. It now closes with less violence and no gymnastics concerning keys required.

Grand total of time spent actually fixing the door: maybe five minutes. Cost: three matches out of a box from a 12-pack of matches costing less than one euro. Effort and skill required: knowing which end of a screwdriver to use and basic hand-eye coordination. Lessons learned: Boyfriend keeps forgetting we have a phillips-head screwdriver and we could have done this ages ago. And by ages I mean last month, when I chucked my boxes of matches and birthday candles under the sink.

All we have to do now is hang up the rest of the dark laundry, wash the coloreds, the bedsheets, hang those up to dry and clean the floors. And then we can be lazy for another week. Or make apple cake.

The Interview

Let's get it out of the way. The interview went well, up until the point where the nice lady asking questions revealed that the job was for someone specifically trained for it. Which it never said in the ad, so I'm a bit miffed about it. Luckily, the interview was for a job agency, which means I'm in the pool of available employees for desk work and factory work. I'd rather have a desk job, but, y'know, beggars, choosers, and so on.

So I was a bit late coming into the nail studio. The building gel still had issues with me. I didn't get it. I was doing exactly what J. and S. and Sis did, and it was not working. I managed to finish four nails before J. invited me to come watch some more, since most people learned more from watching than working in a shady corner all by their lonesome. Since I was ready to chuck the stupid building gel out the window at that point, I accepted.

There were only two clients before there was nothing to do. J. had ordered late lunch for me, so we ate in the sunshine, discussing the irresponsibility of Sis' friend riding a motorbike (in front of said friend). His sister (S.) was there, and J. sided with them. I just knitted in the pleasant warmth and left them to it. If the guy wants to end up donating his organs sooner rather than later, who am I to deny him that dream?

Eventually, J. declared I was to finish her nails. Yes, the ones I got started on last Friday. I would have liked to do it sooner, too, but I'm not the boss of me touching J.'s things and nails. I even got to buff the nails so the gel would hold, which almost filing. Filing comes next week, apparently. I get to practice on J., who has one nail she habitually destroys while working, and on myself, since my shiny shiny French nails have air underneath on the right side. It could be because they're oily (but then why doesn't the left side do it?) or because the gel on the right side (the side J. gelled up) touched skin.

Two nails I'd done before needed a bit more building gel. J. let me use her new, fancy-schmancy building gel, which has a sun blocker in it and which goes a lot better than mine. Why does it do this? It's about twice as thick as the one I'm using, making it much easier to shape than mine.

Next I got a lecture on my sealing gel work. I'd done well about half the time, but the other half, it was finished rather shabbily. Unlike some teacher's I'd had, J. managed to convey this firmly without hurting my feelings. I finish-gelled the last two nails while keeping her pointers in mind. It was better, so yay for progress.

Oh, and I mentioned to J. that the hose to the washing machine leaked and that W. had said 'okay' and done nothing. She made a phone call concerning 'clean laundry' and 'can't wait forever', which was a lot more effective than anything we'd done, since action was taken and finished by the time I got home. We just have to test it now. Fingers crossed.

The Technicalities

Today I woke up and went to relieve myself, as most people do. What most people don't do when they do this, is have a background track playing of 'plink! plink! plink!'. I looked around and saw that the mat under the bathroom sink was a bit wet, but I didn't see where the dripping was coming from. Also, I was mostly asleep.

I had breakfast and called back to a job agency that was taking care of an ad I'd replied to. They'd called yesterday and I had been 'working' too hard to notice my phone ringing. I was pretty sure I was going to get a thanks-but-no-thanks like, but wonder upon wonder, they wanted an interview. With me. Tomorrow! I'm so excited! I have no idea what I'm going to wear, or what I have to say and they're probably going to say 'you're not what we're looking for', but I'm happy nonetheless.

Then I tried getting Boyfriend up. We had to go to one of the many many 'amt' thingies in Coburg, which hold rather unconventional opening hours. He said he wasn't getting up until he was sure it wasn't closed already. Challenge accepted.

I looked up 'Einwohneramt Coburg' online, scrolled around a bit, and found out it was open til four.

I went back to Boyfriend. He was still not getting up. I asked if he'd get up for the leaking in the bathroom. He was suddenly awake and out of bed like a spear. There were lots of half-finished interesting new German words for me to learn, none of which I should admit to recognising if asked tomorrow. The leak was localised using a flashlight, a tiny bucket was placed under it, and Boyfriend was upset. Calling his dad, who is reponsible for keeping the house in good condition, only met with an 'huh, okay'. In the mean while, we can't do laundry. I don't know enough technical German to find a plumber, explain to him what the problem is and hire him to fix it.

Also, last time a leak went unnoticed, the house below us got extensive water damage in the ceiling.  Oh, and the water smelled funny this morning in the shower. We have very little water pressure everywhere we might need some. The water heater takes ages to heat up any liquid. A plumber checking stuff out might not be such a luxury.

Anyway, we'd done what we could and we were still there and of good health. Onwards and upwards. Other and better. I was thinking happy thoughts on account of the job interview, Boyfriend had a gloomy cloud hanging overhead.

We handed off a package, asked about mine (still gone), stopped at the bank and finally made it to the Einwohneramt at around half past two. I was optimistic by the lack of draw-a-number-machines and the efficient letter-based teller system. Two doors were locked. The other had a family waiting. Oh dear.

We waited half an hour, reading every scrap of reading material there was available in the rather bleak waiting room. Integration courses (I don't need one), foreigners being scammed by people impersonating police officers and where the very African man on the Coburg coat of arms comes from. Fascinating stuff. I got so bored I started playing games on my phone, and my phone is so down-to-earth it didn't even come with Snake. In my 90s mind, that makes my Nokia downright bare.

Finally, it was our turn. I explained to the nice lady what I was there for: I was a Belgian looking to officially move to Coburg, could I please have some information on what I needed for this? Sure I could. My questions were answered quickly and efficiently. I can decide how much I earn, provided I don't need German welfare to survive. After living in Germany for five years (or, I'm assuming, marrying a handsome, kind, downright amazing German man I know) I can apply for the right to enjoy German welfare should I ever need it. We were out of there in under ten minutes, for which I'm sure the person waiting after us, who'd been there for only five minutes less than us, was grateful.

Now I know what to do, I'm a bit calmed down. I feel like I can take on the world--provided it's a world that doesn't require me to do plumbing.

The Customs Office

My package still isn't found. I'm starting to think I should just give up and order it again under Boyfriend's name, since his packages always show up within days of him ordering.

Take today, for example. He ordered a new model NERF gun from the States last week. The model's gonna show up in Germany eventually, but it somehow takes ages for new merchandise to make its way into the country. Maybe it's a law thing, maybe it's tradition, we don't know, we're just very disappointed with it. So it got ordered from the US as soon as it came out, while it was still bright and shiny and he could make people on his foam dart gun forum go 'oooh' at it. Which they did. Profusely.

It means that he paid for the toy, for shipping and then got a confusing message that he requested pick-up of the order, which he didn't. Luckily, he didn't have to figure out where to pick it up, since the Customs Office had taken it hostage, as per usual.

In Belgium, it would happen once every two times you order it, and your order would still be delivered by the shipping company or the post office, they'd just ask you to pay the tax on it. Not so in Germany.

In Germany, there's an office in any sizeable city, and they hoard packages from all over like some kind of psychologically disturbed granny. Anything Boyfriend orders from outside the EU sooner or later gets found there. Usually sooner, though they did kidnap a load of T-shirts for over half a year once. Yeah, he didn't think it was funny, either.

So when he got a letter saying 'ZOLL' in big happy black letters on the envelope, he knew which tune was playing. He asked his dad if they had time to drive there on Monday, and when the answer was 'maybe', he planned on riding there on his bike, early in the morning. His bike without a luggage rack. To pick up a package the size of a poster done four inches thick. My concerns as to the safety of this stellar idea were waved away.

It turns out, I needn't have worried. His alarm clock conspired against him and didn't go off. No matter what you're thinking, I didn't do it. I don't know the access code of the Precious his iPhone, so I couldn't have canceled the alarm even if I'd thought of it before he told me it had happened. Anyway, when my less technologically ecumbered phone happily chirped me out of bed, he woke up, realised he had fifteen minutes before his dad would call and demand when he was coming to work, and had to hurry to get ready.

Fast forward to half past one in the afternoon.

I was sitting next to J., trying to pay attention to the trick to applying building gel, when Boyfriend came in. I'd been trying to figure it out since nine that morning, and it wasn't working. He was done with work, the lucky bugger, and was going to the customs office. Just thought he'd let us know. J. asked did I want to go, so I'd know where it was? She might have seen I was still tired from the night before (I went to bed at eleven and didn't come out until eight) and giving me a graceful way out, but I took it regardless.

The customs office wasn't far, but there's road works going on, so it took a while to get there. The office itself is boring. And they do things a lot differently than in Belgium. In Belgium, customs once charged me for re-importing my clothes to the country. I'd chucked mostly dirty laundry in a box, sat on it to tape it shut and sent it off with my fingers crossed. I got it back opened, neatly folded and in a new box. German customs officers wouldn't dream of being that intrusive, apparently. Boyfriend's box had gotten a sticker from them to show they'd looked at the package, but Boyfriend was the one who had to open it with a pair of box cutters. I think it's either so they don't get sued for damaging anything, or because they want the person who ordered it to explain why he bought something illegal.

Then they charged him not just for daring to order things not made in his home country, but also for the sum he'd paid to get it there. Because he's going to savor the wrapper or something, I guess. The only bright spot in the paying ordeal was that the office works with the exchange course from the start of the month. It was lower at the beginning of this month than it was the week before or now, so he had to pay slightly less tax than he technically had to pay. Whatever, it was still money.

While we waited for them to make up a bill for this, I read a poster on what you could and couldn't import into Germany, and that things from the EU, contrary to popular belief, could get seized. I wasn't sure if 5 ml of jojoba oil counted as 'lifestyle medicine articles', whatever that means, so we asked if they happened to have seized a bubble envelope for me. They hadn't.

We're going to bother the post office people some more tomorrow.

The Unexpected Talent

Today someone gave me the first concrete job suggestion I've had so far, based on what they'd seen of my talents and abilities and more or less believing I could pull it off somehow. They told me I should start breeding sheep.

This might need a bit of explaining. Like, for example, how the person had known me for a grand total of thirty seconds before suggesting this. Like, for example, how I was at a small sheep festival. And like how I'd just won the main event of the day for people who weren't there with their pets.

More explaining? Alright.

Somewhere last week, I noticed in a magazine in the nail studio that it had all the activities for our area in it. Including the Medieval fair Boyfriend has been drooling over like a teenager with porn, without the sexual aspect of it. Now, some genius had decided to put the Ahorn Gerätemuseum's annual Shaffest's ad right next to it, on the half of the second page that wasn't filled with promises of how awesome the fair was going to be and pictures of people in historical dress. The Shaffest, or sheep festival, was this Sunday. I mentioned this to Boyfriend a lot and was planning on subtly asking if J. and W. had any plans for Sunday on Friday. Except I was too sick on Friday. There was Saturday, but I forgot to ask when J. came over, even though I was mentioning sheep in every other sentence to Boyfriend at that point.

I wanted to go. I needed to go. There was no way to go unless J. and/or W. would drive us. Well, there was the small chance that Sis had slept off her hangover, wasn't with her own boyfriend and wanted to drive to a small town in the middle of nowhere to look at some farm animals, but the chances of that happening all at once were slim to none.

So I woke up at nine on a Sunday and tried to convince Boyfriend he wanted to do the same. The festival started at ten, dangnabbit, and I'd be damned if--Boyfriend was asleep, which meant J. and W. were as well, probably. I sulkily had breakfast, threw in some feminine wiles and managed to get him out of bed by eleven. In his pajamas. Not in a hurry to shower, eat or get dressed. Sigh.

Anyway, he called his parents and asked if they had any plans for the day. They hadn't. How about a sheep festival? A what now?

Now, anyone who's known me for longer than two weeks knows I have a weakness for the sheepy loot of yarn, so it wasn't a really big mystery as to where their son had gotten it in his head to go and watch sheep and sheepish byproducts. The fact that I was answering the questions he didn't know the answers to might have been a hint, too.

Anyway, they had no plans and it didn't sound expensive, so J. was going to take a relaxing bath and then we would leave.

I spent the next two hours stubbornly planning on eating mutton at the festival. When I finally gave in to hunger and made myself two low-fat schnitzel sandwiches, the phone rang. Go figure. Anyway, we were leaving in half an hour. Boyfriend had showered at this point, so he went to put on clothes.

The sheep festival was in Ahorn, but somehow that had gotten miscommunicated. I'd told Boyfriend it was in 'die alte Shäferei', the old sheep farm. We ended up in the village of 'Shafhof', sheep-farm. I hadn't minded the signs until W. said that he didn't see anything going on here, were we sure it was today and in Shafhof? No, I said, it was in Ahorn. Ahorn? Where in Ahorn? The where now? Oh, the machine museum. No problem.

There were people at the museum. Lots and lots of people. Some of them had brought sheep, others sheepdogs, others still had brought small farm animals and wares to sell. Parking wasn't exactly easy. Also, it had been raining on and off for the past three days, so the grassy field had turned slightly... swampy.

We walked by the stands selling things and went to the back pen, where there was a sheep dog presentation, followed by a tracking dog tracking a small boy by the scent of a sock. Then we decided to go watch the bunnies, because I'm in love with a big ol' softy who likes huge bunnies and fluffy bunnies. They had a few European angora rabbits which were being shaved for our viewing pleasure. Well, kids' viewing pleasure, since the shorn furn literally went everywhere under the loving care of grabbing and throwing little hands. I'm never breeding. Never.

After that, we decided we were hungry. The Germans wanted bratwurst. Someone had made bratwurst from mutton. We all tried a bit. It was tasty. I wasn't hungry for warm and greasy food, though, and the others were... Well, they were being national stereotypes and picked pig. Then there was an ice cream cart with artisanally made ice cream. I got one scoop, Boyfriend two. I would have gotten two, but my digestive system doesn't always agree with ice cream and wasn't on a very good track record so far.

There were lots of dogs. I mean lots and lots of dogs. Different breeds, sizes, ages, take your pick. I wistfully wished out loud for one of my own as a boxer coveted Boyfriend's ice cream, drooling happily on his pants. Apart from the drool, Boyfriend loved the creature. Talk of dogs was interspersed with talk of my joblessness and how I could avoid being sent out of the country after my Belgian social security demanded I come back or go uninsured. Insecurity struck hard.

Boyfriend and W. took me into the old stable/museum proper to watch the stands and displays featuring fibre handwork, but I was too distracted to fully appreciate both modern and historical masterpieces. What if I never find a job? What if I have to go back to Belgium? Out of three stands selling delicious yarn, I bought one measly skein of purple handspun cotton. The cheapest yarn there was. Sigh.

J. was waiting for us outside. Had we seen the lady spinning over there? Spinning? Gasp!

When I'm interested, I'm like an American five-year-old: I ought to be kept on one of those leashes for people and reminded every ten seconds to calm down. The lady was spinning white roving on an Ashford spinning wheel. I may or may not have nudged a small child out of the way to get a better view, but I was still too down in the dumps to get uppity enough to ask for pointers. My head told me my German wasn't good enough and everyone hated foreigners like me.

I eventually wandered to the back of the crowd and saw a ram standing all by his lonesome. Next to him was a table with a program. A quick perusal of both explained that this was the stand for the main event for those without dogs or sheep: Guess the Weight of the Ram. I got excited again. It was only one euro, and you got a keychain for entering. What was the harm? Also, I only had a two euro piece, so Boyfriend had to enter too. (The idea that people who'd been taking coins for six hours straight could have change seemed preposterous) We discussed it for a moment, and entered. When we showed off our rad (okay, crappy, but still) lamb keychains to W. and J., they entered for competition's sake.

We walked among the stands some more, watched the presentation of sheep breeds present, special attention going out to the local, golden-fleeced Coburger Fuchsschaf. I noticed one of my gelled nails had come a bit loose and proceeded to destroy my own hard work while watching the sheep and the cute little border collie pup playing with the kindling next to us.

Then the livestock scales were set up and the ram was guided in. He barely fit. Everyone gathered round to watch the calibration and weighing. I wasn't really paying attention. One hundred and forty-seven kilos. Okay, I'd guessed exactly that, but there were lots of people who'd entered. No way I was the only one who'd gotten that, right?

They started announcing the winners, starting with the main prize. The winner's phone number told me nothing. Okay, they were from Coburg, but we were within spitting distance of--Okay, yeah, my street, chances were--Yes, that was my name. Was I present?

I shuffled forward, hand raised meekly. 'Das bin ich', I said. Which was enough to reveal I didn't have a local accent. Where was I from? General hilarity at a foreigner winning first prize. I should raise sheep if I had such a good eye for them. Here's a gift certificate for the stand selling felted and knitted projects in the barn.

I was there long enough to hear the second prize went to someone who'd guessed one hundred forty six before I bounced up to the barn. Forty euros to spend on wooly goodness, oh my! I looked around for a while. Okay, so it was less than two minutes before I loaded up on Coburger Fuchsshaf yarn in its natural color, eight skeins in total at five euros a pop. My one euro guess had given me enough yarn to knit a prickly warm sweater, whoo-hoo.

At this point, everyone was a bit tired, so we agreed to go home. I was seeing life through rose-colored glasses. Today I won yarn, now the weather would get better, tomorrow my package would arrive and I'd get a letter saying I got a job. Hey, it could happen, right?

My good luck did not end there. J. was hungry. Did anyone want a burger? Sure, we did.

The plan was quickly nixed when we found a road marker to Lichtenfels. Did we want to go to a funfair? Yeah!

So we went, stuffing ourselves on cotton candy and crêpes with kinder chocolate and a chocolate covered banana. Boyfriend tried shooting at targets and only missed two out of twelve. Whoever said playing video games doesn't teach you anything lied.

By the time we were home, I had nine skeins of yarn, two fabric flowers and Boyfriend had a Rubik's cube.

Maybe conventional isn't just us. Anyone want to fund a German sheep farm, by any chance?

The Rain

I felt better today, so I thought I'd risk going outside. It had stopped raining, the sun was more or less shining and my bike computer needed testing. So I woke Boyfriend up in a way he didn't mind, made him sleepy all over and then demanded we go to the post office, because that's the kind of person I am.

Why the post office? Because the man on the phone had said we had to go there if my package hadn't shown up, and it hadn't. We got the same woman helping us as before. She checked everything again and told us, sorry, no package. It seems that particular quest might be going on for a while longer.

After that, I wanted to be a dutiful daughter and humor my father in his idea that forty euros is a reasonable price for a week of surfing in Germany. Sure, it said twenty euros, but the little print said twenty more euros for the setup kit and registration. Also, it doesn't work if there's no cell phone reception. Which there isn't where he's planning on using it. But one doesn't argue with the man who spawned them, so I had looked up the nearest Aldi and tempted Boyfriend into going there with me using my breasts sparkling personality.

Of course, it started raining as soon as we got out of the post office, turning into a downpour over the next fifty meters. I decided to turn back. Nevermind the fact that we had no fabric softener or food in the house. A cold on top of whatever was poking my insides didn't seem like a smart move.

By the time we got near the supermarket, about two minutes later, it had practically stopped raining, so we went in to see about food. I was not turning back. My jeans was pasted onto my skin and the weather was being spiteful, so I knew I'd get soaked if I got stubborn about the Aldi thing. So we went in and got two bags of chicken paella from the freezer department. I hadn't eaten since six o'clock, so I was hungry. Somehow, chocolate milk, white chocolate, two boxes of ice cream cones and some Happy Hippo snacks made their way into our bag. Like I said, feeling better.

We checked the mail coming back home. Well, I went upstairs to save the frozen goods, Boyfriend did the whole mail thing.

The rest of the day, we just sat inside, waiting for it to stop raining.

Also, my good intentions of no junk food today sort of wilted in the evening. One, we had sort of forgotten about our dishwashing machine for the past two days, making us run out of pots and pans and two, we were lazy. So we went to McDonalds. But tomorrow, there's another day.

The Shivers

I woke up shivering this morning.

This didn't surprise me much, seeing as I'd stolen Boyfriend's duvet the night before. He wasn't using it, since I'd gone to bed at nine and he didn't show up until three in the morning. I didn't sleep the entire night, but I did get eight hours of good sleep in there. Also, the windows were open and it had been raining all night. So the apartment was probably cold, right?

I took a warm shower. You can't burn yourself at the hottest setting on the shower in the apartment, but for some reason, my body wanted warm instead of hot. I didn't give it much thought and got dressed to prevent future shivers.

Everything went well until about half an hour after I'd eaten something. In other words, ten minutes after I'd arrived at the studio and started doing my thing. Then I nearly doubled over from cramps in my abdomen. I tried to subtly go to the toilet, washed my hands, went back to my desk. This process repeated itself three times in the next hour.

I did some good work in the mean while. Sure, the first nail didn't quite work out, but the ones after that got better and better, so I didn't really want to stop. I was mastering this whole building gel thing, dammit.

I. came in and asked if everything was okay. Had I slept enough? I said I was fine, just a stomach ache. Ten minutes later, Sis asked if I wanted to go home. J. heard it and asked what was wrong. Sis explained I'd 'caught S.'s virus'. No one told me anything about viruses, so they attacked while I was being oblivious. J. said I could go home if I didn't feel well. I said I wanted to try for another half hour or so.

Then I got the luminous idea that, perhaps, maybe, a glass of water would help.

It didn't. It made things worse. I finished up on the nail I was working on and begged off. It's the smart thing to do when you feel like your glass of water is going to repeat on you.

Now I'm sitting at home, shivering and feeling stupid for leaving the studio early two Fridays in a row. Most people my age are useless on Mondays due to hangovers. I seem to get physical premonitions of other people's hangovers. Even sitting up makes the room spin.

I need to get some vitamins and fluids in me, I think, but this feels like when I've got my intestinal spells. Like anything and everything that passes my lips will be expelled swiftly and painfully from my body. I'm going to take something for it and find myself somewhere soft to sit or lie down. Somewhere with a blanket to snuggle under and maybe a good book.

The application letter I wanted to send today will have to wait a few hours.

The Payback

So I've been sleeping really irregularly again, and it's starting to show. I'm tired all the time, my muscles hurt and I can't sleep at night.

Today, I rolled out of bed late. Afternoon late. With 'work' tomorrow. Jolly. I'd asked Boyfriend to wake me half an hour before I woke up enough to look at my watch and see the time, but he'd forgotten. He's not perfect.

He made up for it by calling the post people once again. They'd looked into my problem and forgotten to call back. They say my package should be delivered tomorrow, and if something goes wrong a third time, it should be available at the main post office next week. I'll believe it when I see it, but we've told everyone who sees postmen delivering stuff on the two addresses that get stuff for my address (yes, it's a mess) that I exist, live there and to please, please, please accept any and all mail for me.

Then we played around with the cow handpuppet. It's adorable, even if it's still nameless. And before you get any ideas, we were both dressed. Sure, we made it give birth to a smaller cow toy we had lying around, but that's the extent of our depravity. One of my friends did that for a pre-twelve-year-old birthday once, so no judging.

We were looking for a battery for my new bike computer.  Oh, and I'd gotten an e-mail from a store where I'd ordered a cheap new pair of sunglasses. Well, I say cheap. Cheap for sunglasses that require actual eye-adjusting to happen. Below 50 euros.

So far, the bicycle has about half its value in add-ons hanging on, I know, but still. My bike. I loveums it. The problem with the bike computer is that it runs on a 1.5 V L43 battery. They have lots and lots of batteries, but L43 seems to be an unloved cousin in the battery family, and it's never invited to any store parties.

None in the supermarket. We looked in the electronics store, but it didn't have any, either. While we were there, we asked if it was true they needed more employees. They do. Employees with specialisation in a certain kind of electronics. Boo.

Onwards and upwards, we went to the optician. Hello, here's my order slip. Just a moment, here it is, please try it on. It's a bit loose. Let me adjust that, here try again. Perfect. Hmm, not quite right here, let me take it one last time. Even better. Okay. I paid with my bank card. There was no issue. Wonderful.

The pharmancy was next. I'd gotten one of my famous lower belly episodes the night before, Boyfriend has been complaining about belly ache, we think it's the Mentos we both had. And, of course, we have nothing whatsoever to combat either stomach or gastro-intestinal upsets. So I asked for some Immodium and Motilium instant. In any Belgian pharmancy, I'd have gotten both without anything more than a 'preparing a travel first aid kit?'. Not so in Germany. The Immodium was fine, if a lot smaller than the Belgian packaging. Motilium, I needed a prescription for, but I could get stomach drops. Fine, whatever, I just didn't want to get up at four again because I wasn't sure whether to heave or squat, so I took it. I tried paying with my card again, and of course, it decided not to work. I didn't have any cash on me.

The pharmancist was nice enough to let me go withdraw some money at the bank at the marketplace. It was about three hundred meters. I was not wearing any shock-absorbing inlays, so it hurt. Mostly in the leg that hadn't been operated on ever. I smiled as I paid the lady, got out and went 'ow ow ow' at Boyfriend, who'd been getting himself a snack as I went to the pharmancy.

I got myself a freshly grilled sausage in a bun with ketchup as we discussed what to do next. I was thirsty and my blood sugar wasn't rising any, making me feel dizzy and weak. We got some sparkling apple juice and a chocolatey snack, checking quickly for batteries. They had an impressive array of power sources, but no 43s. I was beginning to think I'd never find one.

We went to Kaufhof, mostly because we were bored and it's fun to explore the toys section. On our way out, dead tired and hungry, I asked a lady at the jewelry display if they, by any chance, happened to have the battery I was looking for. L43? Why yes, how many did I want? I resisted the urge to say seven and bought one.

We pedaled home and attached my bike computer. This was not as easy as the handy-dandy instruction leaflet made it out to be. We put the sensor too low, had to remove it  again and put it higher so the wheel could turn without the magnet destroying the sensor... And then program the computer. We opened the battery compartment and out rolled a battery.

There was a moment of inward cursing on my part.

We tried turning on the computer. It didn't work. We removed, cleaned and replaced the battery. It still didn't work. We put in the new battery. We had power. Wonderful.

Now, what was the circumference of my wheel? In millimeters, please. How am I supposed to know that? The diameter in inches, perhaps? Not a clue. We nabbed a measuring implement that was lying around the casino, did some creative math on my cell phone and came up with a number that was in the list. It took about five tries to enter it. 'Only two buttons' leaves an incredible amount of potential screwing up to do. Setting the time was the only other thing to do. It went similarly to the wheel setting, but luckily, we didn't have to re-enter the wheel diameter each time we wanted to adjust the clock.

Anyway, we got it set, so I chucked in my purse and we went upstairs.

I'm still tired.

The Moment Suprême

Cindy is acting weird today and I'm worried. And Sis liked my cookies. Not what I wanted to talk about, but still. Consider it said.

So today was THE day. No, not the day in which I got a job, sadly, but a nice day all the same. J. decided, after I helped clean and watched her and a client for about an hour, that today was the day I got to sit behind a table and try stuff.

There was a free table. The table, however, was free of tools. And I didn't have gels. It took about fifteen minutes to assemble mostly everything. S. helped, I helped, it still took a long while. I got a bitchin' UV machine with leopard print and was allowed to go bananas on practice nails.

At this point I had sealing gel and building gel. No base gel. No color gel. I could basically see if I could work a gel brush, since both are transparent and I only knew what to do with one of them.  Base gel you can skip if truly necessary, but colors... Well...

I asked if, by any chance, there had been ordered too much of one color, or a particular color needed using or--at this point J. was looking at me like I'd grown an extra head. I tried to explain that I didn't want to screw up with and hog the pretty colors that clients might want at some point during my expedition. J. still didn't understand what the problem with that was. Everyone nabs stuff from everyone in the studio. Whether they're using it or not at the moment is usually far beside the point. I insisted I'd tip over a jar or end up using half of one on a nail by mistake(s) and J. relented. She'd remembered some gels she'd bought, opened and subsequently rarely ever used.

I got an entire display case of colors. For me. No one wanted my old, dusty gels, so I was free to go utterly and completely insane with them. I tried opening one. It had dried shut. Going utterly and completely insane was put on hold as I tried to find a gel that would open. There were several, I would discover, but, well, I pretty much threw myself at the first color that opened. It was an almost adulterous red.

In all my enthusiasm, I tried applying it onto an untreated artificial nail. Yeah. I was quickly directed towards a bottle of cleaner-substitute (still no cleaner delivered) I'd been provided with and a nail file. First rule of Nail Studio is You Shall Abrade Up The Wazoo.  My files were crappy, but I didn't know this yet. They made abrasions, so I threw myself on them. Make a nail red. Throw it into the light box. Stare in awe for two minutes. Take it out. Add another layer. Stare. Realise you need more colors.

My first tries were... Well, crappy. Firstly, they were my first tries. Secondly, my color combinations were schizofrenic in a depressing kind of way. Thirdly, I was using the wrong tools and forgetting about which colors coated better than others.

I eventually realised that the tiny, short brush was pretty much useless. And there's only so much a gel brush can do. So I tried the swirl tool. It resisted momentarily, but eventually gave in and did what I wanted.

Not something I could say about the stamping kit. I was doing everything right: paint, scrape, transfer, stamp, work fast all the time. The nail I was working on was bumpy and my stamping pad was oily, two things I took a very long time in figuring out. I got two stamps on a nail in about an hour. In the mean while, I'd even wrangled the useless brush into something approaching submission and made a nail consisting of five coats of gold sparkles with purple squiggles on top. J. had laughingly said it was fun to watch me 'destroy artificial nails with a file' as I prepared that one for a few coats of paint. Crappy nail file and unwielding nail on a stick do not make for elegant working habits. I eventually decided the stamping kit could suck it and added some silver details that blended well with the light blue stamping varnish I was using. At this point I was nearly high on nail polish remover fumes, a side effect from the stamping.

I went back to happily experimenting with the swirl tool, my new bestest friend, when J. called me over and scared the pee out of me. "Do my nails."

At this point, I'd had a grand total of two hours of practical experience. She was unveiling the most delicious, hand-made colors that needed testing, displayed in a case that just begged for me to screw up and put my elbow in it during an unguarded moment. I kept my rather undignified exclamation to myself, whimpered, and went over there.

I still don't have long nails, so I got a rosewood stick for poking and scraping. She'd done her left hand and I got to do the right. Everyone said gel burned like napalm if it got onto your skin. I had horror visions of second degree burns on J.'s hands (and thus livelihood) due to my incompetence. She was happily mixing her gels, uncorncerned by any serious injuries I could inflict here.

I discovered something as soon as J. instructed me to apply base gel. Artificial nails on sticks suck for learning stuff. Real hands are much better. Their nails arch, their fingers flex, you can use both hands at the same time... Whichever idiot came up with nails on sticks was insane.

I got the base gel right. The building gel, I missed a few spots with, but I made up for that by not ever hitting skin with the gels. And the color gel smile lines and French tips were--dare I say it--easy.

J.'s next customer was about to come in, though, so she let me finish up a single nail. I used the long, thin pencil to apply the strokes she wanted over the tips and the swirl tool for the dots. It wasn't as good as J.'s example, but it was very good for someone who hadn't eaten in six hours and had no idea what she was doing. J. is a very good teacher.

I even relaxed so much I started chatting with J., which turned into digging myself into a hole, though I didn't realise this yet. Somewhere in the conversation, I mentioned that I wondered why everyone said getting gel nails hurt.

I got sent back to my table with the news J. would do my nails after she finished with her customer, and I could try abrading my own nails and filing them into shape. Uhm...

I filed. I abraded. J. was still busy. I got base gel and applied it without incident on both hands. I discovered why people said it hurt to get gel nails: the UV gel undergoes an exothermic reaction directly propotionate to the thickness of the applied gel as it gathers its reaction starter energy. Simple words: you have about two to four seconds of burning happning underneath your fingernails.

Base gel is thin, so I didn't have much problems with that. But I got instructed to try building gel, which gets applied in a thick layer for shaping. Ow, ow, fucking ow.

Next, I was instructed to apply 'a thin white smile line' onto my freakishly short nails. I skipped the building gel altogether on my right hand and decided to torture myself with the smile line. I failed in making it look like anything other than having dipped my fingertips in Tipp-Ex. For half an hour. Then J. became available, looked at what I was doing and took pity on me. She removed my last attempt at not covering half my nail in 'Extreme White' and started discussing my progress so far. How it was good to get your nails done on short nails at first. How it was more difficult to do it on yourself and on short nails. How I'd done a good job in not getting the gel on skin with either her or myself, and only got one bumpy nail in five. I'd learned a lot in a day.

She, however, is and remains the teacher. What I needed an hour to do by myself, she did in eight minutes flat on both hands. I am currently sporting a French manicure, and it's freaking me out slightly. My nails are Godzilla strong and the Extreme White is... Well, extremely white. It's distracting.

I got something to drink and eat at this point, having stopped working long enough to realise lunch time was two hours ago. Then I got some more water and spezi from the casino, since I'd drunk all the water and Sis wanted spezi.

I tried working with the building gel some more, but the artificial nails were not my friend. I gave up, tried swirling some gels together, failed and decided to call it a day. I was tired.

So I learned a lot today. I still can't file and to learn faster I'd need a human guinea pig to submit to possible gel burns as I try building gel. But I can apply base colors and do a few simple designs. I can work with most of the equipment. I've started.

Yay. ^-^

The Mornings

Boyfriend and I work on dissimilar rythms. Read: I have to get up early slightly more often than him.

Now, if my parents are to be believed, I am physically incapable of waking up soundlessly. Sue me, I'm not a ninja. If I try to be, something goes horribly wrong. I knock stuff to the floor, doors slam when I try to close them or I snag on something while exiting the shower and can't help but get a potty mouth. If I act normal, I make less noise, but the average amount of noise stays the same.

So I have adopted the non-ninja technique when waking up without purposefully waking Boyfriend. I've done that before, for selfish and nefarious purposes, but we decided it was a bad habit to develop.

So I got up today, showered, brushed my hair, got cereal... all without incident. The shower decided not to try and kill me today. It didn't yank on any of my parts in any way and it didn't try to make me slip. Amazing. I might even tempt fate and pick out fresh plugs to wear to the store today. So far, Boyfriend hasn't woken up. I don't think he's going to. Well, he's going to eventually, but I don't think he'll wake up enough to actually get out of bed and demand I pipe down.

It's partly gentlemanliness and mostly the fact that I think he's used to me emitting some kind of noise at all times. He naps on the sofa while I watch videos, I belt out songs at random moments when I forget he's studying for his driving tests and the click-clacking of my keyboard, while quite quiet, is practically constantly there. I'm so bad he asks me if everything is okay if I'm quiet for more than ten minutes and not asleep.

Of course, it's also partly because the water pressure in the house is a bit... off. I would need a drum kit to be noisy in the bathroom. And we currently only have the quietest cereal known to man (chocolate rice krispies) in the house. And I packed my noisiest things last night before bed. I don't have any pressurised sprays to make me cough. I caught my alarm before it belted out its annoying tune. I'm not watching youtube videos on full blast, either.

Then again, at home I used the downstairs bathroom, got dressed behind closed doors, ate alone, in a kitchen, two rooms away from any other living being, and I was still being too noisy. Boyfriend is practically within spitting distance at the moment, all doors opened, and he's blissfully sleeping on. I'm even scraping my chair on the floor, rebel that I am.

Of course, this has a few downsides. Like the fact that the laundry needs folding and I wanted to remind him to call the post people again today. I could write a note, but that feels antisocial. I could wake him up, but that'd be mean. Maybe I'll send a text message around eleven or so.

The Sad Day

Today, the plan was to get up early, get on a bike and enjoy the sunshine. It seemed completely foolproof yesterday evening. It wasn't.

For starters, I woke up at eight, realised Boyfriend hadn't gone to bed until five (he'd woken me from a deliciously warm sleep) and decided two more hours couldn't hurt. At ten, I woke up again, looked at my watch and got sucked back under by sweet, sweet slumber. At twelve, Boyfriend got up, woke me up and left me to make my way out of bed, which took me an hour. Then we checked the internet.

Yes, I know. At least we remembered to call for an appointment Boyfriend needed and for my package. The guy on the other end of the phone agreed something had gone very, very wrong and promised to look into it and call back. So far, he hasn't.

At a bit past two, J. came by with a letter for me, proving that my mail could most definitely arrive somewhere in my vicinity. In it, I got a loud and clear MAYBE from HUK Coburg, so there's a ray of hope shining through the clouds on the job front.

She had more news. Mousy died this morning. I clumsily offered my condolences to her and Boyfriend, who was very upset. Too upset to keep playing video games. So we snuggled a bit and he was sad.

It was four by the time I convinced him sunshine might help. He argued, sure, he needed to send packages anyway. Also, he's interested in sewing machines. He'd seen one online and wanted to check it out in real life, too. There's a sewing machine store in town.

So we made packages and brought them to the post office near McDo. McDo sucked us in with its wily charms and current offer of a miniature Big Mac for a semi-reasonable price. We nommed. Boyfriend started to feel better.

We took the least stressful road down to town and made our way to the sewing machine store. The offer was a Janome JR 1012 for 219 euros. Twice as much as Boyfriend's price range, but it looked like a good machine for beginners and average sewing needs. We asked if it'd be suitable for plushie making, and the lady in the store looked dubious. The machine Boyfriend had his eye on online was a similar model with excellent reviews, but it lacked the Janome name, so it's cheaper, but I trust it less. Give me a brand name, when it comes to expensive (or even cheap) pieces of household machinery. Give me something I can mention to a (grand)mother without having to mumble.

Anyway, if we came back this weekend, we could try out the machine, if we were interested. Boyfriend was definitely cheering up, as he wanted to make a detour to the toy store. He had a project concerning a tiny piggy bank in mind. We already have a tiny piggy bank, but he's painting Emma "30 Cents" Piggleston over my dead body. We bought a blue one on which he can do all the piggybank surgery he likes, found an insanely priced down Monopoly set and fell in love all over with a hand puppet we'd seen last month. If you've got a name for the most adorable cow hand puppet in the world, leave your suggestions in the comments.

I wanted to go hunting for a wastebasket for the bedroom in Kaufhof, but decided I Boyfriend needed some ice cream. I even paid. He bought a milkshake to go with that and we nommed once more.

Everything was going great, until a bunch of antisocial brats decided to harass an old man in the street. Boyfriend talked to make sure he was all right. The man was, barring the fact that his shopping was covered in the bubble tea the kids had exploded when kicking his bag. Boyfriend's mood plummeted.

We went to Kaufhof, where Boyfriend's mood darkened even more when I pointed out he needed a bicycle bell. Or, more like, he mentioned he didn't have one, I mentioned it made his bicycle illegal, he'd looked at the ones costing 20 euros the last time we were there and he grumbled at spending that much on a stupid piece of metal. He double-checked his bike and came back with the news that he definitely did not have a bell and how much was this going to cost?

The cheapest model they had was three euro fifty. Boyfriend was slightly mollified. Then we discovered more expensive models which had been priced down to two ninety five. He bought one with a deliriously happy mountain on it and we went upstairs, as we still hadn't found a wastebasket.

Upstairs, there were pony models. As usual, those cheered Boyfriend up a bit. The fact that I got two and he only one didn't change that. Wastebaskets costing over twenty euros brought me down a bit, but then I found kitchen had towels for under two euros a pop. They're not my dream color, but then again, they're cheap kitchen towels, so who cares? They even fit our general color scheme of red and orange in the living room kitchen combo.

In the supermarket, we went cheer-Boyfriend-up-crazy. We bought muffins and pesto and chocolate sauce and cherry jelly and schnitzels shaped like dinosaurs. Oh, and bacon. Not only because Boyfriend loves it, but because we want to make my famous carrot-potato-mash sometime this week, and it requires an ample sprinkling of fried bacon bits.

The original plan was to get home and make the mash, but at this point we were too lazy for any real cooking, so we decided on pasta pesto 'later'. Boyfriend received some salad from his dad, who'd bought too much, and made himself a man-sized starter with some instant salad dressing he had lying around while I looked at puppies and dogs looking for a new home. We squealed and awwed. I still have about five tabs open with dogs I'd love to give a home. Somebody stop me.

I thought I had at least partially succeeded in my cheer Boyfriend up mission, until some of the dressing got spilt on his shirt. It was a relatively new shirt, and I thought he loved it, so I chucked it in the washing machine with extra water in an attempt to save the T-shirt. It announced two hours of water usage, and Boyfriend frowned at the waste of it.

So today was a bit sad. Maybe muffins will help?

The Queen of Gel Globs

So today has been a mixed day so far.

On the downside, my package is definitely lost and will not be sent again. 19 euros down the drain. Also, no one from job applications has replied to my e-mails and letters. There's been no interesting job offers all week, and I've been looking. There's still no cleaner fluid in the studio, so any and all gel spills on my hands have to be forcibly scrubbed off. Someone decided glitter gels were a good idea in that situation. They weren't. And I forgot to ask for brown sugar from Boyfriend, so I can't make pity party cookies. Sadness.

On the plus side, it was quiet in the studio today. And J. wasn't there for the first four hours. And when the cat's away... S. let me put gel on her nails. Not all the stages, and I'm still not being allowed anywhere near a nail file, but I managed to not mess up on the two least damageable stages of gelling nails. I got to hold a brush and everything. I am the QUEEN OF GEL GLOBS FOR SHOVING STRASS STONES INTO! Not the most catchy of titles, but apt.

Going further, my responsibilities as studio slave have been upgraded from watching and pressing buttons to cleaning stamping plates, finding stamping plates, fetching whole arrays of colorsful gels and stealing anything and everything from Sis' desk. I think it's so only my fingerprints will be found when the stuff Sis (not the studio) is paying for turns up out of place. Oh well, her stamping plates are clean as a whistle. And I get to fill footbaths, though the tap system tends to turn that into flailing as I try not to flood the studio. I also have to mentally switch gears every time I talk to a customer, since I've had the 'du' form beaten into me at university, and customers are very much a 'Sie'. I might appear a tad slow in asking people if they want a drink, but darn it if I'm not polite.

We're making spaghetti tonight, and we found all the ingredients. Boyfriend bought everything, and then some. We've got enough onions for... Well, maybe we can make onion soup? Also, a few more carrots than bolognese sauce calls for, but that only means carrot mash later this week. Enough tomato concentrate to flavor an army's kettle of sauce with, and we already have pizza in the freezer, so I'm sort of lost on that part, but the stuff keeps for a long while in the fridge. And I could've sworn I asked for brown sugar, but I should shut up and make shopping lists before two in the morning. It helps. And I can make jelly pudding for dessert, so I get to decapitate a green gelatine bear tonight.

And tomorrow, I'm not required in the studio. I wasn't sure if I was going to begin with, but J. said there was very little for me to do, so I have her blessing to take the day off. So far, my plans are to hunt down a few cups of brown sugar and bake cookies. Maybe clean the oven. Oh, and we still have laundry, though that might get done today.

Another mixed thing is the veracity of Cindy's pregnancy. The veterinarian goes between PREGNANT! to 'nope, not pregnant' like a pendulum and refuses to decide. In the mean while, J. thinks she saw something heartbeat-like move in her precious puppy's belly and I am suspicious about the size of the tiny dog's nipples. Seeing as, if Cindy's pregnant, she'll most likely give birth on Wednesday, the vet is getting close to their decision deadline on the pregnancy question. I believe the last chance is today. It's entirely possible J. will get pissed if they get it wrong. In the mean while, I'm so starved for a canine companion I'm considering adopting the puppy if it exists, no matter how tiny it is or how arrogant its mother can be. God help me.

The 30 Days

So my plan was to make this a 30 day challenge to myself. Write one thing, every day, for at least 30 days. They passed without me noticing. I had fun, and I'll keep writing.

It's a nice things to do. It makes me at least try to find one good thing that happened each day, or look at the less good things in a more positive light. No one wants someone moaning and complaining each day.

Writing this thing is a good exercise in self-contemplation. It makes me take time for myself, at least a few minutes each day, and think about what happened and how I want to place them in my life. It sounds all deep and philosophical, but it doesn't feel that way. It's just good thinking, the way my therapists like me to think.

See, worrying and thinking in circles is bad, because it's unproductive. I do it a lot when I'm off my meds, but with a little chemical push in the back, I learn to not do it that often. Writing down what happened each day is productive thinking. What happened, what is on my mind, how do I do something with it? I've been writing each day. I now find myself thinking more about 'what should I put in my blog' than about things further in the future. It's a kind of brake on my mind.

Sure, I worry about never finding a job and being kicked out of the country, but I can rationalise it. I still have over two months to find something, and I look each day. In the mean while, I take it one day at a time. Well, future-wise, I do plan ahead. I've got things I want to do when I get a job, there's a vacation I might or might not be going on and I've got other things that I need to think about. Things like dinner and groceries, and laundry and dishes that need doing.

Boyfriend and I share the chores, but we often do them together. I'm good at sorting colors for laundry, for example, but Boyfriend knows how the oven works. He doesn't want pink T-shirts happening, and I turn the pizza soggy if I try to bake something. So we work together and make it work.

And we try new stuff together. Things like biking and fixing bikes. Munzees. Finding out what happened to mail. Peanut butter. Boyfriend discovered the joy of meatballs in the last month, but the ones he found in the store had his arch-nemesis mushrooms in them. Boyfriend doesn't like mushrooms. I wonder if I should tell him how easy it is to make meat balls. Sure, I'm not a sauce wizard, but maybe he is. Or maybe J. can tell us.

We'll see. In the mean while, let's try this for another 30 days.

The Audience

I look at how many views I get. Seriously, I do. I check the stats and know stuff that the website keeps track of for me.

Like, for example, last month I had 360 pageviews that weren't me. It's a nice, round number. But I don't get twelve pageviews each day. It'd be cool if I did, but you readers aren't that average. You go up and down with the days of the week. Some days I get one, other days I get twenty-something. Something here seems to be interesting, but my main source of feedback is Boyfriend giggling to his screen and me having to ask what's so funny.

Most of you, so far, come from Aptratings. If I know what it was, I'd wax poetic about it, but I honestly have no clue. Then there's you who came here through Stumbleupon. I don't know this one either, but I think I understand the concept behind it. If you return after being jettisoned here by the wily internet, I thank you.

7% of you use Macintoshes. Who are you people? I come from a clan of Windows-fanatics. Well, mostly I come from a clan who grew up with Windows and is slightly fearful of this OS spawned by this company that wants to be associated with fruit. Some of you even use Linux. Props to not conforming, but you make me wonder.

Geographically, you're mostly German or Belgian. Which makes sense. I know my family reads this, to keep from having to call me in the middle of the week to demand why they're not hearing from me. I know of trusty cousins who even relay the information here to their parents, so that the family grapevine stays informed. And as to Germany... Well, it's entirely possible somebody apart from Boyfriend keeps track of my moodswings through this channel. What's confusing me is the Americans and Russians who read this. Seriously, how did that happen? Let me know what's interesting you all about reading stuff about somebody not getting talked to by the companies she applies to for jobs. I mean it.

And that goes for the rest of you as well. Elly is the only one who leaves comments, when she feels so inclined. And I read comments. Even when I might overlook them, google has a system in place to assure comment awareness. The appreciation for them is all mine. So everyone, even if you're not Elly, leave a comment. You don't need to have a Blogger account. Your e-mail is safely kept away from prying internet eyes. I think even I can't see it. Blogger doesn't send you spam and doesn't bother you outside of the comments you post.

So go ahead. Let me know what you think and how you got here. I'm curious.