(My sleeping pattern's weird lately. I go to bed in the afternoon, wake up for dinner, then sleep until half past four in the morning, fresh as a daisy.)
(Also: unless something happens or I've got major philosophising to do, I'm not going to bore you with my attempts at wittiness)
So the past few days have been pretty boring.
Iggy's still okay. He's even eating. I think he'd keep eating if we kept giving him stuff, but I'd rather have a dog than a jelly doughnut on legs.
My shoes still aren't shipped. If they don't get shipped today, I'm all out of excuses for the nice people working at the website. GIVE ME MY SHOES SO I CAN BE DISAPPOINTED, DAMMIT!
J. got new UV-light machines to harden gels. Technically, they only take one minute to harden out any modern gel, but she's not taking any chances with them. They're adorable, like little robot helmets. I've named them Biep-Biep and Wall-I. The names fit.
I knitted a pig hat for S., who was surprisingly happy to wear it. It was pink, glittery, and unmistakably pig-like. She's over twenty-five, but loved it. Go figure.
I said and understood a few things wrong. At some point I misheard 'electrical rotary tool ('fraser' in German)' for 'electroshock laser'. My surprise at the customer's calm aquiescence to have this used on her hands has kept people amused for days now.
I didn't know what a bike frame was, so I used the word 'skeleton', assuming people would know what I meant and correct me. J. took two minutes to recover from that one.
Shortly afterwards, I used my background in all sensible languages to assume 'repair' is 'reparation' in German. It's not. It's 'reparatur'. At that point, Boyfriend was called in to translate from Flemish (which he did admirably) what I was trying to say (the back wheel of my bike keeps rubbing the frame, the tire deflates surprisingly quickly, and I want to get it repaired, but I'm scared the repairs will turn into a complete bike overhaul costing several hundred euros if the bike repair shop doesn't understand my German) before J. developed a customer backlog. There are days I should just shut up.
Yesterday, we went to Bamberg, for whimsical shopping and inspiration. Well, I wanted blind-bag ponies and yarn. I found neither. I did get a pair of fresh leather thongs to turn into necklaces, a milkshake-y thing at KFC that definitely wasn't worth the three euros I paid and something whimsical. Something light. An STD.
I spent at least half an hour in the selection process. Did I want a parasite? A bacteria? A body cell? A virus? Which virus did I want? Then it was time for elimination. I'd hoped for the common cold, but it was either never in stock, or it had been sold out already. So that left Herpes or HIV.
Herpes was a nice, bright yellow and shaped like a flying saucer. Also, it had a little dent of a nose that was downright adorable.
HIV was black, had a support ribbon and was the same shape as my much-wanted common cold. It was fuzzy. Its little red eyes stared up at me all adorable like. It needed a home. It looked so helpless and precious and--
Yeah, I now have AIDS.
To prevent a rather urgent call from my mother, should this enter the family grapevine, let me explain to you that I bought a Giant Microbe. They're plushies, shaped like common and uncommon infections and/or cells, personificated somewhat, more or less acurately depicted and blown up to be about four inches high or long. (We also found a truly gargantuan Gonnorrhea virus, but it was a bit too expensive for what it was.) The things come with a card explaining what the actual version of the infection/cell did, how it survives, dies, gets treated, etc.
I learned, for example, that drying out fluids infected with HIV has a ninety to ninety-nine chance of killing the virus. Huh.
Should biology teachers be interested, the company also makes red blood cells, white blood cells, egg cells, sperm cells and beer yeast, in varying sizes and quantities.
And, to conclude, Barack Obama got another four years to try and make America a better place.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Sunday, November 4, 2012
The Improvement
So on Friday, I came home to find the house covered in brown pawprints, the dog with no appetite but otherwise fine and several bloody stools that hadn't been left by Boyfriend or me on the floor.
I had been planning on cleaning everything a day later, but Iggy made sure I did it faster.
Boyfriend took Iggy out, came back, and I cleaned. First to get the stains off. Dried diarrhea, even with hot soapy water and microfibre cloth, doesn't come off easily. I rubbed and scrubbed and soaked, and eventually there was no more poop on the floor. Then Boyfriend rinsed out my bucket and cloth, got me fresh water, and I went over it again to make sure it was clean.
We'd spilled some poo water on the bathroom mats, so those got washed again.
Then I prepared the shower, and Boyfriend and I washed Iggy. The spite factor in this was relatively minor. I'm not saying I wasn't partially thinking 'Ha! Serves you right!' at a sick puppy who doesn't like showers, but the main part of my brain was thinking 'blood in poo isn't usually a good thing' and that Iggy licks his paws and butt, which were covered in anything he pooped out. If the poop was infected, it was a vicious cycle and washing would, at the very least, lower the dose he got.
He predictably did not like the shower, nor that his usual ally seemed to have teamed up with me to rain down more misery on his already considerably bleak day. Then we took the blanket he'd spent all week breaking in, gave him a new one and put him in his basket. He stayed in there until long after he got dry. Either he was sulking, either he was scared, or he was simply exhausted. I'm guessing a combination of the three.
Then I washed all the towels we used, Iggy's blanket and the mop on a hot cycle. Die, bacteria, die.
Iggy continued pooping until deep into the night.
I eventually decided he'd pooped more than he'd eaten, since we somehow have a dog that is not interested in anything that isn't the dog equivalent of candy, and made him some rice. I know this is a valid dog thing to eat, since my host family's dog has a diet consisting for a large part out of rice. If his stomach was upset, this could go up to 100% rice for a few days.
To tempt him into actually trying some, I made sure the rice, when served, was warm, moist and smelled of beef. He'd never had beef before, but he's fascinated about the smell each time I make beef stock in soup or risotto. So I cooked the rice in beef stock and gave him a few spoonfuls on a small plate. He ate about a third before seeing through my deceit, but he'd gotten some calories in him, at least.
I wasn't looking forward to the morning, since we'd decided that any more liquid brown stuff meant a trip to the vet.
But he was clean. The house was clean. He'd peed in his litter box, but that was it. Outside, he knew he had to do something, so he walked around until he managed to squeeze out a trickle of pee. Then he walked over to me at the door and looked from me to the doorway until I gave in and let him in.
The dry streak has continued the entire day. He's eating. He's drinking. All that comes out is pee. No more or less than is caninely acceptable. He's turned downright adventurous, following me around as I do laundry (One week's laundry in one day!), dishes (All the dishes are done!) and cook (Finally made spaghetti sauce!) and reorganise the freezer. He comes very close to my chair, only fleeing when I move in his direction or stare too long.
Boyfriend is even less of a threat to him. Iggy comes to beg for cuddles or play time with him (Iggy's PLAYING), and he's even learned a trick. Now, I wish for tricks like 'sit' and 'down' and 'stay', but if Iggy wants to stand up on his hind legs and climb a hand at Boyfriend's whim, who am I to poke at a good thing?
So my scared, sick puppy has been healthy for a full twenty-four hours and is starting to learn that my sounding angry doesn't mean I'll do so for next six hours. Our home is clean and filled with the smell of basil and garlic and cooked tomato. I have groceries for fresh food for the rest of the weekend. I have most Christmas gifts planned out. Oh, and J. gave me a laundry basket full of mystery yarn. Yay.
I had been planning on cleaning everything a day later, but Iggy made sure I did it faster.
Boyfriend took Iggy out, came back, and I cleaned. First to get the stains off. Dried diarrhea, even with hot soapy water and microfibre cloth, doesn't come off easily. I rubbed and scrubbed and soaked, and eventually there was no more poop on the floor. Then Boyfriend rinsed out my bucket and cloth, got me fresh water, and I went over it again to make sure it was clean.
We'd spilled some poo water on the bathroom mats, so those got washed again.
Then I prepared the shower, and Boyfriend and I washed Iggy. The spite factor in this was relatively minor. I'm not saying I wasn't partially thinking 'Ha! Serves you right!' at a sick puppy who doesn't like showers, but the main part of my brain was thinking 'blood in poo isn't usually a good thing' and that Iggy licks his paws and butt, which were covered in anything he pooped out. If the poop was infected, it was a vicious cycle and washing would, at the very least, lower the dose he got.
He predictably did not like the shower, nor that his usual ally seemed to have teamed up with me to rain down more misery on his already considerably bleak day. Then we took the blanket he'd spent all week breaking in, gave him a new one and put him in his basket. He stayed in there until long after he got dry. Either he was sulking, either he was scared, or he was simply exhausted. I'm guessing a combination of the three.
Then I washed all the towels we used, Iggy's blanket and the mop on a hot cycle. Die, bacteria, die.
Iggy continued pooping until deep into the night.
I eventually decided he'd pooped more than he'd eaten, since we somehow have a dog that is not interested in anything that isn't the dog equivalent of candy, and made him some rice. I know this is a valid dog thing to eat, since my host family's dog has a diet consisting for a large part out of rice. If his stomach was upset, this could go up to 100% rice for a few days.
To tempt him into actually trying some, I made sure the rice, when served, was warm, moist and smelled of beef. He'd never had beef before, but he's fascinated about the smell each time I make beef stock in soup or risotto. So I cooked the rice in beef stock and gave him a few spoonfuls on a small plate. He ate about a third before seeing through my deceit, but he'd gotten some calories in him, at least.
I wasn't looking forward to the morning, since we'd decided that any more liquid brown stuff meant a trip to the vet.
But he was clean. The house was clean. He'd peed in his litter box, but that was it. Outside, he knew he had to do something, so he walked around until he managed to squeeze out a trickle of pee. Then he walked over to me at the door and looked from me to the doorway until I gave in and let him in.
The dry streak has continued the entire day. He's eating. He's drinking. All that comes out is pee. No more or less than is caninely acceptable. He's turned downright adventurous, following me around as I do laundry (One week's laundry in one day!), dishes (All the dishes are done!) and cook (Finally made spaghetti sauce!) and reorganise the freezer. He comes very close to my chair, only fleeing when I move in his direction or stare too long.
Boyfriend is even less of a threat to him. Iggy comes to beg for cuddles or play time with him (Iggy's PLAYING), and he's even learned a trick. Now, I wish for tricks like 'sit' and 'down' and 'stay', but if Iggy wants to stand up on his hind legs and climb a hand at Boyfriend's whim, who am I to poke at a good thing?
So my scared, sick puppy has been healthy for a full twenty-four hours and is starting to learn that my sounding angry doesn't mean I'll do so for next six hours. Our home is clean and filled with the smell of basil and garlic and cooked tomato. I have groceries for fresh food for the rest of the weekend. I have most Christmas gifts planned out. Oh, and J. gave me a laundry basket full of mystery yarn. Yay.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
The Shoes
I've decided not to do the Wrimo. Aww, sadness.
Instead, I spent the entirety of last night looking at shoes. That is not a happy thing for me. It's mostly a reminder that nothing fits and I can afford nothing that might, either. So I went to Birkenstock and its related daughter companies. They all have good arch support, if nothing else. Which inevitably led me to the Footprints website.
Footprints is Birkenstock's actual shoe brand. It's quality shoes: not too tight, good support at the ankle, arches, no insane heels, good materials. What's even more fun is that, for all the quality, there's options with a wide or a narrow footbed for under one hundred euros.
So I spent a few hours dreaming online until I stumbled over the model 'Riga'. It's no longer in the collection, but several stores still have enough of them left to have them in what I think is my size. For about a third of the price, I kid you not.
So there I was, with a shoe that looked my age, available in a range of colors and it might fit. For less than forty euros. I literally own flipflops with a higher price tag.
So I agonised over it for a while and ordered myself a pair of light green, leather sneakers. If they don't fit, I can return them. If they do fit, I will be beside myself with happiness.
On top of that, I'm currently trying out the treadmill desk idea. I put my laptop on a cupboard in the hall that's the right height, turned on the treadmill at the lowest setting and started walking.
It works, except I'm sweating like mad, and my pc is about twenty centimeters too far away from me to not bump into the start of the treadmill every so often. Typing is tricky, like I've gotten a new keyboard or something. They say you gotta keep it up for a week before it stops feeling like madness. I'll see if I can keep this up.
Instead, I spent the entirety of last night looking at shoes. That is not a happy thing for me. It's mostly a reminder that nothing fits and I can afford nothing that might, either. So I went to Birkenstock and its related daughter companies. They all have good arch support, if nothing else. Which inevitably led me to the Footprints website.
Footprints is Birkenstock's actual shoe brand. It's quality shoes: not too tight, good support at the ankle, arches, no insane heels, good materials. What's even more fun is that, for all the quality, there's options with a wide or a narrow footbed for under one hundred euros.
So I spent a few hours dreaming online until I stumbled over the model 'Riga'. It's no longer in the collection, but several stores still have enough of them left to have them in what I think is my size. For about a third of the price, I kid you not.
So there I was, with a shoe that looked my age, available in a range of colors and it might fit. For less than forty euros. I literally own flipflops with a higher price tag.
So I agonised over it for a while and ordered myself a pair of light green, leather sneakers. If they don't fit, I can return them. If they do fit, I will be beside myself with happiness.
On top of that, I'm currently trying out the treadmill desk idea. I put my laptop on a cupboard in the hall that's the right height, turned on the treadmill at the lowest setting and started walking.
It works, except I'm sweating like mad, and my pc is about twenty centimeters too far away from me to not bump into the start of the treadmill every so often. Typing is tricky, like I've gotten a new keyboard or something. They say you gotta keep it up for a week before it stops feeling like madness. I'll see if I can keep this up.
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