The American Election

I am not consciously following the direction the American election is taking. To be honest, I'm trying to stay as far away from it as possible. I practically come apart at the seams trying to live with the knowledge my parents are going to come over at certain points in my life, I have to find and pay for Christmas gifts and my cauliflower soup might not turn out right. I'm not made to make global politics my hobby.

But I'm a denizen of the internet, and the internet wants me to care. So here I go, trying to form an opinion.

In my opinion, the system is freaky. America might have less levels of government than I'm used to, but by God can they organise a cat's cradle of a solution for a potential problem.

You have to register to vote, for starters. Because of voting fraud. The twenty-first century and there's no identity card system in place where you show who you are and your name can be on a computer in such a way it can be found and checked if you show up at a voting whatchamacallit.

Then there's the solution in place for when there's a tie in the votes. It's convoluted, full of bugs, unfair and, crazily, can still end in a tie. Voting again doesn't seem to be an option.

Not even all Americans vote. A lot of the screaming loonies on tv, newspapers and the internet will not get off their butt and take half an hour out of their day to vote. They'll cry foul and shame no matter what the outcome or possibilities, though.

I don't know why this offends me. (Note: It offends me equally in all nationalities.) I hate voting when I'm forced to. Voting isn't fun. But it's a right people fought for for at least three hundred years. If we can't, we raise hell that we want to influence our community, at least a little, by choosing representatives. And now one of the most powerful nations on earth (one who, subjectively, spent quite a lot of time raising hell to be independent, have a democracy, have a president, have voting rights for all citizens, all colors and all genders) hasn't had 60% percent of the available voters voting for ages. The turnout has, quite literally, been one of two egible citizens voting since the seventies. I thought it was 'Out of many, one'? Apparently, it's 'Out of half, one'. My bad, I guess.

This drives me up the walls more than usual, because the US presidential election has more influence over my life than, say, the Brazilian presidential election.

When it comes to the candidates themselves, both Romney and Obama seem like okay guys. Which isn't saying much. People with dirty laundry to be aired generally don't run for president. Those that try generally get shamed in withdrawing or lose. They choose someone who can charm the pants off of a crowd or guilt them into voting, as far as I can tell.

What Romney's religion has to do with it, I really don't see. True, Americans are generally seen as a religious people, but the only faith they seem honestly suspicious about is atheism. And, on a purely theoretical standpoint, America is a secular nation. The Founding Fathers, as a lot of memes, facebook posts and even some books I've read recently, were technical atheists. Several of the twentieth century presidents were even apalled at the idea of people voting on them because they were, for example, the only Catholic candidate in the running. I'd be offended, too. Thirty-something years old, probably over two decades of hard work trying to make the world a better place and people said you are right to run the country because of when and where and how your parents (in most cases) decided to pour water over your head, chop a piece of your whackadoodle, hold you upside down over a plate of steaming pasta or whatever the custom is. That's not voting. That's being a sheep.

Obama has done a good job, as far as I can tell. You can't move the planet out of orbit with political action in four years. As much as our current society would like it otherwise, it takes time to see effects. Some of his promises haven't been fufilled because of this, and people have taken offense. He is, however, not a president that is widely known as someone who needs an adult when his backside needs wiping. He is intelligent, he is well-liked. Most of his screw-ups have been relatively minor. To be honest, the only one I can really remember is where he didn't defend himself in a debate a few weeks ago. If he has an evil-masterplan (and he's a politician, so there will be some 'You never mentioned that part!' outcries after the election should he win), he's hiding it very well.

The novelty of a colored president has worn off however, so now he has to be a significantly better option than the white candidate. It's a harsh thing to say, but it's true. Success is a thing for white men in our society. Anyone else has to be twice as good at everything to be noticed.

Romney is less popular, and less liberal and more extremist in his campaigns so the internet has bombarded me with bad things about him. Some of them make me want to e-mail people and ask if they've taken their antipsychotics in the last week. I particularly remember someone claiming all he's done right was, and I quote, 'not eat any phallic foods during rallies'. Say what? You have to do more than resist the temptation of a public hotdog to run for US president, last time I checked.

Wait, let me check again.

Okay, so a quick skim of his wikipedia page says he organised a successful Winter Olympics, provided (the possibility of) health care for his state without Senate twisting his arm, used witchcraft economical smarts to find over a billion dollars for the government in this particular economical climate with a minimum of rioting, has a child with a crippling illness and jumped through all the loopholes set to him by the American government and its people (twice, even) before being allowed to run for president. It's not just politely declining burritos until you get the key to the White House, it seems.

Other things make me want to e-mail Romney instead. I'm not going to regurgitate all the bile I've had inserted in my youtube subscriptions, facebook feeds and Wii news channel. But when you have three people as a part of your campaign who say, basically, that there's no such thing as rape or that rape is anything but a bad thing... Well, even if you only have fifty to sixty percent of voters, you have to assume some of the men are going to vote for the opponent. Hell, that kind of stunt might make women voters turn up to vote Obama out of fear and/or spite.

I'm not even touching the snake's nest of gender-fuzzy marriage. I'm feverishly praying for silent majority issues muddying that particular no-brainer.

The last thing that confuses me more is the debates. I agree that politicians should debate and be interviewed on their viewpoints, and more agressively depending on the level of power they're aiming to receive. Germany could have done with a few debates around 1933.

What I don't get is that there's apparently a winner. And the winner changes, even though it's the same opponents and the same presidential race. And people base their votes on who wins? Do they really?

I see how your opponent will point out the flaws in your agenda that you're trying to hide. That's a good thing. And defending them, nuancing them, that's even better. Having it all caught on film is fantastic.

But, as any secondary school teacher will tell you, any normally developed human being, around the age of thirteen, fourteen years old, will have grasped the concept of thinking creatively to the point where different people offer different solutions to a problem. Some are better, true, some are prettier, but if both parties offer a solution that will benefit a sizeable chunk of the population, you can't really say that one party failed to do what was asked of it.

From what I can tell, the debates are mostly popularity contests and exercises in muck-raking just the same way a state rally is. I don't want a reality tv element to politics. I want the debate settled, without any media commenting on it. Assume your voters are smart enough to watch it, read transcripts, hear it on the radio and decide for themselves which seemed like the more elegant solution.

Hell, if I was Obama, I'd keep my mouth shut, too. He can come with a solution to remove all US debt and deficit that will work quickly, efficiently, but mean people will be slightly less comfortable for two years, and all Romney has to do is offer a solution that's less effective and/or durable, but means Americans don't have to consider their budget before supersizing their next hamburger menu, and the audience will press the button to drop Obama in the tank of piranhas as quickly as their pudgy fingers will allow.

Then again, maybe Obama has a death ray.

I'm concluding that the entirety of the United States seems to get LSD drips for every vaguely presidentially, electorally whoop-ti-doo that passes in front of a camera or microphone and I'm going to spend my time doing productive things, like blending my cauliflower soup. It should be done by now.

The Cleaning Plan

We slept in today. Boyfriend has this thing where biorythms don't exist during weekends and he stays up until six am, takes out the dog, and goes to bed.

Somewhere between twelve and two we got up. I'm fuzzy about the details. Sis called, then we made sure we had to put condoms on the grocery list... Anyway, it was definitely afternoon by the time we got out of bed. Apart from lovey-dovey shenanigans, we'd come up with a game plan.

Boyfriend would take Iggy outside, then to his parents, while I cleaned most of the apartment. First he took the trash with him and sorted away some big things that needed tidying up, then he removed the dog from my brilliant cleaning equation.

I put up everything that could be put up, vacuumed, figured out how to use the cleaning system bucket Boyfriend has (once you know how it works, it's ridiculously practical and easy) and mopped all suspicious stains off the floor. All-in-all, it was about an hour's hard work. Even the bedroom is clean, and I very much doubt my parents will get in there.

I went downstairs to wait for it all to dry and chat with the in-laws, everything very pleasant apart from the fact that I was still wearing a bandana around my head to keep my hair out of my eyes and away from my neck. I looked silly, but the house was clean.

When we got back, Iggy was confused. His toys had disappeared. His blanket had disappeared. His basket has disappeared. Even his water bowl and food bowl were nowhere to be found in this clean, sparkly room.

While he was being confused, I was preparing the shower for some epic dog washing. Then I came out and tried to catch him. Yeah, I ended up chasing him around a chair, getting him into the middle of the living room and having him pee from fright there. Our dog is very much aware that I am unapologetic about getting his through necessary but unpleasant things.

Boyfriend cleaned up the mess while I put Iggy in the shower and washed him. All went well, until our freakish heating system decided hot water was a myth for two to three minutes. Iggy had gotten a small blast of icy coldness, and did not like the sitting around in the tub part of waiting for the water to come back so I could un-soapify him. He tried to climb out. He got panicky when I had no effort in pushing him back into the tub. He did not like being at a disadvantage with me. Then the hot water came back on and I rinsed him out, washing his little face last.

At that point, Iggy was so done with this 'shower' gig. He was getting out. So when I moved to the towel to shake it open and dry him, Iggy made his grand escape, leaving a drippy, watery trail over the apartment and then shaking himself when he was suitably far away. Boyfriend, hero that he is, mopped up the water while I caught the demonic wet rat adorable little fuzzball and dried him off. Iggy did not like the drying off part, but since it appeared I wasn't going to drag him back to the soapy world full of water jets that randomly freeze you, he gave up and let me. Also, it appeared he was sitting on a nest made out of that big, yellow towel he'd tried to pull off the drying rack yesterday. Small victory at last!

We gave him a slice of ham (I felt guilty) and I cleaned up my mess in the bathroom. I threw all the dog washing implements in the washer with the mop's microfibre cloth and let Boyfriend clean the bathroom while I went shopping.

Now the house is clean, the things in our house that needed cleaning are clean, the dog is clean and we only have a little laundry to do. Also, we're going out for dinner later. And I'm making soup afterwards. Let's see if you can overcook cauliflower.

The Weird People

There's a few nutters running around in this town. And I'm not talking about the guy who sings at the top of his lungs whenever he rides his bike. I'm talking about the total and utter psychos, bordering on the criminal.

Today, three of them decided to pop up in studio conversation.

There's a beauty salon which is apparently quite good around here. They're affordable, and pleasant and generally good people. They have the option where they do fingernails, though, and that's where it gets freaky.

I admit, making nails from scratch takes longer, is riskier and more stressful than renewing the gel. I dread the day J. asks me to take on a brand new customer. I admit it makes no sense to invest in fingernail stuff up the wazoo when you have other avenues of revenue. What I don't get is offering only white french manicure for the basic price. The basic price being nearly twice whatJ.'s studio charges for white french with no frills. The same for starting from scratch. They're not using the crazy-expensive gels (they're using a different brand of equal quality, as advertised in the window), they're relatively slow when it comes to fingernails and they're asking customers to pay through the nose for it.

Now, J.'s studio is among the most affordable in town. Affordable isn't the same as cheap. And then there's people, half a kilometer away, charging prices that I've only heard of happening outside Germany. Now, you have the right to charge what you want. But when most studios have their sites listing charging rates and you basically ask a newborn child for the simplest things... That's slightly kooky, in my opinion. Their other prices are sane to downright cheap. Their customers are happy about the other services. I have no idea what they were thinking with the fingernail thing.

There's also a gang of girls who's taken to comparing Sis and her friends to famous fictional aliens. Some complicated teenage girl stuff happened, now they're all closer to thirty than eighteen and only half of them have grown up. Now, facebook blocking and mean in-jokes are no problem. You can ignore them. What the problem is, is that one of the girls has decided to wreck Sis' reputation. In public. In the city where Sis has a good name and customers to lose. But unless there's unrefutable proof, there's no way to sue for slander.

The next level is an ex-employee from the studio. J. taught him everything, then hired him, then he proceeded to be rude to everyone, customers included, refuse certain reasonable requeststs from paying clients (like colors) and steal things. Then he got his own studio, taking a few of J.'s customers, most of which he lost until the point where he now works from home. S. used to work under him, until Sis met his brother and J. offered better working conditions to her. The running gag is that he put a curse her table so that nothing technical works for her (UV lamps regularly refuse to work when plugged in at her table and her cleaner pump has recently entered its death throes), but it's starting to wear thin. It appears we are the kind of people who get tired of pretending sad individuals have the power to wreck our lives with their thoughts.

And now there's a freakish rumor going around. Some women have heard, directly from this man, that anyone who works for our studio, before being hired, has to sign a document that they will never open their own nail studio of a certain size in the city, and that's why he works from home. Not because he hasn't got any employees or he's gotten a reputation around town after being foul to people for several years, no. J. forced his hand when he was young and inexperienced and struggling to find his own identity. Also, J. is apparently too fat and too old to deliver quality work.

Once again, no proof, no way to sue the pants of this psycho.

We joked around with it a bit to make light of it, and I admit I'm not proud of some of the low comments I made today about someone I've never met, but I've already received punishment.

I'm a worrier. I thought I was fine with it, until I took a nap. Then stuff happened, and I dream I did a thing that hurt the feelings of a friend of the male psycho, and S. got the blame and was going to go to jail, but I was too scared to confess I did it.

Yeah, I'm going to try to stay as far away from this particular clusterfuck as possible.

The Easy Bake Toilet

I forgot to tell you guys something.

Our bathroom in winter is a sauna. It doesn't have windows, but it does have one heater. And as soon as the boiler downstairs gets turned to a certain level, that heater is stuck on high no matter what we do, ninety percent of the time. It's currently, technically, turned off and it's still at least thirty centigrade in there.

Now, we have been running around like little chickens with our heads cut off for the past two weeks or so, so no toilet cleaner was bought and/or used since the heater decided to do it's own interpretation of what hell would feel like if it was done all in white tiling. Except Boyfriend bought some, and used some. Last night, to be precise.

You know how you're supposed to let that stuff sit for a while? We did, and we did.

So after an hour, I decide I'm allowed a pee. I do my thing, try to flush it down with all the blue stuff and--only my pee disappears.

Our toilet bowl has had time to adjust to the ambient temperature and is not really cool to the touch. There is no way to cool the room and all things in it down, unless we leave the door open, but Iggy's going through a kleptomaniac phase lately, so we couldn't. Well, we could, but then we'd wake up to find our three-pound puppy has stolen a giant towel, two bathmaths and tried to get the laundry out of the hamper through the holes again.

We now have bright blue toilet cleaner effectively baked to our toilet. We've flushed a couple of times since, mostly because we used it, since flushing to see if that helped was mostly ineffectual. At the moment, there's a small dent in the blue layer. We could try scrubbing tonight, or we could try using the toilet until the blue goes away. We'll see.

(Side note: I finished my Christmas wishlist! I found a website where I can add items, even show where they can be found--not that that's mandatory--and have both registered and non-registered users buy stuff, potentially as a surprise, while other visitors can see what's been bought already. It's got 53 items on it, 29 of which are books, 7 of which are jewelry and 4.5 things are knitting related. Oh, and one thing's a box of 100 fortune cookies. I like fortune cookies. People who know where I live can e-mail me for a URL, should they want one.)

(Second side note: Yes, this was meant to be a 'yay, finished Christmas list' post, but, frankly, I thought the toilet was more relevant than me demanding to be bought stuff)

The Filling In

So W. asked me to fill in a few forms, so he could officially register me as working for him, which I've been doing since the start of the month. I finally had some time today, so I took a pen, filled in the lines for 'name' 'birthdate' and... Yeah, then the German got so confusing we had to go downstairs and ask W. himself about what was meant there.

But W. hadn't made the forms. Noooo. The German authorities had. There were several empty spaces where he went 'skip that for now'. After skipping a page and a half of the two forms, we called his tax advisor, who'd sent the papers.  

Some things, we had to leave blank because I'm foreign. Others should have been taken care of, but no one told me to take care of them. So it was two in the afternoon and I suddenly needed registering for taxes, health insurance and, to top it all off, my bank had somehow misplaced the scans they'd made last week and wanted me to pop by and fill it all in again, since I was getting no bank account until they had them.

Here's a fun fact about Germany. Office hours are rigid. They're strict. And they usually stop at four pm. All places I had to go were nowhere near one another. I looked up a few things and figured I could make the bank and the tax authority building today, and then I'd see about the rest. I was lucky it's Thursday. Some offices close ridiculously early on Wednesdays, then stay open late on Thursdays.

The tax thing was so confusing that even the people working there had no idea what was wanted. I explained everything I knew, and they did their best.

Then, I took Boyfriend's bike and tried going to the bank. Everything was fine with it, Boyfriend said, except it felt really slow when riding it. I got on it and had to fold myself like a pretzel. The tires were the consistency of melty taffy. Oh, and the gears were cranked up to the highest setting. I kid you not, there was a child between eight and twelve riding a bike at the same height of steering wheel and seat as I was.The gears, I could adjust. I did not have time to crack out my toolbox and bicycle pump and cue the A-team theme tune. It's on my to-do list, though.

I eventually got to the bank by moving my knees in tiny circles about four inches in diameter. The official entrance, which had been under renovation in the last four months, was re-opened. The old entrance was out of bounds. I was really confused. There was a small tea party being held inside to celebrate, meaning that the tellers were a bit understaffed. Hey, I'd be knocking back Caprisuns, too, if I had the choice between that and servicing some sweaty foreigner holding three different pieces of identification (the city says I have to) and a letter saying 'Error in data entry'. But eventually it was my turn. I got a different person this week, who was stunned that I was sent to enter data that was entered in an online form that does not get processed when it's incomplete. He admitted it made very little sense. I admitted I was getting used to the German bureaucratic system freaking out every time I lifted a pen.

By the time I got back to the middle point of my little triangle of places to demand registration from (better known as the two houses where J., W., Sis, Boyfriend and me live), it was getting dark. Boyfriend's bike has no lamps. My bike has lamps, but a back tire that is going flat faster and faster every time I pump it up. The insurance building was three kilometers away under perfect circumstances, and I wasn't sure I had enough time to walk there and still get service.

W., when we crashed his party earlier that day, had been knee-deep in paperwork.

So I snuck into the studio to see if J. was done early today. She had work until at least six, and the insurance company closed at half past five today and three tomorrow. The earliest I could possibly get there would be Tuesday if I didn't make it today.

I didn't consider asking Sis. She sold her car two days ago. But J. asked if she had a lot of work left, and Sis said she'd happily drive me in fifteen minutes. J. sent me to fetch some ID photos from home, since there was a good chance I'd need some. Fifteen minutes passed and I was playing with the wobbly stalks on the apple-shaped lip gloss containers ready when Sis' last customer walked out the door.

There were road works. Freaky, freaky road works that made the trip even longer. Also, Sis had changed insurance companies a few years ago, and hadn't been to the building in ages. Google insisted we only had to drive for six minutes. A realistic estimate would have been fifteen.

A nice lady at the desk asked why we were there. I said I was a foreigner looking for health insurance so my boss could fufill his legal duty and pay for it, which meant my job registration could be fufilled. She called a colleague and directed us to a desk.

The colleage showed up within thirty seconds. I opened my mouth and started talking. The very pleasant woman asked where I was from. I told her and she apologised profusely and asked if we'd mind terribly moving across the very big room to another desk, where she had the forms for that.

I was feeling so downright pessimistic at that point, I decided we wouldn't be out of there before closing time. The tax officials themselves had no idea what certification had what name, banks failed to ask for information they legally needed... Why would Germany's largest health insurance provider be any different?

Well, because they're Germany's largest health care provider, and for good reasons.

The woman knew exactly which forms were needed, where they were and what information was necessary. The other woman in the cubicle scanned my identifications while our helpful angel looked up where W.'s company was in the database, which pieces of insurance paperwork things I still needed done ('everything' was an adequate answer, fufilled by ticking all the four boxes on the form) and we were done. I got a card, should any problems arise, with the lady's contact information, and both Sis and me got a towel. I was slightly baffled by this, but it was nice nonetheless.

Sis drove me home, where I realised I didn't have any more paperwork that needed doing right now. At least until Monday, I don't believe I can do anything by writing or so.

Which means I get to prepare for my parents visiting. Yeah, that realisation lit a fire under my backside.

So far, I've showered, folded laundry, started doing laundry, did the dishes, cooked dinner and brought it to my heart of hearts and sorted out the trash. I'd bring it downstairs, but my brain, after three months, still thinks green is for organic waste, black is for all waste and paper should go in bright blue. The color code is different in Germany, and it won't stick into my head. I'm going to have to ask Boyfriend to take it down later today or tomorrow. And the weekend will probably be dedicated to vacuuming, scrubbing floors, dusting, tidying and tackling the dog so we can put him under the shower. And, of course, more laundry.

The Reading

(I just noticed I've posted six posts every day for the last two days. Eek!

On an equally random note: I picked up a takeaway menu today where the German beer type 'pils' is misspelled 'pilz'. Which means they deliver half litres of either mushrooms or fungus. Or that the menu was written by someone not entirely proficient in German, since they have a little blurb stating that all food is made with only the freshest of additives, and German menus don't allow that kind of sarcasm, not even in the fast food industry.)

I love to read. I've been re-reading books I've taken with me over the past few weeks, I've torn through the Hunger Games in about three days, and my Christmas wishlist is going to consist of something along the lines of yarn store gift certificates, hopeful hints about jewelry I like to Boyfriend and a posting of my amazon.co.uk wishlist with a tiny note that, while amazon.co.uk charges shipping to Germany, Book Depository and Play.com do not.

But enough about me. Let's talk about Boyfriend.

See, Boyfriend's interested in reading. It's just that he gets distracted, easily. Some people say he has ADD. If he does, he has a very mild case of it in my opinion. But since he had the reaction of people lacking AD(H)D brain chemistry to medication for it, I'm skeptical. It got him out of military duty, because Germany is kind of nervous as to who it learns to handle weaponry and potentially put in war zones. You do not need someone to go 'Receiving enemy fir--Oh my GOD, that missile's dust cloud looks like a Transformer! I swear, dude, it's like a 3D movie in the sky!' in a foxhole.

But, like I said, easily distracted. He want to read Dracula, and I recommend he does. It's a fascinating read. We also have Fight Club, should he want to start short, and Emma by Jane Austen if he wants a total and utter mindfuck with a feminine twist. He's fascinated by it all.

I've been watching the BBC series Merlin for the last few weeks, and have a smattering of knowledge about Arthurian legend. So when I go like 'Gawain's a total horn dog' and Boyfriend argues that he's not even looking at Guinevere's bosoms when he flirts with her, I pull out my Longman Anthology of British Literature, volume A, found 'Sir Gawain and the Green Knight' and told him that the book had medieval porn in there. With violence and crossdressing and magic and everything.

That interested him, too. When I told him what an anthology of literature was, and that we had four of them (Well, two volumes of the Longman and two Nortons), his mind was blown. Interesting bits from books and literary works, short stories, from different times, perspectives, all in one handydandy volume? Awesome. (I receive regular confirmation that choosing Boyfriend was very much the right thing to do with my life.) He turned very careful when I told him how much the Longman was worth and how hard it was to get a hold of, but he still wants to read Sir Gawain.

And lately he's wanted to read. So he was directed to Amazons of all nationalities and a few key titles, most of which had the 'look inside' function. For those of you not into literature, it's the reading equivalent of crack. You read, get into it, get to page eight, and the preview stops mid-sentence. His Christmas list has since gained several titles that aren't in any way related to the current number one on Amazon.de top one hundred of video games (At the moment, it's Landswirtschafts-Simulator 2013).

But, like crack, you do not want to wait for your fix. So like an addict newly born, he ordered some books. One was a comic, because he likes comics and there's nothing wrong with doing so. The other was the true tale of a man doing nine thirty-day experiments and what he learned from them, which happened to be part of a four-book series that are loosely related to one another. I want ALL four. Boyfriend was interested in just that one.

The only problem is that I nabbed the book the day it arrived as Boyfriend was napping, spent the entire afternoon reading it, finished it, and now have to wait until he reads it and try to to give away any spoilers, despite the fact that my laughing at the last chapter was probably heard by anyone without a hearing aid in the building.

I might be in trouble.

The Birthday Calendar

I forgot my mom's birthday this year.

This is a small part of the reason why I'm nervous about my parents visiting. The other parts are that my mom is a teacher, and teachers believe in pointing out mistakes so people can learn from them, and I have a great many of them. Also, my dad's sense of humor is kind of whacky at the best of time, and his German is best described as 'improvised', but J. loves him and now several people want to meet him. Eek.

But back to the birthday thing. I mentioned this to J. J. is an understanding and kind person, but not where birthdays are concerned. Birthdays are to be celebrated, with food and gifts and family. If this cannot be arranged, a phone call with a 'happy birthday' slipped in casually should be provided, on the pain of torture and death a firm talking to.

My mom's birthday was three and a half weeks ago, and Sis' and W.'s were coming up.

So I got a birthday calendar.

Birthday calendars are one of the hardest things to find once you enter October. Especially if you have an accent, and people assume you're looking for a calendar for the next year. I wasn't. The store I eventually found it in had calendars on three of it's four floors. One floor was entirely calendars. All of them were for 2013. There were day planners and family calendars and tear-away-and-read-the-joke calendars. There were make-your-own-calendar calendars. If I'd have been looking for one, I'd have found one within five minutes of searching.

The birthday calendars were a crumpled mess of leftovers, hung up next to the random gift and plushie section, hidden behind a rack of shiny children's 2013 calendars.

On the plus side, the calendar I eventually found to suit my needs and budget in these dark and troubled times right before the holidays, was cheap, had cute but acceptably adult illustrations and could be hung up by balancing a butter knife on a shelf above the television.

Boyfriend thought that it looked unsafe, and probably was. I argued that the suction cup hooks we'd bought had either been put to un-missable use or disappeared. He went out and bought me a new packet. I hung up the takeaway menu and the calendar side by side on the fridge.

There's no birthdays next month. In December, there's at least four, on top of the one for Baby Jesus and Baby 2013. January is going to be a six-birthday month, I believe. God save me. Or at least make Skype phone subscriptions cheaper, so I can call people who have cell phones, too.