Gah. When I left Almaty, I managed to leave a lot of cash in the hotel safe. Now my office in Almaty is trying to retrieve it. We need a notarized letter from me with power of attorney for a woman in the Almaty office for them to do so. We went to the Ministry of Notarizing yesterday. (yes, there is only one notary in this fucking city and it’s a ministry) They looked at my nice, legal letter, written in Russian and English. And the guy there asked questions. Whose money was it, mine or the company’s? Why was I in Almaty? Why didn’t I have my own key to the safe? Our long-suffering driver tried to point out that it was the notary’s job to certify my signature, not discuss content, but they were not impressed by this argument. They said they didn’t know anything about this money or this safe and furthermore, they had no authority over things that went on in Kazakhstan. They refused to notarize the letter.

Today I will go to the American Embassy, where it will cost me $30 to have the letter notarized, but at least they understand the concept of a notary.

In other wildly annoying news, the housekeeper washed all my dirty clothes yesterday. Why is this annoying, you ask? Because 1) she is not supposed to do laundry and 2) she washed things that were dry-clean only. Like two pairs of suit pants. They seem to have come through okay, but I would have been pretty bitter to replace two suits.

Gulia just came into my office. “Violet, you look tired, or upset. Is everything okay?” I explained that I was just sick, again, for the millionth time. (I’ve had a stomach ache for three days) Now she brought me activated charcoal. How can I complain when my office is this good to me? And it occurs to me that activated charcoal might even help the situation.

Had I not already taken approximately 87 million sick days, I would be at home right now. Because I’m feeling pretty nauseous. But I’ve got a lot to do today, including a very important meeting, so I need to stick it out. I’m just really hoping I don’t puke.

I have had nightmares, two nights in a row. Yesterday’s was about a plane crash, and last night had something to do with serial killers. I need Kir back. Sleeping alone is no good.

In Istanbul, Kir asked if we could name a future baby Kir. Not the pseudonym that Kir represents in this journal, but “Kir.” He said it would be kind of like naming the (hypothetical. I am not pregnant. I promise. In fact, at this very moment I am menstruating) baby after him, only not exactly. I thought it was nice idea, and it made me feel like my husband takes this journal pretty seriously if he identifies so closely with his pseudonym. Would Kir be a weird name for a boy?

Yes, I miss my husband. I’m quite sure that’s normal.

Heh. Husband. Sometimes I’m still really amazed I got married.

Damn, today is a bad day. The brief burst of contentment engendered by thinking about Kir has now passed, and I am once again sitting here thinking about how much people scare me and what a really disturbing thing American culture is becoming. Thinking, specifically, of those people who devote their lives to fan fiction. Because, you know, pop culture is fun. Fan fiction is fun. But when your whole life revolves around television and movies, that’s scary. And, I think, an abdication of your nresponsibility as a citizen in a democracy.

If you live somewhere that you can’t vote, or elections are a ridiculous sham, like, say, Uzbekistan, then it’s okay to spend your life wondering what it would be like if Legolas and Aragorn got together for some hot monkey love. Because being politically aware and caring about your country and its future wouldn’t do you any damn good. But as long as you live somewhere that it is not only possible but in fact a cultural norm to be active in shaping your country, you have a moral obligation to do so.

And anyone smart enough to write quality fan fic certainly has the intellectual firepower to offer something useful to the national debate.

That does not mean, by the way, that I want people to start writing about current events in their on-line journals. I hate reading about people’s views on the war or whatever in personal journals. I read journals to peek into someone else’s life. See what they eat for breakfast and how their ride to work went. I don’t want to know their strategic views of how the war will proceed. If I want that, I will 1) read a newspaper 2) read a journal on foreign policy or 3) go to a journal or blog specifically devoted to that kind of thing.

I suspect there are some contradictions in this entry, but the charcoal is making me feel incredibly gross, so cut me some slack, everybody.

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USAID is one of many donors for the project I work for. The views expressed herein are the author’s own views and do not necessarily reflect those of the author’s employer or especially those of the United States Agency for International Development or the United States Government. And I mean it. I probably give the US government heart attacks.