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Five months in county, folks, and two months at Site. Only twenty-two months left!

Yesterday was Dr. Whosday, originally scheduled for Tuesday but pushed back because MA's host mother has a slight case of paranoia—if it snows she could be stuck at Site for three days, and also, her Russian tutor is a spy. Valya made plov, and we bought many different juices, including pumpkin juice, which was an interesting taste experience. (It's very thick and, well, pumpkiny. Not entirely bad.) We also watched through the end of the Ninth Doctor series, and I have to admit, during "The Empty Child" and "The Doctor Dances" there was jumping and clinging going on. I don't handle child monsters very well at all. (But, oh, John Barrowman! Now I understand what half my flist has been going on about all this time…)

We also commiserated about MA's school director, who has some pretty outrageous ideas about what MA can accomplish for a summer camp. I've agreed to help, but right now the challenge is talking the director down from twelve weeks of camp (which isn't even physically possible, because it would overlap with exams) to a seven-week program: one week training college kids as counselors, then three two-week sessions for different age groups. This has to be officially overseen by a committee of host country nationals, and the director will be on that committee, which might create some difficulties if she's still convinced that she can design this grandiose camp and then PCKZ will just give her all the money and volunteers needed to make this happen. (That actually seems to be the usual process here: sign kids up first, then figure out what you're going to do with them, and only then figure out how to pay for it all.)

And, sadly, I also confirmed that at this point, it's basically impossible for me to vote in Missouri's primary; I was a twit who didn't request my ballot soon enough and there's no way it's going to get here and back again in time. This pisses me off, particularly since I figured it out the same day I got another NEWSWEEK, one with a cover story on Barak Obama, who, I admit, is also in the potential celebrity boyfriend category. Or, well, not quite. Because, see, I supported Gore and Kerry before, mostly for not being George W. Bush, but Obama is the first candidate I support for himself. I want him to be my president. I want him to be my JFK, and this to be my Camelot. I want to make the United States great and not just powerful. I want my country to be the kind of place that picks a smart guy with good ideas instead of the loudest wingnut on the block. I want hope. But, you know, I'm two weeks out of the primary loop, and at the same time I don't want to want all that—I'm terrified that he won't be that man, I won't be that girl, that I'll be getting my hopes up for nothing. I mean, I'll vote for whichever Democrat gets picked—all the Republicans terrify me deeply for different reasons—but I'll just be voting for a Democrat. I want to vote for Barak.

Forecast high for today: -23C. Wish me luck.