Archives for August 2003

Getting ready to go, packing up, being my normal anal self. Lists and more lists. Re-written lists. Checking things off and then double-checking.

I LOVE lists.

Strawberry Festival starts tomorrow afternoon, and I can’t wait to be there. Four days of bluegrass and sun and swimming in the lake and dancing and beer and my whole family playing guitars.

Last year the family couldn’t make it, and I went by myself. Camping alone was a little alarming to think about (oh, you should have seen THOSE lists), but it was a blast. Met a woman named Alpha who went swimming with me in Frog Lake every day. It’s aptly named – hundreds of teeny tiny little frogs to play with while you’re swimming, putting them on your hand and watching them plop back into the water. One afternoon, as we were squelching through the slime to get to the cool water, Alpha felt something dry and crinkly in the bosom of her antique bathing costume. Thinking it was an old tag, she reached in and pulled out….. a dry, dead frog. A frog that had been there since the day before, when we’d gone swimming and it had apparently hitched a ride. Then she’d ridden off on her bike for a full afternoon of contra-dancing and guitar playing and dinner eating, all the while carrying her friend with her.

I’ve never heard anyone scream any louder than that.

So I’m off. Have a great Labor Day weekend! I leave you with a couple of pieces from my Lo-Tech Sweat – all done but part of the hood and the pockets.

I’m not bringing it with me – I figure I’ll spend time making some mousies for the Mouse-A-Thon and maybe finish some socks.

Ah, summer….

Dude. Let’s talk Bravo Queer TV.

Damn it to hell – I’m DEVASTATED that tonight wasn’t the final Boy Meets Boy, and I’m terrified that yes, Franklin

will be the straight one. AND I have to work next week. If any of you email me on Tuesday night next week, please, for pity’s sake, don’t tell me who won – it’ll have to wait till the morning when I can watch the tape.

Here’s how Mopsie, who’s done the math, put it: That terrible pairing off they did? It was so the producers could assure that gaydar wouldn’t rule the game, and that a straight guy would make it to the top three. We already knew that. But Mopsie has a memory, unlike me, and reminded me that Sean (straight) was paired with Franklin.

Aargh.

And Wes makes my skin crawl. He’s fake, sooooo fake.

I NEED him to be the straight one.

Please. Don’t ask me the hard questions right now.

Wes. Ew.

Ew, ew, ew!

All I know for sure is that Queer Eye (no spoilers) was the best ever, and I loved the big Greek boy. I think it’s hot how the Fab 5 have gained such instant popularity. And the Fab 5 aren’t hiding; they’re not being politically correct. At all! Please! Did you hear Carson’s comment on the chocolate last week? My ears! And I’m good at this game! I can only hope that… what? ….that there IS hope. That a completely straight goofy Greek boy can be swept away by five queers on national prime-time television, so much so that he embraces them out of sheer excitement for how much they’ve helped him (or by how much schwag they’ve thrown his way, which is, let’s face it, a considerable amount). Even Mom Georgia from the old Greek country toasts them, which was freaking adorable.

Sigh. QEFTSG made up for the disappointment that was Boy.

I’m investing in Bravo.

I’ve really been enjoying The Book of Salt, even though it’s not something I would normally pick up. I know I’d read about it when it came out – the fictionalized account of Gertrude Stein’s cook. Nuh-UH! Are you kidding me? That kind of thing normally leaves me cold. But a friend lent it to me, and I started reading it without reading the jacket. By the time it came to me that I knew what the book was about, it was too late. Now I have to keep reading for the language.

Yep, it’s over the top all right, but somehow Truong gets away with it. It might be because the book is ABOUT language that she can get away with being so purple, but I don’t hate its luridness. Actually, I’m digging it.

Just listen to this about jade:

Oh, you know what? Never mind. (This is still me, not Truong.) What was purple and moving in bed after a cocktail last night (see below) is now just annoying. I’ll just show you MY jade instead:

When I was little (you’ve heard this already? I’ve written it? You know I’ve forgotten if I have), I always had a plastic tiki. My mother had the real greenstone one. She told me on every trip to New Zealand that when I was a grown-up lady, I could buy myself one. Always the pragmatist, my mother. So last year, when the whole family went, I did. It’s one of my three most precious objects. (Not that I really have three, I just bet I could come up with three if pressed….)

And I do believe that it’s the most alive kind of stone. It does feel like it breathes next to me, and the way it warms up against my skin is comforting. When I was dating T, she had such respect for it (not that she doesn’t now, you know what I mean…..) She refused to touch it at all. While this felt a little silly, I really liked that she felt like she did – that she believed there was power in such a little item. The other day at Peppa, a couple of women closed their unknown fingers right around it: “Oh, how pretty! What is it?” Nooo!

Okay, just a few lines from the book.
On making love with someone with whom a common language is not shared: “We will attempt to tell stories to each other using just one word.” Too rich, but sweet. My teeth ache in a good way.
Also on sex: “There is no narrative in sex, in good sex that is.” And I like it that she doesn’t try to force such a narrative.

Tonight: Boy Meets Boy finale. I’m terrified that Franklin will be the straight one, and that will be too horrible. It has to be Trying-to-Have-Gay-Hair Pompous Ass Wes, it just HAS to be. I can hardly wait.

Isn’t that an Alison Kraus song?

Just a quick note to say that: Seagram’s 7 and San Pellegrino Aranciata can, in a pinch, become a new favorite drink. It’s like a mimosa, but with a dash more sass, and a quirky one-two punch. Think I’ve found my campin’ libation of choice.

Off to bed with me. ‘Night.

Why doesn’t the Tiger Balm pot ever run out? Have you noticed that? I’m sure I’ve bought Tiger Balm before – I remember buying some in New Zealand when I hadn’t brought mine – but I can’t remember ever HAVING to. There’s always some more left. I have one little jar of the ultra-strength that I can trace to a relationship nine years ago. There’s still plenty left. And I use it all the time! Not sparingly, either. Here’s the Ancient One:

Is it odd that I time things by relationships? Do others do that? I used to remember my hairstyles by the person I was with at the time. It’s been a busy year, though, so lately I’ve been remembering to get my hair cut by using dating as a clock. Oh, god, I haven’t talked to her in about eight weeks. I had just had a haircut then. Must be time to get another one.

Why can’t I simply remember it was December of 1999 when I cut my thumb so badly that I needed surgery? Why do I have to remember that Lynn and I were breaking up in order to place the date? Years don’t mean that much, I guess. People do. That’s the simple answer.

Of course, during the longer ones, two and three year relationships, I lose all track of time. I can trace particular cars owned and food likes and CDs bought only to time frames. Between 2000 and 2002. Somewhere around 1994 or 1996. I know who was IN said car or liked said CD, but that just narrows it down some.

It’s why I write so much, always have, in either morning pages or online: It’s because I CAN’T REMEMBER ANYTHING. I’m legendary for it at work. I don’t remember a thing people tell me. It makes me a safe repository for secrets, I can tell you that much. You can’t spill what you can’t remember. Just yesterday, I was watching an early episode of Queer Eye with my sister Christy. When Jai (AKA QueerEye Candy, ‘cause he never gets to DO anything) came on, I got all excited. “Hey! You know what! He’s…. He can….. I think he was a singer…. or something…..”

Christy looked at me and said, “He was in Rent on Broadway. I told you that.”

Partners hate this in me. But they can tell me their best stories, over and over again…. That’s a plus, right?

I’m so rambly today. Have a lot to do to get ready for Strawberry and I’m not doing anything. I think I’ll read blogs and knit instead. I JUST managed to line up the cat-sitter a few minutes ago. Nothing like the last minute, says I.

Oooh – didja see? The Grammar Avengers webring is now official, thanks to Em! Link to right. Let me just state for the record – I know and understand most rules of grammar. But I either 1: break them on purpose for effect or 2: break them because I’m lazy. I joined because no matter what I say, I’m still obsessed with THINKING about grammar. Even if it don’t show much a’tall in practice. Yup.

And just for fun, here’s Digit a few minutes ago: (check out those extra toes….)

Had a ball yesterday – got off work at 7am, and managed to get a lovely long nap at home. Karen picked me up about 2pm and we drove into the City to go to Peppa. Freaking gorgeous day – warm, clear, everything that San Francisco usually isn’t. Peppa is an afternoon dance that’s held at a club in the Mission. It’s officially a Women of Color dance, but as you can tell from my photos, I am decidedly NOT a WOC. (I call myself a MockWOC – or, since this was Peppa, I called myself Salt.) But the women are mostly non-discriminating, and as long as you have a WOC or two somewhere in your entourage, you can dance the day away in the large patio garden.

We got there early, met up with Jenn and Geena, and unlike the last time I was there, there was an interesting hour of very junior-high behavior. Everyone stood around in groups along the edges of the patio, everyone watching each other, rating, discussing, and NOT dancing. It took the two boys who managed to get past the bouncer and a girl with no shoes to kick it off, but we were the second little group on the floor, and the floor filled up fast. Oh, the beauty of a hundred and fifty girls dancing in the sun…. T’s face, when she arrived from the Giants game and saw this vision, was priceless. She just kept shaking her head, “I didn’t know…..”

Afterward, we met up with a couple of T’s friends and wound up at some art-opening slash surf-punk thing – loads of garishly over-the-top art filled with dead things, either painted in reds and blacks or actually made up of rat bones. People milling about, looking impressed. I had no opinion about the art (or at least, no GOOD opinion) so I kept my mouth shut and we found the bar. Karen and I only lasted there for about half-an-hour, but T really wanted to hear the band, so we left her there and we headed over to the Wild Side where we shot pool and chatted up the locals. I kept having surreal moments where I’d be introduced to someone, and I’d realize I recognized her from my Friendster list. That’s when technology reaches the point of absurdity.

It was SUCH a good night. Day. Whatever. Knowing I don’t have to be back at work for ten days, knowing I had nothing to do but hang out….. Knowing that I could either ride home with Karen or take BART back….. It was a loose, easy day, and today I’m just so damn lazy that I can’t stand it. I never want to leave my apartment again. I really might crawl right back into bed and keep reading The Book of Salt. Oh! Discussion of Secret Life of Bees starts today in the knitblog readers group, doesn’t it? Have to hop over there and see what’s going on.

Knitting news – working on the sleeves of the LoTech Sweatshirt – forgot to bind off 7st at the raglan edge on each sleeve, had to frog for miles. Erg. I only frog when patently necessary, as this was. Too annoyed.

But blissed out otherwise. What a good Sunday!