Archives for February 2004

For Wendy’s contest, I was going to dredge up an old post with a cat in it (not hard to do), but in the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I’m going to share the cat love, revisiting some of my favorite pictures. Those of you who love cats, enjoy. Those of you who don’t, run away now.

My favorite Digit-sleeping photo:

One that I just took, through my bedroom window — he’s sitting outside in the planter box. (Note to self, put flowers in planter box):

You know how I sleep with Koigu? Adah sleeps with Horstia Tweed:

There’s a lot going on here. Kureyon raglan to the left, surfing blogs to the right, Digit wanting a scritch in the middle. You can just see that I’m wearing my yellow Lo-Tech and devil duck PJs. A good day:

Adah sleeps with a LOT of fiber:

Life is hard:

A special guest appearance, Sebastian. My sister Christy rescued him at age EIGHTEEN. He had been abandoned at the vet’s office, destined to live and die in his cage. A year later, he just had an operation to remove a huge (benign) tumor, and is doing well, considering the circumstances. Keep him in your kitty thoughts:

You made it this far, so here’s the first Cromarty sleeve!

And this captures the color of the Kersti best. Kinda matches my big guy, huh?

Scratches on the head for everyone!

So. Good god, if it ever gets to the point where it’s remotely serious and I have to tell her about the blog, this’ll have to be erased, so eat this note after you read it, ‘kay?

A Very Nice Time. She’s funny, and she smiles a lot: I think that’s what I like best. She seems quietly content in herself. I tend usually to be attracted the cynical, the depressed, the pessimistic. The occasional psychotic (no, you don’t know her). The opposite of me. She’s rather more like me than those I usually date, and that makes me wonder. Opposites are a pain in the ass, but you gotta admit, they attract. Boy howdy.

It was a very casual night, since she had only had a short nap after her 30 hour shift (and I complain?) and I got off work at seven. Late dinner at the taqueria down the street from my house, and then Pieces of April, which I thought was darling. Patricia Clarkson rocks the house. And Oliver Platt was very good. Katie What’sHerFace was very good, too, but I kept wanting to wipe off some of her eye makeup. She didn’t entirely convince me that she had a tattoo on her neck and black rubber bracelets. She’s so good looking.

Then a night walk back to my house, through my neighborhood, which never fails to make me happy. I actually kick up my heels sometimes. I try to do this surreptitiously, but people occasionally notice. I don’t think she did, though. It was a suave little hop. Yeah.

(Confession that I probably shouldn’t blog, so it’s that much more interesting: Awkward kiss at the car. No, really. So awkward I just started it over. I believe I said something inane like, “All righty.” Then a sweet kiss, but a little…. well, no word works but awkward. In the past, luckily, I’ve been more often confronted with the Oh-Lord-Wow-NOW kind of kiss, and this wasn’t it. I don’t tend to revisit awkward kisses. Call me non-old-fashioned. But this one I’d like to revisit. Maybe inside, with a bottle of wine (pity I don’t cook), instead of next to her car, standing in the road, in the cold. But I did want to kiss her more, so that’s a good sign.)

Men are easier,* I tell you that much.

Recently a friend asked me, upon hearing I had a website, “You have one of those online journals? [Snicker.] I could never do that, I’m too private.”

I responded, like I always do, with how I’m very private too, I just fool people into thinking they know more about me than they do, and that I just let them read only what I choose to reveal. I’m so private you think I’m NOT private!

I realize here and now, it ain’t true. I don’t have a private bone in my body. The only thing that censors me at ALL is the fact that my mom reads this blog. Hiya, little mama. Otherwise, we’d be discussing the fact that my darling friend Tara, who works for Toys in Babeland, thanked me yesterday for taping Keen Eddie episodes for her with this gift. Mom, don’t click. DON’T! Not work safe, either. (But everyone else, you know you want one. “Writer’s block will never be the same.” Heh.)

No knitting content today. But I’m almost done with the first sleeve. Yippee!

* Gross exaggeration, I realize, and could be construed as offensive. I don’t mean it like that at all. But they can sometimes be easier. Think about it. TWO women processing, all the time? Yow.

** Addendum, after several GREAT comments. Men do process. In fact, some men I have known process more than me. Maybe it comes down to what George Sand said, that the differences between the sexes are so tiny that we blow them up out of all proportion. Well, she said it better than that. Obviously. But you know what I mean. Mwah, keeses to all, men AND women. (Now the rumors start….)

New, real name. No lie:
Precious Cannister.

Yeah, that’s what I said.

I have a date tonight with Doc. (That’s what my friends at work have decided is her Sex and the City name–you know, along the lines of Mr. Big and The Russian.) Just a movie and maybe a bite. I’ll fill you in tomorrow…. Now, back to Cromarty.

Oh! And here’s my gal Kira’s leg with legwarmer sock (from Debbie Stoller’s Stitch ‘n Bitch) with Cascade Fixation from the Wonder Boys.

Ain’t it cute? The colors are awesome in person.
Mwah.

https://rachaelherron.com/new_real_name_n/

So, I just mailed the letter off to JM. Two and a half years of needing to, and it was easy when I finally got around to it. And I love the little stories I got from y’all in response yesterday, some good, some not-so-good. I don’t really care, one way or the other. I hope he forgives me. But if he doesn’t, it’ll be enough for me to have sincerely apologized. If he doesn’t care one way or the other, that’s okay, too.

I’ve confused a couple of people along the way, though. Talking to a friend about it this morning (I made her read the letter), she said, “So, are you a confused lesbian?”

Simple answer? Probably. I don’t want to be with a man right now, haven’t for years. Not in a year that begins with 2, anyway. But I have deeply, madly loved particular men, and I don’t completely rule it out for my twilight years. Might be nice to have someone to open the pickle jars (tongue-in-cheek here). But for now, women are where it’s at. Yep. Simple answer that doesn’t quite make sense. But it doesn’t have to. That’s my answer and I’m sticking to it.

Cromarty? Coming along. About ten inches up the first sleeve. Terrified I’m not going to have enough yarn – I’m thinking four balls per sleeve, and I’ve always considered the sleeves to be 1/3 of the whole enchilada. So that means approximately 24 skeins, and I have 18. And I believe the 18 I have are the complete dye lot. (A terrified hush falls over the crowd.) Stay tuned.

Funny – if you see below, I’m actually Sheltand Wool, not Shetland Wool. Heh.

Oh, I had a rough night last night. Started with a headache. I was very responsible, and after my 14 hour shift, I went to the pharmacy and picked up the Imitrex. Ain’tcha proud of me? Took it home, took a bath, took the medicine. Dude. How do people snort drugs? It was miserable, snorting that thing. There was an immediate rush, then a disgusting drip that lasted an hour. No immediate relief, but I fell asleep, so that was good.

Then I woke at 5am to a cat that wins the Most Irritating Feline award for 2004. And it’s only February. Adah’s found that clawing my new couch wakes me up. Oh, yes. It does. Then I feed her — yes, she thinks it’s a reward, but what am I supposed to do at five in the morning when she claws the couch every few minutes, just as I’m dropping back off to sleep? Digit, because of medical conditions, can’t eat her food, so I lock her in the bathroom. Approximately eleven seconds after she finishes inhaling her food, she hurls her solid little body at the door, over and over. And over. And over. So I get up to let her out. She then has the energy to tear around the house, up and over the kitchen countertops, knocking over anything I’ve left out, up and over my body, up and over Digit’s body. Digit is now PISSED off, so he starts squalling at the door. I get up to let him out. Twenty minutes later, there’s a screaming cat fight outside. He’s tangling with the neighbor cat, like he does everyday. Those neighbors HATE me and my cat (although their cat is always fighting with mine in MY yard), so I get up to break it up. When he comes in, HE wants to eat. In order to feed him, I have to separate them again, so Adah goes back into the bathroom. And starts hurling herself against the door again.

By now it’s six-thirty and I have to get up in an hour. The headache is back, with a vengeance. I finally fall into a nappish state and have a dream about the only ex-boyfriend I feel guilty about. JM was an angel, a beautiful man whom I truly, deeply loved, and then just let go, without much explanation. Two and half years ago, he left me a voice mail (since I was being an asshole and not answering my phone) saying he had a dream of me in which he let me go. Since then, I dream of him a couple of times a year. I see him walking away from me, and my heart breaks. It’s an awful dream, and it means that I have to contact him to apologize. I last had the dream in Venice, last March. I wrote him a letter while seated at a cafe table on the Grand Canal. I didn’t mail it.

I am not ashamed of any of my dealings with anyone. Except for him. Now I have to find the damn letter, open it, and decide whether to mail it or re-write it. But I have to exorcise this regret. I don’t regret not being with him. But I regret my behavior. I don’t care if he ever speaks to me; I just need him to know that I was scared and that I’m sorry.

And it’s all Adah’s damn fault, leaving me lying there, awake, thinking, watching the clock tick towards the alarm….

Back at work, only a 12 hour shift today. The headache is abating now — I think it’s more of a sinus thing today. Cromarty is coming along. Damn, this sweater is going to take forever, but it’s such a pleasant forever. Oh! I have to go test which fiber I am.

You are Shetland Wool.
You are a traditional sort who can sometimes be a
little on the harsh side. Though you look
delicate you are tough as nails and prone to
intricacies. Despite your acerbic ways you are
widely respected and even revered.

What kind of yarn are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Good god. Acerbic? But shetland wool, whoopee!