Archives for June 2004

And I’ve got a lil article in the sexy mag…..
Whee! I’ve had such a great day!

Good grief.

Check:

$3006.

Aiiiiyeeeeaiiiiyowyowyow! That’s the sound of me jumping up and down all over my living room and dining room, waving my hands and stomping my feet. It ain’t pretty. Both cats are now under the bed.

Sandy and Don were the two who put me over the top. Bless your hearts, both of you, ALL of you. Greta, honey, you were right. It happened. And how.

I’m changing the donate button over there to direct to the Team 911 pledge site (“The only thing we’re used to running is a hot bath”). If you’d still like to donate, it’ll go to getting my three fabulous wonderful coworkers to the run. And you’ll still get my undying thanks and your name listed and some stitch-markers, to boot.

IT’S NOT EVEN JULY YET! I thought I’d be struggling with this until, like, November.

Bless your hearts, every one of y’all. Love love love.

Aaaayoweeyowweeeeeeeeaiiiiiiaaaaaioooooooohooogah! I have to go try to calm down…. No, why bother? Yipppppeeeee!

What a response! At first I have to admit I felt a little chagrined – my pal that got bashed isn’t a good friend, I only see her situationally, when I’m in the City hanging with a certain group of friends. I adore her and think there’s nothing happier in this whole world than her huge laugh, and Cat playing Flip Cup is one of the great wonders of the world, but I wouldn’t call her up if I was having a bad day. I have her email, but not her cell number. You know? I started to feel like I shouldn’t be receiving such lovely, caring comments.

Then I realized that you weren’t responding because she was a close friend of mine, you were responding because you understand that it happened in my world, something that never should have happened, and should never happen again. And yet it does, and it will. Your thoughts do support her and heal her, and they support and heal me, too.

It does suck, though, huh? I sometimes forget how blessed I am to have a family that loves me, and friends that support me, and a community (online and in person) that protects me. I forget that there a whole lot of people who use the word “dyke” as an epithet. I forget that they live so close to me. I picture that kind of ignorant person living in the back of beyond, somewhere far away, having dropped out of school in third grade due to unfortunate circumstances and never having had the opportunity to learn love. I forget that that kind of hatred can be bred in affluent, well-educated families, and that they can live next door to me, and they can smile and let me go ahead of then in the grocery store line, because I don’t “look” gay.

Erg. I don’t want to think about it anymore. Can’t. I’ve always refused, flat-out, to be ruled by fear in any way. We’re all in danger at every minute. When I eat bread, I could choke. When I drive, a drunk driver could hit my car. When I walk, a tree limb could break as I’m under it. Terrorists could attack. Or Bush could start a war (no, wait….). You just have to stand tall and enjoy as much of it as you can. Right? And love.

Have I made it perfectly clear yet how wonderful my readers are? How loving they are? How SMART they are? I am a lucky, lucky girl. And I’m a lucky girl who’s already done her writing for the day, and it’s still early, so I have time to cruise blogs for a bit. I took myself off line this past weekend, almost entirely. Didn’t post, didn’t even check email or any blogs. I need to do that more often. It was quiet and nice. But I missed you.

Have you noticed (of course you have) the lack of Knitting Content? That’s because it’s been slow around Casa Rachael – still working on the Brick Joy cabled DB cardie – only have the back to finish, then joining pieces and picking up and making hood. I find the yarn almost impossible to photograph, so I haven’t bothered. Picture deep red/orange, lots of cables. There. You get it. I sent a pair of RealQuick Socks to a friend recovering from a bad fall – orange and purple Horstia tweed, and I regret I didn’t get a pic of them – they were my first socks made using worsted weight, and they were FAST (just used Wendy’s magic toe-up formula, which works on any size needle, any gauge yarn).

Hey! Bethany’s home. No, I mean it. I haven’t talked to her yet today, but she should be at Mom’s by now. She’ll spend two weeks in California, and then she’s on to settle for a time in Montana where she’ll be working and playing, thanks to an Artist’s Grant that she received from a lovely, lovely, lovely friend. But the road trip that lasted almost a year is over. I’m so proud of her.

Now. Mwah.

I found out that after the dyke march on Saturday, one of my pals was bashed. She was beaten up, kicked and punched by a drunk male who broke her nose, threatened to rape her friend, then went on to beat up the same friend and punch three other women. He was arrested, that’s the only good part of the whole story. He’ll have a felony hate crime permanently on his record. Forever. District attorneys aren’t pleading out hate crimes right now, thank god. It’ll stick.

I think a lot of people picture Gay Pride as a parade full of queens wearing boas and tiaras and little else. But that’s the smallest, most colorful side of it, and it’s all the news cameras care to catch. What it really is: It’s the grouping of women and the people who love them on the lawn in Dolores Park on Pink Saturday, before they march through the streets, peacefully and joyously, with no corporate advertising or sponsorship, just regular women walking with their friends, safe. It’s the families who gather on the lawn at the Civic Center on Sunday, dads with their children, grandparents and friends and co-workers who picnic and people-watch and apply sunscreen. It’s seeing the way you love reflected, for the only time all year, back to you in hundreds of different happy faces, faces that look just like yours, or look very different. It’s being able to kiss your girlfriend without doing that tiny look-around first – that safety check that we do without even registering that we’re doing it. It’s being able to dance together outside, in the sun. It’s safety in numbers. It’s pride.

Bashed. In San Francisco. On Pride weekend. No one’s safe, and it makes me terribly, awfully sad.

Howdee. All right. I’m all Prided out. I’m such a wuss – I could only bear to go to Saturday’s activities. Never even made it to the big parade on Sunday. But I had a blast – met up with some friends at a party in the Castro, and then we walked to Dolores Park where the Dyke March sets up. Didn’t listen to ANY of the impassioned speeches or the angsty music, just chilled up by the swings and tried to coordinate meetings of friends. Lost one group of friends completely when I went to watch the bikes leave, and joined up with another group.

Oh, the power of that roar. The lesbian yawp. They’re getting ready to go:

And they’re off!

The woman above was dancing on top of a phone booth, clearly having had a little too much to drink. At one point she slipped off, and thousands of women gasped. At any other event, no one would have noticed her fall. But with that many women in one place, even the toughest looking mamas on their bikes stopped revving their engines and asked each other, is she okay? Everyone stopped having fun and stared until she was lifted back up and started to dance again. A great roar went up and the party started again.

After the bikes left, we walked around and set up our dance area up the street. We handed out kisses (mostly Hershey’s) to the girls walking by. We were lucky enough to be standing right in front of a building that had people hanging from every window throwing beads. I say no more.

May I just add that I learn VERY slowly? I left early in the evening, back on BART by ten thirty or so, and I only had a couple/three beers over the course of the afternoon/evening (oh, and a little vodka cran, but that was an accident waiting to happen). So, tell me. How did I feel in the morning when I woke at 6:30 to go running with my pace group? Like hell. Yeah. Huh. And I have a master’s degree.

But hangover aside, the running went great – splendid. Not one pain from the shin-splint area. They’ve got hot spots now, so I did strain them a bit, but I’ll rest them some more and do a little more pool-running (sigh) this week, but I’m so THRILLED that what I’m doing is working.

And check:

This is from Chrissie, who rocks! What a spoil of gifties in the mail! I’m going to sit on the couch and read them now. Chrissie, send me an email again – I’ve lost your email address.

I’ve added to the list of sponsors to the right. If you’ve donated, please make sure you’re on the roll, that I’ve got your name spelled right, and that I’ve attached your website, if any….. And email me with your address if you’d like those stitch markers (when I get my butt in gear and make them…) The marathon website has fallen way behind, and I know that at least two people (Mandy and Shobhana) have had their cards charged, but the money hasn’t shown up in my account. I’m going to be calling the marathon this week to straighten it out, so let me know if you’re not on my list…..

And know that you are loved and thanked and thought of, all the time!

Really. This is true. Mwah. Happy Monday.

(PS — just had to take my tagboard down — got zapped with a spammer thing that made pop-ups hit my site…. sorry if you got zapped before I closed it…. ugh.)

It’s hot today. Hot for Oakland, that is. It’s got to be at least eighty out here in the shade. I do realize that’s nothing compared to real heat, but heck, if Oakland got real heat, I’d move. I hate being too warm. It’s kind of a problem sometimes. Most of my life I’ve actually rather dreaded summertime, for the sole reason that it’s soooo far from fall and winter and the brisk cool weather that I adore.

This season, however, I’m kind of digging this whole summer thing. I’ve been outside more, maybe that helps. I haven’t had a garden in so long that I had forgotten how nice it is just to be outside, yet still in your own space. And I’ve got so many fun things planned that when I open my calendar I’m kind of overwhelmed. In a good way, mind you. Diamonds on the soles of my shoes, I know.

THIS weekend, party people, is Pride. I’ve got several parties lined up tomorrow before the Dyke March, which to me and my friends is what Pride is all about. You can keep the big scary parade on Sunday with the millions of people thronging to watch men in very little leather, but the Dyke March, oh, yeah. Especially Dykes on Bikes. Cliched, yes. But there is NOTHING like standing on the sidewalk, watching them line up, and looking down the street and realizing that you can’t even see the end of the women on motorcycles, they go for so many blocks. You can’t talk to your friends because of the roar that shakes the ground, but you can point and whoop and jump up and down. Then they all roar off in a wondrous thunder and thousands of women say, “oooooohhhhh,” all in unison.

It’s a lovely thing.

This year, a group of friends and I are doing the same thing we did last year. We’ll watch the bikes leave, and then go around the march by walking back streets until we get to the strategically parked pick-up truck. We’ll open all the doors and windows, crank the stereo, get in the back and dance as the marchers go by. This time, I’m telling you, I’m bringing candy to throw.

Basically it’s lesbian mardi gras. What could be better?

On Sunday, we have a training run, though, so I can’t/won’t drink very much tomorrow or I’ll be HURTING. And then we hope to go down to the parade afterwards and shake a coffee can for marathon donations. I kind of hate fundraising like that, and I kind of like it. I’m good at it. It all goes into the Team 911 fund, along with the awesome Rosenblum Grant (I like the sound of that). I’ve been doing a lot to try to raise the money for the team, so all four of us can go. It sucks to fundraise (how is that even a verb?), but I wasn’t raised by a grant-writer for nothin’. I’m dedicated enough to this marathon that I’m happy to work hard to help my friends.

But in my personal marathon account, dear friends, I’m up to $2701.20. Yes, you DID read that right. Is that amazing? I am still in AWE. Kind of an odd total, though, isn’t it? I shouldn’t spill what someone donated (tacky, I know) but I hope my friend Hedi (of Mariko fame) won’t mind that I tell you that she donated $26.20. I sat at work and just stared at that amount, willing it to make sense. Was she adding tax? Then I got it.

26.2 miles = marathon. Isn’t that the best?

Where was I? Oh, yes. I’ve decided that all this street-pounding work I’ve been doing for Team 911 is great, but it’s all going into the team account. My personal account will be made up of knitters. It’s YOU. My own marathon is backed by friends I’ve made through this very blog, and I feel so lucky and so happy and so blessed that I can say that. And so proud of my little on-line family!

I still have those moments in which I think, “What the hell am I doing? I’m not athletic. I don’t run. I barely (hah! Typo: barfly) walk. I can’t ever ever ever run a marathon.” I actually had this conversation with myself this morning before my bath. Then I thought of you all. You believe in me. I will, too.

(And check OUT my new sponsor button on the right that Melissa made for me. How cool is she? Go ahead, baby. Steal it!)

Have a Proud weekend! See you Monday. Love.