Archives for August 2004

Early Saturday morning, when I was at work, I turned the page in my calendar to the first week of September and realized something rather important. I’ve got the week off. I knew with my literal brain that I had the first week of September off. Sure. But my workaday brain had not really processed when that week was going to take place. It takes conscious effort for me sometimes to remember what season I’m in, let alone what month. The day, forget it.

So as of five am, when I got off work, I was off for the next ten days. Postings will be scarce ‘round here during that time. The ‘rents are coming in to town on Wednesday, sending Dad up to secure camping on Thursday, Mom and I are driving up Friday, and we’ll listen to bluegrass all freakin’ weekend in the sun. Oh! Must bring an easy knitting project. I would never subject Cromarty to the dirt and dust. I can’t wait.

I had the most blissfully hedonistic weekend. I didn’t do anything I didn’t want to do, except get out of bed yesterday and go for a quick run. But even that felt good. Quit laughing. I can see you.

Anyway, great weekend. I saw friends, and met new ones, and ate sushi and laughed a hell of a lot. One of those deep-happy weekends. I can barely move now, even today. Soooo lazy.

So, because I’m too lazy to write anymore, here’s a picture of Digit. I’ve got no idea how he got up there, but I had to help him down.

Enjoy your week, all. Mwah!

The car’s repaired, to the tune of $600. Those of you who know me in my natural environment, please know that I’ll be staying in a lot for a while. But as someone recently told me, there’s nothing wrong with drinking cheap beer and thinking cheap thoughts.

I can do that.

I ran Lake Merritt yesterday. I parked, ran around it in 39 minutes, average time for me, and got back in my car. I turned the key. Nothing. Zip. You know that weak growl you get when a battery is close to dying? I didn’t have that. I didn’t even have the click. Just absolutely nothing.

Sigh. I was one of the last hold-outs to get a cell phone, but now I love mine, and thank god for it. Within minutes I had AAA enroute, I had told the garage I’d be on my way, and I had arranged a ride from my generous sister Christy from the garage.

Then I sat. I steamed. Literally. I was all damp and soggy from the run, and it was still warm out, so I felt like a tamale in my car. I could have put the top down, but by that point I was avoiding the sun. I rummaged in the back seat and god bless my packratedness, I found Middlesex by Eugenides, still in its bookstore bag. I had forgotten I had even bought it. I put my aching legs up on the dash and had myself a little read. I watched the people go by. I hung my legs out the window, where they got more breeze, and I watched the people watch my legs. They all looked suspicious of them. What? You never saw legs sticking out? I had a couple of stare-downs with children. I lost.

Then the tow truck arrived, and I fell in love with my driver. Greg. Good old Greg. Here he is:

He made me feel like a million bucks, sweaty and steamy as I was. He tried all sorts of little tricks before he gave up and hooked it up to the truck. When I told him which garage I was taking it to, he called ahead and said we were on our way.

He looked at me when we were on the freeway and said, “You know, men are dumb.”
“What?”
“At least you had your hood up. You had cleaned off the battery connectors. You tried. When a woman gets a flat tire, she gets in the trunk and pulls out the tire iron and the jack and at least gives it a shot. I’ve rolled up on guys who’ve been waiting for three hours for me to get there and see if they have a jack. And me and this buddy of mine, we kept track for like a year. It’s mostly the guys who lock their keys in the car, you know that? And leave their lights on so the battery flats out. It’s ’cause they can’t do two things at once. You know….”
“Multi-tasking?”
“Yeah. They can’t do that. Women can. Men are dumb.” He shook his head and then smiled.
“You’re not dumb.”
“Nah, I mean in general.”

Well, okay then.

When we got to the garage, I was over my five mile tow limit. I asked how I would pay him. He said, “Let me think about that while I unhook.” He dropped the car and then shook my hand. “You take care of yourself. How long is your ride going to be? You okay waiting here?”
“The payment?”
“Take care. I’ll see you down the road.” With a wink, he was gone. I lurve Greg. I’ve already called AAA and sent an electronic commendation, and I’ve written the letter to his boss which I’ll mail today.

I lurve Oakland, too. That kind of thing just happens here. Now, let’s think cheap-fix thoughts. I can’t afford an expensive repair right now…. Oh! And it’s Friday! (Isn’t it? I might have lost track….) Happy weekend, all!

I’ve mentioned my pal Marama before. I adore her. She’s my coworker and running mate in Team 911. I wouldn’t be running this marathon without her. She’s also my shopping coach. I pretty much hate to shop, unless I know exactly what I want and can go in and get it, without passing go, without collecting $200, without dealing with screaming children and/or full-grown men, without having anything to do with a price check of any kind. If it involves a line, I get a little antsy. Like, twitchy. Like, you’d look at me in the Walmart line and worry about my trembling lower lip. You might change check-out lanes. Marama is the person I call when I need something like running shoes or a bookcase or a snowsuit.

She knows where the deals are. On Tuesday, she stopped by Ikea on her way to work. Red flag number one. Can you imagine just popping in to Ikea? Dude, I have to gear myself up for WEEKS to do that. But nope, she drops by and sure enough, she finds something. She finds something good. She’s been needing a bedframe/headboard for her guest bed and finds a simple wooden one marked down to ten dollars. Ten freaking dollars. So she buys it. She takes it outside to her car.

Marama got in a minor fender-bender last week (not her fault) and is driving a rental car considerably smaller than her usual vehicle. She stands outside and tries to put the frame in the trunk. No way is it going to fit. She tries to squeeze it into the back seat. No dice. She puts all the seats down and tries it again. Nope. She takes it out of the box and wrestles with it some more. Still no. She curses and huffs and swears until it’s half-past four. She has to be at work at five. And now it’s too late to stand in line (it’s Ikea, I remind you) to return it or to order home delivery.

Tell me. What does she do?

It was ten dollars. She leans it against a tree and drives away.

She thought about writing something on the box like, “If you can fit it in YOUR damn car, you can have it.” Or just: “I give up.”

We laughed about it at work that night. She made jokes about driving by to see if it was still there at three in the morning when she got off. Yeah, right. Heh, heh. In freakin’ Emeryville. Bordering Oakland. SURE, it’ll be there.

But she drives by. And it’s there, still leaned against the tree, papers and little rig-em-up doojabber tools all still intact. So she starts to wrestle it again. Same box, same car, a more determined person.

There’s a car sitting in the lot, occupied by one guy. He’s backed into the space, and he doesn’t look like security. He’s far enough away that Marama doesn’t pay him much mind. She does notice, however, when another car drives in and backs into a parking place. The second guy sits there and watches her, too.

A third guy in a Lexus pulls in, backs into a space, and stares at her. She begins to wonder if the Ikea parking lot is the new cruising area for gay men. Another car pulls in. Another man just watching her.

One gets out of his car and approaches her. He’s smoking a cigarette and looks tough. “It’s never going to go in there.” She decides that he’s kind of preoccupied with the cigarette in one hand and that she might get a good sucker-punch in if needed. She starts planning her way out. She feels for her cell phone. He takes the box and levers it into the trunk and manages to find things to tie it in place. “That’ll do,” he says. Another car pulls in. “Oh,” he says. “There’s my boss.” And with that, the Ikea work crew goes into the building.

I woulda had a heart attack. I would have. I swear. She was a braver woman than I would have been. She said it did cross her mind that she was risking rape, carjacking, or even just a plain ole mugging for a ten dollar headboard, but damn, that bed is going to have a story.

This is why I don’t shop. (Yarn doesn’t count.)

(Neither do books.)

(They don’t, really.)

It’s Finished Object Day here at Casa Rachael. FO! FO! (And a fee and a fi in there somewhere, too. Fum.)

First, let’s look at the group shot, shall we?

The FOs had a party on my couch. It’s a good place to have one, I suppose, but it’s hard to tell who’s who, no? Let’s pull ‘em apart. My friend Monica (mother of the adorable Winter) is having a baby girl who is probably going to be named Luna Amelia (unless she pops out and has other wild suggestions, as sometimes happens). Monica’s probably having this wild baby at this very moment, or at least we hope she is, as she’s been in labor for over a week, poor thang. This is a wee jacket (pattern HERE) and unfortunately you can’t see the button (and I didn’t think to take a close-up)—it’s a blue house with a blue moon sailing over the top.

And then, we got socks. Boy, do we got some socks. I have a VERY bad habit of making socks for myself and immediately giving them away. I haven’t kept socks for myself in years. But darling Leslie gave me this yarn, a wonderful merino Interlacements Toasty Toes, and I’ve been making this pair last on the needles. Even so, when I finished them last night, I thought. Hmmm. I know someone who would LOVE these. Mental slap. No! That person is me! So I put them on today (and god knows with the feet I have right now, no one else would want them after that) and showed them to Adah. She was not impressed.

She had slipped a little on that beanbag. She’s usually perched a little higher, like this:

That was the beanbag which used to frighten her. When I used to want to keep her out of my bedroom, I would drag the beanbag to the doorway, and she wouldn’t go over it. Now, it’s her best friend in the whole world. Digit looks on in jealousy, too scared to walk on it (even though with his extra toes he could snowshoe right over it).

And then, we have the Good Ole Cabled Scarf (my free pattern HERE).

My camera, while I love it, has decided it hates red in the last few months. I probably took forty pictures and this was the best one, the least distorted. It’s really kind of a pain in the ass, since I only seem to be using red and orange lately. Maybe the camera is just tired. I would be, I suppose.

Speaking of reds, I cast on a little shrug-thingie last night, using that Kyoto from Artfibers, that glowing yarn that makes people stop in their tracks and wonder if the silk has been unnaturally irradiated at some small local power plant.

I got this far before realizing that I only have two balls of it, and the last time I went to the store, Kira said they were out of that colorway. As the store is so closely tied to the fashion industry, when a color is out, there’s no guarantee it’s coming back. And even if it did, I wouldn’t be able to afford to buy enough to make a whole shrug (gah, I dislike that word). So I’m going to rip it and make a delicate scarf. Me ‘n’ scarves! Who knew?

I dreamed about knitting last night for the first time in a long time. I was on the run from the law (hmmm), but I found myself in a park, wearing an incredible white sweater (much like Becky’s new jaw-dropping one, actually). I was also, oddly enough, wearing a ball gown under it, and I was GORGEOUS. Old pin-up gorgeous. I’m usually just kinda cute, I suppose, and better when I grin, but in my dream I was stop-the-traffic-dead gorgeous. There was another outlaw running through the park with me, and I asked him to take some pictures of me in the sweater under a tree. I thought they would be good for the blog. See? Thinking of you, dear readers, even while fleeing the country. Later in the dream, while searching my bag for the camera, I found the sweetest little disassembled semi-auto pistol, which made me even happier than the ballgown had. (Confession: I heart guns. I also approve of keeping them out of the hands of crminals and children, but I love their mechanics and power and sound and smell. You can send me hate mail now.)

Anyhoo. Lotsa knitting going on, that’s what I meant to say. It’s a beeyootiful windy, sunny day out there, and I might go for a walk or something just as crazy. I’m gonna wear my new socks.

Thank you, THANK you for all the comments yesterday! Really. Sometimes I feel like I have access to this small private wishing well, that I have the ability to reach down into the water and draw up just what I need. I swear, that’s what you all are like. You do my heart (and legs) so much good.

Let me catch my breath. Whew.

I just got back from Orinda, from a meeting with my realtor/broker/whatever-the-hell-she-is.

She’s the type who knocks the breath out of you with her industry. She’s on two phone lines, yelling things at her two assistants, crunching your numbers, and still having a full conversation with you. As I am MultiTaskerExtraordinaire, I appreciate this, and it doesn’t freak me out. But her manner does, somehow. She makes me very, very nervous, and few people do that. She’s about five foot one, maybe a hundred and ten, no more than thirty-one years old, and smart as a whip. (Why are whips smart? Or is it that they DO smart? Hunh.)

Again, for the second time, I felt like running out of the room or diving out the nearest window when she was reviewing my personal finances. She’s not rude, she’s just honest. But by the end of the meeting, she had warmed up to me, I think. (I also think she was still pissed off at me for something that happened last month. I had seen her on a Thursday, at 4pm. At that meeting, we said we’d get together again in a month. The very next Thursday, I got a message from her at 4pm, wondering where I was. I got another more annoyed-sounding message an hour later. When I called and reminded her that I had met her the previous week, and that her assistant must have made a mistake on her calendar, she was nice enough, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. I hate it when I feel like someone wants an apology for something that I didn’t do wrong. I’ll apologize up and down for something I screwed up, or even MIGHT have screwed up, but that one was so not about me. I think I ended up apologizing anyway, blast it.) We parted today with her giving me an almost-real smile, and I’m happy to work with her. I know I could easily find someone with a better bedside manner, but this woman is legendary in her ability to create fiscal miracles with her thin, bejeweled hands. I need a goshdurn miracle.

And people, I think I’m looking for a place to buy. Really. Okay, I don’t actually believe that all the way myself, but she actually printed out listings for me, and there’s one that sings to me. I might take a wee drive to see it in a few minutes. Lord’a’mercy. I am SO scared, but SO happy that I even have any kind of ability to dream about this.

Dang. My mind is whirring too fast. Little sleep, but for a really good reason. And I have fresh, red tomatoes in my back yard. Adah is sleeping in the middle of the bean bag. Digit is drowsing in the sun on the kitchen table. My laundry is almost done. I have a red colander in the kitchen, and birthday fruitcake on top of the fridge for a snack later. Life is good. Mwah!