Archives for November 2004

Monday.

Yep.

That’s how inspired I am to write on Mondays. Yep. That’s what you’re gettin’.

Coffee, get to work. Dammit.

We had a very productive weekend, even though I didn’t run. (It was an eight-mile training run. Come on. I’m still healing from the 26 last week. And still fighting that cold. It was an easy call to stay in bed.)

But we did manage to move Lala into her new place, which is my old place. There. I’ll let you think about that for a second. (At dinner one night, we told Bethany that Lala was moving, and she said, “Where?” I said, triumphantly, “My place! Can you believe that?” She sat there for a while, as did Christy, and then said, “Wow!” It took me a minute to realize I hadn’t differentiated places, and that she wouldn’t automatically know that I meant the place I was vacating. They were troopers, though. “Wow!”)

What I didn’t realize earlier, though, was how WEIRD it would be moving her in to the place I had just left. For her housewarming present, I got her the best present of all: Movers. She thinks I’m the bee’s knees for it. In reality (shhh, don’t tell her), I was just lazy. It’s definitely a girlfriend’s job to help move, and I couldn’t bear to lift another box. (There are only two real unavoidable jobs in Girlfriend Land: Moving, and airport runs. All other jobs are negotiable.)

So the movers arrive (at seven pm, instead of one, ouch) and the same two guys that moved me out, moved her in. They were a little surprised, I think. They remembered my desk. Then her apartment with its red and yellow walls filled up with her things, and suddenly, it wasn’t my place anymore. It was like all those boxes and towels and bedding and musical instruments were so imbued with her her-ness that my me-ness didn’t stick around. I’m glad about that, too. I had wondered if I would feel like she was staying at “my place.” But nope. I took a shower there, and there was this moment of complete brain-disconnect when I was standing there, and I knew the shower, knew how to work the fiddly handles, but I didn’t really recognize it, since it was Lala’s new house.

I can’t quite explain it. Huh.

I was going to say more, about how well the cats and dogs did last night, and about how I had a lovely little knitting afternoon yesterday, for the first time ever in my new home, watching the Amazing Race, but I just got a call from my gay porn-star boyfriend that I met years ago in Venice on a boat. He’s in town with his new man, and he’s now out of the industry (to many men’s sorrow) and living in Miami Beach, and I have to hear ALL about it.

And this: If you live above the freeway, and you’re tired, and you miss your exit because you’re thinking about ab-so-lootely nothing, you get to see your house go by for the first time. That’s so exciting you almost miss the next exit.

And then, if you’re really super-cool like me, you back into your parking space, thinking you’re all hot because you got it in so tight next to the wooden post and then realize there’s no way in hell you’re ever going to get out the door, but you try anyway and almost break the window with your stomach and have to crawl backwards out the passenger door over the two bags of books and the mop.

Just so you know.

Well. All right. I was a little hasty in yesterday’s post. The wondrous, all-powerful IT people have now restored our access, and I can resume reading about naked ladies knitting.

But.

(See, you knew there would be a but, right?) I noticed that while a great part of me was relieved, there was this  small blue part that thought, "Oh. I thought I was off the hook there. I thought that meant more book-reading time. More time to write."

Let’s examine that.

This blogging thing is one of my main joys in life. Really. I love and adore it. And you. I have no intention of stopping. But MAN, does it take a lot of time and commitment. If you know me, you know I have Catholic issues with guilt. (Never been Catholic, however, nor has anyone in my family. I was crushed when Mom told me I probably couldn’t be a nun because I wasn’t Catholic. Devastated. I’m not kidding.) Big guilty feelings happen when I don’t wash my sheets often enough, so imagine how I feel when I realize I haven’t left a comment on a person’s site in a long time, and I really like that person, and I want her to know I like her.

Then I had a rather revelatory thought. I thought about the people that I read and love who rarely, if ever, comment on my blog. I realized that I don’t mind if they don’t comment on mine. I don’t care if they don’t even read my blog. Ever. I still read them, still adore ’em, and even better, feel no obligation to leave a comment behind me when I close the window.

Do you ever feel that way? I’ve been blogging now for about three years, two of them within the knitting community (even though god knows how I got here, I almost never write about knitting), and I’ve found the people out here to be some of the most brilliant, caring people I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting. I can’t wait to read my favorite sites, and it feels like coming home when I do. But there was a moment that happened, about a year ago, maybe, when I got a wonderful comment from someone who maintained a fantastic site with unbelievably great writing, and while I was thrilled to make her acquaintance, there was a part of me that said, "Shit. That’s another fantabulous person I want to keep up on. Damn it."

Would you all just quit being so freaking awesome? Please?

So I have a rather drastic resolution. I’m going to read Bloglines like it’s goin’ out of style (please, please, please, publish an unabridged RSS feed if at all possible — it ups your chances of being read by more people by about a million percent. Or at least a little more. It might not be quite that high. But it’s higher. Jeesh). I’ll dip in and comment when I feel really moved to do so. I will not feel guilty about this. I will still adore you. I promise. I hope you adore me, too. (Damned codependent crap. Oh, well. Who doesn’t like to be liked?)

My little worrying voice is chipping away in my mind (I know, they have drugs for that, but I’m not ready for ’em just yet), asking, "Is that okay? Will that work for you?"

I say to it (myself, whatever), "Yes! It’s okay! They’re blogs, for the love of cashmere. They’re not your life."

But really, they are a large part of my life. Okay.

Okay?

Okay.

Happy weekend, all. Thanks for reading me. I’m a better person for y’all. I’m so HAPPY to know you. Big, sloppy MWAH.

I’m sick. And I have to go in to work early tonight. Bleah. Why the hell isn’t it Friday yet?

I am so annoyed. Our brilliant webmasters at work have adjusted the reading levels again so that I can’t go to any sites that are related to typepad or blogspot or livejournal, to name just a few, and I can’t access bloglines anymore, either. Because, you know, all you knitters write about sex so much. I wish you would quit posting all those naked pictures of yourselves. Sheesh. Pervs.

Our webmasters really are quite stupid, you know. Seriously. I do more complicated things on a daily basis to my computer, and I ain’t no computer hacker. Things like spyware make them scratch their  heads. Firefox? What’s that? Maybe if we block access to all sports pages (goodbye, AIDS Marathon home page), we’ll solve the virus problems. Perhaps if we prohibit all websites about "Hobbies" (goodbye, Knitty.com), we’ll make our workplace safer. Please.

Now, I know I’m lucky to have access to the internet at all while at work. But it’s a necessary perk. If you can’t read the internet, there is no humanly way possible to stay awake at four in the morning when the radio is silent and the phones aren’t ringing and you’ve said all you can say to your co-worker without going deep into the gossip bowl. Knitting is not enough at four in the morning. Writing is not enough. Hell, jumping rope wouldn’t be enough. I have seen people pass out in the middle of a sentence. It’s not pretty.

So. That is to say this: I will be commenting less. Much, much less. I choose to restrict my computer time at home to respectable levels. Sitting in front of four computer screens full-time makes me sensitive to spending much of my personal life in front of my computer at home. I’m writing, too, and that’s just more time in front of the screen. I can’t bear much more.

I’ll still browse. I’ll still access my bloglines at home and skim all my favorites (and good lord, do I have a lot of ’em). But don’t feel badly if you hear from me less, please please please. I don’t love you any less, I swear. And iffen you wanna chat, drop me a line. Or if you write a great post and want me to read it, write me and tell me. I’ll still be around, just not as visible.

But this cheered me up:

Rebecca, late of marathon completion herself, sent me a bag o’goodies to get me over the rough spots. And look! There’s a bag of foot stuff to get my poor feeties over the rough spots, too. And blister band-aids! And chocolate! (That’s all gone now.) Bless her heart.

Bless all your hearts. I hope you all know what your readership means to me. I’ve met  the best, most wonderful people through this little blog, and I see and read the world differently every day because of you. I am blessed.

And I have jelly-bellies to eat. Excuse me.

I don’t think I actually told you about knitting for ArtFibers, did I? Kira got me to make a shop model for them — it took so little time to make, and I really like it. It is, however, impossible to photograph. I’ve tried different times and different lights, and nothin’. I have a sneaking suspicion that I could take a GREAT picture of it while seated drinking wine on the Grand Canal in Venice, but I don’t really have the time or money to check that right now.

So here’s what I got.

Digit has taken to drinking the drops of water in the bathroom sink. I have no idea why, but he was making me laugh while I was attempting the mirror-shot.

Specs:
Yarn: ArtFibers, Bolero, in dark purple. I’m sure the yarn has a real color name — I just can’t remember it. Yep. Huh. Kira’ll know.
Pattern: Kira wrote it for me using their store pattern generator. And if you buy the yarn from her (even over the phone), she’ll write one for you, to your size and gauge.

See? There’s your commercial for the day. ArtFibers rocks.

And baby Luna came over the other day, and I got to see her in the little ballerina sweater I made her.

Her brother Winter likes his french fries, just like his fairy godmother Rachael.

Enough for now. I’m fighting something off, feeling like I’m about a minute away from having the flu. Common after a marathon, I’m told. Erg. I’m going to sleep ALL day today. You should, too.

I feel so behind in EVERYTHING. Oh, my body hurts. I haven’t done much today, and I’ve got nothing to prove it. See? Nothin’. I groan when I stand, and walking downhill is almost impossible. I’m a big fat whiner. A big fat whiner who’s going to be lacking yet another toenail in a couple of days, when it decides to desert me like the others have.

But I’m still riding high on the memory of coming across that finish line, dammit. Oh, yeah.
Lala’s been taking good care of me, and I can almost walk again. I think with extensive physical therapy, I might heal up, in, say, thirty or forty years. She’s going to need to work pretty hard on my therapy, though. Good thing she likes me.

Actually, it’s a really good thing she likes me, because her dogs stayed over at my house last night, which would have just been awkward and embarrassing if she didn’t like me. We introduced them a few days ago. Digit stood his ground, good little (wo)man, and only bitch-slapped Marathoner Harriet once. No injuries. Miss Idaho, the five-pound chihuahua-wonder, didn’t even seem to notice the cats. Adah, who I thought wouldn’t notice anything, went up a bookcase and stayed there. Not a bad start, I thought.

They came to visit last night, and the cats’ feeder (me) fell asleep during Regency House Party (while DB Alpaca Silk was being knitted above my head and brushing my cheek—how is THAT for pleasant dreams?), and we just couldn’t go to Lala’s house. Mostly because I was asleep. And crippled. So we stayed.

Digit got on the bed in the middle of the night, not realizing that there was a five-pound chihuahua-wonder already in residence. It took a while, but eventually Miss Idaho sneezed or put her pencil down or something, and Digit realized he was sharing the bed with a D.O.G. Then he went back to sleep, which made me SO happy. Then he went to the bathroom (presumably to go to the bathroom) and was Bounced by Harriet, and he refused to come out again. He slept under the clawfoot tub for the rest of the night. But there was no blood shed, and I think they’re going to be civil-like. Hooray! I like a blended family, how about you?

(As soon as the cats recovered this morning? My friend Monica came over with her toddler and newborn. The cats took to the closet, horrified. It was Just Too Much.)

So that was fun.

Not so much fun was finding La’s car window smashed, but I gotta tell you: Her reaction, dismay followed by a shrug, was really something to watch. I got mad, I stomped my feet, and felt thoroughly responsible that it had happened in front of MY house. She had to make ME feel better, which was not the way it was supposed to happen. Shit.

All right. So that’s that. I’m behind in all emails, so please forgive me. I’m also behind in house-cleaning, unpacking, and paying bills. I’m especially behind in reading and TV watching, so I’m going to pry myself off this couch and attempt to walk myself to the kitchen. I know there are brownies in there, somewhere.