Archives for July 2005

So. You all may never, ever see another finished object from me. I am knitting, I swear. I’ve finished the handspun Lara, and a shrug in support of autism, and the one-skein wonder, and I can’t show them to you. Yes, all my cameras work. The objects fit. They’re actually awfully nice.

But it’s too effin’ hot to put any of them on to take a picture in daylight. I mean, NORma. Damn.

I’m such a wuss when it comes to heat. I loved what Cuzzin Tom said the other day about barely being able to dab the strawberry ice cream to his lips — that’s the way I feel. Ice is too heavy to put in the glass.

But things HAVE changed for the better. I have made an astounding discovery. Well, I can’t even claim credit for it. Lala gave me a stand-up fan (maybe she wanted me to quit whining — I just realized that). And then at work, Marama made a stunning comment. She said she stood in front of her fan in the bathroom when she was getting ready for work.

And I said, "Oh, my GOD, I could MOVE the fan!"

Because I am just so amazingly intelligent, I had placed the fan next to the bed, in case I got hot while sleeping during my day-sleeps, when in fact that’s usually the only time I’m comfortable in summer, because I’m lying on top of my sheets, with verra little on, not moving or thinking (do you ever wake up and feel your consciousness come back, and feel your temperature rise as you lie there thinking? Weird). But as soon as I get up and move an arm or a leg or god forbid walk a few steps, I’m an unhappy, grumpy sweatball. Ask Lala. She’ll tell you. Normally cheerful to the point where strangers want to brain me in the post office, I turn into a whiny whimpering puddle. "It’s hotttttt. Why does it have to be soooo hottttttt? It’s still hottttttt. I’m too hottttttt. No. That’s wrong. You’re doing it wrong. Sheesh. Gah. I wanted the OTHER ice cream sandwich. It’s hotttttttttt." I would stomp my feet in this state and throw myself on the floor, kicking and flailing, but that would be exertion, so screw that. I just whine and pout. Attractive, to be sure. (And this is in Oakland, where my interior house temperature never goes above 90, I’m sure. I would flipping fry in Texas or somewhere actually hot.)

Anyway. I moved the fan. I moved it into the living room while I was on the computer. Lo and behold, I checked email without getting all whiny and sweaty and horrible. Then after I got out of the bath, I took the fan into the bathroom and pointed it at myself while I put on makeup and did my hair. I was comfortable. I didn’t have the rivulets of sweat running down my just-washed body that I usually do, Oh, I hate that.

I even took a nap last weekend after work on the couch in front of my new best friend, Mr. Fan, and I was a little… wait for it….. chilly! I loved it so much I didn’t even turn it off. I just shivered and smiled.

This to say: Good luck getting me to take pictures of sweaters in July.

Happy Anniversary , sugar!

She’s the one. Have I mentioned that? She is. I’m so freaking lucky I don’t even let myself buy lottery tickets. That’s not because I don’t know how to work the machine, either. Quit it. I do, too. It’s because it just wouldn’t be fair to everyone else. I’m that lucky. And more.

https://rachaelherron.com/happy_anniversa/

My fabulous sister brought me a copy of the new Harry Potter on Friday night, just after midnight, so I got to stroke the book jacket all night (it was pretty busy and I was doing other things that night at work, so I didn’t get to start it then). And I’ve been busy since then with a Fun Filled Weekend, so I’m not much past page 100 yet, but I’ve decided the very nicest thing that can possibly happen on a Monday morning when your girl has to be at work is lying in bed, reading and dozing between Potter pages until noon. Or maybe until just after noon, if one were going to tell the whole truth. And maybe one only actually got up because she knew she could keep doing the same thing all day and then she’d NEVER sleep tonight. Or maybe not. You never know.

And hey, we saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory last night. I’ve never seen the original movie except in snippets on TV, so it never made an impression on me, but I read both the Charlie books over and over and over and over when I was a kid, and damn. Tim Burton NAILED it. He got in my head and pulled the movie out, and I’ve never had that experience before. I have to admit, the Oompa-loompas were a little different in my mind and weren’t so pimp-esque, but that was great. And Johnny, oh, Johnny. He’s the hottest thing on the big screen, isn’t he?

Yep. That’s all I’ve got today. Lazy. I believe I’ll go splash about in the tub now.

You know what I find interesting in blogland? I like to see how the circles meet and mix and separate. If you were around four- to five-ish years ago, you remember that blogland was a little town. You really could visit all the sites and have a relationship with ’em. I wasn’t knitblogging back then, but I was blogging and eavesdropping on the knitters. I didn’t want to be one — the relationships looked if not clique-ish, then at least very,very tight.

But I blogged about my knitting once or twice. Then I left a couple of comments. You remember those ones, the tentative ones, the push of the Publish button that left you rather giddy. I did it! That writer’s gonna read MY words! Then, oh, god, what if she comes to MY site? Lord, let’s clean house.

Then I started forming the friendships. The town turned to a city. Multiple zip codes. Then the friend circle got a little unwieldy. There was that whole "shall I link or not" question that I finally solved by only linking family. And all the friend-circles linked their friends, and referenced them, and had their own in-jokes and taglines and slumber parties.

It reminds me of the rings in a tree trunk  — you can almost date to the month when someone started blogging by the average ages of her/his circle’s blogs. Newer bloggers get cozy with other newbies, fast. Older bloggers are tired of trying to keep up and lack that OCD drive to read every single post someone else writes, to memorize cat/DH/SO names and favorite colors. And they’re fighting the guilt that comes with that. I have the greatest respect for the people who just read what they want and publish when they want and comment where they want and don’t fret over it. Cari, that’s you. (See? Tight linkage, yo. My girls know who they are.)

Why am I writing this? It’s 0528 in the morning and I’ve been up for, like, forever, so you might know the answer to that better than I do. It’s quite probable.

Maybe it’s because I want to encourage the newer bloggers — keep writing, keep commenting on the blogs you love. The connections can take a while to forge, but they happen, and they’re strong and good and truly, deeply amazing when they do.

And maybe I’m writing this because I want you to forgive me when I don’t comment as much, when I don’t respond back to comments. I’m still reading, still blog-hopping and eating up the details and loving the new faces and appreciating the creative, thoughtful, intelligent comments, but I’m totally lazy. And less willing to feel guilty about it, so that’s good. That’s actually really good.

I started blogging with the goal of kick-starting my own writing. A little online CPR. And it’s worked. I’m writing more now than I ever have, and it feels amazing. Gold stars for everyone!

And as usual, thank you.
xo

My doc called me in this week because she found something in my recent labwork. It’s not a very big deal, but I found out I have high triglycerides.

Now, my doctor is not Miss Bedside Manner, although she totally thinks she is. She’s got a rockin’ office, and her girls at the desk are all rockabilly and cute, and she wears Doc Martens and great glasses, and I would bet she’s got a wife at home. It’s the only doctor’s office in the whole world that I’ve ever been asked on a form whether I was sexually active, and if so, was it with the same sex, opposite sex, or both. I LOVED that. I do everything in my power to like her. I totally should like her. She says nice things about my knitting. (And then she winces and says, "I’d never have time." No one does, lady. We just do it.)

But she’s not helpful, and that’s irritating. When I had pneumonia last year, I had to pull the info out of her. She literally said, "I’m not going to tell you what you’d have, because you’d just worry. Just take this medication and you’ll feel better soon." We had to have a heart-to-heart in which I explained my buried-but-latent Type A-ness, and I HAD to know or I’d break into her office that very night to read my chart. And then there’s the mess to clean up, all the glass on the floor, and then there’s going to court in three months…. Messy. Better just to tell me my DIAGNOSIS.

When I went in for my migraines last month (I get a migraine once a month, three days into my period. Think it might be hormonal?), she didn’t do anything but write me a referral for a neurologist. She said the neurologist would know better than she would.

Two days ago, when she saw me, she explained that I have really high triglycerides (almost 400, should be less than 150) although I have reasonable cholesterol levels. So she’s putting me on meds and sending me to a cardiologist.

"But you said this isn’t a big deal, why do I have to see a cardiologist?"

"Mostly it’s for CYA. My own protection against malpractice. Besides, he talks about the heart all day long, and he likes it. I would be SO bored. But he’ll be able to tell you more."

"Side effects?"

"Like none."

THAT made me a little suspicious. So I checked, and as long as gallstones aren’t considered side effects (and why would they be? Such fun!), I’m all right.

Eh. But I’m going to go on the meds (low-dose gemfibozil) for now. I’ll go back on the fish oil, which I had forgotten about (women! Take your fish oil for the love of god!) and cut back on the beer, maybe just a couple of bottles with Lala once a week, and cut down on the sugar (but not on the ice cream, are they fucking nuts?) and make more of my own food and get tested again in three months. We’ll go from there.

Irritates the hell out of me that I could run a marathon and still be all hyper-lipid-y. For that matter, it irritates the hell out of me that I could run a marathon and still get winded walking up two flights of stairs. There is no justice.

It’s hot. And really, compared to where some of y’all live, it’s temperate. I’d guess it’s about 80 outside, maybe. But in my house, during this my first summer, it’s horrid and sticky. Okay, I’m horrid and sticky.

I’ve been doing this thing for about six months now, the Right to Write Poetry Project. On Monday nights, we go to the San Francisco County Jail and teach poetry (don’t laugh – you know I’m a fiction gal and I’m floundering in this poetry stuff) to the female inmates. We read a little bit, talk about the published poem, then we write a little bit and read our poetry to the class. At the end of an eight week cycle, we collect their poems into a book, which we then self-publish and distribute to the women.

Last night we did a Bukowski poem which was about heat. Then we wrote about heat. And while my mind is usually creative and makes personal connections when thinking about heat (if you know what I mean), all I could think about last night was how I live in the wrong climate and I do the wrong things. I should live in Alaska. I thought about Canada, but their cold winters turn to hot summers. Unacceptable. Alaska it is. Or the Antarctic.

Also: I spin yarn from wool. I knit heavy sweaters from wool. I prefer wool and alpaca to all other fibers. I can barely hold wool in my lap without sweating while sitting outside in November, but it’s all I really like. I’m almost done with Lara, a big ole piece of woolly knitting, done all in one piece so that the damn thing sits in my lap while I slick my way through it.

This house is muggy. I’m muggy. I’m also cleaning the house and sweating like a pig, so I’m dying here. Wait. I’m going to go kidnap my girl and go get iced coffee and watch little dogs trip people up with their cuteness. Yeah.

https://rachaelherron.com/its_hot_and_rea/