Archives for April 2007

New Class at Knit-One-One!

You all probably know how much I love the Fabulous Bonne-Marie’s pattern, Chickami. Welp, now I’m teaching a class on it. Dress it up or down as much as you life: we’ll work through designing your own. Add a lace panel? Why not? How ’bout some cables? Learn to cable without a needle? Okay! Bring 500-1000 yards of your favorite DK-to-worsted weight yarn (cotton is good for summer, Rowan Calmer is dreamy), a 24inch circular needle that allows you to get 5st/inch in YOUR GAUGE, and you’re good to go.

I had to whip up this sample version this week, since the old pictures of me workin’ this tank show me with some crazy old haircuts. (Back to dark — I like this new haircolor (Loreal Feria 51) much better.)

And oh, my god, I’m in love (again) with Rowan Calmer. This stuff is all right for lace, but PERFECT for cables.

See?

I think you should totally take the class with me. But if you don’t live here, then you should go buy the pattern, if you haven’t already, and then throw in your own touches. And then tell me about what you did with it!

It’s Easter night and I worked 12 hours and Lala is cooking Thai spicy curry with tofu and green onions and squash and all sorts of other good things.

A moment ago, I was sitting on the deck with a glass of wine, and ohmygod, I could hear a fiesta with a real, live, full mariachi band. It wasn’t your two-guitar-one-trumpet combo — no, this band had at least three trumpets, and maybe twelve other pieces, as well as the four male singers in high harmony, with the listeners ai-yi-yi-ing in ALL the right places.

They’re still out there, I think, and dinner is almost ready, so I’m going back out to the back porch, but I had to tell you about it, because I adore you just that much. What a gorgeous night.

It was always one of my most favorite books in the whole world. I think I’ve mentioned to you our secret garden, but if I haven’t, indulge me. If you go through the back yard, down to the back fence, there’s a gate under the trees. If you open the gate, there is a rather surprising shallow flight of wide wooden stairs, dropping five or six feet into another little garden area.

We keep the gate shut, because the back of the secret garden is city-fenced, and the fence has a large dog-sized hole in it. Clara has expressed interest in it in the past, and I need to repair it before letting her down there without supervision. The last thing we need is a border collie crashing through a ripped fence and falling into the creek below.

Yes, the creek. It is the NEATEST thing to have back there. Unfortunately, this year it just hasn’t rained enough, so the water level is still low, and will remain low all summer. But it’s so shady and green and ivy-filled back there, and there’s nothing on the other side but the high school track, which is barely visible through the trees (I never knew I would love the sound of kids playing so much. Really, the sound of games and races are so awesome to hear).

I want to do something with it, but I don’t know what. I have a romantic vision — I am sitting in a comfortable chair, with a low slung table in front of me — I am writing while my tea steeps in the pot. Of course, I am wearing something soft and flowing and lovely. I might have long, curly locks in the vision, but we won’t talk about that.

But in reality, there are issues.

Ivy, everywhere. I know enough about ivy to know that where there’s ivy, there are rats. Ew.

Black widows. Twice, I’ve gone down the stairs and broken strong, non-sticky webs, that when pulled off and balled up, give off that peculiar black widow web stink. Did you know about that smell? You probably didn’t want to know about it, but now you do. Luckily, black widows don’t want to meet me anymore than I want to meet them, and they stay pretty hidden in dark spaces, but ack.

Furniture. Right now we have two plastic chairs back there, and they get pretty damn gross. I think I’ve only sat in them a couple of times, and that was only to sit and think, how nice it is back here, we should do something with this, and then I get up and go back up to the back yard proper and forget its existence again.

So, ideas? Wooden furniture would be nice, but I’d be worried about spidies all the time. Pulling ivy? Should we plant something? It’s really compact clay back there, shaded almost all the time, a relatively high level of moisture due to the creek just below. It would be very hard to dig up, and I am essentially lazy.

I spent fifteen minutes down there the other day, just sitting on one of the steps, listening to my iPod, resting after furious garden exertion on the other side of the fence. Clara was sad that she was left out.

Right after I took this shot, Miss Idaho strolled right under the gap under the gate, giving Clara a pitying look as she came to sit with me.

We’ve all got gardens on the brain, don’t we? I spent hours this week working in the front and back yards — put in TONS of flowers, some tomatoes, some herbs. I even mowed the lawns, which left me with this:

This was an empty green waste bin, and is quite a bit bigger than our regular-sized trash can. My muscles ache today. Victory!

(Also and a complete non-sequitur, but I have to mention it — while listening to NPR this morning, the radio announcer said Crucification.
She was using it as a noun, and while I don’t normally trip on an
unreal word accidentally used, it was way too close to my accidental
confisticate. I have no idea when or where I became convinced that
confiscate had an extra syllable, but I did, and once I said it out
loud, in polite, smart company, and I almost died. I feel so badly for
that announcer, dude. That’s blush-for-a-day-worthy.)

So we’re sitting in the hotel restaurant that overlooks the ocean. It’s just sunset, and as we are seated, the hostess says "Happy Anniversary." It isn’t until we’ve settled in and gaped at the view that we really look at the two women seated at the corner window, right next to us. I would guess they’re in their late fifties, or early sixties, and they’re watching the sunset, just finishing their dinner.

Lala and I look at each other. Are they together? Are they sisters? We don’t want to make any assumptions…. Then one leaves for a moment, and when she comes back, she rests her hands on the other woman’s shoulders as they stare out to sea. As they leave, one of the women kind of stops, and turns, and says to us, "Have a good night," and smiles. I instantly regret not having asked them what they were celebrating (they have the same ribbons on their table, the ribbons that cued our hostess to wish us Happy Anniversary). They are together, and it makes us happy.

Then we have the most amazing meal. We share a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, and I have steak, she has swordfish. From time to time, Lala whispers that the couple behind us is being super sweet — an older man and woman are holding each others’ hands and laughing. That makes us happy.

When THAT couple leaves, the woman touches my shoulder and says, "How long have you been together?" One year, we tell her. "Congratulations, I remember our first year." She smiles at her husband, "This is our thirtieth." A few more pleasantries are exchanged, and they leave.

I am almost in tears. I feel like those two couples, sitting on either side of us, have blessed us, much like Mandy’s Zak did last year, when he doubled back to say that Mandy was his best friend, and that he hoped we felt about each other they way they did. But intead of crying, I eat the creme brulee and we toast each other.

It was the BEST.

And look! Today, the 3rd, is our second first anniversary — this is the legal one, one year since the day that we got really truly married in Canada. And to celebrate, Lala’s gone to work, and I’m sitting here in my pajama pants and a tee shirt, trying to decide what to do with my day. I have some unpleasant things I simply HAVE to do, so instead, I’ll show you some pictures, shall I?

 

There is a great toy store in Mendocino. I did not come home with this guy, although, there is a great yarn shop, also, and I might have come home with a couple of unmade socks. Maybe. I’ll never tell. (There is also a great music shop, and neither of us came home with another instrument. We are very proud.)

Honestly, holy hell, has no one told them? The only way this sign would be right is if the store in question was celebrating an un-named something belonging to ONE season, but Lala noticed it was a store full of all four seasons’ stuff (note how I mark possession? Hmmm?), so it’s just wrong. We loved it. (Oh, I just found their website, which I will not link, out of courtesy, and the possessive apostrophes are there sometimes, and not there other times. Wow.)

Hey, good lookin’. That’s my wife, standing on OUR DECK at the hotel. If you can swing it, someday you MUST stay at the Albion River Inn, five miles south of Mendocino. True, one night runs the price of three nights anywhere else, but it is worth every penny (especially when you book it as soon as you get your tax refund, and then you forget that they charged you back then, so when you get there, it’s as if it is free! Yay!).

We stayed in room 20, which is the best room, I think. It’s on the end, a little cottage right on the cliff edge. They left us a bottle of wine in our room, and provided things like robes and binoculars.

They also provided my favorite feature:

That cliff is private and fenced off — no one, not even guests can walk on it, so no one is going to walk in front of your bath. We watched hawks wheel right in front of the window. It was a.maze.ing.

    In front of the restaurant.

    Our view at breakfast.

    What the ocean saw.

And here’s to many more. It’s been the most amazing year, if crazy-busy, and for our second year, we wish for health, happiness, enough money to pay the bills, and enough time to cut the grass and then watch it grow. Love is good.