Rachael

Oh, my dear readers. I did not win the romance competition. Here’s who did. But I can honestly say that when I found out, I was a tiny bit disappointed, but not surprised. My book was a first draft of a Nanowrimo, for pete’s sake! The disappointment faded REALLY fast, though, probably less than a minute. Thank goodness. That’s how I thought it would go, but you never really know, do you?

And now, the best part, I get to take it back from them and edit the daylights out of it, make it mine again, and send it out! As a national competition finalist! Plus, I get five hundred smackeroos just for making it that far! See? Reason to celebrate! Yay! (Also, Trust Me was the one I hoped would win — it’s great. You should go back and read those two chapters if you’re bored.)

Thanks for reading, and thanks for believing, and I’ll let you know when it’s ready for reading again. You will get to read more about Abigail and Cade, never fear.

(Did I ever tell you why I named him Cade? I had a really good friend in undergrad, a guy named Cade. I thought his name was SO cool. He finally admitted to me one day that it wasn’t his birthname — he’d been David for a long time. But he was an addict, and spent a long time cleaning up, and when he got clean, he was dating a Harlequin romance writer. The character she was writing at that time was named Cade, so he took it, and re-wrote himself, and made it a legal change. Cade was a good man, and last I heard, he still is.)

Nanowrimo’s almost here. You doing it? (I think I am, but I’m scared this year — want to work on something totally different, and I don’t feel ready. Deep breath.)

Me, I’m still sick! This is ridiculous. I’ve been diagnosed with a sinus infection, so I’m on antibiotics for that, and I hope to feel better really soon. All I’ve been doing is sleeping and knitting, and while that’s nice, I’m getting bored. A hopeful sign, I think. Also, I have that Demi Moore/Kathleen Turner voice when the voice chooses to work at all, so I should really re-record our answering machine message right now.

*Edited to add: The Whoreshoes will be appearing on Girl Meets Cowboy on Sunday night! Look up your showtimes; it plays on the WE channel. They’ll be at the rodeo or the hoedown or whatever it is they’re having…..

Whining, Knitting, Pictures.

In that order.

102.8.  That’s how high my fever got before it broke. This flu is seriously kicking my ass. I haven’t done a single thing in almost three days; I’ve just been lying around being pathetic, with chills, shakes, fever and headache.

Yesterday Lala had to assure me that I was a fun person. Because I’d stopped believing it.

(I just looked around at the menagerie to see which animal was whistling through its nose. It was me. Sigh.)

So. Which one of you Rhinebeckians gave this to me? And how long did it take you to get better?

No, I believe more that I got it on the plane, or somewhere in New York, holding on to rails in the subway, pushing elevator buttons. I always mean not to hold the handrails, and then I do on accident. Then I mean not to touch my face or eat anything until I wash my hands and then I forget. Surprising I don’t get sick more often. Then I took a virtual red-eye back home and stayed up for almost 24 hours, which just depleted any germ-fighters I  had left, and wham, here I am.

I’m feeling a bit better, though. Fever down to 101 or just below, which by now feels almost normal.

Let’s talk about knitting for a moment, shall we? Something we never do around here anymore, so this should be fun.

I left Rhinebeck SO INSPIRED. What a great and wonderful gift we all possess, being able to knit, don’t we? There are so many things to make! To create! To spin! And I’m stuck here with Lala’s Durrow sweater, right at the point where I need to join the sleeves to the body and start making some decisions. I don’t think I’m smart enough at the moment to make those decisions so I’ve put it off for a while. Maybe later today if the Tylenol holds.

But I’m already thinking: what next? I do this every year — I have a knitting slump through the summer — who doesn’t? I feel I’ve lost the mojo. Never making a sweater again. And then I get this itch, this familiar feeling. I actually lie in bed at night and fantasize about shoulder shapings and stitch patterns.

I just read the latest Vogue Holiday Knitting issue (Lala brought it to me last night, kind wife that she is), and I like two things: That crazy little reindeer number and that silly Debbie Bliss colorwork cardie. I don’t love either enough to make them, I think (although I’d buy that reindeer sweater and wear it joyfully — I just don’t think the humor would sustain itself through the effort, do you?).

But it reminded me of what I REALLY want to make. My mother was in Denmark (I think it was Denmark, at least — my memory is bad) in the sixties (probably the sixties) and commissioned a true fair-isle sweater, lovely green and white, traditional patterns to the village she commissioned it in. I want to borrow it and copy it in my size. Wouldn’t that be cool? I think it’s time.

Enough about that. What about a few pictures before I go nap again?

Me and a tree! A red tree! So exciting.

Me and my Michelle, and proof that I wore Cromarty.

Even if the rest of us bought a lot (3 POUNDS of rainbow fleece?), this is proof that La Brainy bought a whole sheep.
[Aside – Michelle, Alison and I are all aghast at the fact that we didn’t get one picture of the three of us together — did anyone else get one of us? Please?]

JStrizzy’s first real yarn! HA! We GOT her and made a spinner, and a very fine one, indeed. She has the knack. (Sucka!)

Me and the It Girl herself, Jes, of Ravelry fame, at the pre-Rhinebeck-Ravelry party which was unofficially held in their hotel room. She is a doll, and I’m happy to report that Ravelry will take over the knit-world. As it should.

Maia, who made it all possible, really.

Just pretty. I should have brought some home to Lala. Instead, I brought her a pastrami sandwich from Katz’s. Yes, really. Oh, yeah.

I don’t know who she is, but I love her.

HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! Best bunny face EVAR! He looked even more like a little old grumpy man in person. Tremendous.

And now, kiddos, I’m plumb wore-out. Back to bed. Hope you all are well, and GET YOUR FLU SHOT. No joke.

I have the Yarn Crud. Or New York fever. I don’t know what I have, but I feel like crap, and I’m back at work less than a day after arriving home. Bleah. Not quite sick enough to warrant blowing hours to stay home, but not quite well enough to feel okay sitting here at work. I believe it might be going around the Rhinebeckians. But what a way to go.

Clara loved her border collie stuffed toy. Lala loved her spindle. I loved my bed. (And catching up with TiVo, yay!)

And that’s all I got, folks. No pictures, too tired to get it together. Soon. Forgive me if I owe you an email — I owe many.

https://rachaelherron.com/i-have-the-yarn/

Dear Lala,

I know you said I had to buy yarn. I know you encouraged me to have fun and bring pretty things home. But it is possible that this is all the yarn I bought. In fact, I think that’s true. And those little purple skeins were only two dollars each at the Morehouse party. The deep orange ones say they’re cashmere, but don’t believe it — I think that tag just got stuck on them somehow. Accidentally. And that border collie doesn’t count — it’s a gift for Clara. You know how she likes to carry stuffed animals around and gather them all onto the couch.

So I might have let you down a little bit — I didn’t buy much at all.

But if Stephanie writes to warn you, don’t believe her. She lies.

You can tell that those three pounds of Spinner’s Hill merino are not mine because they match her so well.

Right? That must be hers.

I might hold on to it for her, though. If I can get it in my duffel bag for the flight home…..

More later, lovey, the internets are too slow at the Super 8 (which isn’t that super, it’s merely adequate), so for now, a picture of me and my friend, the turning leaf:

Kiss the dogs and bump Digit’s head for me, and I’ll be home soon,
Love,
Your thrifty wife who might have a lot of really freakin’ bright fiber.

I have been in New York for three days. I love this city. I love, love, love it. Isn’t it a cliche? The writer HAS to love New York (only I know writers who don’t). But I thought I did, and I was right.

This is the longest span of time I’ve spent here — the previous two times I’ve been through Manhattan were also attached to yarn things (Maryland Sheep and Wool, specifically), and I only spent a day in town both times.

But this time, I’ve had time to really see the city, and it does not fail me, even though the humidity is at seven hundred percent or something. Man, hot and wet in New York is like nothing else — it’s like the tar of the streets hangs from your skin and the exhaust coats your lungs. I don’t love that so much.

But that just meant that yesterday, the day I had to myself, the day I wanted to woo the city and it ended up wooing me, I had to slowly to beat the sweatiness — had to stop frequently for an iced coffee here, an iced tea there.

I’ve been staying with Maia and Brooke at the most amazing apartment in the whole world — it’s her father and step-mom’s place, and her dad is the famous Paul Discoe and designed the whole thing. In Cooper Square, it has amazing views of the city, and for the love of pete, it has a contemplative garden. Indeed.

    These are really big rooms, if you can’t tell.

    The oh-my-god tub

So yesterday I woke up, had coffee with the girls, and started walking. I walked down St. Marks (yes, we’re on St. Marks — just think!) and saw a cafe that looked perfect, people eating outside, dogs at their feet. I hadn’t even planned to have a sit-down breakfast; I was just going to grab a bagel, but this was great.

The waitress brought me eggs and toast and orange juice and a cappucino, and I watched these two men talk. They moved between English and Spanish, and they looked totally happy.

And they were so friendly! They talked to everyone, and everyone talked back, and six of us at nearby tables got in a conversation about their gig they’d played the night before. They are both guitars players, one from Brazil, and one from Uruguay, and they’d had a magical session at a close-by club, and they’d never gone to bed, just wandered and ended up at this cafe, reliving the night.

The Uruguayan, Oscar, had seen me scribbling in my book before my food came, and he asked if I was a writer. I said yes, and he said he was, too, and wasn’t New York the best for inspiration? Yes, I said, it really was.

He asked me what I wrote.

Then I had this amazing moment. I said I wrote books. "I have a novel that’s being read by Simon & Schuster right now, in fact."

He nodded and said, "Of course, that is why you’re in New York."

Holy cow! It’s true! It may never be true again, and it’s only true until the 30th of this month, but right now I can totally say what I said, and IT WAS SUCH A THRILL.

    Oscar and friend

I rode that moment the rest of the day — I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge as a writer, and walked back, looking at the city as writer.

I walked through the East Village into Greenwich Village on a cloud of delight. A cloud of hot, sticky delight, but delight, nonetheless.

I made friends with the owner of the Stonewall Inn and had a Manhattan.

    In front of the poster of the first gay pride march/riot.

I walked past a huge line of people queued outside a store, so I got in line. I figured that many people had a real reason to be there, and it turned out I was right — it was the Magnolia Bakery, the two cupcakes I bought and ate in the park across the street were amazing.

Michelle came into town and picked us up for a drink — we went to St. Mark’s again, and she showed us the most secret wonderful bar ever, and then she took me to Brooklyn, where I had one of those perfect, never-forgettable meals (oh, lamb shank with herb-infused gnocchi and spinach, how I love thee) with fantastic conversation and fast-flowing wine. I believe the restaurant was called Chez Oskar or something like that, so it strikes me that my day was book-ended with meals involving an Oscar.

    On the Brooklyn Bridge

And today, we’re taking the train to Rhinebeck! O, glory-beaming New York Sheep and Wool. CanNOT wait. But sad to leave the city so soon…..

    At Katz’s. I don’t even like pastrami, and this was the best sandwich I ever had.

I am victorious. In a very small matter.

We had an HOA meeting tonight, and I have been dreading it like I can’t tell you. We’re still trying to sell the condo (think good thoughts, please, oh, please — your thoughts are MAGIC), but as a member of the four-member home owner’s association, and as president, I kind of had to go to the meeting.

Well. Okay. You want the truth? The meeting was scheduled for two weeks ago, but I sicked out with a migraine (which I truthfully was fighting) and they rescheduled it, the lousy bastards. I just wanted them to have it and let me know how it went. Weak of me, yes. But I’m human, and I hate the meetings.

Really, I just hate these things. The knowledge that it was coming up has ruined a big part of many hours this last week, and I am SO good at not doing that. But the HOA defeats me. Just beats me down. Or, rather, the Problem Owner does.

We three who are not the Problem Owner are reasonable. We like to make repairs and pay for them. Seems like a good idea. We all win. The Problem Owner just likes to hear himself talk, and he makes things up with such flair that you believe him for a moment. Long moments. You think that you’re going crazy. And then you realize that you’re not crazy, he’s just rambling and doing a good job of it.

Plus, he just pushes my buttons like only two or three people in this whole wide world can do.

But I have to say that I am proud of myself for one thing: I am not a pushover. People think that I am, will even tell me that I am, that I should fight more. But I just don’t mind a lot of things that other people DO mind, so I don’t bother to fight. I don’t care if things aren’t always fair — I know I can’t make them be fair, so why stress out? Frustrating thing is that there’s nothing really WRONG with the place,
we shouldn’t be bickering like this — there’s no need. But he needs
to.

But when pushed, I push back. And I take care of myself and people around me. Tonight, when I thought the two male owners (we are evenly divided) might come to blows, I shut the meeting down. I actually said in the middle of the pointless argument they were having (courtesy of the Problem Owner), "Let’s wrap this up. So, point one was we want to get the deck painted. Point two is we need a permit for the deck work." I went on, finished my wrap-up and said, "Great! Let’s have a meeting next month to discuss that guy’s CRAZY ASS IDEAS." But I didn’t say that. I said, "Great. Let’s have a meeting next month." And we left, no one bloodied.

But I swear, there were ten or so minutes during which I was chanting in my head, "Run. Run. Run. Run." I’ve never run out of an uncomfortable meeting before, but I was actually considering it. So what? Just pack up my notes, smile politely at the two considerate owners, flip the Problem Owner the bird (which I can never do right — Lala says it’s because of my New Zealand half — see Flight of the Conchords) and run home. Never to return.

But I didn’t. Even though my face went BRIGHT red and my heart beat faster and I could actually feel my upper lip swelling (a stress thing that combines with MSG and hasn’t happened in years).

Know what? It’s OVER. And I leave for New York soon. I will be around My People and that damned meeting is over, and I’m so happy. I can’t wait to get on that plane and fly across the country for the love of yarn people. Because I’m not going for the yarn. Can’t afford it while trying to sell a condo. I’m going to see my clan. I can’t wait.