Rachael

I am itching to knit cables. I’m………

Oooh! Have you ever tried Paul Newman’s fig snack cookies? They are soooo chewy and good.

I was thinking about knitting. But now I’m not, sorry.

My brain is fried. Exhausted. Too much work, too little sleep, and the added stress and excitement of getting a lot done in a short amount of time. Yesterday I gave the key to our new tenant, and I left her there. In my condo. Which is now her apartment. I don’t live there anymore.

I don’t WANT to live there anymore. But it’s weird to sell the space to someone. She’ll be cozy there. She’ll be one taking the baths in the clawfoot tub. (Why didn’t I take my last bathe while I still could?) She’ll be listening to the traffic. I hope she loves it. She certainly seems like a doll.

I was all, like, professional and stuff. I said, "I want to be the best landlord EVER!" and then I did a little hop to emphasize the point. "So call me! For anything! If anything breaks, I’ll fix it!"

She said, "I’ll really keep it nice for you. I promise."

"But I’ll get things fixed! Put nails in the wall! You’ll scratch the hardwood floor like I did, and who cares? Shit happens! Just call! I’ll help!"

She said, "I used to manage an apartment building, so I’m pretty handy."

CALL ME! I wanted to scream, but I nodded coolly and stopped jumping up and down. "Sure, that’s cool. I get it."

Then Clara and I left and went to the beach where I felt very grown up and weird, and she felt like a border collie who wanted to herd waves (she’s very good, thank you for asking).

I forgot I had these cookies! Hang on.

Yep. Still as good as they were ten minutes ago.

See, me back on midnight shift lets you in for this kind of thing. Saintly Lala was great yesterday morning when I got home. I’d been up and running for more than 24 hours following a sleepless PMS-insomnia night. I got LOST going home. Seriously. I was trying to get through Pleasanton on surface streets, avoiding a pile-up on westbound 580, and I totally twisted myself up. I couldn’t call work for directions home, because I would have cried. I didn’t have a map. So I literally headed for the hills, knowing Oakland lay that direction.

Yeah, wrong hills. I was almost to Fremont (got to Sunol) by the time I figured out my mistake. Timesaving, not so much.

I got home and dissolved into those big tired sobs that don’t make any sense. Also, I needed to make the bed right NOW, with Lala still in it. This is true.

She just kept saying shhhh.
Shhhh.
Shhhhh.

She left the room to take a shower so she could go to work, and when she came back in, I was dead to the world. Lovely, lovely sleep.

I’m at work now, dreaming of sleep. And eating the best fig newtons. And deciding that I really don’t care for knitting lace. But I LOVE cables. I must do cables soon. Very soon. Screw all this other stuff I’m working on and can’t seem to finish (except socks. Finishing lots of boring socks lately).

I hope you’re sleeping now, well and deeply. Or if you’re east of me, I hope your coffee is strong, and the sky is clear and cool. That’s what I wish.

Also, hello to reader Linda, who spotted me and Miss Idaho at the Bulb today! Actually, all the dogs were with me, but Clara was being a spaz, and Miss ID was the superstar. Thanks for reading, Linda (who is not Marie-Claire, and I have no idea why I thought you said your name was that — that doesn’t sound ANYTHING like Linda) and Daughter.

Today I had the handyman come over. Actually, I had a lot of handymen at the condo, repairing things. I hired David yesterday, when he came to take a look at the place. Then he came out today with two guys that turned into seven during the last check. They filled the place, workers everywhere. It’s a small place. There were a lot of arms and tools and dust and stuff. Weird.

I wanted them to open the painted-shut windows. I figure that must be some kind of safety/fire violation, even though I’d never worried about it when I lived there. I figured they’d crack the paint, they’d use their brute force to wrench the windows up in their sashes, and we’d be in business.

So I left. Almost two years ago, on The Very First Day that I ever lived in my own condo-sweet-condo, I dropped the toilet tank lid on the floor, cracking off the corner. I just turned the lid around, even though it didn’t fit. For two years I looked at the grayish back of the tank, which looked better than the big huge chip. So today, I drove to Urban Ore, a great salvage yard near the water in Berkeley. Sixteen bucks got me a new (old) lid. Looks great.

I took it to the condo to find the windows REMOVED. Sashes dismantled, the cords on the floor. The guys just nodded and smiled and said it would be fine.

I went back a couple of hours later, to find them finishing up. I had windows that went both up AND down. Easily. Fresh paint on the sills, that matched the old stuff. I had a cabinet in the kitchen that stayed closed (I used to use scotch tape to close it). I had a rear storage unit with sliding doors that were on their tracks.

Best of all, I had a back security door with a deadbolt that TURNED! It turned, just by turning it, without using all my body weight slammed against the door to make it go. I lived there a year and a half, and never knew these things were possible.

I tell ya. Getting things square with the real owner of the unit next door, and getting a renter (keys go to her tomorrow), have been such a huge weight off my shoulders. I hadn’t realized how much it was affecting me. My heart used to sink just a little every time I’d pass the offramp for the condo, and I’d look at it from the freeway (you can practically knock on the glass of it from 580), and I’d think, sigh. I’d really think the word, sigh.

But now. I have a new spring in my step, a new toilet tank lid, and windows that open. I’m going to be the best landlord ever.

Additionally: It’s weird. It’s really weird. WEIRD. Landlord. I can’t be one of those. I still sleep with a security pillow next to me. Dude.

How eternally tired I am of dealing with the HOA crap that you have all come to know and love. Did I mention that the non-owner-asshat ripped out the back deck? That his unit and mine SHARE? And then did nothing, leaving it a dirt hole, claiming that he thought he had verbal approval (after we had discussed everyone getting independent bids, and no, he was NOT welcome to submit one), and when he found out he didn’t, he just stopped working.

The good news: We found the real owner, Sarah. And she appears to be a sensible sort, thank all the gods that live in small houses. She’s in a difficult situation, a he-said-she-said kind of thing, but she’s paying all back dues, the check is mailed, and I believe her. She’s Jose’s ex, so she must know something about him, I suppose.

We’ll get this place fixed up if it kills us. However, it’s been a bitch to rent out, partly because of the dirt hole at the back door, and partly because I hate going over there, knowing he might be home. I’d hate to run into him right now, especially with the last few days of flying emails. So I’m showing it to four or five people in the next couple of days — think good thoughts! We’re broke! Need the rent! Sometimes it’s just so hard, putting myself in a situation where I’m not comfortable, where there might be personal verbal conflict, which I HATE. It stresses me out. All day today, I’ve been mildly anxious and worried, knowing I have to go over there at 1pm, which is crap, because, really, I love that little place. Ack.

Also: Anyone know a good, honest, cheap contractor that I should contact in the East Bay Area to rebuild a wooden stairway, and a back lower and upper deck? Give me some refs, baby. I know you got ’em. (Also need a CHEAP handyman — got some doors that need work in helping to close easily, and some windows that are painted shut, that type of thing. Bless you, in advance.)

On a happy, fibery note, I had a lovely weekend. Bookended by knitting happenings, it was just one of those nice times. I had time off of work due to a friend being VERY nice and working for me two nights in a row. So my weekend started with a night at Nancy’s house, all lesbians, mostly knitters. I finished a pair of Baudelaire socks while there, and those bossy knitters MADE me take a picture so that I’d actually post knitting content.

So, under only faint duress, I give you some very pretty socks:

Very nice pattern, highly recommended. And for a person who, when it comes right down to it, HATES to knit lace socks, these are pretty painless. And PRETTY.

So I had a wonderful evening at Nancy and Adriana’s house. It was really something I needed, great food, great conversation, great women. I was glowing when I came home.

The next day was supposed to be Lambtown. I was going to watch border collies work sheep and buy fiber. Then I realized I HAVE a border collie (I can pretend the sheep, just watch me), and I have enough fiber. Really, I do. And as stated, we need a renter. Until renter, no fiber. That’s the deal. So I stayed home with Lala, which was a much better thing to do, anyway.

Then Bolinas — the regular fun, good show, good people (lotsa knitters! Props to my knitters!), and, unfortunately, a guy named Dustin and a bottle of Crown Royale. Stupid Dustin from Vegas with his stories of bacon martinis. I had the mother of a hangover the next day, the likes of which I haven’t seen in years. I started out kinda okay, able to eat and drive and pack and unpack the car which was full of instruments and dogs.

Once home and out with my girl Mandy (see, didn’t I tell you? All knitting fun this weekend, all the time), the hangover really kicked in. I was miserable. So happy, so overjoyed to see her, so happy to meet her awesome friend Susie, but, oh, the spins I was in. And the embarrassment was almost as bad as the headache. They were sweet to me, though, and only laughed a little when, in front of me at the cafe I had: iced coffee, V-8, water, and 7-Up. I just couldn’t decide what would help. Lala was a SAINT, I tell you.

    Susie, Saintly Lala, me, and Mandy

After that, I went down for the count for a nap and got up feeling more human, and then we got to go to Janine’s, who was in town! I tell you, it doesn’t get better than this. We heart Janine, in a big way. More hanging out with excellent people, and more knitting.

Look! I’m so proud! Actual knitting content! Yay!

*Added later – I rented it! I did! What an awesome day — things with Sarah the Real Owner are working out, and I had an amazing hour of showing the place to four people, all of whom loved it. I debated — should I rent it to the hot sporty lesbian (represent) or to the lovely Peace Corps gal named Hope who teaches elementary school? I wanted to help the community and rent it to our sporty jock (her g/f and dog were cute, too), but I bonded more with Hope. She’d be someone I’d pick as a friend, and her references were awesome. Also, her lease is up in seven days, so I’m giving her the keys in six. Couldn’t be more perfect. Now I really need those handyman/contractor suggestions……

Oh, frabjous day!

I have an Master of Fine Arts in English and Creative Writing from Mills College. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever done, and I’m now answering 911 (but still writing). Finally, someone is going to address the after-the-MFA questions. Like, do you want fries with that? Where do we go after the MFA? Why did we get one?

After The MFA.

I’m using dog training techniques on people. Okay, on one person. In dog training, or at least the kind I’m using with good success so far on Clara, when the dog does something you don’t want her to do, you ignore her. You remove attention. Then you praise her when she does what you want.

There’s a person in my life (I won’t mention in which arena I know her — I know she doesn’t know that I blog, but someone who knows her might, so I won’t specify further) that drives me up a flipping wall. Up the wall to the point that my stomach turns into little knots of irritation. She talks. And talks. And talks. And talks.

Without point. Ad nauseum. About nothing.

And then she talks some more. And she talks mean.

I’m a nice gal. I like to respond politely to everyone who speaks to me. It’s one of the obligations in life, I think. As a good human, you honor the voices of others.

However. There’s a line, people.

This gal talks nothing but crap, too, did I mention that? She criticizes EVERYONE, but she does it in that dreadful passive-aggressive way, "Did you notice that Jane Doe has gained weight? Boy, I wonder what her husband thinks about that. Have you noticed? I wonder how much she’s gained. What do you think? How much do you guess she’s gained?"

Then she’ll repeat the exact same sentiment, same phrasing, an hour later. And the next day. I’m not exaggerating here.

Or she says the same thing, over and over, even if you pretend not to hear the first time. "I have to get gasoline today." Nothing. "I can’t believe I have to get gas already." I nod. "It’s just so expensive. I thought I just fueled up the other day. I hate getting gas. Don’t you?"

I guess I can’t convey how irritating it is. It sounds pretty innocuous, written like that. It’s the WAY she says things that grates on me. It’s the way she keeps talking, even when I am obviously busy doing something else, even when I snap at her, which I occasionally do to my everlasting regret. I snap, she backs off, and then she’s back to talking.

So, while in my Buddhist-in-law mind I try to think of her as my excellent teacher, as someone just trying to achieve happiness and avoid suffering, I’m also trying some dog training on her.

It’s working!

When I’m doing something and don’t want to be interrupted, and she talks about something completely trivial, or worse, mean-spirited, I ignore her. I may be quite close to her, and I don’t turn around. I can obviously hear her. And I just ignore her. Completely.

Then, when I’m not busy, I initiate polite, friendly conversation. She doesn’t seem to notice or mind my new method (I would, if someone were totally ignoring me), and she’s talking to me less when I’m obviously busy. It’s truly kind of amazing. I like her way better now.

Good girl!

PS – Bolinas tomorrow night! Come see the Whoreshoes in the best possible venue.