Rachael

I am Google hit number two for that phrase. My work is done.

Bad sleep-brain today. I either like to sleep in on Tuesday mornings until about noon, or go back to bed if I get up in the morning and take a good nap, since it’s my Monday and I’m going to work all night.

Today, however, I got home from going out to coffee with Lala nice and early, and then I did things. You know those mornings, where you make all the unpleasant calls you have to make, and then you think of more you could make, and call those people too because it hasn’t killed you yet. It’s not like I’m calling debtors or debtees, nothing unhappy like that, but I was taking care of things like the HOA insurance of which I seem to be in charge (and NO ONE wants to renew our insurance — companies aren’t happy to take new HOA clients, and we have to leave our old insurance because of an ex-owner’s screw-up). Calls for that. Been struggling with that for two months. Calls about housing — should we rent out my place and rent another place when we move in together, or should we sell my little condo and buy something bigger?

All right, that’s the thing that kept me from napping, right there. Erg. I can’t even think about it. It’s exciting (I typoed sexciting, so it must be), but the stress we’re in for! It was hard enough to buy. It must be so much harder to sell and buy at the same time. And if we rent, we’ll still have to MOVE, my third move in two years, and Lala’s twenty-seventh or something like that. We just kind of groan when we start thinking about it. But I wanna live with her. Isn’t that the weirdest? It is. I do. It’s awesome. And such a problem to have. Diamonds on the soles of my shoes and all that. But still puts the brain into spin-cycle.

So not much nap today, which means that by about 4:30am I’ll be uncomfortably stupid. Not sleepy, because the job and adrenaline keep me awake, but I’ll be able to feel my brain turning into a plate of spaghetti. The phone will ring, it’ll be a crisis, my head will clear, I’ll ask the questions and send the right help and do the right research, and be quick and smart and fast, and then I’ll go back to doing my own writing and forget how to spell "floor." I’ll just sit there and stare at it, willing myself to remember, which is a stunningly good time-waster.

Enough babbling. I’m so upset about Alison’s loss. It’s so awful to lose an animal, but to lose one to something as crude and ugly as an automobile adds egregious insult to what’s already unbearable. Remember when we met Bea? In Taiwan? Oh, I’m just so sad. And my heart hurts for Al.

This is for our Bea, may she be climbing palms and walls and piles o’yarn just around the corner, where we can’t quite see her:

https://rachaelherron.com/bad_sleepbrain_/

I just went for a run. Doesn’t that sound good? Doesn’t that make me sound all healthy and crap? No, it was the first run in more than a week (which had been the first run in more than a week, also), and strangely, I ran the first ten or fifteen minutes amazingly well. I felt like I could run to Seattle. Yeah! Got this licked!

Then my side cramped and I forgot how to breathe, and I ended up half-stomping, half-jogging home, looking like an idiot.

That’s the thing about this running thing — I love love love it as a form of exercise that I can get done in the MINIMUM amount of time. I woke up at 3:55pm, rolled into my shoes and bra-with-only-one-wire, and I was out the door by 4pm, before my brain could formulate the necessary discouraging sentences. Back by 4:32, and watering the garden by 4:33. That’s the good part.

The bad part is that if you have a week in which you travel, have PMS, and then a migraine, you won’t run for a week and your body says, "HA! I have now successfully forgotten that you ran a marathon in December and a half-marathon six weeks ago. You suck! Go back and eat twinkies and cry!" It’s good that my body doesn’t actually speak, because that would just be mean, but that’s what it feels like.

That’s not what I started to say, though. What I started to say was, Now we’re talking. During the run, I noticed it was fall. Oh, hallelujah, and I know I can get a knitter’s amen. That silly heat thing that summer offers is for the birds. The leaves are turning, and the sky is heavy with cold cloudy fog, and there’s a slight chill wind. I’m in heaven. Time to knit! Time to be cozy!

I wish I had more time to be cozy. You know? Must work on that.

Also: I just got a funny-as-hell email from a reader named Anne, and I hope she won’t mind if I quote her:

On a dorky note, I just had to mention that although I’ve been reading
your blog for ages, I’ve always been reluctant to comment since I have
no blog of my own.  Though I’ve thought about it… but can the
blogosphere really support one more obsessively-knitting, cat-owning,
liberal-leaning, self-doubting grad student?  Maybe someday I’ll find
out.

Well, if she writes like you, the blogosphere will support her. Cracked me UP.

Off for a bath, and then to work, and then THE WEEKEND. Enjoy. Be cozy.

Loving Josephine. I’m thinking handspun.

I know you’ve seen it here by now, but DAMN, knitters rock.
At the time of this post, they’ve donated to the Red Cross:

$65,516

That’s dollars! Holy crap! That’s straight out of our yarn-purse, isn’t it? That’s more than sixty-five thousand dollars that would have been spent on fiber, I’m sure of it.

I’m so proud of us.

We’re back. And oh, did we have a good time. I’ve finally figured out which instrument I play best at music festivals — it’s the spinning wheel. But more on that later. I know you like pictures. Who doesn’t?

Bethany, Lala and I drove up on Thursday morning. My absolute least favorite thing about a music festival is picking the camping spot, and it’s something I usually get stuck with. I tried to be philosophical about it — there would be enough space, and we’d find it. And so we did, after driving around and kicking up dust and getting stuck once (we thought the sign that read "Grateful Dead End" was a camp name, not an actual indication that there was no way out and very little room in which to turn around).

Because of course you need a camp name. Ours is technically Camp Vegemite, although we go by Camp PACE, because we always mark our campsite with a very large, very gay-looking Italian peace flag. (It’s not a gay flag, although when I went to Italy right after this war started and saw them flying from almost every window, I felt very welcomed, I can tell you.)

We found our site. It was on a pretty good slant, but big enough for all six of us and all four of our cars. I know, we should be ashamed. But we all came up at different times….. So the first order of the day was hanging the flag so the trailing camp members would be able to find us.

Luckily we brought along a monkey to take care of this:

It’s always smart to use a bike for a ladder, I think. And yo, the hammock ROCKED the camp.

The music was pretty good. Not as good as other years, and Bela freakin’ Flek played TWO NIGHTS in a row, when just one was just a bit too much (technically, yes, he’s a genius. But he leaves me cold).

We loved in particular Devil Makes Three, a band I’ve adored for years now. And we loved our new find Nathan from Winnipeg (winner of the worst band name ever, they sound like the Ditty Bops but are actually even better, and have richer songs, and are just cute as heck).

There was knitting done in, even in the heat.

Lala knitted, too. Check out the guy pointing at her.

There was goofing with the sisters.

And some more.

Lala was a cowboy.

As was my dad.

And there was spinning! Hoo boy, was there spinning. I’m used to hanging out with Lala and her little dogs. When you’re with a five-pound long-haired crazy-tongued chihuahua, you’re used to being a celebrity. Everyone wants to talk to you. That’s one thing. Another thing altogether is the attention you get when you spin in public, especially in an environment as friendly as a music festival. Everyone stops to ask questions or tell stories or stare and point. The menfolk, in particular, are the most fascinated. Women smiled more and ventured things like, "What is that? I knit, are you making yarn? My mother had a spinning wheel." Men, however, say things like, "Dude! That’s amazing! How does it work? Does it come apart? How does it fold? What’s the gear ratio? Can I push this thing? What do you call that over there? How does the tension work? How much did it cost? What’s it made of?"

And the kids like it, too.

My favorite moment was when I was spinning in camp and two boys came through, one about ten, the other about seventeen. The ten-year old said, "Whoa. That’s TIGHT!" The seventeen-year old said, "Damn, that’s HELLA tight." I seriously thought this was so great that I got all tongue-tied and said something like, "Heh. Yeah. Cool." They wandered off, still saying "tight!"

Major coup, that.

(I take this moment to yet again realize that I am living in such a good time — knitting and bluegrass are in vogue, and spinning is becoming known, thank goodness. I will be out of vogue again, and probably sooner rather than later, but I’m used to being a big nerd, and I’m SO enjoying this time.)

I was spinning from some brownish/green/orange merino I’d bought from Carolina Homespun, making a double-ply sport-weight. I didn’t bring enough bobbins, so after I’d plied a couple, I wound them right off the wheel into center-pull balls, no setting the twist or anything (ooh, the cheek!). Then I cast on for a sock for my La, which I worked on at night in the dark, listening to main stage. It was really fun, being able to show curious people not only the fiber and the yarn on the wheel, but also the knitted object.

Didn’t it turn out nice?

Last thing: The gal that camped next to us also arrived on Thursday, and we laughed about her big blow-up monkey (Camp Jug-o-Monkeys). Later, Lala heard herself introduce herself as Christy to someone. Lala said to me, "I wonder if that’s my best friend Christy from sixth grade, from Illinois. I haven’t seen her in twenty-five years, but I bet she would look something like that."

I, of course, thought she was stark raving nuts, and intimated as much, but she wouldn’t let it go. Christy’s a pretty common name, I thought. New Baden, Illinois, is pretty damn far away and TINY, and she hadn’t seen her since she was eleven or twelve.

Turns out it was her. Camping RIGHT next to us. I’m to be chided for not believing. See Lala for the full run-down, but it was truly the neatest thing. Not only was it the same person, but Christy had turned into someone really great, someone with good taste in music and blow-up toys. She could have turned into anyone, you know? What a good surprise it must have been to find out that your childhood friend wasn’t just your friend because you lived on the same block, but because they really were inherently nice.

Oh, and I’m so done with portapotties for another year. Four and a half days are just too much, and I have a pretty high tolerance.

And air mattresses are insanely great.

Oh, yeah, and I’m learning the fiddle.

I think that’s it.