Rachael

You all are too much. I am overwhelmed with your response. Haven’t even made it through my reading of all the fabulous, loving, comments, but several people wanted to know where they could throw their money. Funny you should ask.

Until July 31st, any contribution you make to the Human Rights Campaign (the largest group working for gay rights) will be matched by Bruce Bastian, a donor and HRC Board Member. Think about it, your donation of any amount will be doubled, how cool is that? Go HERE and click on the link to the right in red.

MWAH!

The rage doesn’t get me often. In the face of all the world’s sadnesses and atrocities and wars and genocides and stupid politicians making permanent black marks on the soul of the planet, I listen and wish and hope for the best. I’m political in my own quiet way: here, on this blog, with friends, in public when it’s necessary.

But the state execution of the two gay teenagers in Iran has me seriously shaken. It happened a week ago today, and I bet you didn’t even know about it, did you? It had me so upset that I tried to put it out of my mind, which I can’t, and shouldn’t.

Two teenagers, Mahmoud Asgari, 16, and Ayaz Marhoni, 18, were held in prison for fourteen months (fourteen MONTHS), and were lashed 228 times. They were accused of having sex with each other and of raping another 13 year old boy. They did admit to having consensual sex with each other, but human rights groups believes they were coerced into these admissions, and there is speculation that the rape charge was fraudulent, an attempt to avoid international censure.

Iran’s Sharia law calls for the death penalty for gay sex, and girls can be killed at age nine, boys at age fifteen. Unimaginable.

They were hanged, publicly, a week ago today. Babies, both of them. Their mothers watching. The whole country watching. Ten percent of Iran’s population knowing that the same could happen to them if they ever admitted to their illegal predilection.

Ali Asgari, in a quote to the Iran Focus, said, "These individuals were corrupt. Their sentence was carried out with the approval of the judiciary and it served them right."

I saw still photos of them, being led out to the execution, crying. There aren’t words for the horror of it.

And here, in much lesser but still shaking news, two days ago California approved a ballot initiative aiming  to add an amendment banning same-sex marriage. Attorney General Bill Lockyer reworded the title of it from "The Voters’ Right to Protect Marriage Act" to "Marriage. Elimination of Domestic Partnership Rights." That’s right, Bill. Call it what it is.

The measure would void and restrict registered domestic partner rights from things like hospital visits. Adoption. Insurance benefits. Little unimportant things like these.

According to Seth Kilbourn, VP of HRC’s Marriage Project, it would "strip away more rights from more families that any other proposal we have seen in any other state." It would permanently ban all legal protections. And two similar ballot measures are expected to get initial approval this week, also.

Lala and I had a conversation about this a while back. We knew that no matter what, no matter how we felt about it, we’d end up being political.

See, we’re getting married.

Yup.

Some of you already knew — it’s not like it’s been a big secret, but we took our time telling family and friends, so I’ve taken my time blogging it. (It was decidedly delicious, those first few weeks, when no one knew, not even family. Such a lovely secret to carry around. And then I had the ring, the sweet gold antique ring from the 1880s, and just glancing at it gave me such a thrill. Still does.)

It’s early, see, but we’ve known for a long time, since maybe month two or three, even though neither of us admitted as much to each other until month six. (No, we won’t go into the proposal. It was mutual. She may have said the word first, but I was hot on her heels. Then we were terrified. In the good way.)

I never saw this coming. I never planned to be married. Wasn’t important to me. Then suddenly, it was.

She’s the one for me. She’s smart, funny, and one of the kindest people I’ve ever been lucky enough to meet. She’s hot. She makes me want to be a better person. I don’t have to babysit her in a crowd. She knits. She’s a kick-ass musician. And just sitting on the couch doing nothing with her is the best place in the whole world to be.

No one can tell me that’s wrong. No one can tell me God thinks it’s wrong, because He doesn’t. A small-minded, bigoted person’s small-minded lesser deity might think it’s immoral, but who cares? I don’t care about your tiny, wrathful god.

But let’s fight for love, shall we? Isn’t it good, finding it where we can? Who would stop happiness? Only someone terrified of what was in their own heart. But that’s not us, is it?

Instead, we cross our fingers and look at stars and wish for forgiveness and acceptance in Iran, and we wish for the United States to realize that this is really about civil rights. We won’t allow America to demote us to second-class citizens. We won’t be pushed to the back of the bus. You’ll help, right? You’ll donate money to the right places, to the wheels that turn the cogs in the right places, and you’ll speak out loud, even if you’re scared?

Lala and I, who want to be together, to live our lives together, as a family, thank you.

Oh, and I’m knitting the wedding dress.

    Engaged.

Queer as Folk? Love it. Going out with a bang, isn’t it? Nothing subtle or delicate about the show, but I love the way they whamBAM into American politics and policies of hatred and bigotry, with cute Canadian accents and no apologies. And last week’s episode (no spoilers) had me bawling. Sobbing. Well done, QAF.

Did you see Ryan’s camping trip? Now that’s a howler, and in a good way. As is Greta’s typo. Heh. Go there. They’re interesting. I’m fighting the very onset of a migraine, and might just try one of the myriad drugs the neurologist sent home with me (oh, she was a good doctor. Spent time, listened, asked questions, seemed interested, roundly told me I was fine, with regular old migraines triggered by hormones and sinuses. Just as I had told MY doctor, who hadn’t listened and forwarded me on. Oh, well. At least I came out with boxes and boxes of samples to try).

Adah says we’re sleepy. Time for bed for all of us.

Man! Thanks for the veggie comments in the last post! I love them, and they made me feel hungry just reading them, and I actually made a stir-fry and fed it to Lala, and it was good. Really good. Not just okay-for-vegetables good. This green shit might not be half-bad. Thanks for making me my own little recipe book!

So, in return, just for you all, I put on sweaters in a heat wave. Feel the love, baby, because I felt the heat. Okay, not really true, because I took these pictures at home early in the morning, after a twelve hour shift, and it was cool in the house. But still. I sacrifice, for you.

First up for the morning, we have the Autism Cause. Our own darling Greta wrote the pattern. Go HERE to purchase, all for a good cause.

Note Digit posing. Ham. The yarn is handspun Targhee from Maryland Sheep and Wolf, unknown vendor (Deanna, do you remember where I got it? I remember you commenting on it). Sproingy is the only word for this stuff. Okay, and bright is the other word that sproings to mind.

LOVE the dropped stitches. Note Digit still trying to get into the frame. Excellent cause, excellent pattern, and very, very fun.

Next on the Finished Object List:
Lara. (You’d think I’d save these up, and sprinkle them in posts to come, perfect blog fodder, but I’m kind of an all or nothin’ gal.)

Specs:
Pattern: Debbie Bliss’s Lara, size medium
Yarn: Handspun Rambouillet (came predyed)
Needles: 3US

I love the effect that knitting it side-to-side in one piece made on the self-stripeyness of it. And I have to say that I LOVE THIS PATTERN. I adore how I had absolutely NO idea how the sweater would be put together, had no idea most of the time whether I was knitting the back or the front. I just followed her instructions, and they were perfect. I cast off, shook the piece around a little, sewed two seams and an inch or three at the neckline, and I had a sweater.

A little truer to color here:

This was, I need you to know, the moment at which I became punch-drunk with tiredness from staying up all night on no sleep.

Things like this happen when I’m this tired:

Yep, that’s Stef’s smart One Skein Wonder. (And Becky, that’s the Luscious Manos yarn you gave me for my birthday! Thanks, doll!) I’m a little dancey in this one. Couldn’t help it. Had to shake.

   
My back porch had better light than indoors, so I was out there taking goofball shots at six in the morning, not caring a whit until my new neighbor drove down the driveway and shot me a whatthehell look. I did that whole straighten-the-face thing and pretended I was photographing the flowers. Then I set this up, which was kinda obvious it wasn’t about the flowers, I suppose:

It’s a little big, and I cast off TOO loosely, so it’s got rather a ruffled appearance. I like it, though.

I like it so much I had to party a little more:

There’s actually a whole montage on my camera, showing me making faces and snapping the shutter, and then snapping the shutter again immediately, photographing my goofy laughing face. It’s fun to scroll through. Not so fun to blog about, but I couldn’t resist one more:

And don’t click on this next popup photo if you’re made insecure by my sheer hotness. I mean it. Don’t click. You will weep from the Hot Rachael.

I am knitting lace.

It is the summer for it, isn’t it? More on it later, but can I just talk about row eleven? The poorly written, problematic row eleven, which for the first 5 repeats NEVER worked (but did I rip it out? Heck, no. Don’t you know me at all?) but now suddenly works just fine. Nine is a little wonky sometimes. I just add another stitch or purl two together and it evens out, and no one will ever notice, but still. I’d like to know how I did it wrong so many times (searching the internet for the errata, finding none, thinking a-HA! I’m the only one to find this error. And indeed I was. The error in my head).

Also, my tummy hurts. I’ve been eating well lately in the Battle of the Triglycerides, and apparently I don’t do much eating well, or at least my stomach is telling me that. Suddenly asked to digest things like broccoli and brown rice and fruit, it’s rebelling. Give me a nice coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, and I’m fine. Salad, not so much.

Plus, I don’t cook, so I’m at a loss. I throw myself on your cooking knowledge, tines down. Can you help?

I need ways to eat veggies that don’t suck. Also, I need methods that are EASY. Keep in mind that steaming veggies and then stir-frying them is do-able, but one step more than I’d like. In fact, I went to work last night with broccoli and beans in a bag, brown rice pre-made at home, tamari at hand to stir-fry up, and I was too lazy. Well, not technically true. I was strapped to the police radio most of the night and unable to dash to the kitchen to cook, so I ate premade salad and apples with peanut butter (peanut butter is a vegetable, right? In Rachaeland it SO is).

So. Tell me. What’s your favorite, low-fat, easy way to eat those stupid things grown in the ground? (Ann confessed to me recently that she likes red bell peppers more than chocolate. That is just sick and wrong, darlings, much as we love her. Not as wrong, however, as when I told Lala about this, and she said, "Wow. What about red bell peppers WITH chocolate? That could be good!")

Please? And can you tell me why row eleven evened out while you’re at it? Mysteries.

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.