Rachael

Sorry I’ve been AWOL — I was going to blog from work, but they’ve decided in their wisdom to remove the internet again, as our 1.5 page hits an hour were too much (of COURSE that looks like a lot per month — the brass forgets that we’re a 3-person 24-hour operation. Sheesh. Anyway.)

So I’ll just lay on you some of the emails I’ve been getting from Mom and Christy, who are in Paris right now. Hope they won’t mind, but they’re too good not to share. Oh, I wish I was there, too…. 

From Mom:

Bonjour  –

Life in Paris is not so much pink as grey, though the
city is beautiful anyway and right at the moment the
sun is shining.   Our hotel is fine, a tiny place with
about twenty rooms ranged up a steep circular
staircase; we’re on the fourth floor, so we’re getting
in shape fast.   Room is bare bones but comfortable;
to get to the bathroom you go up a short flight of
stairs and step out into the void  –  actually go onto
an outdoor landing and into the little room on the
other side of it.   Fun at night.   

Location is great,
looking down on a tiny triangular park on the Ile de
la Cité, in the middle of the Seine, minutes from
Notre Dame and the Sainte Chapelle.
So far, in addition to just rambling, we’ve been to
the Rodin Museum and the Musée d’Orsay, where we spent
yesterday afternoon happily surrounded by
Impressionist paintings.   

Good (and frequent) food,
lots of walking, always with an eye on the sky.   It’s
cold, but our layers of clothing keep us warm; rain
this morning but the sun is out now;  possibility of
snow tomorrow, but we’re planning a three-day trip to
Mont St Michel, over on the coast.   
Not much shopping yet, but plenty of temptation.

We’re in an internet cafe, and now they’re playing
Piaf  –  someone must have looked over my shoulder. 
A short letter is all you’re going to get because it
takes me forever to navigate this crazy European
keyboard  –  more soon.

And from Christy:

I just made reservations for the train to Mt. St. Michel – we are staying in Pontorson. Remember when we stayed there? And I ordered that big huge plate of mussels without knowing what it was and we ate the whole thing and giggled. That was fun.

Man, I’m tired.  this woman is running me ragged.  I tried to go back to sleep after breakfast this morning and she only let me sleep for, like 20 minutes before she made me get up again.

Oh, my god. I remember how she wore OUT my feet in Italy. Two months after cancer surgery, she walked my little legs off. I couldn’t keep up. (And word to the wise: She kicks in her sleep. Get two beds, Christy. I mean it.)

So. I want things. You know how sometimes you feel selfish for wanting something? I do, a little bit. But I’ll tell you what I want.

I want to take my girl to Maryland Sheep and Wool. But I’m house-poor. After the mortgage payment and reg’lar bills, I’ve got nothin’ left at the tail end of the paycheck. So I need a plan.

World? Meet the plan. A new Cafepress Store! All proceeds go (totally selfishly) to getting me’n’La to the barns.

Woot!

That’s such a non-creative name for a sweater, isn’t it? What shall we name the baby, people? Let’s call it…. Oh, screw it. I can’t think of anything good, so I’ll just show ya.

Yes, it’s rather a cleavagey sweater. I did have that in mind when I made it (nice side note: At Stitches, Interweave Knits’ Sandi said she liked it and would like to see something from me! Woot! I don’t know if I’m up to the math, but there are programs that would help with that, I’m sure…. What’s your favorite?)

Specs:
Yarn: ArtFibers Jadis, alpaca — It was made as a store model for them.
Pattern: Made it up, and took the fair isle design from an out of print book called Fabulous Fair Isle.  Kira at the store will be able to use their software to design the same pattern for you iffen you want, and I’m going to write a page of mods for the fair isle/crochet bits.

The obligatory, and rather manic, Rachael (I was running late for work, as usual):

On the bed:

And a close up of the actual color:

Yep, that’s a crocheted border edging that came out of desperation. For some reason I thought a three row moss stitch border wouldn’t roll. And then it rolled (surprise! gotcha!) and I freaked out, thinking, oh, man, this was free yarn, shop-model yarn, I better fix it. So I slapped the crochet on, and it’s the part that people seem to like best. Who knew? I’m pretty happy with it.

And know what else I’m happy with? A fabulous little thrift store find that curled my toes in deep red love. Check this out:

This is Estonian, hand-made, and had the Cyrillic tags still attached. Okay, it’s a kid’s sweater. Who cares? I call it sexy (which means tight, in most languages).

Here’s a bit closer:

Cute, non? Shoot, I wish I’d made it.

All right. Nuff. Have a great weekend, all. Love on your loved ones, okay? MWAH!

I have to make Mariah. I do. As Claudia says, we could all use lots more cabled hoodies. Okay. I’m paraphrasing. But I think she would agree. Right, C?

When I was at the ginormous Thrift Town in El Sobrante the other day (best thrift store in the Bay Area, I’m convinced), I found an Irish sweater, a deep dark variegated green one, huge and lofty and scratchy and wonderful. I clicked away from KnitPicks just a minute ago, where I was dithering about ordering that yummy merino, and I’ve decided I will indeed rip the sweater up and make the Mariah sweater. (The name does make think of "they call the wind," and I’m wondering if I’ll get over that while knitting.) I’m broke, and even cheap yarn ain’t cheap enough right now. But I always worry while ripping that I won’t have enough yarn to make what I want (remember my cashmere? Still haven’t used that stuff….), and once you run out of that kind of yarn, it’s all about math and muddling. I don’t muddle well.

But I do sometimes take really spectacularly fabulous photos. I won’t even post it right on the front of the site here, in case people are eating and scrolling my site — I wouldn’t want to jolt you right out of those fabulous handknit socks you’re wearing. But this is proof that Lala and I are the hottest couple anywhere. Or at least in Oakland. Or in that ice cream shop, anyway. No, I guess her normal-looking brother and sister-in-law were there, too, so I can only say that we were the hottest couple seated in our chairs at that exact moment. Yep. Popup photo here. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

See, I was going to tell you something. I know I was. I had that thought, that oh! I’ll blog that! And it was good and funny and enlightening. I’m sure it must have been. But now I’m freaked OUT on sugar and can’t remember what it was.

I went to Long’s Drugs earlier and finally tracked down some Cadbury Creme Eggs (after running to three other stores earlier today in a tragically fruitless search). I bought ten. I actually went in meaning to buy some Excedrin Migraine for the headache I felt coming, but my hands were so full of eggs I just went to the counter. I have my priorities.

I told the checker, "Just don’t count them. Not yet."
He said, "You don’t want them all in one basket, do you?"

Anyway. Four eggs later and I’m hitting a new sugar low for 4:31 in the morning. If this post suddenly looks like this: ;alkshd aiolw ; lsdfkase; xcoix e gjvds e xd LKjh s — it’s because my forehead has hit the keyboard. (And of course I chase the eggs with milk. It’s perfect if you’re not at work. Might as well hand me a sleeping pill.)

My car is full of clean laundry, but I absolutely hate that at 5am, when I get off work, I’ll have to go home and make the bed. All I want to do is get in it, not stuff a queen-sized comforter in a full-sized duvet cover. And Digit will help. He gets under the sheets and growls terribly and purrs at the same time, attacking all the bed mice he can find. Fun on a normal day. I’m predicting annoying today. But oh, well. I’ll be asleep soon enough, god willing and the creeks don’t rise.
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Happy Valentine’s Day! Now, I normally dislike a Hallmark holiday as much as the next person, but this weekend was great. I’m only going to write a little bit, because I have to leave and get more Cadbury Creme Eggs. I’m all out, and that ain’t right.

A coupla snippets:

I stood next to Lala in the Atlas Cafe on Saturday night, listening to the Mercury Dimes play bluegrass (she says it’s old time — maybe it’s bluegrassy old time). I realized I was with my date, listening to fiddle music. That was big. I was perfectly happy. Then we went with a bunch of folks and crashed the square dance (five of us got in for $10 total, instead of the $12 per head we should have paid — Camilla is very blond). I made my girl dizzy spinnin’ her around.

Sunday, Lala and I went to Stitches, and shopped for yarn (I mostly picked up sock yarn stuff, nothin’ exciting). But I realized, yet again, she’s flipping perfect for me. It’s really rather ridiculous. Old time music, to yarn, to being lazy together all day today. I couldn’t have dreamed up a better person, period, full stop, let alone one that would love me back like this. I’m rich, and happy, and luckier than hell. (And she’s H.O.T.)

Oh, this is getting sappy, innit? I’ll break it up. Romantic vignette: For a year I lived literally around the corner from a porn store, and Lala lived not far from the same one for about three years. Now that she’s in my old place, we pass it all the time, and comment on its clientele seen going in and out (as Valentine’s Day approached this year, it became Valentine Headquarters, as declared the large red sign outside). The other night, as we made our usual jokes about going in, we actually looked at each other and said, "Wanna?" So we did, and we wandered the store giggling and pointing and probably pissing off the more serious customers.

But I did have a point. It’s this: The magazines are sorted by, well, tastes, and in with all the jugs magazines was BUST. As in Debbie Stoller. As in the clerks had never even opened the magazine; they must have just going by name. Either that or the clerk was getting a good laugh on the guys who bought it.

Heh.

Now that’s what V-Day is all about. Now off for creme eggs. And milk. A perfect dinner.