Rachael

Well. All right. I was a little hasty in yesterday’s post. The wondrous, all-powerful IT people have now restored our access, and I can resume reading about naked ladies knitting.

But.

(See, you knew there would be a but, right?) I noticed that while a great part of me was relieved, there was this  small blue part that thought, "Oh. I thought I was off the hook there. I thought that meant more book-reading time. More time to write."

Let’s examine that.

This blogging thing is one of my main joys in life. Really. I love and adore it. And you. I have no intention of stopping. But MAN, does it take a lot of time and commitment. If you know me, you know I have Catholic issues with guilt. (Never been Catholic, however, nor has anyone in my family. I was crushed when Mom told me I probably couldn’t be a nun because I wasn’t Catholic. Devastated. I’m not kidding.) Big guilty feelings happen when I don’t wash my sheets often enough, so imagine how I feel when I realize I haven’t left a comment on a person’s site in a long time, and I really like that person, and I want her to know I like her.

Then I had a rather revelatory thought. I thought about the people that I read and love who rarely, if ever, comment on my blog. I realized that I don’t mind if they don’t comment on mine. I don’t care if they don’t even read my blog. Ever. I still read them, still adore ’em, and even better, feel no obligation to leave a comment behind me when I close the window.

Do you ever feel that way? I’ve been blogging now for about three years, two of them within the knitting community (even though god knows how I got here, I almost never write about knitting), and I’ve found the people out here to be some of the most brilliant, caring people I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting. I can’t wait to read my favorite sites, and it feels like coming home when I do. But there was a moment that happened, about a year ago, maybe, when I got a wonderful comment from someone who maintained a fantastic site with unbelievably great writing, and while I was thrilled to make her acquaintance, there was a part of me that said, "Shit. That’s another fantabulous person I want to keep up on. Damn it."

Would you all just quit being so freaking awesome? Please?

So I have a rather drastic resolution. I’m going to read Bloglines like it’s goin’ out of style (please, please, please, publish an unabridged RSS feed if at all possible — it ups your chances of being read by more people by about a million percent. Or at least a little more. It might not be quite that high. But it’s higher. Jeesh). I’ll dip in and comment when I feel really moved to do so. I will not feel guilty about this. I will still adore you. I promise. I hope you adore me, too. (Damned codependent crap. Oh, well. Who doesn’t like to be liked?)

My little worrying voice is chipping away in my mind (I know, they have drugs for that, but I’m not ready for ’em just yet), asking, "Is that okay? Will that work for you?"

I say to it (myself, whatever), "Yes! It’s okay! They’re blogs, for the love of cashmere. They’re not your life."

But really, they are a large part of my life. Okay.

Okay?

Okay.

Happy weekend, all. Thanks for reading me. I’m a better person for y’all. I’m so HAPPY to know you. Big, sloppy MWAH.

I’m sick. And I have to go in to work early tonight. Bleah. Why the hell isn’t it Friday yet?

I am so annoyed. Our brilliant webmasters at work have adjusted the reading levels again so that I can’t go to any sites that are related to typepad or blogspot or livejournal, to name just a few, and I can’t access bloglines anymore, either. Because, you know, all you knitters write about sex so much. I wish you would quit posting all those naked pictures of yourselves. Sheesh. Pervs.

Our webmasters really are quite stupid, you know. Seriously. I do more complicated things on a daily basis to my computer, and I ain’t no computer hacker. Things like spyware make them scratch their  heads. Firefox? What’s that? Maybe if we block access to all sports pages (goodbye, AIDS Marathon home page), we’ll solve the virus problems. Perhaps if we prohibit all websites about "Hobbies" (goodbye, Knitty.com), we’ll make our workplace safer. Please.

Now, I know I’m lucky to have access to the internet at all while at work. But it’s a necessary perk. If you can’t read the internet, there is no humanly way possible to stay awake at four in the morning when the radio is silent and the phones aren’t ringing and you’ve said all you can say to your co-worker without going deep into the gossip bowl. Knitting is not enough at four in the morning. Writing is not enough. Hell, jumping rope wouldn’t be enough. I have seen people pass out in the middle of a sentence. It’s not pretty.

So. That is to say this: I will be commenting less. Much, much less. I choose to restrict my computer time at home to respectable levels. Sitting in front of four computer screens full-time makes me sensitive to spending much of my personal life in front of my computer at home. I’m writing, too, and that’s just more time in front of the screen. I can’t bear much more.

I’ll still browse. I’ll still access my bloglines at home and skim all my favorites (and good lord, do I have a lot of ’em). But don’t feel badly if you hear from me less, please please please. I don’t love you any less, I swear. And iffen you wanna chat, drop me a line. Or if you write a great post and want me to read it, write me and tell me. I’ll still be around, just not as visible.

But this cheered me up:

Rebecca, late of marathon completion herself, sent me a bag o’goodies to get me over the rough spots. And look! There’s a bag of foot stuff to get my poor feeties over the rough spots, too. And blister band-aids! And chocolate! (That’s all gone now.) Bless her heart.

Bless all your hearts. I hope you all know what your readership means to me. I’ve met  the best, most wonderful people through this little blog, and I see and read the world differently every day because of you. I am blessed.

And I have jelly-bellies to eat. Excuse me.

I don’t think I actually told you about knitting for ArtFibers, did I? Kira got me to make a shop model for them — it took so little time to make, and I really like it. It is, however, impossible to photograph. I’ve tried different times and different lights, and nothin’. I have a sneaking suspicion that I could take a GREAT picture of it while seated drinking wine on the Grand Canal in Venice, but I don’t really have the time or money to check that right now.

So here’s what I got.

Digit has taken to drinking the drops of water in the bathroom sink. I have no idea why, but he was making me laugh while I was attempting the mirror-shot.

Specs:
Yarn: ArtFibers, Bolero, in dark purple. I’m sure the yarn has a real color name — I just can’t remember it. Yep. Huh. Kira’ll know.
Pattern: Kira wrote it for me using their store pattern generator. And if you buy the yarn from her (even over the phone), she’ll write one for you, to your size and gauge.

See? There’s your commercial for the day. ArtFibers rocks.

And baby Luna came over the other day, and I got to see her in the little ballerina sweater I made her.

Her brother Winter likes his french fries, just like his fairy godmother Rachael.

Enough for now. I’m fighting something off, feeling like I’m about a minute away from having the flu. Common after a marathon, I’m told. Erg. I’m going to sleep ALL day today. You should, too.

I feel so behind in EVERYTHING. Oh, my body hurts. I haven’t done much today, and I’ve got nothing to prove it. See? Nothin’. I groan when I stand, and walking downhill is almost impossible. I’m a big fat whiner. A big fat whiner who’s going to be lacking yet another toenail in a couple of days, when it decides to desert me like the others have.

But I’m still riding high on the memory of coming across that finish line, dammit. Oh, yeah.
Lala’s been taking good care of me, and I can almost walk again. I think with extensive physical therapy, I might heal up, in, say, thirty or forty years. She’s going to need to work pretty hard on my therapy, though. Good thing she likes me.

Actually, it’s a really good thing she likes me, because her dogs stayed over at my house last night, which would have just been awkward and embarrassing if she didn’t like me. We introduced them a few days ago. Digit stood his ground, good little (wo)man, and only bitch-slapped Marathoner Harriet once. No injuries. Miss Idaho, the five-pound chihuahua-wonder, didn’t even seem to notice the cats. Adah, who I thought wouldn’t notice anything, went up a bookcase and stayed there. Not a bad start, I thought.

They came to visit last night, and the cats’ feeder (me) fell asleep during Regency House Party (while DB Alpaca Silk was being knitted above my head and brushing my cheek—how is THAT for pleasant dreams?), and we just couldn’t go to Lala’s house. Mostly because I was asleep. And crippled. So we stayed.

Digit got on the bed in the middle of the night, not realizing that there was a five-pound chihuahua-wonder already in residence. It took a while, but eventually Miss Idaho sneezed or put her pencil down or something, and Digit realized he was sharing the bed with a D.O.G. Then he went back to sleep, which made me SO happy. Then he went to the bathroom (presumably to go to the bathroom) and was Bounced by Harriet, and he refused to come out again. He slept under the clawfoot tub for the rest of the night. But there was no blood shed, and I think they’re going to be civil-like. Hooray! I like a blended family, how about you?

(As soon as the cats recovered this morning? My friend Monica came over with her toddler and newborn. The cats took to the closet, horrified. It was Just Too Much.)

So that was fun.

Not so much fun was finding La’s car window smashed, but I gotta tell you: Her reaction, dismay followed by a shrug, was really something to watch. I got mad, I stomped my feet, and felt thoroughly responsible that it had happened in front of MY house. She had to make ME feel better, which was not the way it was supposed to happen. Shit.

All right. So that’s that. I’m behind in all emails, so please forgive me. I’m also behind in house-cleaning, unpacking, and paying bills. I’m especially behind in reading and TV watching, so I’m going to pry myself off this couch and attempt to walk myself to the kitchen. I know there are brownies in there, somewhere.

I did it. I really did it! I’m so unbearably proud of both myself and Marama for going the whole distance.

Okay, so they were calling this a “practice” run, the Galloway method of training for a marathon. I think the premise is that after running 26 miles, your body will remember it later, the next time you run a “real” marathon, and not think you’re going to die. No, it only thinks you might die the FIRST time you do it. Like, yesterday.
It was a fantastic day to run. Cool and breezy and still sunny the whole day, my pace group started out with seven people. We ran up the Cliff House mountain from the windmill and then through Sutro Park. I hadn’t done any of my training runs during the week in hopes of keeping my shin splints from flaring up, and it had really, really helped.

Coming down the hill, I was feeling great.
I kept feeling pretty darn good up until about mile ten, when we were approaching Lake Merced. I helped myself to a handful of gummy bears, because apparently they’re something you eat while running. Know what? When you’re running 26 miles, don’t eat ANYTHING you haven’t practiced running and eating already. Oh, the belly cramps. I hate running with my hands way up in the air, but it was the only way I could get air to my innards. They went away eventually, but I felt pretty durn sick for about four miles or so.

Apparently I’m a long-distance runner. The three and four milers are all right, I like ‘em just fine, but I hit my stride right about fourteen miles in. From fourteen to about nineteen, I’m happy. I’m feeling good. I realize that I’m going to make it. That I’m actually going to run twenty-six miles, something I’m not sure if I ever really believed I would do. I had hoped, yes, but I wasn’t sure. (Kind of like living in my own home, or falling in real love. I’ve had a REALLY busy few months, haven’t I?)

The group:

At mile eleven, Vanessa peeled off from the group and went home to take care of her poor knees. At mile twenty, Kat called it good, going way farther than she had hoped she would. Miles 20-23 were really hard, but we did ‘em. At 23, Lauren decided she had had enough and that her hips were all done for the day. Laura, Dan, Lynn, and I kept running.

I thought maybe the last three miles would be like 20-23. Okay? They’re not. Everyone says a marathon is in two halves: The first half is twenty miles, the second half is six. They’re right. Mile 24 was hard.

Miles 25 and 26 were almost impossible. I remember just putting my head down and staring at the ground that was going by sooo slowly. I hated every car that passed me. I really hated the bicyclists that whizzed by me on the sidewalk. When you’re that tired, you really have a limited amount of motion accessible to you. I couldn’t move right or left, I just had to hope the bikes would get around me somehow (when I stopped to retie my shoes, I could barely work the laces—the only thing my body could do by then was run). I even hated the two girls on their skateboards. I wanted to mug them and ride a board to the finish line, but I don’t know how to skate and yesterday probably wasn’t the best time to learn. So I kept running.

I think I had assumed the last mile would be easy. It wasn’t. It only became easy when we came around the corner and saw the balloon arches and heard the music and suddenly realized there were dozens of people screaming as we came running. We took hands and held them over our heads, and we broke the tape they held out for us, and I cried a little bit as they hung my medal around my neck. Just like I am now, just thinking about it.

It was so fucking worth it. I did it. Sure, it took me six hours and fifty-two minutes, but I did it, damn it. Marama was a little ways behind me, with her reconfigured group, so I got to cry and yell all over again as she came in. I can’t tell you how beautiful she looked, breaking that race tape, arms up, so happy to be where she was, to have MADE it. And our coordinator gave me Marama’s medal, so I could put it around her neck, and I’ve never been prouder. Really.

Then we got in the car and drove straight to Barney’s, where we ordered:

A beer

A coke

A milkshake

Fried zucchini

Burgers

Fries

I told the Emmylou Harris look-alike sitting next to us that we had just run 26 miles. She nodded and smiled. Then she saw our medals, which we are planning on wearing until we die, and said, “Oh, my god, you’re serious!” Yeah, lady. We were.

No, we didn’t even come close to eating it all, but it sure felt good to sit there with her, grinning our heads off for running a MARATHON, dammit, no matter what they were calling it. That wasn’t no practice, man, nosiree. That was the real deal.
I’m so happy. And so proud. And YOU were with me every step of the way. Really. Thank you.
One month to Hawaii! Whoo hoooo!

Grrrr. I’m grumpy.

Grump. Grump, grump, grump. No good reason for it, either. Ain’t like I’m depressed, or even unhappy. Just grumpy with the world. I suppose it could have something to do with the fact that I’ve spent the last two hours in the car making four stops on ALL sides of Oakland. Seriously, I’ve been around this whole city, up 13, over on 80 to 980 to 880, into Alameda, up High Street, over on 580 to San Leandro and back. On two hours sleep. In traffic.

And when I got to Gray Wolf, my favorite bookstore in the whole world, to sell my five bags of really excellent grown-up type books, the lady looked at me coming in with my bags and said, "We’re closing soon."
"It’s 5o’clock. I thought you closed at six."
"We do. And we’re not buying books."
"You always buy books!"
"Only good ones."
"Well, these are good ones."
"No, we don’t have time before we close."
"Are you serious?" I was thinking about the forty minutes I had just spent in the car trying to get to the shop.
"You have any classics?"
"Some."
"Sort them out and I’ll look at them."
"I’ll go to Moe’s, instead, thanks." I don’t usually play the competitor card, but I was just annoyed. Such a little, silly thing. But I grumbled all the way back home.

Luckily, I get to see the La in half-an-hour. We might attempt to introduce our animals. Don’t worry, we’re going to go slowly. We had the dogs in my new place a LOT for the first week, before the kits came home. They’re used to smelling the dogs on me, too. We’re going to first just show them to each other, keeping the pups on leashes in the doorway. Maybe next time we’ll make it a little longer. Slowly, slowly. It’s the only way this might work. And still I think Digit is going to be PISSED. Literally, probably.

All right. The grumps are lifting. This helps:

Little freckle-nosed Adah. How I love thee, and how freaking annoying you are in the morning when you stand on my head.

Have a great weekend, y’all. I’ll tell you about the 26 on Monday! Mwah!