Rachael

It’s Finished Object Day here at Casa Rachael. FO! FO! (And a fee and a fi in there somewhere, too. Fum.)

First, let’s look at the group shot, shall we?

The FOs had a party on my couch. It’s a good place to have one, I suppose, but it’s hard to tell who’s who, no? Let’s pull ‘em apart. My friend Monica (mother of the adorable Winter) is having a baby girl who is probably going to be named Luna Amelia (unless she pops out and has other wild suggestions, as sometimes happens). Monica’s probably having this wild baby at this very moment, or at least we hope she is, as she’s been in labor for over a week, poor thang. This is a wee jacket (pattern HERE) and unfortunately you can’t see the button (and I didn’t think to take a close-up)—it’s a blue house with a blue moon sailing over the top.

And then, we got socks. Boy, do we got some socks. I have a VERY bad habit of making socks for myself and immediately giving them away. I haven’t kept socks for myself in years. But darling Leslie gave me this yarn, a wonderful merino Interlacements Toasty Toes, and I’ve been making this pair last on the needles. Even so, when I finished them last night, I thought. Hmmm. I know someone who would LOVE these. Mental slap. No! That person is me! So I put them on today (and god knows with the feet I have right now, no one else would want them after that) and showed them to Adah. She was not impressed.

She had slipped a little on that beanbag. She’s usually perched a little higher, like this:

That was the beanbag which used to frighten her. When I used to want to keep her out of my bedroom, I would drag the beanbag to the doorway, and she wouldn’t go over it. Now, it’s her best friend in the whole world. Digit looks on in jealousy, too scared to walk on it (even though with his extra toes he could snowshoe right over it).

And then, we have the Good Ole Cabled Scarf (my free pattern HERE).

My camera, while I love it, has decided it hates red in the last few months. I probably took forty pictures and this was the best one, the least distorted. It’s really kind of a pain in the ass, since I only seem to be using red and orange lately. Maybe the camera is just tired. I would be, I suppose.

Speaking of reds, I cast on a little shrug-thingie last night, using that Kyoto from Artfibers, that glowing yarn that makes people stop in their tracks and wonder if the silk has been unnaturally irradiated at some small local power plant.

I got this far before realizing that I only have two balls of it, and the last time I went to the store, Kira said they were out of that colorway. As the store is so closely tied to the fashion industry, when a color is out, there’s no guarantee it’s coming back. And even if it did, I wouldn’t be able to afford to buy enough to make a whole shrug (gah, I dislike that word). So I’m going to rip it and make a delicate scarf. Me ‘n’ scarves! Who knew?

I dreamed about knitting last night for the first time in a long time. I was on the run from the law (hmmm), but I found myself in a park, wearing an incredible white sweater (much like Becky’s new jaw-dropping one, actually). I was also, oddly enough, wearing a ball gown under it, and I was GORGEOUS. Old pin-up gorgeous. I’m usually just kinda cute, I suppose, and better when I grin, but in my dream I was stop-the-traffic-dead gorgeous. There was another outlaw running through the park with me, and I asked him to take some pictures of me in the sweater under a tree. I thought they would be good for the blog. See? Thinking of you, dear readers, even while fleeing the country. Later in the dream, while searching my bag for the camera, I found the sweetest little disassembled semi-auto pistol, which made me even happier than the ballgown had. (Confession: I heart guns. I also approve of keeping them out of the hands of crminals and children, but I love their mechanics and power and sound and smell. You can send me hate mail now.)

Anyhoo. Lotsa knitting going on, that’s what I meant to say. It’s a beeyootiful windy, sunny day out there, and I might go for a walk or something just as crazy. I’m gonna wear my new socks.

Thank you, THANK you for all the comments yesterday! Really. Sometimes I feel like I have access to this small private wishing well, that I have the ability to reach down into the water and draw up just what I need. I swear, that’s what you all are like. You do my heart (and legs) so much good.

Let me catch my breath. Whew.

I just got back from Orinda, from a meeting with my realtor/broker/whatever-the-hell-she-is.

She’s the type who knocks the breath out of you with her industry. She’s on two phone lines, yelling things at her two assistants, crunching your numbers, and still having a full conversation with you. As I am MultiTaskerExtraordinaire, I appreciate this, and it doesn’t freak me out. But her manner does, somehow. She makes me very, very nervous, and few people do that. She’s about five foot one, maybe a hundred and ten, no more than thirty-one years old, and smart as a whip. (Why are whips smart? Or is it that they DO smart? Hunh.)

Again, for the second time, I felt like running out of the room or diving out the nearest window when she was reviewing my personal finances. She’s not rude, she’s just honest. But by the end of the meeting, she had warmed up to me, I think. (I also think she was still pissed off at me for something that happened last month. I had seen her on a Thursday, at 4pm. At that meeting, we said we’d get together again in a month. The very next Thursday, I got a message from her at 4pm, wondering where I was. I got another more annoyed-sounding message an hour later. When I called and reminded her that I had met her the previous week, and that her assistant must have made a mistake on her calendar, she was nice enough, but I could tell she didn’t believe me. I hate it when I feel like someone wants an apology for something that I didn’t do wrong. I’ll apologize up and down for something I screwed up, or even MIGHT have screwed up, but that one was so not about me. I think I ended up apologizing anyway, blast it.) We parted today with her giving me an almost-real smile, and I’m happy to work with her. I know I could easily find someone with a better bedside manner, but this woman is legendary in her ability to create fiscal miracles with her thin, bejeweled hands. I need a goshdurn miracle.

And people, I think I’m looking for a place to buy. Really. Okay, I don’t actually believe that all the way myself, but she actually printed out listings for me, and there’s one that sings to me. I might take a wee drive to see it in a few minutes. Lord’a’mercy. I am SO scared, but SO happy that I even have any kind of ability to dream about this.

Dang. My mind is whirring too fast. Little sleep, but for a really good reason. And I have fresh, red tomatoes in my back yard. Adah is sleeping in the middle of the bean bag. Digit is drowsing in the sun on the kitchen table. My laundry is almost done. I have a red colander in the kitchen, and birthday fruitcake on top of the fridge for a snack later. Life is good. Mwah!

I am lazy today. Lay-zee. I think some of my motivation was stolen by a small person with big pockets while I slept, because I can’t seem to find any extra lying around the house today. And there are a LOT of things lying around the house, things that need to be cleaned and tidied and straightened up, but without that motivation, they’re just going to continue lying there. Taunting me.

I’m okay with it.

I need to tell you about the run yesterday. It was a fourteen-miler, and I wore my orthotics for the first time (I had been wearing them constantly to walk around in, and had worn then on one short run). I don’t know why I thought they wouldn’t be a problem. I’m a smart gal, but I am very good at overlooking the obvious when it doesn’t suit my purposes.

I had a blister on the instep of each foot by the end of mile one. By the end of mile two (a run from the beach straight up the Great Highway past the Cliffhouse and into Sutro Heights—nothing like running uphill in the City), I was in serious pain. By mile three, I just wanted to make it to mile four.

At mile four, the shin splints were flaring, and I felt like I had never run before. The blisters under both my insteps were huge and almost unbearable. And you know what? I kept running. It’s not even something to be proud of—it just was. I decided to see how much pain I could put myself through, how much I could stand on a sunny Sunday. Written like that, it sounds horrible. But it was more a mind-test than anything. I knew my shin splints weren’t TOO bad; it was the blisters that were killing me more than anything. And I knew people don’t die of blisters caused by orthotics. So I kept running.

It was interesting. For a large part of the time, I could talk myself out of the pain. Rather, I could feel it, but I convinced myself it didn’t matter. It was painful, but it didn’t hurt. I didn’t let it hurt.

And then, suddenly, I let it hurt. At mile eight I lost it, and told my group to go on without me. I decided to walk to the next water stop, only about half a mile away, and from there the organizers would come pick me up. The blisters by this point were more than an inch and half across, and had blisters on TOP of them. (I was using the Band-Aid blister thingies, and Body-Glide, and double running socks.)

I cried and cried and cried. I leaned on a bike rack and let myself have a really good big sob before pulling it together and starting my walk. Of course, right before the water stop, my training partner and favorite gal Marama ran up behind me and got all concerned, making me bawl again.

I was just so frustrated and angry with my body, and angry with myself. I wanted to do the fourteen. The twelve had been no problem! And now I can hardly make it to eight? I’ve decided I hate the orthotics, and that I need a referral from my doctor to a real podiatrist. I need the help of a specialist. Doy. You would think I would have figured that out by now, but no. Sheesh.

It is a testament to how painful the run was that getting home and sitting in an ice-cold bath of water and Epsom salts felt great.

Bah. Yesterday was one of those days that I realized the sheer hugeness of what I’ve taken on. I might, actually, be crazy. Bah, bah, BAH. I still believe in myself, and in Marama (who did the whole 14! Go, Marama!), but I know it’s going to be fucking HARD. (Again, doy.) God, it’ll feel good to actually do this. And yes, I’m proud of myself for getting to mile eight. I know it was an accomplishment. It’s just not the accomplishment I was going for. Sigh.

Next time.

Atomic Fireballs at four in the morning are really fun, I’ll have you know. Just for the record.

Many things to cover today, but most importantly, I have to point out that August 20th turns out some pretty great women. What an auspicious day to be born.

First, there’s Lisa, one of my very first blog-friends. Her pups keep me entertained and her incredibly detailed, intricate knitting keeps me amazed. She’s sweet, and smart, and she LOVES her sister, something I totally understand. I haven’t met her yet, but I fully expect to do so someday. Blog, dog, blog. Snaps to you.

Then, there’s Cari. Sigh. How much do I love Cari? Incalculable. We met for the first time in a coffee shop in Brooklyn. I remember catching sight of her sitting on a hassock in the rear of the huge room, looking as gorgeous as a woman can look. She saw me, and we raced at each other, hugging and holding on and laughing. People looking on would have assumed we were the oldest friends, parted by years of circumstance and distance. Perhaps we were. As we sat at dinner that night, she looked at me, touched my arm again and said, “You’re here. Hi. Oh, hi!” It was so right, so natural and perfect for me to be sitting there with her and the Divine Ms. Em and Bethany. She is real, and honest, and lovely in all ways. I miss her when I’m not in Brooklyn (which is, strangely enough, like, ALL the time).

And Greta. Oh, wonderful, darling Greta. This is how we met for the first time: She and Daughter Bird were coming to stay at my house. Sight unseen, I was going to pick her up from the Amtrak station in Oakland at 9pm. Of course, they were on the Coast Starlight, which is always delayed if animals like cows or seagulls or stray snails wander too near the tracks, so the train eventually pulled in about three in the morning. I was waiting on the platform, wearing Orange Alert (wanted to make sure she recognized me). I saw them coming, DB grinning her trademark ear-to-ear grin. She waved. Greta dropped her luggage (in Oakland!) and we raced at each other, hugging and holding on and laughing. I hadn’t quite planned for the amount of luggage the two of them had managed by that point to accumulate, and we had to put the top down on ole Petunia to cram it all in. Poor Daughter Bird was relegated to the back seat, and then covered with suitcases. From the front seat, we literally could not see her. We drove the deserted highway home, the wind in our hair, laughing about how ridiculous the world might think we were, strangers meeting for the first time at an Amtrak station in a town not known for its relative security. I yelled, “Are you okay back there, doll?” Daughter Bird said, “Yes!” Greta and I stayed up almost until dawn talking. We couldn’t settle down. And know what? We haven’t yet settled down. Nor will we.

(While I’m talking about people I love, let me just point y’all to the Divine Ms. Em’s new homepage, if you haven’t already tracked your way there.)

Okay, those were the most important things to remember. What else? Oh, yes. I got the best email from Lizzi yesterday, with an attached photo of her scarf that she made based on my pattern. Remember how I said if you could rope a steer with it it was too long, and if it wouldn’t go around your throat it was too short? Well, she proved me wrong, because her new wallhanging is JUST the right length.

This is what she says about it:

I was going out to dinner with my parents a few days ago, when I realized that all of my WIPs were too large and complicated to take with me; so I hopped on your blog, copied your pattern from the screen straight into chart form in my little graph paper book, and grabbed a leftover ball of wool that I assumed had enough left in it for a short scarf. Oh, I was wrong. But it was so pretty, I couldn’t bear to frog it when, later that night, I came to the end of the ball at only 15.5″ of scarf. Which, by the way, is my exact collar size–I know this because I went through a phase in high school where I wore men’s dress shirts, unbuttoned, over tees and tanks. It was sort of a post-grunge flannel equivalent. Anyway, point being, not a scarf. So look what I did with it instead! It’s like a Chinese scroll painting, except with more knitting and less ink.

I adore that.

And I adore my wireless. Look, here’s a phone-snap of my foot (one of two which are going to run fourteen miles on Sunday) up on the couch (see? I’m elevating!), computer on my lap. Look Ma! No wires!

And one of Adah, who thinks I’m ridiculous. No, she KNOWS I’m ridiculous. But so’s she, so we’re even.

Happy weekend, all. And happy, happy, happy birthday to my girls.

I know there are those of you who don’t watch much TV. Or any at all. Good on you, and I mean that. But this post is not for you. (I used to be you. I am now,however, an unashamed Big Ole TV watcher.) (Okay, untrue. I am a little ashamed. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.)

Okay, here’s where I’m going. Reality TV can suck, big time. You know the kind I mean: Let’s put three people in a house and take bets on who sleeps with whom first. That’s just wrong, and I wouldn’t watch it. Or at least I would NEVER admit that I did. I can’t handle Nick and Jessica (although I’ve tried). And those Road Rules shows don’t seem like reality TV, they just seem like an MTV game show with flashing lights and bitchy women in thongs, something I can live comfortably without.

But how in the name of all that’s holy did I end up watching any reality TV at all? Dude, don’t erase Amazing Race off my TiVo, or I’ll sic my drool-cat on you. (Schmirna’s fake accent that would pop up whenever she spoke to someone in a taxicab was driving me CRAZY. “Okee, I geev you dohlars for to use your telephone, okaaaie, Habibbi?” WTF?)

What’s bothering me the most, however, is that I’m watching what I would have guessed would be the nadir of all television programming: Amish in the City. And I don’t hate it. I’m a bit emotionally invested, if the truth is told (I’m really trying here). When Mose almost drowned because he didn’t understand the strength of the ocean, I was all a’flutter. When Miriam’s best friend came for a visit, I thought, a-HA. I was right! She IS a lesbian. (Don’t tell me you didn’t think it. Those were some damn emotional hugs.)

I just can’t quite believe they put five Amish kids and six LA kids in a house in Beverly Hills, but they did, by golly. Now that’s the way to get your rumspringa on (a word I’ve always loved. I’m 32 and still in my non-Amish based personal rumspringa.)

I felt a little better when I read this article — it makes the series sound deeply thoughtful, a “new generation of constructive, literate reality TV shows.” Well. I don’t know about all that. I think it’s not the ultimate trash that it should have been.

But I’m still embarrassed. What about you? ‘Fess up.

Bethany just woke me up by calling me while I was sleeping. Christy’s been starting to do that lately, too. Mom always has, and for some reason the fact that she does never tripped me out, it just was. Thing is, y’see, is that I sleep with the ringer off. I have voice mail, too, so the phone makes no click, no sound whatsoever when it rings or takes a message. There’s a small light that blinks, but I sleep with earplugs and an eye mask, so that ain’t it. And other people never wake me by calling. I can have four messages on my machine, but the last timestamp will show that Mom was the last one to call me, silently, at the exact minute my eyes opened. Can’t explain it. Won’t try. Just is.

I’m using my WIRELESS on my COUCH with Digit draped across like a heavy, slightly stinky blanket. And oh, he just drooled on my stomach. Ew. (This is how I knew Adah was meant to come home with me from the shelter: I had gone there to get a kitten to keep Digit company. She was all grown up, and I thought I would just pet her for a minute and then walk on. She drooled all over my lap, and I was sunk. We’re a happy drooly family. The worst, however, is when she sneezes because she’s so drooly. Spit sprays in a fine, fast mist. Deesgusting, at any time, but especially so when you’re sleeping. Thank god for that eye mask.)

I went swimming yesterday. Can we please continue to call it swimming? I HATE the phrase aqua-jogging, and I hate the action even more. Hate. I hate relatively few things in this life (war, unkindness, famine, chicken liver, and ants), but aqua-jogging is right up there on that list. I think this is my biggest sacrifice to running. The pain I can tolerate. The impending lost toenails aren’t really bothering me. The sweat and time, eh. Bring it. But this STUPID treading water thing? You can have it. I’ve never done an activity that I hated so much, so actively. My shin splints are still pretty bad, so I made myself a solemn vow that I would not run this week, even though I really need the maintenance training. And I vowed that I would make up that training, in some other related way.

The only other thing that would come close to substituting for running is the elliptical machine, and I tried that at work the other night before shift. It didn’t hurt to use the machine, but when I got off the shin splints had flared so badly I had to hobble up the stairs to the Communications Center. Someone later told me, when I was complaining about how the elliptical machine was supposed to be low-impact, that “oh, YOU shouldn’t use that! It simulates running!” Well, duh. Thanks for that.

So I’m left with treading water. Really fast. Wearing a foam belt. Listening to the Italian foreign exchange students try to pick up the mothers teaching their tots to swim in the shallow end (actually, that’s pretty amusing. I don’t mind that).

And actually, if I’m to avoid the gaggle of kids who arrive for free swim at about four o’clock, I should wiggle into my suit right now and get to treading. Bleah. And then? I’ll knit, while blog-surfing from my COUCH! Have I mentioned how much I love wireless? Hoo yeah.

Just for fun, here’s a kid that can swim near me anytime: Winter with dad Jason up in the hills above their house on Monday.