Rachael

THIS is funny (thanks, Amy!). I’m in Portland’s Craiglist!

I’m also, let me admit, in a wee bit o’pain. I pushed myself running yesterday, and I KNOW I shouldn’t have. I should have been doing the pool running but I missed the road running (that’s the craziest phrase I’ve ever written) so I went around the lake. I thought I was doing great, but I could feel the shin splints hurting again, and when I stretched at the end, I think I pulled something. Damn it.

So I iced all night and arnica gelled and ibuprofened (let’s see how many other irritating verbs I can create), and I’ll do the same today. Sigh. I know once they heal I’ll be fine. It’s just having the patience to let ‘em heal. (Where the hell can I buy some patience? Right now!) So no running for the next ten days. Pool running, yes, which they say is 90-100% as effective as real running. But honestly, it feels like cheating to me. For one, you don’t sweat, or at least you don’t notice you’re sweating. Ew. For another, it’s so flipping BORING! The only thing I can pick up on my headset radio is the local right-wing talk show which makes me run all the faster. Again, ew.

It’s Friday! One more night o’work, and then I’ve got a fabulous weekend planned. Fourth of July is my favorite holiday in the whole wide world – I love fireworks like I love cashmere. It’s something about that boom and that report and that glug you feel deep in your chest when a great big one explodes and lights up the faces of the people next to you. I’ve got a friend with a loft in the embarcadero in Jack London Square, so we’ll hang there and walk down for the show.

And tomorrow I’m having a Real Party at my house! My first one! I’m not thinking about it. Really, I’m not. Not even a little bit.

(Okay, I’m making pasta with veggies, and garlic bread, and a big salad, and Christy’s bringing devilled eggs and a cake. None of that a-little-bit-of-this-and-that, because I’ll end up spending a hundred bucks at the grocery store only to have a fridge full of leftovers that no one will eat. This is what I want: a dinner party where people can fill a paper plate with simple food (no barbeque, too complicated) and then take it to the backyard and balance it on one knee while they drink their [beverage of choice].

I need to: Clean the house, string the outside white lights, wash the outside chairs, oh hell, wash the INSIDE chairs, or at least de-fuzz them for the more allergic guests, go grocery shopping, and NOT freak out.)

But honestly, I’m not really thinking about it. Ahem.

Enjoy your weekend. Mwah!

You know what I’ve learned through this blog? Or rather, what I’m in the process of learning on a daily basis?

How to say thank you.

It’s never been easy for me; I’ve always been the “oh you shouldn’t have” or “what I got you isn’t half as nice” kind of person. But lately, with the donations, and the compliments on the article, and virtual hugs, and all that dang love that I feel from all sides, I ain’t got no choice. It whittles my words down to just:

Thank you.

(After being whittled, she just goes on typing, doesn’t she? Yep.)

Now. Go see Bethany. She’s at the end of the chapter, and this last entry made me get a little weepy. I’m so proud of her, so proud of both my incredibly accomplished sisters.

And I’ve got a lil article in the sexy mag…..
Whee! I’ve had such a great day!

Good grief.

Check:

$3006.

Aiiiiyeeeeaiiiiyowyowyow! That’s the sound of me jumping up and down all over my living room and dining room, waving my hands and stomping my feet. It ain’t pretty. Both cats are now under the bed.

Sandy and Don were the two who put me over the top. Bless your hearts, both of you, ALL of you. Greta, honey, you were right. It happened. And how.

I’m changing the donate button over there to direct to the Team 911 pledge site (“The only thing we’re used to running is a hot bath”). If you’d still like to donate, it’ll go to getting my three fabulous wonderful coworkers to the run. And you’ll still get my undying thanks and your name listed and some stitch-markers, to boot.

IT’S NOT EVEN JULY YET! I thought I’d be struggling with this until, like, November.

Bless your hearts, every one of y’all. Love love love.

Aaaayoweeyowweeeeeeeeaiiiiiiaaaaaioooooooohooogah! I have to go try to calm down…. No, why bother? Yipppppeeeee!

What a response! At first I have to admit I felt a little chagrined – my pal that got bashed isn’t a good friend, I only see her situationally, when I’m in the City hanging with a certain group of friends. I adore her and think there’s nothing happier in this whole world than her huge laugh, and Cat playing Flip Cup is one of the great wonders of the world, but I wouldn’t call her up if I was having a bad day. I have her email, but not her cell number. You know? I started to feel like I shouldn’t be receiving such lovely, caring comments.

Then I realized that you weren’t responding because she was a close friend of mine, you were responding because you understand that it happened in my world, something that never should have happened, and should never happen again. And yet it does, and it will. Your thoughts do support her and heal her, and they support and heal me, too.

It does suck, though, huh? I sometimes forget how blessed I am to have a family that loves me, and friends that support me, and a community (online and in person) that protects me. I forget that there a whole lot of people who use the word “dyke” as an epithet. I forget that they live so close to me. I picture that kind of ignorant person living in the back of beyond, somewhere far away, having dropped out of school in third grade due to unfortunate circumstances and never having had the opportunity to learn love. I forget that that kind of hatred can be bred in affluent, well-educated families, and that they can live next door to me, and they can smile and let me go ahead of then in the grocery store line, because I don’t “look” gay.

Erg. I don’t want to think about it anymore. Can’t. I’ve always refused, flat-out, to be ruled by fear in any way. We’re all in danger at every minute. When I eat bread, I could choke. When I drive, a drunk driver could hit my car. When I walk, a tree limb could break as I’m under it. Terrorists could attack. Or Bush could start a war (no, wait….). You just have to stand tall and enjoy as much of it as you can. Right? And love.

Have I made it perfectly clear yet how wonderful my readers are? How loving they are? How SMART they are? I am a lucky, lucky girl. And I’m a lucky girl who’s already done her writing for the day, and it’s still early, so I have time to cruise blogs for a bit. I took myself off line this past weekend, almost entirely. Didn’t post, didn’t even check email or any blogs. I need to do that more often. It was quiet and nice. But I missed you.

Have you noticed (of course you have) the lack of Knitting Content? That’s because it’s been slow around Casa Rachael – still working on the Brick Joy cabled DB cardie – only have the back to finish, then joining pieces and picking up and making hood. I find the yarn almost impossible to photograph, so I haven’t bothered. Picture deep red/orange, lots of cables. There. You get it. I sent a pair of RealQuick Socks to a friend recovering from a bad fall – orange and purple Horstia tweed, and I regret I didn’t get a pic of them – they were my first socks made using worsted weight, and they were FAST (just used Wendy’s magic toe-up formula, which works on any size needle, any gauge yarn).

Hey! Bethany’s home. No, I mean it. I haven’t talked to her yet today, but she should be at Mom’s by now. She’ll spend two weeks in California, and then she’s on to settle for a time in Montana where she’ll be working and playing, thanks to an Artist’s Grant that she received from a lovely, lovely, lovely friend. But the road trip that lasted almost a year is over. I’m so proud of her.

Now. Mwah.

I found out that after the dyke march on Saturday, one of my pals was bashed. She was beaten up, kicked and punched by a drunk male who broke her nose, threatened to rape her friend, then went on to beat up the same friend and punch three other women. He was arrested, that’s the only good part of the whole story. He’ll have a felony hate crime permanently on his record. Forever. District attorneys aren’t pleading out hate crimes right now, thank god. It’ll stick.

I think a lot of people picture Gay Pride as a parade full of queens wearing boas and tiaras and little else. But that’s the smallest, most colorful side of it, and it’s all the news cameras care to catch. What it really is: It’s the grouping of women and the people who love them on the lawn in Dolores Park on Pink Saturday, before they march through the streets, peacefully and joyously, with no corporate advertising or sponsorship, just regular women walking with their friends, safe. It’s the families who gather on the lawn at the Civic Center on Sunday, dads with their children, grandparents and friends and co-workers who picnic and people-watch and apply sunscreen. It’s seeing the way you love reflected, for the only time all year, back to you in hundreds of different happy faces, faces that look just like yours, or look very different. It’s being able to kiss your girlfriend without doing that tiny look-around first – that safety check that we do without even registering that we’re doing it. It’s being able to dance together outside, in the sun. It’s safety in numbers. It’s pride.

Bashed. In San Francisco. On Pride weekend. No one’s safe, and it makes me terribly, awfully sad.