Rachael

Oh. My. God.

Sometimes I am impetuous. When I buy something big or decide on a life change, it tends to happen RIGHT NOW.

For the last week or so, I have been feeling like moving.

Understand that I never feel like moving. I hate moving. I abhor moving. Moving stresses me out until I break down sobbing, my forehead resting on the cardboard box, and that’s just when I pack my books. So this feeling that I’ve been having, lying in bed thinking about new, unfilled cupboards, has been unnerving.

Then yesterday I received an email from my landlord. Seems that the guys who live upstairs have found a new complaint. They think they are paying too much for heating, and that we should share the bill. I think not. I pay my gas/electric bill separately, and have my own meter/breaker. And this is the straw that’s flipping said breaker. Four girls live downstairs in this big old house, in three apartments. Four guys live upstairs, in a big communal four bedroom, one kitchen set-up. We girls are awesome. We’re kind and helpful and respectful. The boys are awful. One is a DJ-mixer and mixes thumping rap until all hours. They stomp above me and crank the bass until my windows rattle. The block the driveway on a daily basis. And now they’re asking for money for THEIR utilities? When I got home yesterday at 5pm and found the email, I decided to start looking. I’d just see what was out there before I responded back to my landlord.

I went to Craigslist and found several listings that seemed all right. I called one. He seemed nice, and said he could meet me there in half an hour.

Now, get this: It’s less than a mile from my present apartment. It’s still in the wondeful walkable area of Rockridge/Temescal that I love. It’s really close to BART. Cats are welcome. It’s easily two and a half times the size of my present place. Hardwood flooring in the long (yellow!) living room area. A private fenced back yard. A sliding glass door. Green yards and trees on all sides of the place. Only one shared wall, next to a single man who is reputedly never home. It’s only a three unit single-level building, with a new washer/dryer. The owner is a contractor and architect who said I could paint the walls any color I wanted. There’s a walk-in closet in the bedroom. There will never be anyone thumping and clunking above me. He said I could have the place. We’re meeting today to sign the lease. I’m freaking OUT. But in a good way.

Hey. There’s room for a kitchen table. In all my grown-up life, I’ve never had room for a table (no, Mom, the card table didn’t count). I’ve never lived in a place in which I could have more than two people visiting comfortably at the same time. Two is pushing it right now in my present apartment. You can’t all stand up at once or claustrophobia sets in.

And it’s only $150 more than I’m paying now. Tony never raised my rent (what with the ants and the awful boys, how could he?) so that’s right where inflation would normally have placed me, anyway. I can handle it.

And because this isn’t a forced move, it’s more exciting than terrifying. I want a yarn area. I want to paint words on the walls. (But how do I choose which words?) I want to paint one wall red. I want a writing area. I need bookcases. I worry about how to keep Digit safe in his new yard (big scary German Shepard next door). I wonder how to make a bigger place as cozy as my present place is.

I want to have a dinner party. A real dinner party at a real table.

I find my sentences in this entry are short. Choppy. I have so much to think about. Me? Moving? By choice? I am astonished at what has happened in so short a time.

Stay tuned for further. Yow.

And Greta arrives tonight. I took tomorrow off to PLAY! I absolutely canNOT wait.

(Oh, sign my new guestmap, wouldja? I love to see where all y’all are….) —->

For Wendy’s contest, I was going to dredge up an old post with a cat in it (not hard to do), but in the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I’m going to share the cat love, revisiting some of my favorite pictures. Those of you who love cats, enjoy. Those of you who don’t, run away now.

My favorite Digit-sleeping photo:

One that I just took, through my bedroom window — he’s sitting outside in the planter box. (Note to self, put flowers in planter box):

You know how I sleep with Koigu? Adah sleeps with Horstia Tweed:

There’s a lot going on here. Kureyon raglan to the left, surfing blogs to the right, Digit wanting a scritch in the middle. You can just see that I’m wearing my yellow Lo-Tech and devil duck PJs. A good day:

Adah sleeps with a LOT of fiber:

Life is hard:

A special guest appearance, Sebastian. My sister Christy rescued him at age EIGHTEEN. He had been abandoned at the vet’s office, destined to live and die in his cage. A year later, he just had an operation to remove a huge (benign) tumor, and is doing well, considering the circumstances. Keep him in your kitty thoughts:

You made it this far, so here’s the first Cromarty sleeve!

And this captures the color of the Kersti best. Kinda matches my big guy, huh?

Scratches on the head for everyone!

So. Good god, if it ever gets to the point where it’s remotely serious and I have to tell her about the blog, this’ll have to be erased, so eat this note after you read it, ‘kay?

A Very Nice Time. She’s funny, and she smiles a lot: I think that’s what I like best. She seems quietly content in herself. I tend usually to be attracted the cynical, the depressed, the pessimistic. The occasional psychotic (no, you don’t know her). The opposite of me. She’s rather more like me than those I usually date, and that makes me wonder. Opposites are a pain in the ass, but you gotta admit, they attract. Boy howdy.

It was a very casual night, since she had only had a short nap after her 30 hour shift (and I complain?) and I got off work at seven. Late dinner at the taqueria down the street from my house, and then Pieces of April, which I thought was darling. Patricia Clarkson rocks the house. And Oliver Platt was very good. Katie What’sHerFace was very good, too, but I kept wanting to wipe off some of her eye makeup. She didn’t entirely convince me that she had a tattoo on her neck and black rubber bracelets. She’s so good looking.

Then a night walk back to my house, through my neighborhood, which never fails to make me happy. I actually kick up my heels sometimes. I try to do this surreptitiously, but people occasionally notice. I don’t think she did, though. It was a suave little hop. Yeah.

(Confession that I probably shouldn’t blog, so it’s that much more interesting: Awkward kiss at the car. No, really. So awkward I just started it over. I believe I said something inane like, “All righty.” Then a sweet kiss, but a little…. well, no word works but awkward. In the past, luckily, I’ve been more often confronted with the Oh-Lord-Wow-NOW kind of kiss, and this wasn’t it. I don’t tend to revisit awkward kisses. Call me non-old-fashioned. But this one I’d like to revisit. Maybe inside, with a bottle of wine (pity I don’t cook), instead of next to her car, standing in the road, in the cold. But I did want to kiss her more, so that’s a good sign.)

Men are easier,* I tell you that much.

Recently a friend asked me, upon hearing I had a website, “You have one of those online journals? [Snicker.] I could never do that, I’m too private.”

I responded, like I always do, with how I’m very private too, I just fool people into thinking they know more about me than they do, and that I just let them read only what I choose to reveal. I’m so private you think I’m NOT private!

I realize here and now, it ain’t true. I don’t have a private bone in my body. The only thing that censors me at ALL is the fact that my mom reads this blog. Hiya, little mama. Otherwise, we’d be discussing the fact that my darling friend Tara, who works for Toys in Babeland, thanked me yesterday for taping Keen Eddie episodes for her with this gift. Mom, don’t click. DON’T! Not work safe, either. (But everyone else, you know you want one. “Writer’s block will never be the same.” Heh.)

No knitting content today. But I’m almost done with the first sleeve. Yippee!

* Gross exaggeration, I realize, and could be construed as offensive. I don’t mean it like that at all. But they can sometimes be easier. Think about it. TWO women processing, all the time? Yow.

** Addendum, after several GREAT comments. Men do process. In fact, some men I have known process more than me. Maybe it comes down to what George Sand said, that the differences between the sexes are so tiny that we blow them up out of all proportion. Well, she said it better than that. Obviously. But you know what I mean. Mwah, keeses to all, men AND women. (Now the rumors start….)

New, real name. No lie:
Precious Cannister.

Yeah, that’s what I said.

I have a date tonight with Doc. (That’s what my friends at work have decided is her Sex and the City name–you know, along the lines of Mr. Big and The Russian.) Just a movie and maybe a bite. I’ll fill you in tomorrow…. Now, back to Cromarty.

Oh! And here’s my gal Kira’s leg with legwarmer sock (from Debbie Stoller’s Stitch ‘n Bitch) with Cascade Fixation from the Wonder Boys.

Ain’t it cute? The colors are awesome in person.
Mwah.

https://rachaelherron.com/new_real_name_n/

So, I just mailed the letter off to JM. Two and a half years of needing to, and it was easy when I finally got around to it. And I love the little stories I got from y’all in response yesterday, some good, some not-so-good. I don’t really care, one way or the other. I hope he forgives me. But if he doesn’t, it’ll be enough for me to have sincerely apologized. If he doesn’t care one way or the other, that’s okay, too.

I’ve confused a couple of people along the way, though. Talking to a friend about it this morning (I made her read the letter), she said, “So, are you a confused lesbian?”

Simple answer? Probably. I don’t want to be with a man right now, haven’t for years. Not in a year that begins with 2, anyway. But I have deeply, madly loved particular men, and I don’t completely rule it out for my twilight years. Might be nice to have someone to open the pickle jars (tongue-in-cheek here). But for now, women are where it’s at. Yep. Simple answer that doesn’t quite make sense. But it doesn’t have to. That’s my answer and I’m sticking to it.

Cromarty? Coming along. About ten inches up the first sleeve. Terrified I’m not going to have enough yarn – I’m thinking four balls per sleeve, and I’ve always considered the sleeves to be 1/3 of the whole enchilada. So that means approximately 24 skeins, and I have 18. And I believe the 18 I have are the complete dye lot. (A terrified hush falls over the crowd.) Stay tuned.

Funny – if you see below, I’m actually Sheltand Wool, not Shetland Wool. Heh.