Rachael

Well, I don’t want to drop names…. You know I hate doing that…..

What the hell am I saying? I don’t ever have names to drop! Let the dropping begin. Sit back.

So my friend Brooke and I go to see the Songwriters concert: Dar Williams, Patti Griffin, Mary Chapin Carpenter, and Shawn Colvin. An incredible line-up, but in my heart, Dar was the headliner. I’ve been a fan of hers for what feels like forever but what is probably more like eight or nine years.

Brooke’s her pal. I mean it. From the stage, Dar plugged Brooke and her book, at which point it was all I could do not to squeal. The women standing behind us talking (which had been annoying most of the evening, but was tolerable at this point) said, “Oh, are you Brooke?” Brooke nodded, the picture of modesty. I heard a stage whisper and saw out of the corner of my eye a finger pointing in my direction, “I think I know her, too. The one in the white sweater.” I straightened a little and dropped my eyelids, trying to look a little famous.

Oh, yeah, get this: AFTER Dar plugs Brooke, she mentions that Amy Ray is in the audience. You know who she is. If you don’t, go buy ANY Indigo Girls album and get back to me in an hour. You need to be not only familiar with their music, but also be familiar with the fact that I LOVE THEM to understand this story.

Now, let me say that I understand I LOVE THEM is a strong statement. But think of your favorite musical artist in the whole wide world, the one that has shaped you the most as a human being, and then just imagine that you get to watch a Dar Williams concert with her.

Yep. Table for six at the Warfield? Amy, her girlfriend, two of their mutual friends, Brooke, and ME!

And what I was most proud of? That I lectured myself beforehand and really convinced myself that great as it was, Amy Ray is just a woman who likes good music and I was glad to meet her and talk with her. Doesn’t hurt that she plays good music, too. I didn’t feel starstruck, just happy to be there.

And backstage later (okay – I’m going to get over myself in about six minutes, I promise), I got to chat a little with Dar and her friends. I got a hug.

(Only regret – didn’t ask for pictures after the show – I was really trying to maintain my “I Could Never be a Stalker, Don’t Worry” pose, but I would have liked one with Amy and/or Dar. There. I said it.)

It was cool. Doesn’t that sound like an understatement? I know. But it’s appropriate. If I were over the moon right now, giddy and unable to speak, or moved to tears, I think I would worry about myself. That’s fandom, that’s too much, too far. But I will never be as jaded as to think that the chance to meet admired artists isn’t great. I had a fantastic evening.

Whee!

I’m a Cancer, born July 5th. It doesn’t happen often, but every once in a while I go into my own shell. I think something about the concert and being around so many people (while still missing the two who weren’t there) set something off in me because yesterday I did nothing.

I mean: Nothing. Except knit and watch TV. I never even got out of my pyjamas. I REALLY needed to go to the grocery store but instead I ate frozen peas and corn and found some frozen shrimp from Trader Joe’s. It’s amazing what you have to eat in your house if you can’t bear the thought of long aisles and wobbly cart wheels (well, wobbly cartwheels would be okay, I suppose. ‘Specially in those long aisles…). Frozen whole wheat bagels. Half a bag of incredibly stale chips (I never notice staleness, but these were almost chewy). Cheese that I cut inches of pale blue off of before eating. Six chocolate chips in the bottom of the bag. Chocolate sorbet that my sister brought one day. And it all tasted good!

Now: Back to work, to train. Leaving from there to the City to the next show which I hope will overwhelm me only with its loveliness.

I don’t usually do this. I have regular nights in, nights where I do nothing and am completely alone, but not usually a whole day. It was gorgeous, I gotta tell you. Oh! I finished the Must Have sleeves. Pics later. Happy weekend to you!

Something NEW to do with Koigu.

The Indigo Girls rock. They’re true artists with fire and passion and a hell of a lot of talent. No matter what, they’re a great show. You can’t help getting tangled in the music, dancing and singing with it. And it’s fun to go with interesting women who are witty and quick and as in love with them as you are.

But I always go to their shows with my sister Christy, who couldn’t come to the show last night. And on top of her not being able to attend, I hurt her feelings on the phone while still waiting in line to get into the Fillmore, so hearing her favorite songs was kinda tough.

And I go to their shows with Jenn, who’s in Ethiopia for a year, who has running (cold) water twice a day if she’s lucky, and who has to carry a flashlight to look for hyenas on her way home from teaching class at night.

I missed them.

But about the show, here you go:
It was great, of course. Audrey (buy her CD, it’s fab) and I wrestled our way to the front where we made a few friends and a few enemies. We stood behind two big-haired people who thought they had invented kissing. But the sound was excellent. They played all the right songs as well as some new ones from their upcoming CD. They played Mystery, which I maintain is one of their best songs ever. “There must be a thousand things you would die for, I can hardly think of two….” Audrey was a great person with whom to watch the show – just the right amount of between-song commentary and she knew all the words.

But Christy wasn’t there. And Jenn wasn’t there. I never really knew that would matter quite so much. After all, the Indigo Girls are my favorite band in the universe, and I was there with a group of beautiful intelligent women …. And I just stood there, missing MY girls.

Brooke, clever girl that she is, got some backstage passes. No pictures, ‘cause that’s WAY taboo, but we did go upstairs afterwards, which was roped off for VIP, and I shook Amy Ray’s hand which, let’s face it, no matter what kind of mood you’re in, is AWESOME. Then we sat around and drank more and sent furtive I’m not a stalker glances at Amy and Emily who were catching up with their SF friends.

Came home a little shell-shocked, I think. Slept badly. Had a FANTASTIC phone talk with Christy as soon I woke up. Made us both feel better, I think. I apologized for being an asshole and she accepted said apology. That always helps. I considered for brief moment how fun it would be to mail Jenn the backstage pass and then I realized that she really might fly home just to punch me. “Hey, good thing you had a backstage pass. I had anti-malarial drugs and no chalk.” (Aside – this is when I become an asshole – when I don’t think things out and through to their logical consequences. When I don’t think before I act or speak. Trying to become better at thinking first.)

Today: To think before acting. To get a cup of chai at my coffehouse and write. To wait for the rain that’s lowering the skies and maybe go grocery shopping for healthy food (and some ice cream).

Pride goeth before a fall. Sure. Pass up yarn from two shops Tuesday? Easy. No problem. I’m not a yarn whore. Nope. Not on Tuesdays, anyway.

But on Wednesdays? Behold. THIS is what whoredom looks like.

Yep. Nine balls of Jo Sharp Tweed Silkroad (mmmm, merino wool, silk and cashmere). That’s some touchable goodness, right there. It’s most likely going to be a zip cardie for me. That was yesterday. I drove to San Rafael (an hour away) to look at buttons. At a shop I heard might carry some yarn.

Some yarn. That’s like saying Costco carries some food. Dharma Trading doesn’t even really carry buttons – I bought what they had, just so I could say I did. Okay. I went there for yarn. Admitting that you have a problem is the first step.

It’s stunning – the enabling I do for myself.

Our Pioneer asked yesterday:

I just came from another blog where BART was mentioned and now you did it too. What is Bart? Is it available over the counter? Is it contagious? Should I be afraid?

BART, darling one, stands for Bay Area Rapid Transit and it’s our sweet little commuter train. It’s definitely Mass-Transit-Lite: doesn’t run all night, doesn’t go too fast, is pretty dang expensive ($2.65 one way into the City). But what I love about it is that there’s a stop less than a mile from my house. And now it runs all the way to San Francisco Airport. This means, effectively, I can walk out my front (and come to think of it, only) door, walk down the street and go to Italy, without having to drive. I don’t know why I think that’s so cool. But it is.

I had another nice day. You know what? Sometimes I feel guilty about my nice days. Isn’t that silly? I feel trivial writing about gamboling in yarn shops and eating with friends: I don’t have kids, I’m done with school (at least for right now), I work full time but have three days off a week, I only support myself and two cats.

But when I get over feeling guilty (MAN, was I supposed to be Catholic), I enjoy days like today. After the shopping accident, I called my friend Monica. We had lunch. Not no restaurant lunch, neither, I’m talking about the best kind of lunch ever – McDonalds, eaten out of the bag on her lawn in the sun, watching 15-month-old Winter cover himself in ketchup and dirt. He likes sticks. At one point, he dumped his fries into the grass. Then he picked a couple up and gummed them. Monica laughed. I think that’s the ultimate proof she’s a good mother, don’tcha think?

Then home, over the Richmond bridge with the top down, playing Death Cab for Cutie and the Long Winters, wearing my sunglasses. (I swear, doll, I was).

Then dinner with a friend. An ex, actually, but I don’t think of her that way. That would lessen her, and that’s impossible. Always a wonderful time with her. You know those people that you just enjoy? That you can sit across the table from and think, “Day-um. This is fun. I want to hear more.” And you lean forward and listen intently and feel right.

A full, round, happy day. No knitting, but that’s on for today, baybee.

I can’t believe that y’all notice dates like I do. C’mon. I thought I was the only one who read things into the digital time (and I don’t mean just 4:20). Unfortunately, while I see lots of things in time, loving it when I catch 11:11, I also see penal codes. All day long.

2:45 – Assault with a deadly weapon
3:14 – Indecent exposure
4:17 – Brandishing
2:11 – Robbery
4:59 – Burglary

I could go on and on. I won’t. But I will say that most of the clocks in my house are analog.

Eleven Eleven was good. I took myself under the water on BART and had myself a little artist’s date. First to Art Fibers, where I fondled things. I KNEW there was a reason I hadn’t been there. Escaped without buying anything – not sure how that happened. I promised myself I’d go back when I had a pattern in mind – loved their Scottie #1, wool/angora blend, but not sheddy.

Then, on a suggestion from Indigirl Amy, I went to Urban Knitting Studio on Fell Street, where I fell in love with Rowan Calmer. Gotta get me some of that. Got out of THERE without buying anything, but that was ONLY because Brooke called, saying she’d meet me up the street for eats. I told myself I’d go back, hoping I wouldn’t.

I walked further into Hayes Valley, which is adorable, an area of the City I just don’t know at all. Amy had told me about Fritjz, a place for Belgian fries and beer on the back patio, so we ate, drank, and were happy in the late afternoon.

I had a crepe. She had a salad. But I swear, it was all about the fries and their dips of choice.

A good day. A got-little-done (but I did pay the bills) kind of day, but a good one. Got a pretty strong feeling today’s not going to be much different. REALLY need to buy kitty litter, though.