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I am victorious. In a very small matter.

We had an HOA meeting tonight, and I have been dreading it like I can’t tell you. We’re still trying to sell the condo (think good thoughts, please, oh, please — your thoughts are MAGIC), but as a member of the four-member home owner’s association, and as president, I kind of had to go to the meeting.

Well. Okay. You want the truth? The meeting was scheduled for two weeks ago, but I sicked out with a migraine (which I truthfully was fighting) and they rescheduled it, the lousy bastards. I just wanted them to have it and let me know how it went. Weak of me, yes. But I’m human, and I hate the meetings.

Really, I just hate these things. The knowledge that it was coming up has ruined a big part of many hours this last week, and I am SO good at not doing that. But the HOA defeats me. Just beats me down. Or, rather, the Problem Owner does.

We three who are not the Problem Owner are reasonable. We like to make repairs and pay for them. Seems like a good idea. We all win. The Problem Owner just likes to hear himself talk, and he makes things up with such flair that you believe him for a moment. Long moments. You think that you’re going crazy. And then you realize that you’re not crazy, he’s just rambling and doing a good job of it.

Plus, he just pushes my buttons like only two or three people in this whole wide world can do.

But I have to say that I am proud of myself for one thing: I am not a pushover. People think that I am, will even tell me that I am, that I should fight more. But I just don’t mind a lot of things that other people DO mind, so I don’t bother to fight. I don’t care if things aren’t always fair — I know I can’t make them be fair, so why stress out? Frustrating thing is that there’s nothing really WRONG with the place,
we shouldn’t be bickering like this — there’s no need. But he needs
to.

But when pushed, I push back. And I take care of myself and people around me. Tonight, when I thought the two male owners (we are evenly divided) might come to blows, I shut the meeting down. I actually said in the middle of the pointless argument they were having (courtesy of the Problem Owner), "Let’s wrap this up. So, point one was we want to get the deck painted. Point two is we need a permit for the deck work." I went on, finished my wrap-up and said, "Great! Let’s have a meeting next month to discuss that guy’s CRAZY ASS IDEAS." But I didn’t say that. I said, "Great. Let’s have a meeting next month." And we left, no one bloodied.

But I swear, there were ten or so minutes during which I was chanting in my head, "Run. Run. Run. Run." I’ve never run out of an uncomfortable meeting before, but I was actually considering it. So what? Just pack up my notes, smile politely at the two considerate owners, flip the Problem Owner the bird (which I can never do right — Lala says it’s because of my New Zealand half — see Flight of the Conchords) and run home. Never to return.

But I didn’t. Even though my face went BRIGHT red and my heart beat faster and I could actually feel my upper lip swelling (a stress thing that combines with MSG and hasn’t happened in years).

Know what? It’s OVER. And I leave for New York soon. I will be around My People and that damned meeting is over, and I’m so happy. I can’t wait to get on that plane and fly across the country for the love of yarn people. Because I’m not going for the yarn. Can’t afford it while trying to sell a condo. I’m going to see my clan. I can’t wait.

Have you seen my knitting mojo? I don’t know where it’s gone. I want to finish Lala’s sweater, and I want a million of my own, but I can’t seem to work on anything consistently except socks. Have finished lots and lots of socks lately.

Went to the dog park in Alameda today.

Also, got a new camera! Doesn’t it take nice pictures? A friend gave it to me, which was sweet and wonderful and unexpected. Our old one was broken, which is why you’ve been subjected to phone-photos for so long. I love having a camera again.

Feeling disjointed today. Worked a firefighters’ pancake breakfast yesterday morning, and I pressed about a million 911 tattoos into little children’s skin, and I didn’t wash my hands after touching them because I just forgot how germy they are, and now I feel a little off.

I HAD BETTER NOT GET SICK BEFORE NEW YORK.

I have spoken.

But the pancake breakfast was fun — I taught a ton of small children how to dial 911, and what it’s for, and I think I increased the amount of prank 911 calls that the city of Fremont got last night. And I spoke to all their parents about programming their cell phones with the seven-digit number emergency lines for all their local police/fire departments — people never realize that a simple 911 call on their cell phone canNOT be expected to be fast or accurate. Won’t be that way for years yet. So yes, I educated.

That’s what pays the bills so I can come home and look at Your Favorite Cat And Mine, Digit.

His mouth is open because he is complaining. As usual.

He also doesn’t like this:

But he doesn’t get a choice, does he? HA! Hug the cat! He’s alive!  Yay camera! 

Hey kids, I’m going to Rhinebeck. New York Sheep and Wool! Yep, I’m really, truly going.

So. Excited. That’s all I can say. Not playing Blogger Bingo because I wasn’t on the ball enough to get signed up in time. Didn’t really believe I was going, I think. But if you see me, say hey! I have a new camera and I want to take your picture!

But hey, I’m going to have one free day in the big apple, and while I love New York, have been twice, I’ve always been WITH someone, and this will be my first time alone. What should I see or do? Never been to the Empire State Building, planning on that. What else? What little-known something do you know about? What New York secret do you insist I do/see/touch/taste?

I am one of five finalists in the First Romance Competition.

Read all about it HERE.

You all did this, you know that, right? I thank each one of you who took the time to read and vote — I thank you with all my heart. My little book is going to be read by Simon & Schuster, and who CARES if I win or not, that’s so FREAKIN’ COOL! Also, it’s literally a first draft, sent out into the cold world, so if it comes hightailing back and tries to hide under my apron, I will fix it up and send it out again, and I will be able to put in the query letter that I was a finalist in this national competition. (Winner will be announced on October 30th.)

That’s the best. Damn.

Thank you. (And more thanks to you darlings who got the notification and sped over here to leave your congratulations. SO nice of you. YAY!)

Picture from the weekend, me and my godson Dylan (who is at the DANCING age – my god, is he cute):

I’m sitting in the yarn room, decidedly Not Writing, but that’s okay. I worked the 18-hour shift last night, drove blearily home, slept till noon, and then got up because I still have to sleep tonight and get up at 4:30am for another round.

But that means I can be lazy today. So I am. I’ve been sitting here in my armchair, doing nothing more than reading blogs (leaving few comments, because I’m that lazy) and thinking about what I’ll make for dinner (I’m thinking 3-hour baked potatoes and my new favorite salad: spinach, chopped beets, feta, with poppy-seed dressing).

Waylon is one side of me, and Digit has been my wrist-weight for a while now. There’s a heaviness in the air outside — rain is coming. I can’t wait. And someone is burning wood in a fireplace, even though it’s not necessary — not cold enough for that yet. But I won’t complain. I love that smell. I’m relaxed, because I’m sleepy, I think. Gunshots heard a few minutes ago (we live in east Oakland, so this isn’t uncommon, but they’re not usually heard this early in the day), followed by the helicopter drone as it flew low. We have devices in this area of town that tell police dispatch the difference between gunshots and fireworks (surprisingly hard to differentiate by sound, even for cops) and it locates them by triangulation, so the police helicopter is usually pretty quick to respond. It left quickly, though, and no sirens were heard, so no one was shot, and for that I’m grateful. I just heard a man yell and slam a door down the street (not related to earlier gunshots, different direction), but then I heard a mother walking her two kids up from school, the kids laughing, the mother speaking in Spanish to them. We live on a culdesac, so I can hear a lot of things, but fewer people actually pass in front of the house, so I listen more than see.

And that smell! That fireplace wood-smoke is soooo good. I could eat the air. But instead I think I’ll go to the store (even though that means getting out of my robe) and buy some potatoes. 

To bookend with photos, one picture of Lala and me, at Slims the other night (doesn’t she just look like a rockstar?):

It’s been DAYS, hasn’t it?

I’ve been busy hanging out with my rockstar wife — The Whoreshoes played the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival, and oh LORD was it the best thing ever. First, they rocked the show. Everyone who walked by (they were close to the entrance) stopped and stayed for the show. People danced. They had a shirtless bearded fellow dancing, and that’s always a sign of success at a festival.

And they got backstage passes! I got one, too! That meant clean bathrooms and free food, water, and beer. But the best part, to me, was the party that night. Warren Hellman, the billionaire who puts on the free concert for San Francisco every year, rents out Slims every year and puts on a party for the performers. It was catered with really super fancy food, things I do not normally get to eat, like prime rib, and there was an open bar, which meant I would have had a fancy drink like an Old Fashioned had I been feeling better and not been driving, and we were hanging out with EVERYONE. Seriously. This may not mean much to those of you not into bluegrass, but Del McCoury patted Lala on the back. I sat at a table and watched a New Lost City Rambler realize that Whoreshoes is spelled with a W and not an H (he was rather taken aback). Laurie Lewis, who was setting up the entertainment, a casual MC of sorts, grabbed performers and pulled them up on stage — everyone doing two songs. The Whoreshoes played while Hazel Dickens, Michelle Shocked, Bela Fleck, and David Rawlings watched. My favorite part of the entertainment was standing mere feet away from Bela Fleck, David Rawlings, and Abigail Washburn as they did a simple tune. Bela Fleck just played instead of losing his damn mind like he sometimes does. David Rawlings looked like an angel, and Abigail Washburn IS one, I think.

Sigh. It was something, all right.

The second day, Sunday, we took Clara and Harriet with us. Harriet, at 16, turns out to be a Festival Dog. Of course, this is because she knows that this is another name for Giant Sandwich Bar of Heaven. Keep your nose down on the ground enough and you’ll come up with the GOOD stuff at a festival.

Clara, on the other hand, usually such a mellow content dog, hated it at first. Hated the crowds, hated the noise, hated the bass, HATED the applause. My border collie at my side turned into a bagel, wrapping herself up tighter and tighter during the first set we watched (Red Wine, of Italian Cats CD fame — Mom, remember?). I coddled her and soothed her and spoke softly into her ear and nothing helped. Then I remembered our dog trainer’s words: don’t LET her be scared. I stopped coddling and rewarded her when she acted brave, and in a little while she was just fine.

Here she’s watching Earl Scruggs:

She likes the banjo. It’s a family thing.

Harriet the Haystack got very sleepy:

Us:

Them:

(Last two courtesy of my friend Will. )

So, yes, they were big, big rockstars, and I was really pleased to be able to be part of it. Plus, I spent a while talking to the most delightful man about his cats, and it turned out later he was Doc Watson’s grandson. (I know it’s name-dropping, but it’s bluegrass, so does it really even count?)

And for those of you keeping score, there’s an unofficial tally of scores on the First Chapters Romance competition. The voting for the second round has now closed, and I repeat, this is an UNOFFICIAL LIST. Just one guy’s best estimate. The five moving on to the last round won’t be announced till Thursday, but unofficially, my book Love Spun might just be moving on. Maybe. Knitters rule, people. Muggles have no idea.

And because you rule, one more picture. I’m at work on an 18 hour shift (think about it, you work eight, and then you work ten more), and Lala just sent me this to cheer me up:

Not-dead Digit in front (DOESN’T HE LOOK GOOD?!?) and silly Waylon in the back, plotting how to leap on Digit’s tail again and get clobbered for the fourteenth time in ten minutes. Lala didn’t tell me what’s going on, I just know.