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Happy Valentine’s Day! Now, I normally dislike a Hallmark holiday as much as the next person, but this weekend was great. I’m only going to write a little bit, because I have to leave and get more Cadbury Creme Eggs. I’m all out, and that ain’t right.

A coupla snippets:

I stood next to Lala in the Atlas Cafe on Saturday night, listening to the Mercury Dimes play bluegrass (she says it’s old time — maybe it’s bluegrassy old time). I realized I was with my date, listening to fiddle music. That was big. I was perfectly happy. Then we went with a bunch of folks and crashed the square dance (five of us got in for $10 total, instead of the $12 per head we should have paid — Camilla is very blond). I made my girl dizzy spinnin’ her around.

Sunday, Lala and I went to Stitches, and shopped for yarn (I mostly picked up sock yarn stuff, nothin’ exciting). But I realized, yet again, she’s flipping perfect for me. It’s really rather ridiculous. Old time music, to yarn, to being lazy together all day today. I couldn’t have dreamed up a better person, period, full stop, let alone one that would love me back like this. I’m rich, and happy, and luckier than hell. (And she’s H.O.T.)

Oh, this is getting sappy, innit? I’ll break it up. Romantic vignette: For a year I lived literally around the corner from a porn store, and Lala lived not far from the same one for about three years. Now that she’s in my old place, we pass it all the time, and comment on its clientele seen going in and out (as Valentine’s Day approached this year, it became Valentine Headquarters, as declared the large red sign outside). The other night, as we made our usual jokes about going in, we actually looked at each other and said, "Wanna?" So we did, and we wandered the store giggling and pointing and probably pissing off the more serious customers.

But I did have a point. It’s this: The magazines are sorted by, well, tastes, and in with all the jugs magazines was BUST. As in Debbie Stoller. As in the clerks had never even opened the magazine; they must have just going by name. Either that or the clerk was getting a good laugh on the guys who bought it.

Heh.

Now that’s what V-Day is all about. Now off for creme eggs. And milk. A perfect dinner.

Why haven’t I ever crocheted sweaters together instead of sewing? I hate sewing! I like crochet! And it looks good, too, a bonus. I’m so excited about this new knowledge.

I still can’t decide on Stitches. I was thinking about going with La on Sunday, but I’m not sure now. I’m kinda broke. Read that: really broke. And I have enough yarn. But what if there’s something there that I have to have? See, whatever I would "have" to buy would probably be a kit, since I don’t need any more stash yarn, and kits are ‘spensive. I can’t afford a wheel yet, and I know where I want to go to get one when I can, anyway. I have no special projects. I don’t want to take any classes (not that I could anyway — everything but Seaming An Afghan With Embroidery Floss In a Very Dark Room is full). We shall see. The weekend is pretty booked anyway, and it might be good to have some down time….

Tomorrow I have a training class way down in Redwood City, wherever that is, so I’ll be offline. Please have a great weekend y’all, with or without yarn purchases. MWAH!

https://rachaelherron.com/why_havent_i_ev/

Lots of aminals today, lots. Mostly because Lala will lose her mind and begin yapping if I don’t tell you what we did on Sunday. Oh, sweet Sunday.

We went to the Chihuahua Cha-Cha! (Only I kept forgetting its name and calling it the Chi-hooa-hooa hula, which is even more fun to say. Try it.) It was in San Francisco, in this little pocketbook park on Corona Hill overlooking the City and the bay. When we finally found it, we saw a few dogs mingling around, and I thought maybe there would be a couple of little dogs for Miss Idaho to play with. Then we turned the corner and saw the dog run — omigod, how does one handle this much cuteness without keeling over dead? Thirty or forty chihuahuas (chihuahai?) in one place, and approximately two owners a piece.

Oh, oh, oh. And two or three of them actually made Miss Idaho look big, something a five pound dog can seldom look.

Look at my girls’ smiles! Harriet had a ball, too. She’s chihuahua-identified, y’know. (Cari, there was also a whippet who made me miss my East Coast kids — kisses to both.)

And here’s Miss Idaho (on the far left), being Very Brave:

This one had a hand-knit scarf:

Some were leapers:

And others were just there to pick up on chicks:

The only thing good about leaving the Ultimate Park of Cuteness was the fact that on the street, away from all the other little dogs who might have continued to steal the limelight that she deserves, Miss Idaho turned back into a rock star, which was a relief.

And lets not forget about the other ones. By popular demand, a photo of the fat Digit:

He hides his weight well, doesn’t he? Well, I’ll tell you the truth — he knew I was taking this photo and he sucked it in. But this candid one from the rear shows the real deal (although he would like you to know that the camera adds at least five pounds):

And to Grace’s Ramona, Adah says MWAH!

To those of you concerned about my yarn-binge yesterday — I ended up with two colors of WoolEase for a stripey pullover, $18. That’s what I’m talking ’bout. Maybe I’ll throw a cable or two in, dunno. I just need something easy and fast. (Lala, sugar, put your hand down.)

I was just totally being good, and I was going to work on seaming my alpaca ArtFibers sweater and then take a nap before work, since I was up at 630am, and have to work tonight all night until 5am, but Bethany just called. A Michael’s run is calling me — I need a new Must-Have, and I need it to fit, and more than that, I need it to cost less than thirty bucks. Do you think that’s do-able? I don’t mind if it’s crapyarn, I really don’t. I just need some cables, and I need ’em fast. I’m fiending, man. Don’t get in my way.

Digit would like you to know that he’s gotten very, very fat since we moved here. Oh, dear.

Went to the Parkway last night to watch The House of Flying Daggers. Now, the Parkway is the best theater in Oakland. Really. It’s an old art-deco place, just around the corner from the best bar (Baggy’s) and the best restaurant (Merritt Bakery) in Oakland, and it’s an institution. Movies are five bucks. They sell pizzas, medium for eight bucks. The sell beer by the PITCHER, people. Candy bars are a buck. They have audience appreciation nights, where it’s free entrance. Last month, Time Bandits. This month, American Pie.

And the best part? There are couches. You’re hanging out, watching the show, all relaxed on your couch, watching strangers hang out on other couches. They used to be kind of old and a little smelly, but they got all new ones from Ikea with washable covers. It’s like hanging out at a party in your really big living room, and everyone’s cordial, but you don’t have to worry about mixing. Yeah. That’s it.

They get second-run releases, which is why it took me a while to get around to seeing the movie, but damn. It’s worth the hype. One of the loveliest films I’ve ever seen — the colors by themselves make up an additional character. And every character is gorgeous. Beyond gorgeous. Ridiculously gorgeous. The kind of gorgeousness that doesn’t actually occur in real life because if it did, nothing would ever get done.

Now I’m at work on a ten-hour overtime shift (it was supposed to be five, but I’m being nice. Nice and greedy for the money, that is. I’ve got this nasty yarn habit to support, you know).

So, darlings.

I have to break it to you. Are you sitting down? A nice cuppa to hand?

I can NOT do the music/movie memes. I just can’t. I hang my head in shame. I am a bad, bad blogger. I’ve been tagged by the best, coolest bloggers in blogland, and while DaisyWinifred got to me first (did Wales start this thing? Wales has a lot to answer for), and I semi-answered in her comments, I just can’t.

I don’t know what my block is, but it’s like a tic. I look at the questions, and my nose starts to twitch. I sneeze. I am reminded of the moment on a date where the person sitting across from you at the table asks, "So, what’s your favorite book?" and your mind not only forgets every book you’ve ever read, but you understand that you could never date, let alone have sex with, a person who believes that it’s acceptable to have only one Favorite Book. (Although, if held dangling over a cliff by a very mean person, I would have to answer The Light Princess by George MacDonald, but once he lifted me back up to the top, I’d politely explain while dusting myself off that such false constraints only limit one as a creative human being. Like having only one favorite ice cream flavor. Yegads. The horror.)

Man, I just glazed off and stared into space, trying to do it again. I can’t. My memory precludes me from actually remembering what movies I’ve seen or music I’ve heard lately. I saw The Princess Bride the other night, for the bajillionteenth time. And I’m listening to Keren Ann and Iron & Wine pretty much constantly lately.

Does that count? My beloved taggers (and you are), please forgive your Rachael of Very Little Brain. And come watch a movie with me.